Chapter 2 #3
For his cousin’s sake, he’d acted nonchalant about the matter of his marriage.
He didn’t intend to burden her with the responsibility of finding him a wife.
But the truth was, even though the eventuality of taking a bride had always been an inevitable part of his life, he suddenly felt as if it had been thrust upon him.
The details had never seemed to matter before. But now that his destiny was fast becoming a reality, he had questions.
What would his wife be like? How would she feel about him? Would she be sweet and gentle? Or hot-tempered and bitter? Cruel? Or kind? Given to laughter or tears? Clever or dull-witted? And though he’d said it was of little consequence, he had to wonder… What would she look like?
Unbidden, a vision of lush gingery hair, dainty freckles, and sky-blue eyes stole into his mind.
He couldn’t help but smile. Merraid might not fit on Feiyan’s list of prospects. But she’d make some man a happy bridegroom indeed.
She was charming and challenging. Spirited. Brave. Beautiful. Who would not wish to be wed to such a lass?
She was also blessed with soft skin. Tresses that tickled his cheek. Full lips that had once yielded to his in a sweet kiss.
He sighed. It was a fool who dwelled on things he couldn’t have.
And Gellir was no fool.
All the way to the kitchens, a silent battle raged inside Merraid’s head.
She thought her passion for Gellir had grown cold. But a tiny ember must have been glowing inside her all these years, for now she longed to melt into his arms.
He’d shown her the uncommon chivalry and respect she remembered from long ago. He’d accepted his defeat with grace and dignity, humility and honor. And he’d reignited memories of the brave and forthright young warrior she’d once adored.
“Merraid!” the cook barked, startling her from her thoughts. “Linens for the table. And wine. Thyme and rosemary from the garden. Take Swannoc and Ede.”
Setting aside for the moment all thoughts of whom the preparations were for, Merraid took refuge in busying herself with the tasks at hand.
She brought four dusty-shouldered bottles of French wine from the buttery.
Then she snagged the two wee lasses to assist her in arranging linens atop the trestle tables.
But her hopes of distraction were short-lived. Young Swannoc and Ede were bursting with excitement over the guest of honor.
“Did ye see how wide his shoulders are?” Ede whispered as she folded a napkin.
“Aye,” Swannoc replied, smoothing the tablecloth. “He’s grown since he was here last.”
Ede gasped. “Ye remember him from before?”
“Oh aye,” Swannoc said. “I was twelve, but I remember him well.”
“I was only nine.” Ede sighed. “I wish I could have seen Grim Gellir fight for Darragh.”
“’Twas brilliant,” Swannoc gushed. “He was like lightnin’ with his sword and—”
“Less tongue-waggin’ and more napkin-foldin’, if ye please,” Merraid scolded.
They obliged, but it wasn’t long before Ede asked, “Do ye remember Sir Gellir, Merraid?”
Before she could answer, Swannoc replied, “Oh aye, Ede. Don’t ye know? ’Twas Merraid herself who brought him a sword for the big battle.”
“Ye did?” Ede squealed.
“Aye,” Merraid admitted, straightening the tablecloth.
“And did ye see him fight?”
“I did.”
Ede’s eyes lit up. “What was he like?”
“He was…” Fierce. Powerful. Brave. Magnificent. “A good fighter.”
Swannoc scoffed. “The men o’ Darragh say he could best Laird Dougal.”
Ede gasped again and turned to Merraid. “Were ye friends with him then?”
“Aye.” They might never have been more than that, but they had definitely been friends.
“So he spoke to ye?”
Again, Swannoc answered. “O’ course he did. He looked after Merraid when she got her nose broken.”
Ede’s mouth went round. “He did?” She clutched a napkin to her chest. “What was he like, Merraid?”
He’d been kind. Gentle. Chivalrous. And self-sacrificing. He’d offered to look after her, even though he would have much preferred to join the battle.
But she wasn’t about to tell them all that.
“He wasn’t so very grim, if that’s what ye want to know.”
Ede hid a smile behind the napkin and murmured, “I wish I had a broken nose so he’d look after me.” She giggled.
Swannoc smacked her arm. “Put your eyes back in your head,” she scolded. “Ye’re only half-grown. Besides, he’s a noble knight. He has no use for a wee servin’ lass like ye.”
Merraid’s jaw tensed.
Ede pouted. “Ye’re a mean old killjoy, Swan.”
“Swannoc is right,” Merraid told her, snapping a napkin in the air. “’Tis a muddle-headed maid who’d waste her breath makin’ such a silly wish.”
Merraid’s harsh words and the ugly truth might hurt Ede at the moment. But in the end, the lass would be glad she hadn’t spent years as Merraid had, feeding an imaginary beast. It was much better to face reality now than to cling to false hope.
Merraid briskly folded the napkin and placed it on the table.
Everything was put in its place now.
The tablecloths.
The napkins.
And the maidservants. All of them.
“Fetch your shears, and meet me in the garden,” she said. “We need to cut herbs for the cook.”
Moments later, crouching beside the thyme, Merraid still had trouble letting go of her own silly wish. With each snip of her shears, she tried to sever her long ago memories of Gellir.
His devotion to her as war blazed around them. Snip.
His protectiveness when he’d confronted her attackers. Snip.
The joy they’d shared when the enemy was defeated. Snip.
His shame when he’d loaned Feiyan his clothing and was forced to stand before Merraid in nothing but his…
“Merraid!”
She jumped, narrowly missing her fingers with the shears.
Ede was running full-tilt toward her, shears in hand.
Swannoc caught Ede by the scruff of the neck. “Don’t run with shears, ye ninny.”
Rather than slow to a walk, Ede dropped the shears, pulled free, and continued running.
