Tempted to put a comforting hand upon her shoulder, he curbed the impulse, worried that it would make Laoghaire bolt like a wild mare.
While she is more accustomed to me, she is far from tamed.
Lifting his right arm, Galen began to scrub it from the ball of his shoulder to his fingertips. “Surely, on the Isle of Skye there is some merriment to be had on Michaelmas,” he prodded, hoping to lighten the mood. “’Tis a feast day, after all.”
“Aye, we venerate the greatest of the archangels with a most festive celebration,” she replied, her gaze having yet to dip below his chin. “Early in the morning, the priest, mounted on a white horse, leads a procession to the seashore, during which everyone sings theIolach Mìcheili,the song of Michael the Victorious.”
“And I suppose that is to commemorate Michael’s defeat of Lucifer and his minions,” Galen remarked, while he moved the lathered cloth across his upper chest.
“Exactly so,” Laoghaire confirmed with a nod. “Afterward, there are all manner of games and horse races. But before that happens, the women of the castle go out to search for the Michaelmas daisy. The first one who finds it calls out: ‘The Michaelmas daisies, among dead weeds, bloom for St. Michael’s valorous deeds.’” As she spoke, Laoghaire’s eyes were enlivened with the distinct luster that comes upon a person when recollecting a fond memory, a sheen that had about it a wistful air.
Galen dunked the cloth below the water so he could wash his lower abdomen. “I suspect, lady wife, that you were quite adept at finding this obscure bloom.”
With an expression of mock seriousness, Laoghaire replied, “There were one or two years that the flower eluded me.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
While Galen greatly enjoyed conversing with Laoghaire, he enjoyed even more the opportunity to set his eyes upon her. Not only were her face and hands fine-boned, her ivory skin was unmarred, imbuing her Celtic beauty with a rare perfection. And despite being statuesque, his lady wife was endowed with a feminine grace that was most pleasing to him.
We are well matched, and our progeny will be comely and well-fashioned.
Though that was a gratifying thought, Galen was admittedly irked that since entering the chamber, Laoghaire had yet to lower her gaze to his naked torso, or anywhere else below his jaw line.
Deciding to force the issue, Galen wrung out the cloth. “I would have you wash my back, lady wife,” he said without preamble, offering the cloth and bar of soap to her.
Given her wide-eyed expression, he surmised that Laoghaire was startled by the command.
“Surely, ye have a, um, servant who can assist with yer bath,” she stammered.
“I do. But ’tis a wifely duty, is it not?” As he spoke, plumes of steam wafted across the water’s surface in Laoghaire’s direction.
“If so, I am unaware of it,” she argued, refusing to take the proffered items.
Galen inched his hand a few inches closer to her. “’Twould please me greatly to have you wash my back,” he said in a quiet, albeit firm, tone of voice.
Her eyes still big as silver groats, Laoghaire wordlessly took hold of the cloth and bar of soap. She proceeded to stare, first at one, then the other, as though they were both foreign objects. Galen watched her, mesmerized by the way in which the light from the nearby wall cresset burnished her locks, creating a radiant nimbus around her head.
Sweet Jesu! She is glorious to behold. There was a fire about her, one that he wanted to feel, to touch, to lose himself in. Deeply affected by his wife’s beauty, his gaze dropped to Laoghaire’s wide, expressive mouth. In no time at all he was seized with a mad desire to pull her toward him so that he could kiss her, if for no other reason than to rid himself of the overpowering desire to taste her lips.
One kiss. Is that so much to ask?
Suspecting that it was, Galen quickly raised his gaze back to Laoghaire’s eyes.
Capitulating with a drawn-out sigh, Laoghaire rose from the stool and stepped behind the tub. Galen heard her sink to her knees. Able to smell the aroma of flowers that emanated from her person, he inhaled deeply, filling his nostrils with her sweet scent.
The matter now settled he leaned forward so that Laoghaire could bathe him. The slight motion caused warm water to slosh gently against his upper chest. The tub was deep and commodious, the shellacked planks copper-banded and lined with a thick cloth that provided a form of padding against his bare skin.
From behind him, Galen sensed rather than saw Laoghaire fold the piece of linen several times before she placed it at the base of his neck. She then began to move the cloth across his skin in a desultory manner.
Annoyed with her halfhearted efforts, Galen said, “I am well-muscled, as you can plainly see. You may scrub harder, lady wife. The linen will not flay me,” he added, half under his breath.
Laoghaire made no reply as she complied with the request, lathering his back with more vigor. It may have been because he could feel her breath fluttering against his skin, or perhaps it was due to the fact that only the linen cloth separated his naked flesh from her hand, whatever the reason, Galen experienced a sharp-edged desire. Closing his eyes, he sighed with an intense and deeply felt pleasure.
“There is something that I don’t understand,” Laoghaire said unexpectedly, her voice cutting through his lustful haze.
Opening his eyes, Galen craned his neck so that he could peer over his shoulder at her. Where the neckline of Laoghaire’s kirtle gaped, he could see the soft swell of her breasts. His mouth went dry as he peered at her beautiful bosom before he redirected his gaze to her face. “And what is that, lady wife?”
“Earlier today you spoke of yer brother.” She paused a moment, her brows knitting together while her hand stilled on his back. “If Hector is the elder brother, why did he not inherit the earldom from yer uncle?”
