“You have forbidden me from kissing your lips. Does the prohibition extend to your hand, as well?” he asked, hoping that Laoghaire would not object.
The question incited a visibly startled reaction, Laoghaire gasping softly as she gaped at him. She opened her mouth to speak, only to clamp her lips together in the very next instant.
Galen made no move to prod or persuade her. He certainly wasn’t going to force the issue, for he knew that to do so would only arouse Laoghaire’s enmity. Instead, he waited patiently, silently,hoping . . .
Just when he’d resigned himself to rejection, Laoghaire shyly extended her right hand to him.
Galen’s heart began to pound forcefully as he gently took hold of his lady wife’s hand. Raising it to his lips, he placed a kiss on the soft skin just above her knuckles. While he held Laoghaire’s gaze, Galen momentarily lost himself in the depths of her indigo blue eyes.
Have I ever looked upon a woman so extraordinarily beautiful?
“I am glad that we took this ride together because . . . ye are not such a stranger to me now,” Laoghaire said in a soft, lilting voice.
Galen made no reply, at a loss for words.
Still holding Laoghaire’s hand, he caught a faint whiff of primrose and found it intoxicating. To a knight who’d been dubbed on the battlefield amidst the carnage of his slain enemies, the notion of courtly love had no basis in reality.
So, why does this feel so real?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At hearing a knock upon the bedchamber door, Galen bellowed, “Enter!”
In the next instant, the hide hinges creaked as the wooden door swung open and Laoghaire briskly stepped across the threshold . . . only to come to a skidding halt when she saw that he was soaking in a large wooden tub, filled nearly to the brim with steaming hot water. With a raised hand, he bid her to step forward.
But rather than obey, she balked.
Folding her arms across her breasts, Laoghaire slanted him a nervous glance, one that remained assiduously focused upon his face. “I can see that ye are, er, indisposed. I shall return later.”
“But you are here now and there is no reason why we cannot speak.” When Laoghaire remained rooted in place, he smiled teasingly and said, “Rest assured that I cannot ravish you when I am seated in a tub full of hot water.”
Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, Laoghaire began to giggle. “Not to mention yer privy part would be all shriveled,” she told him, slapping a hand over her mouth to control her mirth.
“There is that,” he said with a good-natured laugh, willing to sacrifice a bit of manly pride for the sake of conversing with his lady wife while he bathed. And though he could have easily disavowed Laoghaire of the notion—his “privy part” having stiffened at the mere sight of her—there was no fruitful purpose to be had in the revelation.
’Tis better to suffer a joke at my expense if it enables me to subdue her.Earlier, during their ride, he made great strides and he now intended to build upon the goodwill he’d accumulated.
Taking a few tentative steps in his direction, Laoghaire said in a more composed tone of voice, “I have finished the yearly household accounts and they are ready for yer review.”
Still smiling, he gestured to the three-legged stool that had been placed beside the tub. “Please sit, lady wife. It hurts my neck to peer up at you,” he lied, hoping the falsehood would cajole her into compliance.
Gnawing on her lower lip, Laoghaire appraised the stool in question. Whether or not it was her intention—and he greatly doubted that it was—it made for a highly provocative sight. Unable to tear his gaze from the sight of those pearly white teeth bearing down on that plump, lower lip, Galen felt his privy part harden further still. Fortunately there were enough lime leaves floating on the water’s surface to hide the fact that he was sexually aroused. And though he willed it otherwise, all manner of lewd thoughts began to pass through his mind as he envisioned those lush, pink lips blazing a trail across his body. Caressing . . . licking . . .sucking.
A few moments later, having evidently decided that sitting beside the tub presented no danger, Laoghaire approached the stool, the soft rustle of her skirt hem on the floor rushes like music to his ears. Averting her gaze from the tub, Laoghaire swept her red woolen skirt to one side as she seated herself.
Neither of them spoke, and the only sound to be heard in the bedchamber was the crackle of fire in the hearth. Galen thought it a strange sort of stillness, one that was imbued with an air of potent expectancy.
Determined to act as natural as possible, Galen picked up the block of Italian made soap that had been set on a nearby bench. He took an appreciative sniff of the pine-scented bar before he dunked it in the water and began to lather a cloth. “Now that the accounts have been reckoned, you are free to take your ease at this evening’s feast in the sure knowledge that you have done your duty,” he remarked in a conversational tone of voice while he extended his left arm and proceeded to wash it.
At the mention of the Michaelmas feast, Laoghaire’s eyes lit up with excitement. “WillStruan Mìcheilbe served at the banquet?”
Unfamiliar with the Gaelic phrase, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I cannot say. First, I need to know what exactly aStruan Mìcheilis.”
Laoghaire’s lips curved in a girlish smile. “’Tis a special bread made from equal parts of barley, oats, and rye that is only eaten on Michaelmas.”
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Because on this day we remember and honor those family members and clansmen who have passed to the other side.” Laoghaire’s smile dimmed, replaced with a poignant expression. Galen knew without asking that she was remembering the very people of whom she spoke.