“I have news!”
“News?”
“Aye.” Ede relayed her tale in breathless bursts. “I heard Lady Feiyan…and Dame Joan… talkin’ about Sir Gellir.”
Swannoc came up then and swatted Ede on the back of the head. “Were ye listenin’ at doors again?”
Ede elbowed Swannoc in the ribs. “How else am I supposed to find out what’s goin’ on?”
Swannoc rolled her eyes.
“Anyway,” Ede continued, “they said Sir Gellir came to Darragh…for a bride.”
The shears drooped in Merraid’s fingers.
A bride? At Castle Darragh? She entertained the brief, foolish possibility that Gellir had returned for her.
But reason quickly slammed the door in hope’s face. That was only the fantasy of an infatuated fifteen-year-old lass. Gellir would marry a noblewoman.
Swannoc held out the shears she’d retrieved for Ede. “He didn’t come here for ye, Ede, if that’s what ye’re thinkin’.”
Ede snatched the shears from her. “I know that.”
Swannoc began cutting sprigs of rosemary. “I wonder who he’s marryin’.”
Merraid didn’t want to think about it. The idea left a bitter taste in her mouth. It was bad enough that Gellir was going to wed. But if it was someone in the Darragh household… If she had to see him arm-in-arm with his bride every day…
“Och, that’s the thing, Swan,” Ede said. She plopped onto her bottom beside the rosemary. Using both hands, she closed the shears around a tough stem. “He hasn’t chosen a wife yet.”
“Nay?”
“Nay,” Ede confirmed. “Lady Feiyan is sendin’ Dame Joan to find him a proper bride.”
“What?” Merraid exploded, startling the lasses. “Dame Joan?”
Ede tossed the rosemary stem into Merraid’s basket with a shrug. “She’s found three ladies so far.”
“Three?” Swannoc said, impressed.
Merraid clenched her jaw as she pruned the thyme. Had Gellir just impulsively decided it was time to acquire a wife? And now he was letting the town gossip choose a suitable spouse for him? God’s bones! She hoped he took more care when purchasing a blade.
“Aye,” said Ede, “and the first one is comin’ to supper tonight.”
Merraid’s breath caught. So soon?
Apparently, Gellir didn’t intend to tarry long at Darragh. With Dame Joan setting up a brisk courting schedule, he might well be wed and gone by the end of the sennight.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe the sooner he left, the better. Life would go back to normal, and she’d prepare for the deferred tournament. She could banish Gellir of Rivenloch from her thoughts once and for all.
And he could go on his merry way with his new bride. A bride found hastily by the castle wag-tongue.
God’s wounds! That was truly disturbing.
She knew she shouldn’t care. She couldn’t have Gellir herself. So what did it matter who he married?
And yet it troubled her.
She caught her lip under her teeth and placed the cut stems in the basket.
It might not be her affair. But the truth was she liked Gellir. Maybe she couldn’t have him as a husband. But she remembered how decent and honorable he’d been, even as a young lad. He’d looked after her. Maybe it was right that she look after him.
She couldn’t let him marry so carelessly. With so little forethought.
Her own parents had made that mistake. One reckless roll in the straw had sealed their fate. They’d wedded in a rush when her mother’s belly had grown too large to conceal. But theirs had never been a happy marriage. Her ma had driven her da away and then drunk herself to death.
Merraid couldn’t let that happen to Gellir.
Gellir needed a wife who appreciated his good qualities. Who loved and admired his gallantry. His devotion. His generosity.
“So who’s the first prospect?” Swannoc asked Ede. “Did ye hear?”
“Lady Forveleth,” Ede said.
Swannoc’s brows shot up. “The daughter o’ Laird Aengus?”
“Aye.”
Merraid tensed her jaw.
Lady Forveleth was young and attractive. She had lovely brown hair. Fair skin. Big brown eyes. But she was as vapid as a cow.
Surely Gellir would prefer someone with whom he could have meaningful conversation.
Would he be fooled by her looks? Would he be blinded by her beauty? Was he so eager to be wed that he’d overlook her shortcomings?
Merraid furrowed her brow.
As Gellir’s friend, she couldn’t let him make such a mistake. She couldn’t let him be baited into a loveless marriage by a pretty face. She had to warn him.
“Is this enough?” Ede asked abruptly.
Merraid’s eyes widened. She hadn’t paid heed. The basket was overflowing with herbs. “Och! Aye.”
When she stood up, Tom the kitchen lad was loping through the garden toward her. “Are ye finished? The cook is losin’ patience.”
“Aye,” she said, handing him the basket, “here.”
“And Merraid,” he added over his shoulder as he hurried away with the basket, “Lady Feiyan said ye’re to bring bath linens to the solar.”
“Fine,” she said, handing Swannoc her shears. “Ye two see what ye can find in the way o’ berries and boughs to deck the tables.”
The lasses scrambled down the garden path. Merraid dusted the dirt from her palms and headed toward the keep.
Ordinarily, Lady Feiyan bathed in the firth.
She said the cool sea water was healing and invigorating.
Merraid had grown accustomed to dips in the firth as well.
But in spring, the water was icy cold. So the lady indulged in warm tub baths in her solar at least twice a sennight.
No doubt she wanted to be freshly scrubbed for this evening’s feast.
Merraid gathered a stack of linens and three vials of scented oil from the storeroom. Then she rushed upstairs to the lady’s solar.
Backing through the solar door, she called out, “Which would ye prefer today, m’lady? Lavender? Rose? Or—”
As she turned toward the tub, the steam rising off the hot water swirled into an obscuring mist. But it wasn’t enough to obscure the figure standing by the tub in linen undergarments. Who was definitely not Lady Feiyan.