“Do not thrust yer sins uponme,” she spat at Galen, her heart rent in two. “Unlike ye, I have never been tempted, nor has my gaze ever wandered.”
It was the last thing Laoghaire said before she charged out of the cave and ran headlong into the gloom.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Winter is fast approaching,Laoghaire noted with a shiver as she descended the staircase that led from the keep to the bailey below.
Pulling up the hood of her mantle, she peered skyward. It was a cold day, the afternoon sun muted by a thick curtain of clouds, the sky draped in a depressing gray shroud. To add to the dismal picture, there was a chill breeze in the air, which brought with it the scents of peat smoke and decaying vegetation.
In a hurry, Laoghaire sidestepped around a villein who was busy unloading sacks of grain from a handcart. Seconds later, she passed a trio of laundresses. Their arms laden with folded tablecloths, they were undoubtedly bound for the great hall. The women gave Laoghaire a shy greeting, to which she forced herself to smile pleasantly while she wished them a good day. Gossip was the lifeblood of any castle, and she did not want to give the inhabitants of Castle Airlie more fodder than they already had.
That was the reason why, for the three days just passed, she’d forced herself to sit beside Galen at the high table; an act which had taken all of the inner fortitude she could muster.
Like a pair of mummers, they had become quite adept at eating and drinking, nodding at vassals, and feigning interest in the evening’s entertainment, never once exchanging a word with the other. At the meal’s conclusion, Laoghaire always made haste to leave the hall, entrenching herself behind the closed door of their bedchamber. Mercifully, Galen made no attempt to seek her out. Nor did he retire to the chamber at day’s end. In truth, she had no idea where Galen laid his head at night, as it was of no concern to her.
No! ’Tisn’t true! I care greatly,she silently admitted to herself, heartsick to think that Galen had spent the last three nights in another woman’s arms.
That she would even entertain such a treacherous thought unnerved her, making her fear that her heart was in grave peril. But from what manner of danger she could not even begin to speculate, the feelings too new, too fragile. Since that tempestuous day in the grotto, it was as if a riot had commenced in her heart, refusing to abate.
And I like it not.
“I do not want the ruin of heartache,” she murmured. “Not when I can have passion’s rapture.”
As had happened so often over the course of the last three days, images of Galen began to play in her mind’s eyes, vivid flashes that evoked that rain-sodden afternoon.The shape of his lips. The breadth of his shoulders. The dark waves of his hair. His fully erect manhood.
She did not want to remember any of those things, and yet she found herself haunted by them, as though Galen’s very spirit had somehow been imprinted onto her soul. Indeed, the exquisite pleasure that he’d given her that day had changed her in a subtle but profound way. There had been a deeply powerful moment, in the instant before her climax, in which they’d been so closely bound to one another that she’d been unable to discern where she ended and he began, their two bodies having merged into one.
And I am now a different woman because of it.
Not that Galen would even care. He’d already chosen Melisande Jardin long before she was thrust upon him by the king’s command. And now that he had performed his marital duty, he was free to enjoy the company of the fair-haired siren.
But if that were true, why did Galen implore her to take his hand so they could “begin again”?There’d been no reason for him to woo her with gentle words. Even when she desired an annulment, she never refused Galen outright. Moreover, the delay in consummating the marriage had been at his instigation, not hers.
Did I misconstrue the words he spoke in the grotto?Or, worse yet, was Galen an artful liar who derived some sort of deranged pleasure from tempting her with a piece of delicious fruit that he never intended to give to her.
Does he prefer the petite Melisande because she has golden, sun-kissed hair and can embroider a fine hand?
“Obviously, he does,” Laoghaire murmured dejectedly, powerless to change the length of her limbs or the color of her hair.
As she continued to make her way across the bailey, she was suddenly put in mind of the unrequited love of the passionate Skatha, the warrior queen of Skye, for the heroic Cúchulainn, who preferred the affections of his docile mate, Emer. And though it was naught but an ancient myth, Laoghaire felt a kindred connection to Skatha, longing for a man she could never have.
Desperate to shut out the heartbreaking images from that day in the grotto, Laoghaire now sought safe haven in the one place where such thoughts were strictly forbidden, the chapel.
Heavyhearted, she opened the massive, iron-banded door and stepped inside the holy sanctuary.
Upon entering the dimly-lit chapel, Laoghaire felt a sense of eerie foreboding hovering over the entire chamber. Despite the fact that the interior was illuminated by torches set in evenly–spaced cressets, she began to experience a palpable dread. And though she told herself that there was nothing lurking in the dark shadows, it nevertheless seemed as though some sort of villainy had taken root therein.
Unnerved by the sinister atmosphere, she tentatively walked down the side aisle toward the altar. She’d taken no more than a few steps when she heard what sounded like the muffled braying of a donkey.
What manner of man or beast would make such a noise in a holy place?
In the next instant she heard a pitiful whimper, and what sounded like a muted cry of protest.
Heedless of the danger, Laoghaire unsheathed the small jeweled eating knife that hung from her girdle and rushed forward.
The scene that met her eyes brought her to a skidding halt, Laoghaire utterly horrified to find Father Giroldus, his meaty hand wrapped around young Aveline’s wrist, forcing the child to fondle him through his habit.
God’s heart! The man is naught but a degenerate fiend!
