But this day is far from normal,she silently railed as they left the chapel and wended their way across the bailey, their path illuminated by a pair of torchbearers, a dark gloom having fallen across the castle grounds.
Neither she nor Galen spoke to one another. With each step she felt the heavy weight of the large gold and amethyst wedding ring that now adorned her left ring finger. She wanted nothing more than to yank it off her hand and fling it into the nearest dung pile.
That would wipe the conceited look from his face, wouldn’t it?
Hazarding a quick sidelong glance at the knave who walked at her side, Laoghaire could see that Galen’s gaze was intently focused on the massive stone keep, its windows gleaming with bright light. It occurred to her that his was the hardened stare of a conquering knight. With just cause he was known throughout the whole of Christendom as a merciless warrior, ruthless in battle and fearless on the tournament fields. She’d even heard it said that mothers who wished to discipline their unruly children would invoke hisnom de guerre—the Dark Knight—to scare their offspring into obedience.
If I displease him, will he raise his hand against me?Laoghaire wondered with no small measure of unease, knowing that he was the sort of man who would show an enemy no mercy. If he even knew the meaning of the word. Galen de Ogilvy had undoubtedly lived the whole of his life without so much as a tender thought crossing his mind or a kind word passing his lips.
And this is the man to whom I am now wed.
Perhaps this is naught but a terrible dream, she thought in the next instant, a nightmare from which she would soon awaken, safe and sound in the familiar environs of Castle Maoil.
“Alas, it is not a dream,” the man beside her said unexpectedly.
“How— How can ye know my thoughts?” Laoghaire sputtered, wondering if, in addition to being a knave from hell, Galen de Ogilvy wasn’t a practitioner of the dark arts.
“Because if I were in your position that would be my bent of thinking,” he remarked, as he ushered her up the long flight of stairs that led to the entrance of the keep. “But you must accept that this—” while he held the door open, he gestured to the expanse below them— “is now your waking reality. Until death us depart, according to God’s holy ordinance,” he added, reciting the words of the vow that she’d so recently taken.
Laoghaire made no reply as she stepped across the threshold. Though it was eventide, the interior of the great tower was well-lit, with light emanating from numerous candles impaled on tall prickets, as well as from the many torches that protruded from iron wall brackets.
Taking hold of her by the elbow, Galen ushered her toward an imposing set of heavy wooden doors, in front of which there stood two sentries, one on either side of the entryway. Just as the men were about to open the doors, a young girl stepped out of the shadows. Approximately eight years of age, she possessed a mass of long, dark curls that poked beneath her white biggin.
“These are for you, milady,” the child said shyly, as she presented Laoghaire with a bouquet of blue flowers.
Surprised by the unexpected gift—the first true act of kindness to come her way since her arrival at Castle Airlie—Laoghaire was at a loss for words.
“The bouquet is a thoughtful gesture,” Galen told the young girl in a surprisingly gentle tone of voice as he put a hand upon her shoulder. “They arene m’oubliez mye, if I’m not mistaken. Forget-me-nots,” he translated.
Smiling sweetly at Galen—a look of utter adoration in her hazel-green eyes—the young girl nodded and said, “They are a symbol of steadfast love.”
At hearing that Galen went silent, his expression having suddenly become as unreadable as a blank piece of parchment. Evidently, he was unaware that was the reason why brides traditionally wore the color blue. And though Laoghaire’s own wedding dress, like the bouquet of flowers, was a vibrant shade of blue, she knew she could never find it in her heart to love, let alone respect, her new husband.
“What is yer name, child?” Laoghaire asked, hoping to dispel the awkward silence that had arisen in the wake of the young girl’s innocent remark.
“I am called Aveline.”
“Aveline,” she repeated. “’Tis a lovely name for a lovely lass.”
“I was given that name by my godfather,” Aveline informed her with a note of obvious pride. “Not only is he a very brave knight, but he is a good and wise lord. And he will be a kind and loving husband to you, milady.”
Laoghaire’s head instantly swiveled in Galen’s direction. Flabbergasted, she nearly choked on the breath that caught in her throat. “Does the lass mean to say thatyeare her godfather?” she inquired, stunned that any parent would consign the spiritual well-being of a child to a man who was the devil’s own.
“Aveline is the daughter of my reeve, Robert Guthrie,” Galen informed her. “He and his wife witnessed our marital vows.”
“That was yer reeve in the chapel?”
“Robbie is a loyal retainer. Not only has he fought by my side, but he has served me well these last fifteen years.”
Laoghaire was taken aback by the revelation. She could not imagine that someone as arrogant as Galen de Ogilvy would regard the castle overseer as a personal acquaintance.
“Because you did not bring a maidservant with you,” Galen continued, “I have asked his wife Coira to serve you in that capacity. Like you, she hails from the Highlands.”
“She has the Gaelic, then?”
“I would imagine so. I did not think to ask.”
Worried that she would be given a French-speaking attendant—as she had been earlier in the day—Laoghaire was pleased with the selection. Although she could not help but wonder if the choice of a fellow Highlander was mere happenstance or a conscientious decision on Galen’s part.
