“And did my lady wife confess to this plot?”
As the significance of Galen’s question sank in, a bewildered look crept into the sheriff’s eyes. “Then, the wench was telling the truth?” he said, clearly thunderstruck.
“The ‘wench’ is my wife, and you will show her the respect that is her due.” Although he spoke in an eerily calm tone of voice, Galen’s eyes had turned a wintry shade of pewter-gray.
Recovering some of his earlier bluster, Blàrach glanced dismissively at Laoghaire and said, “If she is a countess, then I am—”
“A fool,” Galen stated matter-of-factly. Giving Blàrach no time to react, he unsheathed his sword, the edge of the blade coming to within a hairsbreadth of the sheriff’s throat. “Moreover, if you do not beg my lady wife’s forgiveness, I will cut you down where you stand.”
The threat met with an expectant hush amongst the sheriff’s deputies, as well as Galen’s men-at-arms, the air suddenly rife with a palpable tension.
Despite the fact that Galen appeared remarkably composed, Laoghaire knew that should Simon Blàrach fail to comply, he would soon be looking death in the face. And though the sheriff stood nearly as tall as Galen, and had about him the bulk of a man accustomed to wielding heavy weapons, she was certain the outcome would not be in his favor.
“Strike down the king’s man, would you?” Blàrach retorted, refusing to yield. “The Bruce would not be pleased.”
Galen gave an unconcerned shrug. “I suspect the king will thank me for removing a villain from his realm. And an incompetent villain, at that.”
Evidently realizing he held an untenable position, Blàrach raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I thought there was mischief afoot, milord. ’Tis my job as sheriff to investigate anyone who breaks the king’s law.”
“And which of those laws did my lady wife break?” When the sheriff made no reply, Galen continued to prod him. “Perhaps she drew a sword on you?”
His eyes having grown round with alarm, the sheriff shook his head. “Nay, she did not.”
“Perhaps she threatened you in some manner?”
“Nay, she . . . she made no threats.”
“Then, why in the name of all that’s holy did you apprehend her?” Galen snarled, his eyes gleaming with a naked, unadulterated fury.
“I thought you would, erm, be pleased that I—”
“You thought wrong!” Galen pressed the tip of his blade into the exposed skin of the sheriff’s neck, drawing forth a glistening drop of blood. “Make amends, knave!”
With a stunned look on his face, Simon Blàrach stepped back from Galen’s sword and went down on bended knee in front of Laoghaire. “I most humbly beg your pardon, milady, and ask that you . . . you forgive me.”
Although the blame for the travesty was the sheriff’s entirely, Laoghaire nevertheless granted him absolution. “Ye are forgiven,” she murmured.
“Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and run you through,” Galen commanded, as he sheathed his sword.
Even though the sheriff’s shoulders sagged with visible relief, there was no mistaking the enmity in his gaze. Lurching to his feet, he stormed toward his horse. His deputies immediately followed suit, the pack of riders making a speedy departure from the camp.
As she watched the humiliated sheriff take his leave, Laoghaire knew that while Simon Blàrach may have begged her forgiveness, she’d made a powerful enemy. One whom she hoped to never again lay eyes upon.
She had no time to ponder the matter further, for Galen took a firm grasp of her arm. When she balked at his roughshod treatment of her, he simply gave a tug and towed her behind him as he stormed toward the tent she’d earlier seen him emerge from.
At the tent entrance, Galen released his hold on her. He then braced his balled fists on his hips and stared at her with a stern expression. “Christ God! What are you doing here?”
To Laoghaire’s shame, her legs shook with such force she feared she might actually crumble before him. “I thought . . . I thought ye’d be happy to see me.”
“Happy?!” Galen bellowed. “Do I look happy to you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Galen flung back the tent flap, the heavy fabric snapping as crisply as sails in the wind. While he tried to quash the fury that seized hold of him, it was fast proving a losing battle.
The frigid horror that settled deep in his belly upon catching his first glimpse of Laoghaire had yet to dissipate. The roads were dangerous, and she could have easily been waylaid by bandits or English soldiers. Had she met with either, at the very least she would have been abducted for ransom. But more than likely she would have been raped by God knows how many men.
And she wonders why I’m angry.
