Indeed, there will be,Laoghaire thought, certain that once they caught up with Galen’s caravan, Sheriff Simon Blàrach would be forced to pay the devil his due.
Several hours later they caught up to the caravan, Galen and his men having set up camp in the middle of a small glen.
When Laoghaire’s gaze landed on the banner that fluttered atop an upright lance, she mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. Her eyes then moved across the clearing, where half a dozen field tents had been erected, in addition to a makeshift corral having been set up for the horses. As was to be expected, there were clusters of men-at-arms milling about, more than a few of whom drew their swords when they rode into the encampment.
Wearing a self-important expression, the sheriff announced in a booming voice, “My name is Simon Blàrach, and I am the sheriff of Strathearn. I have urgent business with the Earl of Angus!”
No sooner was the announcement made than Laoghaire caught sight of Piers Burnett, the young squire gaping at her in obvious disbelief before he took off running toward one of the tents.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, her gaze once more gravitated to the banner that waved sharply in the breeze. Indeed, she thought it passing strange that the sight of that blood-red lion—a sight she used to loathe—now filled her with a burst of pride. And deep longing as well, the standard causing her heart to pound forcefully with anticipation.
After days of hard riding, I will finally be reunited with Galen!
It was a thought that instantly dispelled the gloom of the day. En route, the skies had malevolently darkened, the moody clouds now holding the threat of a downpour.
Within moments, word of their arrival spread, various men emerging from their tents to gather around their mounted entourage. Laoghaire tried her best to ignore the slack-jawed expressions and furtive whispering, well aware that her arrival, in the custody of the shire’s sheriff, had to have been a great shock.
At seeing Melisande Jardin in the crowd of onlookers, she inwardly groaned. Immaculately attired in a dove grey mantle trimmed in white coney, the petite blonde somehow managed to appear pink-cheeked and lovely after days of travel. In that instant, Laoghaire could not altogether fault Sheriff Blàrach for having mistaken the graceful Melisande for Galen’s wife.
Whereas I look like a villein who’s just come in from the fields.A thought that made her fretfully wonder what Galen would make of her woebegone appearance and mannish attire.
She didn’t have long to find out, the flap of one of the tents opening with a brisk snap of heavy fabric. As Galen stormed out of the tent, Laoghaire drank in the sight of him. Outfitted in a chain mail hauberk, over which he wore a scaled leather surcoat, he was an intimidating sight to behold as he strode toward them.
Perhaps it was because Galen cut so fierce a figure, with his dark, windblown hair and narrowed gaze, that when Laoghaire opened her mouth to call out a greeting the words lodged in her throat. Although she doubted he would have heard them anyway given that a bolt of lightning unexpectedly burst free from the clouds, followed by a stentorian roar of thunder. In its aftermath, Laoghaire gently patted Aife’s neck, trying to calm the mare as it whinnied and shook its head from side to side.
To her dismay, Galen had no words of welcome for her. In fact, he said nothing at all, and she suddenly worried that leaving Castle Airlie had been a grave mistake.
No! I made the right decision,she told herself, certain that Galen would thank her once he learned the reason for her unexpected arrival.
His eyes as flat at a loch on a windless day, Galen stared at her with a remote expression while he slowly appraised her from head to foot. Even though Laoghaire surmised that he was furious with her, the impact of that potent stare caused her pulse to quicken and the muscles in her stomach to tighten. Unwillingly, she recalled their last night together, and the way in which he touched her, kissed her, filled her with his seed.
His nostrils flaring ever so slightly, Galen extended a hand in her direction, wordlessly indicating that he wanted her to dismount.
Just then, another flash of lightning was ripped from the heavens.
“Were you physically harmed?” Galen rasped in a lowered voice as he assisted her from the horse. He smelled of leather and pine and sweet wine, and Laoghaire ached to feel his arms hold her tightly.
When it became apparent that Galen had no intention of embracing her, she desolately shook her head.
“It would seem that I have wed one of the Morrigu.”
“The goddesses of death and destruction,” she murmured, horrified by the comparison.
Galen gestured to her mannish apparel. “And you are she in all her dark glory,” he said before he brusquely took hold of her by the upper arm and unceremoniously pulled her over to where Simon Blàrach stood waiting.
Like opposing foes on a field of battle, the deputies rallied behind Simon Blàrach, while Galen’s men-at-arms formed a line to the rear of their liege lord.
“What is the meaning of this spectacle?” Galen demanded, glaring at Sheriff Blàrach with a questioning look on his face.
“You will be happy to know, my lord, that I foiled a deadly attempt upon your life,” Blàrach boasted.
“Indeed?”
“That is the right of it,” Blàrach asserted with a nod. “This Highland reiver, a she-wolf if ever there was, tried to connive me into believing that she is the countess of Angus. Took me for a fool, she did.”
“God’s wounds. This tale only improves with the telling,” Galen muttered. “And did it escape your notice that the knight riding with this lady is wearing a red rampant lion upon his surcoat?”
Casting a quick glance at Sir William, the sheriff shrugged and said, “I reckoned it a ruse to give credence to the subterfuge. ’Tis obvious the she-wolf and her band of men were plotting some foul mischief.”
