Chapter 1 #2
“I’m…biding time,” he told her.
“Biding time?” She laughed. “You? When have you ever been willing to idle away hours you could be fighting?”
She was a fine one to tease him about fighting. She’d spent most of her childhood at the heels of her mother’s ancient instructor Sung Li, practicing combat from the Orient.
Now, however, as the lady of a castle, Feiyan was more concerned with keeping the peace. Beside the courtyard well, a pair of wee lads clouted each other with sticks. She barked their names sharply. Sent them away in opposite directions.
Without missing a step, she asked, “So why do you need to bide time?”
Gellir supposed there was no point in beating around the bush. He muttered under his breath, “The king may be hunting down a bride for me.”
“What?” Feiyan stopped abruptly. She faced him with raised brows that quickly lowered in a frown. “Wait. That’s a bad thing? You don’t want a bride?”
“Of course I want a bride.” He moved out of the way as a woman herded a flock of geese past them. “Just…not now.”
Feiyan gave him a look that would freeze mist. “Gellir. You’re one and twenty. You’re a man of means. From a clan loyal to the crown. How long did you expect the king to wait?”
“’Tisn’t that.”
“Then what is it?”
Gellir scanned the courtyard for gossips. When he was sure no one was listening, he confided in a murmur, “I’m sure you know King Malcolm has been rather… friendly… with the English of late.”
She nodded and arched a disapproving brow. “He’s ceded a good deal of Scottish land to Henry.”
“And aided the English against the French.”
“The siege at Toulouse.”
“Aye.”
Gellir scowled. For once, he was grateful the Rivenloch clan was currently defending the border.
Not fighting alongside the king. The Rivenlochs were loyal subjects, to be sure.
But for King Malcolm to join forces with England, their arch enemy, against their long-time ally France? It was ill-conceived and dangerous.
There were some who claimed the king had formed the alliance purely for vanity. Young Malcolm liked to brag about the fact he’d been knighted at Toulouse last spring by King Henry himself.
“What does this have to do with you?” Feiyan asked.
“The king may be looking to strengthen that alliance.”
“Strengthen it?”
“With marriages.”
She gasped in realization. “He might wed you to an Englishwoman?”
He nodded.
She let out a slow whistle. “’Twould be a travesty. The Rivenlochs have held the English at bay for generations. Protecting Scotland and the crown.”
“Exactly.”
“A Sassenach wife,” she said with a shudder. “We can’t allow that. You’ll hide here at Darragh.”
Gellir scowled. Hiding was exactly what it felt like. A shameful, cowardly act. He didn’t like it one bit. But under the circumstances, he couldn’t afford to call undue attention to himself.
She quietly voiced his thoughts. “Roving across the countryside. Winning every tournament. Your name and your exploits have surely reached the king’s ear. We don’t want to draw his attention here.”
“Right. Which is why I need to lie low. And why the tournament must be delayed.”
“But what will you do? You can’t hide here forever.”
He grimaced at her use of that reprehensible word again.
“Sooner or later,” she said, “the king will recall there’s an eligible bachelor in the Rivenloch clan.”
“Two.”
“Two?”
“Hew was sent away as well. He’s staying at a castle betwixt here and Glasgow.” Laird Deirdre had sent their cousin Hew to a remote spot. A place where none could hear his hotheaded bellows of rage over the ludicrous possibility of marriage to an English lass.
Feiyan stiffened. Her brow creased with worry. “What of Adam?”
“Your brother should be safe enough,” he assured her. “He’s young. Besides, he can always make himself invisible.”
Adam was a master of disguise. Able to disappear in plain sight. Or impersonate royalty. Traveling with Gellir, he’d once feigned to be the king’s right hand man.
“But then what?” she wanted to know. “Will you just wait? And hope the king’s fascination with the English fades?”
“Nay. ’Tis worse than that.”
“Worse?”
