Chapter 3 #2
But the occasion of his marriage was no time to be altruistic. He deserved better. He deserved the very best. And if he didn’t know that, if he couldn’t see what an important choice this was, then it was up to her to make him see.
“At least promise me ye’ll take a look at all the blades in the shop ere ye settle on one,” she said.
After a moment, he asked, “Why do you care so much?”
She turned to look at him. His hair was drenched now to the blackest shade of midnight.
It curled along the curves of his massive shoulders.
His heavy brows were furrowed. Beneath them, his eyes shone as softly as burnished silver.
A drop of water trickled slowly down his cheek to kiss the corner of his inviting mouth.
Her breath caught.
Because I love ye, she thought.
Instead, she told him, “Someone has to watch your back.”
He gave her a one-sided smile that went straight to her nether regions, flooding her with shame and desire.
“Fine,” he agreed. “I promise I’ll look at all the blades in the shop.”
She gave him a brusque nod. Now that she’d secured his vow, she muttered an excuse about serving at the feast and took her leave. There was no point poking the coals of forbidden fire.
For Gellir, the supper dragged on and on. By the third course, he knew Merraid had been right. As the meddling maidservant served smoked haddock to the guests at the high table, she gave him a smug look to prove she’d been right.
True to Feiyan’s promise, Lady Forveleth was as pretty as a daisy.
She had flesh as pale as cream and lush hazelnut-hued tresses.
She possessed a musical voice, light and soft.
Wide eyes of dark brown. A sunny nature and a bright smile.
And as Gellir sat beside her, she touched his forearm with her delicate fingers as if they were old acquaintances.
But already her childlike helplessness was wearing thin.
She waited for Gellir to place her napkin on her lap. To cut her mutton. To beckon a servant to refill her cup. She even expected him to—God help him—feed her from his fingers.
She babbled on to everyone about her jewels and her gowns and her pets until Laird Dougal nearly dozed off.
Then, her eyes twinkling, she leaned toward a very disinterested Feiyan to share a bit of mischievous gossip about her six lady’s maids. Six! Gellir wondered wickedly if she had one maid to clean her teeth and another to wipe her arse.
Just as Gellir struggled to stifle a yawn, Merraid bent near to refill his cup, whispering, “Ask her about studyin’ Latin.”
He straightened. Ah, did the lady possess some intellectual curiosity after all?
He lifted his cup in a salute. “Mirum est quod discis Latine loqui.”
Forveleth looked at him with the glazed stare of a deer.
“I’m sorry. I…oh, is that Latin? Faith, I have such trouble with Latin.
” She giggled and bent near to confide, “Don’t tell my da, but I’m actually havin’ a servant take my lessons.
What use will I have for Latin anyway? I’m certainly not goin’ to be a nun.
And I’m sure my husband,” she said, coyly dipping her eyes, “will take care of any legal documents that require signin’. ”
Gellir felt the mutton congeal in his stomach. He gave her a weak smile. Then he took a bracing swallow of wine.
Oblivious to his disappointment, she blathered on about how silly she thought it was for a lady like her to learn skills she could easily hire others to do.
No one contradicted her. But Lady Feiyan’s eyes grew cold. And Laird Dougal’s fingers tightened on the cup of wine. All of his female kin were well-educated. It was a point of pride that Rivenloch women were as clever as they were fierce.
Gellir needed to turn the conversation before Feiyan throttled the lass. Surely there was some subject at which Forveleth excelled. Some strength she possessed. Something that made her special.
He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and turned to her. “What would you say your greatest talent is, my lady?”
“Talent?” She wrinkled her nose as if he’d made a jest.
“Aye,” said Feiyan, grateful for the change of subject. “Do you hawk? Sew?”
Laird Dougal chimed in. “Sing? Or play draughts?”
Forveleth caught her lip under her teeth and gave her head a little shake. Then a tiny crease appeared between her brows. “I suppose ye might say I’ve a talent for purchasin’.”
“Purchasing?” Gellir asked. Now they were making progress. “So you purchase goods for the castle? Supplies and so forth?” That required careful accounting and skill so as not to create waste.
