Chapter 2 #2
The slurs muttered around her were familiar and unsurprising. A few of the Darragh warriors had met their own demise at her hands. They were doubtless relieved to be in good company. She expected Gellir would have a few choice names to call her as well.
Which was why she was taken aback when his brow softened. His stormy gray eyes melted into fog. And the corner of his mouth lifted in a conspiratorial grin.
“Well executed, m’lady,” he said, applauding her even while wincing from the blow she’d inflicted. “See, lads? You should never let your guard down. Always be prepared for the unexpected. The noblest lion can still be lamed by a rose with thorns.”
She was so shocked by his praise, she didn’t even hesitate when he reached out a hand for her assistance. This time he didn’t betray her trust. He allowed her to help him to his feet.
“Let this be a lesson to you all,” he continued, still clinging to her hand. “Never underestimate an opponent.”
While Merraid stood in open-mouthed wonder, he raised her hand to his lips, and brushed her fingers with a gentle kiss.
“I thank you for the challenge, m’lady.”
The men of Darragh, baffled at first, soon joined in with cheers.
Merraid was left speechless. The back of her hand tingled where his lips had touched it. Her cheeks flushed. Her heart throbbed. For a moment, she was reduced to that na?ve fifteen-year-old lass again. Stumbling over her words. Blushing with desire. Overwhelmed by passionate yearning.
She thought she’d left that lovelorn lass behind. She was so certain her heart, once broken, was now safely encased in steel plate.
Yet here it was, pounding again for Gellir of Rivenloch with the force of an armorer’s hammer. Softening under the twinkling light of his amused eyes and proud smile.
“Well, why are you all standing about?” he called out to the men. “Someone bring the lady an ale!”
A cup was passed forward through the crowd. He handed it to her. Then he went down on one knee before her. “Go on then, champion. Pour it o’er my head.”
She had no intention of doing any such thing. Not now. Not since he’d shown her such knightly courtesy.
He may have arrived four years too late. Basking in the light of his grand achievements. Heralded by tales of unmatched glory.
But she knew now that Gellir Camelliard was the very same young man who’d won her heart all that time ago.
Humble. Brave. Chivalrous. Self-sacrificing.
He possessed the lofty trappings of a hero.
But under them, he was still the simple lad whose only wish was to use his sword arm. Defeating evil. Defending honor.
She thought she’d locked her affections for him away. But God help her, they spilled forth from her heart like an uncorked cask of wine. Preserved. Mellowed. Aged to a complex and delicious elixir. One with the power to render her helplessly drunk on his love.
Her fingers trembled on the cup. Her face glowed with admiration. Her pulse raced. Her heart melted like butter.
Somewhere in the back of her thoughts came a whisper of warning.
She couldn’t let this happen.
She dared not fall in love with him.
Nothing good could come of it.
They lived in different worlds.
He’d already broken her heart once. She couldn’t let it happen again.
Yet the tender feelings were all too familiar and completely unavoidable.
As he knelt before her, her eyes swept over his shaggy hair—the dark color of wet wood, and his swarthy face—shaded with manly stubble, and lingered on his wry mouth.
Then she made the mistake of letting her attention drift up to his steadfast, beautiful, honest gray eyes.
She was lost at once. Falling into the deep, silvery pool of his gaze. Drowning in the strong currents of temptation, where nothing could save her.
For a moment, she considered extinguishing the flames of longing by pouring the ale over her own head.
“Merraid!” came a bellow from the back of the crowd. Tom the kitchen lad made his way forward. “Merraid!”
Someone needed her. She quickly downed half the cup and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Aye?”
“Ye’re needed in the hall. The cook says ye’re to help set up the feast for Sir Gell-…” He stopped abruptly when he noticed Gellir at her feet. Unsure what to make of the situation, he backed away, muttering, “Ye’re to come at once.”
For Merraid, the command was a clear and painful reminder. Sir Gellir might be kneeling before her at the moment. But that was only for show. He was a nobleman. The son of a powerful laird. And she was but a servant in his cousin’s household.
With a quick bob of her head, she pressed the half-drained cup back into his hands. Then she picked up her skirts and fled the armory.
Gellir watched her go. He still couldn’t believe the dazzling beauty was Merraid. Gone was the timid, scrawny, wide-eyed maidservant. She’d grown into a woman who was lovely. Self-assured. And undeniably tempting.