Gellir stopped before the doors of the great hall. He took a deep breath and let it out again. Steeling his expression to grim determination. It was the expression he donned before challenging an opponent in lethal combat.
“Laird Deirdre has commanded me to secure a bride. Before the king does.”
For a moment, Feiyan didn’t speak, waiting for him to continue. “Is that all?”
He frowned. “What do you mean, is that all?”
“You just have to…find a bride?”
His scowl deepened. “’Tis a grave quest.”
She fought back a grin tugging at her lips. “Is it?”
He straightened, towering and glowering down at her. “Do not make light of my situation.”
Despite his foreboding scowl, she burst into uncontrollable giggles.
“You find my quest amusing?” he demanded.
“’Tis hardly a quest,” she said, “when half of Scotland is in love with you.”
That was nonsense.
He cursed and turned on his heel. But as he stalked away from her, headed to the armory, looking for a fight, Feiyan’s mocking laughter echoed in his ears.
Perhaps crossing swords with one of Darragh’s warriors would temper his aggravation with her.
The instant he stepped into the armory, he was welcomed with cheers and claps on the back. These were men he’d trained four years ago. They gathered round, begging him for tales of his tournament victories. What honors he’d won. Which challengers he’d defeated.
Primed to do battle, Gellir had no interest in singing his own praises. But he supposed he should oblige them. It was his duty as a champion, after all, to inspire others.
Urged on by the insistent young knights, he planted one foot on the bench, crossed his arms over his knee, and began to regale them with his adventures.
A half dozen stories in, the men’s rapt eyes shone with dreams of glory. They pleaded for more. Gellir was feeling better already. Less ashamed. More self-assured. Less of a fugitive. More of a hero.
Besides, he told himself, it was a good thing he did for the men of Darragh. He remembered how rousing a knight’s tales of courage could be. Especially to unseasoned warrior lads.
He told the tale of how he’d fought a French knight at Stirling for a full hour.
How the knight finally fell to the ground, exhausted.
Then he related the story of his unlikely triumph in Edinburgh after he broke his blade mid-battle.
Then he gave his account of the Roxburgh melee, where he singlehandedly took down five swordsmen.
After several stories, his throat began to grow dry.
From the corner of his eye, between the gathered men, he spotted the swish of a servant’s faded woad-blue skirt.
“Fetch me an ale, lass, will you?” he called out.
“All this blathering has left me parched.” Then he turned his attention back to the warriors.
“As I was saying… There I was. Knocked to my hands and knees. My sword just out of reach. And there stood the Moor, looming over me like a mighty oak. But then I thought to myself, oaks are meant to be felled, aye? So I picked up my shield in both hands,” he said, miming his actions, “and, swinging it like an axe, I—”
He froze as the men parted, revealing the most beautiful serving lass he’d ever seen. Wordless and breathless, he could only stare at her with his arms aloft, ready to vanquish the imaginary Moor.
The maid’s lush coppery locks were swept back into a braid that fell seductively over one shoulder. Her lips were rosy temptation. Her breasts swelled above her linen shift like two soft loaves of rising bread.
She sauntered forward with a seductive smile. Her hips moved with a sinuous grace that stopped his breath and roused the beast in his braies.
His foot suddenly slipped off the bench and hit the ground with a thud.
“Good morn, Sir Gellir,” she purred. “’Tis been a long while.”
Who was this vision? And how did she know him?
He narrowed his eyes at her face. Her eyes sparkled like blue crystals. A frisson of recognition suddenly stirred his memory. “Merraid?”
Like a magic incantation, reciting her name released a torrent of memories. Memories he hadn’t recalled in years.
The battle for Darragh. The wee orange-haired waif sneaking him into the castle. Rescuing him from the dank gaol beneath the keep. Bringing him his sword so he could join the fray. Waving goodbye from the parapet.
“Ye do remember me,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
But this was not the Merraid he remembered—the funny-looking, freckle-faced lass with the marigold hair who hung on his every word.