Her mouth made an “oh” of surprise. “Och, heavens, nay. All those figures and ledgers? I get dizzy just thinkin’ about it. Nay, my father has a man who does that. I mean I have a talent for purchasin’ goods at the market. Ribbons. Jewels. Scented oils.”
His eyes flattened. “I see.”
“I can find just the perfect shade o’ ribbon to complement my tresses,” she proudly gushed, “and I can spot which pendant is the highest quality…”
“And negotiate a reasonable price?” he guessed hopefully.
“Well, my servant does that,” she admitted. “But I’ve managed to acquire quite a collection.” She held up her pendant to show him the green cabochon. “’Tis an emerald. Is it not breathtakin’?”
He studied the piece. “Aye.” Even more breathtaking if she’d known it was not an emerald, but some kind of glass. Of course, he wouldn’t be so crass as to tell her.
He was beginning to realize, however, that marrying Lady Forveleth would be a disaster.
As Merraid had warned him, she had the emotional maturity of a child.
What would happen when he marched off to battle, leaving her in charge of the keep?
Would she let the stores of food run out?
Allow their children to run amok like wild animals?
Drain his coffers to purchase a worthless bauble?
How could he wield his sword like a tournament champion, distracted by the fear that his wife might at any moment hand over his castle in exchange for a ribbon in just the perfect shade?
It was a shame. She was quite beautiful. Her clan was well off and well respected. She and Gellir, with their complementary natures, even made an attractive couple. He was sun-bronzed, and she was fair. He was grim, and she was sunny. He was clever, and she was…
He shuddered, imagining a life of hand-feeding and coffer-guarding and caring for her as if she were a bairn in tailclouts. How would such a woman ever raise bairns of her own?
He scowled. He wondered if she even knew how they were made. Did she understand the intimacies between a man and a woman? Or would she run screaming from their marriage bed, crying to her maids that Grim Gellir had attacked her with a fleshy dagger?
The longer the evening wore on with music and entertainments, the more morose he became. After supper, Forveleth prattled on, drowning out the lute player. She frowned in confusion over the morality play. She gasped in exaggerated shock when the magician pulled a silk scarf from her sleeve.
All the while, Gellir remained polite. But he grew impatient with her naivete. And his smile grew thin. Each insipid giggle made the muscle of his jaw ache.
Clearly, he’d made a terrible mistake in thinking any lass would suffice for a wife. To be condemned to a woman who grated on his nerves and bored him to tears was unthinkable. How could he face a lifetime of such evenings?
“M’laird, here’s the feverfew ye requested.”
Gellir startled. It was Merraid. She leaned between him and Lady Forveleth and placed a vial on the table. As she withdrew her hand, she turned to him and added, “For your headache?”
For an instant, he stared mutely at her. Then he saw a conspiratorial glimmer in her sky blue eyes.
“Och. Aye.” He pressed his fingers to his temple. “My thanks.”
“Och nay, Sir Gellir,” Lady Forveleth complained. “Do ye have a headache?”
“Alas, I fear so,” he said, silently praising Merraid’s genius. “I regret I must leave your sweet company.”
Forveleth pursed her mouth in a disappointed pout.
He rose and lifted her hand to press a light kiss to the back of her knuckles. When he looked past her, his cousin Feiyan shot him a glare that could melt steel.
Let her scorch him with her eyes, he thought. Merraid was right. He needed to take more care in selecting a wife. Besides, didn’t Feiyan agree? She’d said he should choose carefully as well. And she apparently had a whole host of prospects lined up from which to choose.
Bidding everyone good night, Gellir snapped up the vial of feverfew. He frowned and rubbed his brow once more for effect. He gave Merraid a clandestine wink before he retired in relief to his chamber.
The next morn, though Merraid’s body moved easily through the familiar postures of the taijiquan, her mind was a hundred miles away. It wasn’t the sun warming her. It was the memory of Gellir and his conspiratorial wink.
She swept her arm gradually to the left, as if smoothing the waves atop the sunlit firth.
