“I do not have to make the claim. Your actions speak plainly enough.”
Galen could see by the aggrieved look in Laoghaire MacKinnon’s eyes that after much nibbling around the bone he’d finally reached the marrow. If there was one thing he knew about Highlanders, it was that they placed a high price on honor. In suggesting that Laoghaire harbored treasonous sentiments, he had impugned the lady’s honor.
And the only way the lady can reclaim her honor and prove her loyalty to the king is by marrying me.
“Yea, lady, ’tis a great burden that your king has thrust upon you,” Galen continued, choosing his words with care. “But I had not thought you a weakling. You would be well advised to do as I have done: Pick up the heavy load, put it on your back, and carry it.”
From the visible sagging of her shoulders, Galen was able to determine the precise moment when Laoghaire MacKinnon capitulated.
“I will marry ye,” she acquiesced, although she appeared none too pleased about it.
“We are now ready to plight our troth,” Galen told Father Giroldus, admittedly relieved. “You may begin.”
With lowered head, her magnificent ire having been thoroughly extinguished, Laoghaire took her place at Galen’s left side. Fixing her gaze upon the altar, she murmured dejectedly, “The king has condemned me to a living hell.”
He has condemned me, as well,Galen thought, worried that he might have to spend the rest of his life sleeping with a dagger under his pillow, lest his bride attempt to murder him in his sleep.
The rotund priest, his eyes owl-like, spread his arms wide and commenced the ceremony. As was the custom, he spoke in French, the language of the nobility.
“We will take our vows in English,” Galen said over the top of the cleric’s voice. “I want my lady bride to knowexactlywhat she is pledging before man and God.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Benedicat vos omnipotons Deus Pater et filius et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen,”Father Giroldus intoned as he concluded the bridal mass.
On the verge of rising to her feet—her knees aching—Laoghaire was prevented from doing so when the priest unexpectedly placed his hands above her head and said, “Let this woman be amiable as Rachel, wise as Rebecca, and faithful as Sarah. Let her be sober through truth, venerable through modesty, and wise through the teachings of heaven.”
Kneeling beside her, she heard Galen mutter a hearty, “Amen.”
As she peered up at the priest through lowered lashes, Laoghaire could see that he held her in obvious disdain. And while it was an irreverent observation, she thought that with his disapproving pucker, the cleric resembled a man whose bowels had not moved in many days.
The first to stand after the benediction, Galen promptly turned to Laoghaire and extended his hand. Despite the chapel’s dim lighting, she could see that while his hand was clean and the nails neatly trimmed, there were visible calluses on his palm.
’Tis a warrior’s hand, she thought, the calluses a testament to the many years he’d wielded a heavy sword. And now, simply because a priest had officiated over their mumbling of vows, Galen de Ogilvy had the right to put that same hand upon her naked body. Or to raise it in anger against her if the mood seized him.
Long moments passed, Laoghaire unable to place her hand in his.
With a muttered curse—evidently uncaring as to the sanctity of their surroundings—Galen reached over, grabbed hold of Laoghaire by the upper arm, and unceremoniously yanked her to her feet.
In that instant, as their gazes forcefully collided, Laoghaire could see that his held a barely banked anger. Because Galen towered over her, the man as solid as a sturdy oak tree, she was assailed with the impulse to push against his chest in order to put some distance between them. Her sense of dread was exacerbated by her new husband’s forbidding appearance, the severity of his black tunic only slightly lessened by the embroidered trim on the neckline.
Uncertain what to do or say, she stared at Galen’s face, her eyes drawn to the scar that marred his left cheek. Only a fraction more and her brother’s blade would have blinded the knave. She then noticed that his thick, curling hair was as dark as a raven’s wing, reminding her anew of the dire omen that she’d seen upon her arrival.
Returning her gaze, Galen peered at Laoghaire with a pewter-gray stare that was as cold and unyielding as the stone walls that surrounded them.
“Do you know why, lady wife, you are standing to the left of me?” Galen asked in a lowered voice.
Taken aback by the question, thinking it an odd one indeed, Laoghaire mutely shook her head.
“It is because God fashioned woman out of a rib taken from Adam’s left side,” Galen told her, pulling her closer to him as he did so. “Thus, females were not created like men, but rather they were formedfrommen. And it is for this reason that you owe us your entire existence, then as now. Therefore, you would be wise to practice the feminine virtues that the priest extolled, and to show gratitude as well.”
Enraged by the sheer arrogance of that sweeping summation, Laoghaire balled her fists. More than likely fearing that a fracas was about to ensue, Diarmid stepped to the fore; whereupon he grabbed hold of Laoghaire by the shoulders and soundly kissed her on each cheek.
“I didna say it before, cousin, but ye’re a beautiful bride. And for the love of God, dinna give Angus a reason to break ye,” Diarmid then whispered, the warning intended for her ears only.
When, a few seconds later, Galen offered Laoghaire his arm, she only briefly hesitated before—biting back her revulsion—she lightly placed the flat of her hand atop his forearm. Thusly posed, they walked sedately, side by side, to the chapel doors. Out of the corner of her eye, Laoghaire noticed that the couple she’d seen upon her arrival was still seated on a bench in the back of the sanctuary. The woman had a kindly face with soft brown eyes that glimmered warmly as she smiled at Laoghaire.
Under normal circumstances, Laoghaire would have returned the smile.
