Since their arrival at Castle Balloch two days ago, she’d seen little of Galen during the daytime hours, most of his time spent counseling the king on how best to prepare for Longshanks’s next invasion. Mercifully, the English were known to be fair-weather fighters, and would more than likely not cross the border into Scotland until after the spring thaw. The Bruce intended to use the intervening months to devise a military strategy that would hopefully rid them of their enemy, once and for all.
As Galen offered his arm to her, Laoghaire briefly took his measure. Garbed in a gray woolen tunic that was trimmed with silver threads and set off with a black leather belt, he made for a handsome figure.
But he is also a warrior without peer,she thought admiringly as her eyes fell upon the pommel and copper-gilded cross guard of his sword. A person did not have to know that Galen had been dubbed in the Holy Land to see that he was a fearsome warrior. ’Twas evident in his confident carriage, his proud visage, and the intelligent gaze that missed nothing.
She suddenly thought about the babe she carried in her belly, and wondered if the child would inherit Galen’s raven black hair and pewter-gray eyes.
As they took their leave from the great hall and made their way down the torch-lit corridor, a companionable silence fell between them.
“There is something weighing heavily on my mind,” Laoghaire said, the first to speak.
Galen raised a questioning brow. “And what is that, lady wife?”
“Is that how ye think of our marriage, as nothing more than a business transaction?”
If Galen was startled by her query, he gave no indication of it. “All marriages begin as a business arrangement,” he responded matter-of-factly. “By the terms of the betrothal contract that was made with your family, you were legally given to me.”
“I see,” she murmured, left cold in the wake of her husband’s brutally honest answer.
“But I am the better man for it. And while ’tis true you are my countess, you are also my saving grace.”
Deeply affected by Galen’s addendum, Laoghaire was at a sudden loss for words, a thick knot forming in her throat.
Opening the door to their bedchamber, Galen motioned for her to precede him across the threshold. At a glance, she could see that the candles in the two prickets had been lit, and that there were coals glowing brightly in the brazier; all of which gave the bedchamber a welcoming air. Because Galen was one of the king’s close advisors, they’d been given a large chamber that boasted a magnificent bed with a wooden frame draped in a luxurious crimson fabric. There was also an ornate chest set against the far corner, and a table with two stools.
With an almost detached air—oblivious to the emotional impact of his last two remarks—Galen calmly stepped over to the table and filled two goblets from the flagon.
Handing her one of the goblets, Galen’s mouth quirked with wry amusement. “I would have you tell me, lady wife: Did what transpire between us last night feel like a dull business transaction to you?”
Laoghaire felt the blood rush to her cheeks while she recalled the previous night’s lovemaking, able to envision the seductive intensity that had gleamed in Galen’s eyes, the impassioned expression on his face, the proud thrust of his engorged manhood.
“’Twas like fire and fury,” she told him.
“Then we are of like mind.”
Smiling indulgently, Galen leaned toward her. After angling his head to one side, he kissed her, sweetly, gently, his lips coaxing hers to part so that he could playfully prod her tongue with his. When, a few moments later, he pulled away from her, Laoghaire felt a pulsating heat begin to course along her spine, her body flushed with the twin fires of love and longing.
“But are we also of like heart?” she asked impetuously.
Galen’s jaw tightened, and a heavy silence fell between them. In that quiet interlude, the only sound to be heard was the crackle of coals in the brazier and the steady thrum of the westerly winds against the closed shutters. Indeed, it was so quiet that Laoghaire was certain she could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
All of a sudden she feared that she’d embarked on a fool’s errand. For unlike the gallant knight in a minstrel’s song—who was always quick to declare love for his fair lady—Galen kept his innermost feelings under lock and key. And she now suspected that no amount of prodding would persuade him to lower his defenses.
“I am not comfortable speaking on matters of the heart,” Galen said at last, confirming her suspicions.
Laoghaire studied Galen’s face, searching for a clue, a sign,somethingto indicate his true feelings. But all she saw was a hard-set mouth and a pair of shuttered eyes, an intimidating expression undoubtedly meant to discourage her from continuing.
“Do ye not trust me to keep safe the contents of yer heart?”
Abruptly turning away from her, Galen strode over to the table and set down his goblet. Appearing the very picture of an aggravated male, he raked a hand through his hair. “’Tisn’t as easy as that, Laoghaire.”
“’Tis as easy or difficult as ye would make it,” she goaded, feeling a fair amount of aggravation herself.
In the wake of her taunt, Galen went so still that she could no longer discern the rise and fall of his chest.
“For many years now, I have labored under the belief that I do not have a heart,” he said in a hoarse tone of voice, one that suggested the admission was not an easy one to make.
Why would he think such a thing?