At least Gellir had recognized Lady Forveleth at once for what she was. A wee lass in a woman’s gown. A spoiled child. A loose-tongued bloviator, blithely oblivious to the feelings of others.
But that was only one prospect dodged. There were likely dozens of others.
She performed a deep lunge to the right. Then she twisted slowly toward the sea, bringing her arms together as if collecting all the gulls that circled above the waves.
Dame Joan knew every eligible female in the west of Scotland. No doubt she’d arranged a roster as long as her arm. Who was next on the list?
“There you are!” Lady Feiyan popped her head up from the stairwell, carrying her squirming three-year-old son on her hip.
“M’lady?” Merraid whirled and bobbed a curtsey.
“Sorry to interrupt your taijiquan. ’Twill be a busy day. Dame Godit is coming to dine with Gellir. Lady Margaret will go hawking with him in the afternoon. And Lady Affraic will be joining him for supper. I need every free hand I can get.”
“Aye, m’lady.” She dutifully dipped her gaze. But inside she was seething with outrage. Godit? Margaret? Affraic? Dame Joan’s marriage candidates were completely wrong. Bad matches all. Something had to be done.
Feiyan shook her head, muttering, “I wish this marriage matter didn’t require such haste.” Then she retreated back down the stairs.
Merraid frowned. Why did it require such haste? Surely a man of Gellir’s renown wasn’t desperate. He was young. He was hale. He was rich. Why the rush?
She supposed it made no difference. It was up to her to save him from Dame Joan’s prospective brides. And if it had to be done swiftly, she’d redouble her efforts.
She let down her skirts and rolled up her sleeves. It would be a busy day indeed. She had to save Gellir from Dame Joan’s prospective brides.
“When you say ‘old’…” Gellir said, speaking to Merraid between hacks at the straw-stuffed dummy in the middle of the lists.
As always, he’d arisen at dawn to begin training. An hour before anyone else. So it was a surprise, albeit a pleasant one, when Merraid appeared on the practice field. Her coppery hair had been burnished to gold by the rising sun, her walk brisk and confident, her manner urgent.
“Lady Godit is twice your age,” Merraid told him.
He gave her a knowing smile as he swept his sword down. “Do you even know what twice my age is?”
“Forty-two,” she said without hesitation.
He blinked, impressed. “You know your numbers?”
“Aye.”
“How do you—”
“That’s not important. What’s important is she’s forty-two. Forty-two!”
Gellir scowled, making another downward strike at the dummy’s shoulder. That was a bit old for a bride.
“She’s a widow?” he asked.
“Nay. She’s ne’er been wed.”
“Never? Why?”
“Men willin’ to look past her pox scars are only after her wealth.”
He sniffed. “I have no need of wealth.” He took a swing at the dummy’s head. “And I care naught about scars.”
“I know,” Merraid said tenderly. “That’s what I…” She stopped short of saying love about you and kicked at a pebble on the ground. “My point is, at her age, ’tis possible she’s beyond bearin’ children.”
He tightened his grip on the sword. That was a fair point. One of his duties to king and clan was to multiply the Rivenloch ranks.
“So what do you suggest?”
She spoke quietly, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve heard a marriage may be annulled if the bride proves barren.”
“Annulled?” Gellir thought a man might as well drive a sword through a woman’s heart. As if to demonstrate, he stabbed his blade into the dummy. “I would ne’er do such a thing.”
Merraid’s gaze flew to his and softened. “Then perhaps ’tis best to be truthful from the start. Lady Godit will understand.”
Gellir nodded. He would be gentle but firm. “Thank you. I’m glad I can rely on your advice.”
“O’ course,” she said. “And while I’m handin’ out advice…” A mischievous gleam danced in her eyes. “Ye need to stop clenchin’ your left fist when ye’re about to strike a downward blow. It gives your intentions away.”
His jaw was still open when the saucy minx sauntered away and disappeared beyond the stables.
When he finally regained his balance, he shook his head in wonder. Only Merraid would be so bold as to criticize the technique of a tournament champion.
He spun to strike a downward blow at the dummy and realized to his horror that she was right. He did clench his left fist.