This was a beautiful woman with tempting curves. A dangerous woman who could wrap him around her finger. Leave him speechless. Make him forget his thoughts. Rattle his world. And steal his soul.
Merraid had been watching Gellir from the shadows of the armory for nigh an hour. At first sight, she’d felt stunned, as if she’d been struck on the helm by a war club. Her heart fluttered. Her breath caught. A girlish blush warmed her cheeks.
He was even more handsome than she remembered. He’d grown several inches and broadened at the shoulders. His voice was deeper, his face seasoned with manhood.
For a long, delicious moment, passion gushed through her veins. Desire blossomed in her heart. Lust bloomed betwixt her legs.
Then she gave herself a sobering shake. She no longer had designs on Gellir of Rivenloch. The days of foolish yearning for her hero’s return were gone.
Inside, Merraid was not the same awkward lass.
And by the way he gazed at her now—his mouth agape, his nostrils flaring, his eyes smoldering—he saw that as well.
He could no longer dismiss her as an infatuated maidservant worshiping at his feet.
Indeed, it seemed he didn’t quite know what to make of her.
As for Merraid, she was still peeved at him for appropriating her tournament. And hearing his lofty tales—injected with equal amounts of stirring bravado and feigned humility—made her roll her eyes several times.
A season of uncontested triumph and glory had obviously gone to his head. What self-assured, swellheaded Gellir needed most was someone to humble him. Someone who remembered the beardless lad he’d once been. Someone to knock him off his high horse. To remind him that even the mighty could fall.
Merraid turned up the corner of her mouth. She could do that.
It was time to bring the braying braggart back down to earth.
She planted her hands on her hips and faced him with a confident smile. “If I do fetch ye an ale, sirrah,” she promised in a voice that was hardly that of a lovelorn lass, “’twill be to pour it o’er your swollen head.”
He coughed in disbelief. “What?”
The Darragh knights gaped at her as if she were mad.
“For nigh half an hour,” she said, “I’ve listened to your boasts and brags. Heard all about how ye knocked this knight from his saddle. And flung that warrior’s sword across the field. How ye outwitted Sir Clever. And outlasted Laird Tireless. How ye pummeled Sir Forget-Me-Not into oblivion.”
Gellir was struck dumb.
“But ’tis all talk,” she said. “Why not put your mettle where your mouth is? What good are words without deeds? Tales are only tales. The proof is on the field o’ battle. Wouldn’t ye agree?”
The lads silenced, awaiting his response with bated breath.
She expected Gellir to stammer out an excuse. To refuse the challenge. Instead, she was surprised by the glittering star that sparkled in the stormy sky of his eyes.
The wily devil had been hoping for this. A challenge. A dare.
Of course, she thought. How could she have believed otherwise? Gellir was a warrior. A person of action, not words. He didn’t want to talk about fighting. He wanted to fight. He had always preferred to speak with his sword.
“I do agree,” he announced. “So who will fight me?”
Merraid knew no one would pick up the gauntlet of “the greatest warrior who’d ever lived.” To do so would guarantee a humiliating loss. Perhaps even worse, it might incur the magnificent Gellir’s disappointment.
“Come on, lads,” he coaxed. “Surely someone thinks they can best me.”
The men shuffled uncomfortably.
“Is there no one up to the task?” he asked.
The warriors murmured amongst themselves.
Merraid smirked.
Only one person was not afraid of losing.
Only one person didn’t crave the high-and-mighty Gellir’s approval.
Hers was a bold decision. Daring. Brazen. All the things that would have mortified fifteen-year-old Merraid.
But it was time Gellir met the saucy woman she’d become. The Merraid who could keep scoundrels at bay with a smoldering glance. Who could cut knaves to pieces with a sharp tongue. Who could lay villains flat on their backs with a single blow.
Summoning the courage of the Rivenloch warrior maid who had taught her all she knew, Merraid smiled and said, “I’ll fight ye.”