“A fact that you clearly deem important.” Though for the life of him, he couldn’t begin to speculate as to the meaning of such pagan nonsense. While they had been converted to Catholicism centuries ago, Highlanders still clung stubbornly to their ancient beliefs.
At a loss to understand her actions, Galen strode over to the pallet and seated himself. He then proceeded to remove his boots.
“It means that I had my waking wits when the vision came upon me,” Laoghaire explained, Galen detecting an exasperated edge in her voice. “’Tis the reason why I went to such extraordinary lengths to warn ye. Dreams can oftentimes be fickle, but ataibhseis linked to one’s fate.”
At hearing that, Galen raised his head heavenward and peered through the smoke hole at the top of the tent’s conical roof, silently praying for forbearance.
Sweet Jesu! Next, she’ll be telling me that this so-called taibhse is linked to a sorcerer’s spell.
Galen shoved both of his boots under the cot before rising to his feet. Then, holding onto his patience by the slenderest of skeins, he said, “And what precisely is so important about this warning that it could not have been sent with a messenger?”
The question caused a look of utter horror to suffuse Laoghaire’s features. As though she’d just seen the Pale Rider in all his fearsome glory, she shuddered, and in a quavering voice said, “I saw ye die at the hands of another. Moreover, yer death will occur before ye reach Castle Balloch.”
Admittedly shocked by the disclosure, Galen nonetheless tried to shrug it off as nothing but superstitious drivel.
I am the master of my fate and no bird on earth can change that.
“And this swordsman, did you see his face?”
Laoghaire dolefully shook her head. “I did not, but I saw his blade—” her voice hitched for a moment, her eyes made watery with unshed tears—“in the moment just prior to striking yer neck.”
The coup de grâce. The deathblow.
Although unnerved, Galen refused to credence the images seen in a waking dream, no matter how disturbing they might be.
“If it is my fate to die, how can you possibly alter that?” he asked, pointing out the obvious.
Laoghaire’s terror instantly vanished, replaced with a look of fierce determination. The transformation was so complete that it made him think an ancient Valkyrie had materialized before his very eyes.
“I will give my life to protect ye and to ensure that no harm comes to ye.” Laoghaire took several steps, quickly bridging the distance between them. Placing a hand upon his forearm, she squeezed tightly and said, “Coira believes that a man’s fate is sealed within thetaibhse, but I believe that life is a balance between fate and free will.Thisis why I came rather than send word with a messenger, because I feared that ye would disregard the dire significance of my vision.”
Even though he was still garbed in a quilted aketon, Galen could feel the pressure of Laoghaire’s grip against the tightened muscles of his arm, her hand like a brand that somehow managed to sear through the padded layers of fabric. It only served to reiterate what he’d known for some time now—his Highland bride had the passion and heart of a woman, but she also possessed the spirit of a warrior.
Confronted with Laoghaire’s steadfast conviction, his earlier rage began to ebb. In its stead, Galen felt a sense of profound wonder. While he refused to countenance the validity of Laoghaire’staibhse, the fact that she would risk her very life to prevent the dire vision from transpiring humbled him beyond measure. Aside from Hector, his brother, Galen could think of no one who’d ever gone to such lengths to protect him.
Rendered mute—uncertain what to do or say—he gazed at his lady wife with great longing. Her burnished copper tresses had been woven into a single, thick plait that fell over her shoulder and hugged the outer curve of her breast. To his mind, the silky strands gleamed more brightly than the red-hot coals in the brazier, and he had to resist the urge to reach over and unbraid her hair.
Gently pulling his forearm from Laoghaire’s grasp, Galen stepped over to the chest and reached for the goblet of sweet wine. Laoghaire followed in his wake and stood silently at his side. After he’d taken several sips, she took the goblet from his hand and, looking him directly in the eye, she drank from the very same spot.
“So, you do not wish to see me die,” he said at last, finally breaking the silence that had arisen between them.
Laoghaire smiled shyly as she set the wine goblet on the chest. “I am yer wife. ’Tis my sacred duty to protect my husband.”
“Sweet Jesu,” he muttered, her earnestness causing his heart to swell with a strange, nameless emotion, one that he’d never before experienced. And one which wasn’t altogether welcome. Such tender emotions made him acutely uncomfortable. As though he were teetering over a dangerous precipice.
“I want to fulfill my duty as yer wife and give ye sons,” Laoghaire continued. Taking hold of his right hand, she placed it over her left breast, enabling him to feel the strong, steady beat of her heart. “But I also wanted to give ye aid, comfort, and my protection.”
“And what of your body, lady wife? Do you wish to give that to me, as well?”
“My body already belongs to you,” Laoghaire replied, Galen’s unexpected question causing the breath to catch in her throat.
“My heart is made glad.”
“Not only yer heart,” she teased. To prove the point, she reached under Galen’s aketon and molded her fingers around his arousal, able to feel the heat of him through his linen braies.
Closing his eyes, Galen grunted his pleasure. “Sweet Jesu, but you are brazen,” he muttered in a husky voice.
“Would ye have me be otherwise?”
