While Father Giroldus appeared harmless, he was a predator of the worst sort, a man who hid his evil intentions behind the sanctity of his office. That Aveline had been made to suffer clawed painfully at his heart.
I must speak to both Aveline and her parents.
It was of the utmost importance that the child not be made to suffer in silence; she was an innocent victim in all of this. Indeed, Galen knew firsthand that such silence could be as devastating as the hideous deed from which it sprang. Over the years he’d tried to exorcise his own painful remembrances of having been flogged mercilessly by the priests at St. Sulpice monastery. And though he’d achieved a measure of success during his waking hours, the old memories still occasionally haunted his sleep, a persistent demon that he could not cast off.
As for the banished priest, Galen intended to send several men-at-arms to waylay Father Giroldus once he was a goodly distance from the castle. His men would see to it that the degenerate priest was gelded for his sins.
’Tis the only way to prevent him from assaulting another child.
Truth be told, Galen would have been only too happy to wield the blade himself, and to have the punishment administered in the lower bailey. However, to prevent a hue and cry from some of the more devout among them—who might deem the bloody spectacle a sin against the Church—the priest would have his testicles cleaved from his body in less conspicuous surroundings.
“I have yet to visit the castle gardens in the upper bailey,” Laoghaire broached. “Mayhap we could speak there?”
“’Tis as good a place as any,” Galen said before he ushered Laoghaire down the aisle.
While it was late in the day, the garden would give them a measure of privacy. The confession would be difficult enough; he did not want his words to be overheard.
“A messenger from the king arrived at the castle,” he mentioned offhandedly as they exited the chapel. When Laoghaire made no reply, he continued and said, “The Bruce has ordered a war council to convene at Castle Balloch for Martinmas. All of the lords and Highland lairds allied to the king have been summoned to attend. In fact, your cousin Diarmid is now preparing to depart for Skye in order to deliver the summons to your brother,” he added, hoping to elicit a response.
The addendum met with a resounding silence.
As they proceeded to walk across the lower bailey, Laoghaire did not deign to favor him with even a sidelong glance. Admittedly dismayed by her lack of interest, Galen knew that he had only himself to blame for her indifference.
Had I made a full confession that day in the grotto, we would now be walking hand-in-hand.
But his manly pride—stung by Laoghaire’s recriminations and lack of trust—had impelled him to withhold the truth from her. In hindsight, it was a mistake. As a result, with each passing day the wall of silence had grown steadily higher, until it now reached an almost insurmountable height. Worried that he might not be able to scale the great divide if another day dawned in cold silence, Galen had decided to do whatever he must to break the stalemate. But having made the overture, he knew the impasse would only be broken if Laoghaire listened with an open mind.
Would that I never happened upon Melisande that night in the darkened corridor, he lamented, filled with regret for what transpired when—on the stormy night that Laoghaire had been trapped on the battlements—he had an unforeseen encounter, one that should never have taken place. And it was that interlude with the fair-haired beauty that he’d dreamt of whilst in the grotto; an unintended confession that cost him Laoghaire’s affection and brought about the loss of all that he’d worked so hard to achieve. Namely, the taming of his lady wife and sharing the pleasures of their marital bed.
He did not know why Melisande offered him the gift of mercy. Nor could he fathom why she kissed him that night in the corridor. Since his marriage, he had been sexually aware of only one woman, his fiery-haired wife. Indeed, he’d gone out of his way to treat Melisande with a polite civility that could in no way be misconstrued as romantic or chivalrous. And while he and Melisande had been intimate with one another prior to the severance of their betrothal bonds, their coupling had left little impression; though at the time it mattered naught as his main objective had been to acquire a suitable wife. In that regard, Melisande—lovely to behold and possessing many feminine virtues—had been eminently qualified. But for some inexplicable reason, what he once found attractive now left him unmoved.
But how can I convince Laoghaire of that?
As he and Laoghaire passed through the arched gateway that led to the middle bailey, Galen feigned an interest in the men-at-arms who were practicing their swordplay, the air filled with the clang of competing blades. But it was simply a pretense, his attention instead focused on the woman who walked by his side. Hers was not the beauty extolled by the minstrels, who seemed enchanted by small-breasted, fair-haired ladies who could not fend for themselves. Instead, Laoghaire possessed an unconventional beauty that he found highly appealing.
And he was certain that his lady wife likewise found him appealing. Just as he was certain that Laoghaire had enjoyed their loveplay. Perhaps it had been the mysterious energy in the grotto—a remnant of the ancient tribes that once used the cave as a sanctuary—which imbued their lovemaking with a powerful sensuality.
Forsooth, ’twas like a force of nature had erupted between us.
Simply thinking about it made Galen’s loins throb and his gut knot with a fierce longing. He did not want to spend another celibate night dreaming of Laoghaire beneath him, writhing in ecstasy as she wrapped her long, slender legs around his flanks. He wanted the flesh-and-blood woman in his arms so that they could usher in the dawn together, his manhood sunk deep within her warm chasm.
Have I ever tasted a pair of sweeter lips? Or touched such a sinfully alluring body? And how is it that her breasts perfectly fill my hands?
In truth, his wild Highland bride was like no other woman he’d ever known. Furthermore, Galen was convinced that Laoghaire’s courage and passion made her the perfect mate for him. Together, they would ensure that the House of Ogilvy was a dynasty to be reckoned with for generations to come.
Still walking in silence, he and Laoghaire passed the barracks that housed the castle’s fighting men. They then climbed a wide set of stairs and went through another gateway, this one opening onto the upper bailey. The large grassy expanse was bounded on one side by a towering inner curtain wall and on the opposite side by a lower crenellated parapet. Within the enclosed area there were bare fruit trees, mainly apple and pear, a few of which had been trained to grow along the south-facing stone curtain. There were also numerous vegetable and herb plots bordered with woven willow branches. Nearly all of the vegetables had been harvested, with the exception of several plots of peas and beans that had been left on the plant to dry. In the center of the bailey was a fish pond stocked with trout and pike.
Owing to the lateness of the hour no one was about, the upper courtyard completely deserted.
Because there was a chill breeze, Galen gestured to the stone watchtower that braced the western corner of the bailey. “The watchtower is presently unmanned,” he told Laoghaire, leading her toward the turret. “We will be able to speak freely there.” He suspected that, like him, his lady wife would not want to have their private conversation overheard by passing servants or prying vassals.
Once inside the turret, he gestured for Laoghaire to be seated on the window seat that abutted the unshuttered window, the arched opening providing the sole source of light for the unadorned interior. He waited until she’d seated herself before he sat down beside her. Though they sat only a hand’s-breath apart, for some reason it seemed like a far greater distance.
Uncertain how to begin, he took several moments to collect his thoughts. As he did so, Galen watched as a lone sparrow flew past the iron grille that secured the window opening, the bird’s iridescent plumage throwing off a slight sheen in the dull autumn light.
“That day in the grotto, I did dream of Melisande,” he said at last, thinking it best to begin with the dream. “Whilst I slept, I relived an encounter that took place the night that you were trapped on the battlements.”
As Laoghaire pulled her mantle closer to her chest to ward off the chill in the air, she peered at him with a guarded look in her eyes. “Do ye mean to say that what transpired in this dream actually took place?”
