Chapter 2
“You?” Gellir scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I won’t fight a…”
Merraid lifted a brow. Was he going to say “a woman”? Surely, coming from a clan full of female warriors, he didn’t dare.
“A maidservant,” he finished.
“Why not?” she said, scornfully crossing her arms. “Are ye afraid?”
The Darragh warriors scoffed at the notion.
“Hardly,” he said.
“Then why not fight me?”
“What will you fight with?” he asked. “A broom and a mop bucket?”
The warriors laughed again.
Merraid did not. She could actually do quite a bit of damage with a broom and a mop bucket. “If ye like. Ye choose the weapon.”
He smirked.
The men waited to see what he would do.
“Fine,” he finally agreed with smug assurance. “Then I choose no weapon.”
She lowered her eyes, amused. He thought he was being clever. But she didn’t need a weapon. She was a weapon.
“You choose the time and place,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll want a few days to prepare.” And to reconsider and back out of the challenge was his unspoken thought.
But she had no intention of backing out. She smiled. “Here. And now.”
He blinked.
“Ooh,” cooed the men, eagerly scrambling out of the way to make room for the fight to come.
Gellir let out his breath on a whistle. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he warned. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Ye won’t,” she said, widening her stance, bending her knees, raising her arms. “Have ye forgotten the gift ye gave me when ye left?”
“Gift?” He furrowed his brows. Clearly he had forgotten.
“The promise ye extracted from Lady Feiyan?” she prompted.
“I asked her to look after you.”
It was Merraid’s turn to blink. “Look after me?” She lowered her hands. “Is that what ye said?”
“You were young and vulnerable,” he explained. “’Twas the least I could do, knowing I was returning to Rivenloch and leaving you defenseless.”
Merraid was mildly vexed. So Gellir had never meant to mold her into a warrior maid at all. It had been Lady Feiyan who had decided Merraid should learn how to defend herself.
On the other hand, she had no right to be angry. Lady Feiyan may not have followed Gellir’s wishes exactly. But because of her, Merraid had become strong, stealthy, capable, independent.
“Well, I’m not defenseless now,” she said, making her hands into loose fists before her.
Reluctance twisted his mouth. He obviously thought she was at a serious disadvantage. And it went against his sense of chivalry to wage an uneven battle. So he did the noble thing. Facing her, he stood with his arms at his sides.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll give you the honor of the first blow. But see you take care. I don’t want you to bruise your lovely knuck-”
Before he could even finish the word, she twisted sideways and snapped her foot into his chest, knocking him forcefully backwards.
Gellir hadn’t been caught off guard in a long time.
Unprepared, he staggered back into a group of men, who caught him and levered him upright again.
“Well done,” he said with a cough, rubbing his chest and chiding himself. “I should have seen that coming.”
“Now ye,” she said, lowering her arms.
He scowled. He couldn’t attack a defenseless lass.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t fought a woman before.
He’d been raised by a warrior maid of Rivenloch, after all.
But the womenfolk of his clan were daughters of Vikings.
This lass was half his size. How could he bear to scratch that delicate face? Bruise that luscious body?
He came at her with slow, careful, exaggerated movements. He aimed to catch her gently about the waist, giving her time to work up a defense.
She didn’t need time. She immediately struck both of his arms aside with the heels of her hands and clenched his tabard in her fists.
Turning, she thrust into him with her right hip, nudging him off-balance.
Using momentum, she levered him up. Rolled him over her shoulder.
And dropped him onto his back on the flagstones.
The men gasped. But he was more thunderstruck than hurt. He gazed up at her from the armory floor. How had she done that?
She smirked down at him, clapping the finished task from her hands and quipping, “Och, how the mighty have fallen.”
By the Saints, she was breathtaking. Literally. She’d knocked the wind out of him.
But she was also beautiful. Even when she mocked him. Her hair looked like an angel’s bright halo, at odds with her devilish grin.
“M’laird,” a young knight urged. “Ye’ve got to get up.”
The others joined in.
“Ye can’t let her get away with that.”
“Show her who’s the best warrior in all Scotland.”
“Ye’d best watch out, lass. He’s a champion. He could break your neck like a twig.”
“Go on, m’laird. Don’t let a maidservant get the best o’ ye.”
Gellir gave his head a shake. He rolled up to his feet. This time when he faced her, he wouldn’t misjudge her.
The men shouted encouragements as he circled her like a wolf stalking a lamb, searching for a weakness.