He was unaccustomed to noticing such things. In the last two years afield, he’d enjoyed a sampling of lasses—from lowly camp followers to titled ladies. They swooned over him. Showered him with tournament favors. Begged for his affection.
None had turned his head.
He’d been too centered on improving his skills in the lists to care about the ladies who filled the spectator stands.
To be distracted by a woman was a novel experience for him.
One of the men nudged him from his thoughts. “Ye let her win, aye? I mean, the greatest warrior in all o’ Scotland couldn’t be defeated by a wisp of a lass.”
Gellir looked up. All the men were staring at him, waiting for his answer with a mixture of hope and disappointment.
“Of course,” he replied. He wasn’t altogether certain that was true.
But if he’d unleashed the full measure of his power from the very first, he might have squashed her like a flea.
“Trouncing her would have been discourteous, aye? Chivalry is a warrior’s guiding principle.
A knight’s foremost duty is to protect the helpless. Never forget that.”
Merraid was far from helpless, as he’d discovered. But the men seemed satisfied with his answer.
“M’laird?” A servant entered the armory with a bob of his head. “Lady Feiyan is requestin’ your company.”
Gellir left the men musing over his advice as he followed the servant up the stairs to his cousin’s solar.
Feiyan’s chamber looked more like a private armory than a lady’s sitting room.
There were the requisite chairs and even a plate of sweetmeats on the table.
But on the wall opposite the east-facing window hung a collection of exotic weapons from the Orient.
Curved blades. Steel stars. Sharpened forks.
“You summoned me?” He sauntered toward the dish of sweetmeats and popped one into his mouth.
Feiyan frowned as she scanned him from head to toe. “You haven’t bathed yet.”
“I’ve been busy,” he said, chewing the sugary treat. “By the way, when I asked you to look after Merraid, I didn’t mean for you to teach her to fight.”
Feiyan shrugged. “I don’t have time to watch over every maidservant. ’Twas the best way to protect her.”
He grunted.
She waved away his conversation. “Look, I’ve invited a guest for supper. You should look your best.”
He stopped chewing and lowered his brows. “A guest?”
“A marriage prospect.”
He choked on the sweetmeat. Between coughs, he ground out, “Well, you’ve certainly wasted no time.”
She clapped him on the back, which did absolutely no good. “There’s no time to waste. Who knows how soon the king will make his move? You should secure a wife as soon as possible.”
He glowered. But he supposed she was right. “Who is this prospect?”
“Her name is Lady Forveleth. She’s the daughter of Laird Aengus mac Donald of Maybole, just south of here. She’s quite lovely. Of an appropriate age. According to Dame Joan, she—”
“Dame Joan?”
“Joan is my…well…she knows everything. She keeps me abreast of the town gossip.”
Gellir sighed. Women were curious, scheming creatures.
He ambled to the hearth and picked up the poker to jab the glowing embers to life.
“Anyway, Joan said if you don’t care for Forveleth, she can send word to Lady Godit. Lady Godit is unfortunately pox-scarred and a bit long in the tooth. But she’s newly widowed and comes with a considerable fortune.”
“Which I don’t need.”
“Which you don’t need. But there’s no point in turning it away if you like her well enough. Then, if Lady Godit is unappealing, Joan knows of a third—”
“There’s no need for a third,” he said, replacing the poker. “I’ll take the first willing maid.”
Feiyan scoffed at that. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re going to be chained to the lass for a lifetime. ’Tis bad enough you have to make a swift decision. At least examine a few options.”
“I’ve always known mine would be an arranged marriage. I expect no more. As long as the lass can give me bairns, it doesn’t much matter what she looks like or how much coin she has.”
Feiyan let out a simmering sigh of frustration. “I swear you’d take more care in choosing a sword than a wife.”
“Is that so strange?” He shrugged. “My very life relies upon a good sword. One that stands ready to defend me. Sharp. Trusty. Strong. True. A tool fitted so well to my hand that I don’t know where one ends and the other begins.”
“Like a good wife.” Feiyan arched a brow.
Gellir arched a brow back at her. Feiyan only thought that because she’d had the luxury of wedding out of love. She and Dougal had a marriage based on mutual respect and affection. They were lucky.
But when you were the firstborn son of a laird and a warrior without peer, your fate was not your own.
“In any event,” Feiyan said, “your prospect deserves to meet a bridegroom who doesn’t smell like horse sweat. I’ll have water heated and a tub brought up. You can bathe here.”
After she left, Gellir stared into the fire a long while.