But all of that changed with the arrival of his Highland bride.
Now my thoughts are for a fiery-haired, statuesque beauty.
Just then, Piers Burnett charged into the great hall, pushing aside a trio of acrobats in his haste to reach the great table. With his wet hair plastered to his skull and his cheeks red from exertion, the youth looked as though he’d just done battle with the sea gods of old.
Without thinking, Galen shoved Melisande’s hand off his thigh.
“Well?” he demanded to know once his squire reached the great table. “Where is she?”
“The countess is nowhere to be found,” Piers told him, gasping to catch his breath.
Refusing to believe that, Galen said tersely, “Did you search the stable?”
“I did, my lord. Lady Angus’s jennet is in its stall, unsaddled,” the youth added, having correctly deduced Galen’s next question. “I also checked with the gatekeeper, and he verified that the countess has not left the castle.”
In the wake of his squire’s ominous report, it felt as if iron tentacles suddenly gripped Galen’s innards. “And what of the steward’s office? Did you look for her there?”
His squire verified with a nod. “I’ve searched for the countess from chapel to dungeon,” the youth informed him. “’Tis as though the lady vanished into thin air.”
His patience at an end, Galen mounted the stairs, determined to find his wife.
Cursing under his breath, he swung open the door to their bedchamber. The cresset lamps had not yet been lit and the only illumination was the shadowy light cast by the orange flames of the hearth. At a glance he could see that Laoghaire had not retired early.
Stymied, Galen pushed out a deep breath. He’d been certain that his lady wife had taken to her bed in order to avoid attending the feast.
Suffering hell! Where is she?
He’d already questioned Coira and several of the female servants, none of whom could recollect having seen the countess since earlier in the day. Coira had been particularly distraught over Laoghaire’s mysterious disappearance, having laid out a special gown for her to wear to the feast. A gown that Galen could see—as he charged into the adjacent wardrobe—was still lying across a chest, ready to be donned.
“’Tis as though the lady vanished into thin air.”
Galen had originally dismissed his squire’s fantastical statement, thinking it utterly absurd. But now he began to wonder if there might not be some kernel of—
Sweet Jesu!
At hearing his two wolfhounds suddenly howl in unison, Galen strode out of the bedchamber. To his surprise he saw Tristan and Iseult—both of whom were positioned at the foot of the stairwell—bark frantically before they lurched to their feet and clambered up the circular stairway. Their behavior was so strange that Galen unthinkingly followed them up the stairs, despite the fact that it made no sense for the dogs to lead him to the battlements. A fierce storm raged outside, and neither man nor beast would willingly be on the battlements in such foul weather.
When he reached the top of the stairs, Galen shoved the dogs out of the way, Tristan having begun to claw at the wooden door that led to the outside walkway. Odder still, the door was barred, having been secured from the inside.
“Who would do such thing?” he muttered, as he shoved the heavy plank of wood out of the slots that held it in place. With that done, he swung the door wide open. Bracing himself against the driving rain and fierce wind, Galen stepped onto the battlements.
Only to come to an abrupt halt in the next instant when he espied a figure crouched very near to the door. Ignoring the furious barking of the dogs, he went down on bent knee. At seeing the swath of rain-soaked red hair, his heart slammed against his chest.
“Christ God!” he swore aloud when he realized it was Laoghaire. To his horror, she was attired in naught but a woolen kirtle. Soaking wet, the garment provided little in the way of protection.
Did the woman wish to kill herself?
No sooner did the dire thought pass through his mind than a chill ran down his spine. A chill that had nothing to do with the bitterly cold weather. Galen knew full well that people often died from exposure to the harsh elements.
At feeling his hand upon her shoulder, Laoghaire slowly raised her head. “Dinna be so . . . so verra . . . angry,” she slurred, her accent so thick that Galen could barely comprehend what she said to him.
About to reassure her that he was relieved, and not angry, the words stuck in Galen’s throat when Laoghaire’s entire body suddenly went limp and her head slumped against his chest.
“No,” he rasped, fearing the worst.
Hurriedly pressing his fingertips to the base of her throat, he murmured a grateful prayer at feeling a weak pulse.
Thank God, she is alive! Although just barely,he surmised, with no small measure of worry.