Her knees were flexed. Her hands were loose. Her breath was calm. Her gaze was locked on him.
The instant she blinked, he charged forward, planning to gather her in his arms.
Somehow she was ready for him. She deftly stepped aside, and he sailed past her, crashing painfully into the armory grinding wheel. The men groaned at the dull thud he made as he struck the rock. Even the maidservant sucked in a sympathetic breath.
But he didn’t need her sympathy, no matter how his shoulder throbbed. He pinned her with a smug expression. Half grimace. Half grin. Then he lunged forward, trying again to trap the wee minx.
She instantly captured his forearms and pulled him aside. Sweeping a foot behind his heels, she knocked him off his feet. She eased him down to the flagstone floor, like a nursemaid putting a babe to bed.
Gellir should have been furious. A vicious slam to the ground was one thing. A gentle, controlled drop like this was a bald insult.
But he was too fascinated for anger.
She released his arms and smugly held a hand out to help him up.
He took her hand. Her palm was warm within his, triggering another pleasant memory—making their way through the dark of the sea cave, holding her small hand in his. It had been warm. Soft. Trusting.
For an instant, they exchanged tender glances. He savored the sensation.
Then he narrowed his eyes and gave her hand a sudden, brisk tug.
He was surprised she fell for the trick. It was one of Feiyan’s favorites. But in that instant of lusty distraction, she’d let down her guard.
Pulled forward, she landed in a graceless sprawl atop his body.
The men cheered. Part of him gloated in triumph. The other part realized he’d made a serious tactical error.
This close to her, he could see astonishment in her sky-blue eyes. Count each delicate freckle standing out in blushing relief from her pale cheeks. Feel her velvety breath upon his face.
If he eased an inch closer, he’d be able to capture her plump, rosy lips between his own. And he had an unruly urge to do just that.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. She no longer seemed like that little sister he’d once thought her to be.
Her breasts were soft and pliant where they were crushed against his chest. Her legs entwined with his in a sensual tangle.
And despite the audience and the inappropriate situation, his loins immediately began to respond to the wicked, warm weight of a woman pressing down upon them.
Quickly, before she could detect the bulge in his braies, he rolled her over onto her back, trapping her between his arms.
The men crowed and whistled over his manly triumph.
But when he looked into Merraid’s eyes, triumph wasn’t what he felt. Not at all.
The brave maidservant had challenged him when no one else would. She’d been unafraid to put him in his place. Fierce and fearless, she didn’t care a whit about his reputation or his status or how many tournaments he’d won. She treated him as an equal.
Unfortunately, while he was reflecting upon that, the sneaky wench used her knee to give him a swift jab in the ballocks.
He yelped and recoiled at once. Rolling off of her onto his back, he clutched his offended manhood with a groan. Now he remembered why he hated fighting women.
The men winced, making empathetic grunts.
Merraid popped up to her feet and dusted off her skirts. As he grimaced in pain, she crouched beside him, arching a brow and whispering, “He who tries to fly among the gods gets burned by the sun.”
He narrowed smoldering eyes up at her. He probably deserved that. But he wasn’t quite ready to forgive her.
“Sung Li?” he guessed, croaking. It sounded like something Feiyan’s teacher—that wizened old relic from the Orient—would say.
“Nay,” she replied. “Icarus’s da.”
He sighed. Of course. Icarus. The cocky Greek knave who had thought himself invincible and had fallen to his death.
Maybe she was right. In some ways, success had spoiled Gellir. Flush from a year of praise and glory in the lists, he’d forgotten how to be humble. Maybe a sobering slap in the face—or a punishing knee to the groin—was just the thing to remind him he was a mere mortal.
Still, it was unpleasant to receive such comeuppance from his cousin’s maidservant. One who could quote Greek mythology.
By their grumbling, the Darragh warriors were just as disgruntled as he was.
But their remarks, mostly aimed at Merraid for what they perceived as dirty brawling, made him realize her precarious position.
Whether by fair means or foul, the men’s appointed champion had fallen.
They would naturally seek retribution for that slight.
Perceiving Merraid as the source of their affront, they would target her for insult. Or worse.
He couldn’t allow her to suffer for what was essentially his failing. It was up to him to frame her battle for the victory it was.
Merraid expected the sweetness of her conquest to be short-lived. As Feiyan had warned her long ago—and experience had verified—men hated to be bested by women.