Chapter 4 #2
When she turned to him, it was with a mask of courage. An expression she’d probably spent years perfecting. “Never fear,” she said. “’Twill pass. It always does.” She sniffed back her tears and confided, “Perhaps I’ll find a husband who’s as disinterested in me as I am in him.”
Laird Dougal suddenly cried out, pointing to his falcon. “Look there!” The bird swooped upon on a seagull and was bringing it to ground in a tumbling flurry of wings.
The conversation between Gellir and Margaret was forgotten as everyone’s birds began to hunt down prey, stalling and diving as gulls scattered across the sky and crabs skittered along the shore.
But Gellir knew from that moment he could never wed Lady Margaret. Knowing how she felt, he could never force himself upon her. And he would cut off his right hand before he would compel her to bear his children.
Merraid watched from the afternoon shadows of the courtyard wall as Gellir bid Lady Margaret farewell at the mews. She chewed at her lip, wondering what had happened.
Margaret had taken a keen interest in Lady Feiyan of late, more than friendship.
The situation was awkward enough that Feiyan was compelled to avoid her to prevent a misunderstanding.
Now Merraid feared Margaret might view wedding Gellir as a way to get close to his cousin.
No doubt Margaret would be heartbroken to discover her new bridegroom intended to convey her to his home on the east coast of Scotland.
A hundred miles from the lady she loved.
Once his gyrfalcon was returned to the mews, Gellir took Lady Margaret’s free hand in both of his and spoke to her a long while. Merraid wished she could hear what he was saying.
At last Margaret nodded, and Gellir released her to place his left hand on her shoulder.
Margaret lifted her head proudly.
Gellir extended his right hand.
She extended hers and gave his hand a firm shake.
Then they parted ways.
The moment Margaret disappeared out the gate with her peregrine, Gellir turned and saw Merraid.
As he neared, she emerged from the shade. “How did it go?”
He raised a brow. “I think you know how it went.”
“Ye were kind to her.”
“You seem surprised.”
She shrugged. “There are those who would condemn her.”
“She’s already condemned,” he said. “Condemned to marry someone she cannot love.”
Merraid nodded. She didn’t mention that he might be in a similar predicament.
“Speaking of condemned,” he added, “what’s wrong with my next marriage hopeful?”
As she circled the high table at dinner, refilling the guests’ cups with mead, Merraid knew full well the risk she was taking. She’d told Gellir she didn’t know his next prospect well. But Lady Affraic’s servants frequented the market. She’d had an earful from them.
The woman was of a suitable age and not uncomely. Her pleasant features were framed by a curtain of wavy brown hair. Frown lines were etched between her brows. But at the moment she was smiling. And her dark eyes showed intelligence.
She spoke easily with Gellir and his cousins, who seemed glad of her company.
But if the rumors were true, Lady Affraic had a terrible flaw of which Gellir would surely disapprove. And since she had yet to display that flaw, it was up to Merraid to provoke her into exposing it.
She waited until the serving lads brought forth the blancmange to finish the meal. Then, as Merraid refilled Lady Affraic’s mead, she surreptitiously caught the edge of the blancmange bowl with the mead bottle, upending it into the lady’s lap.
No sooner did the sticky white pudding plop onto Lady Affraic’s golden velvet gown than she rose with a shriek of rage and dismay. She seized her pewter cup and flung out her arm, backhanding Merraid forcefully across the brow for her clumsiness.
Merraid saw the blow coming. She could have blocked it. But she didn’t. And from the dizzying pang of the impact, perhaps she should have.
Ignoring the gasps from the other diners at such violence, the lady doubled down on her outrage. Once again, Merraid allowed her to advance. Using the cup like a mailed fist, the woman gave Merraid another cracking punch, this one in the ribs.
Merraid retreated in pain. She staggered to the ground and dropped the mead bottle. The fired clay vessel shattered on the tiles, splashing mead everywhere. She wheezed, cradling her ribs.
“Cease!” Gellir barked, throwing his napkin on the table.
Merraid was sure that would stop her. After all, Lady Affraic was a guest here. Her own servants she might mistreat. But to batter the servants of another was in poor form.
Unfortunately, Affraic didn’t seem to care about protocol. Or Gellir’s command. She did not cease. Still red-faced and gnashing her teeth, she stepped away from the table to continue Merraid’s punishment.
Rearing back one vengeful foot, she gave Merraid a vicious kick.
Despite preparing for the blow, the impact to Merraid’s already bruised ribs made her groan in torment.
“Cease!” Gellir bellowed again, scraping back the bench as he rose.
It took all Merraid’s willpower not to seize the lady’s foot and propel her backward across the table. Instead, she let Affraic get in one final kick of revenge to her thigh. Then she curled into a protective ball.
Wasting no more words, Gellir pinned Affraic’s arm behind her back. He forced her to drop the pewter cup. It clanged on the floor beside Merraid’s head.
“Enough,” he growled.
“How dare ye!” Lady Affraic went white with shock. “Unhand me!”
“I don’t know how ’tis in your clan,” he bit out, “but in Rivenloch, we don’t beat the servants.”
“Beat?” She blinked. When she realized the hall had gone quiet, she managed a nervous chuckle. “’Twas only a reprimand. No more than she deserved. Did ye see what she did? My gown is ruined.”
“She intended you no harm,” he insisted, though he gave Merraid an uncertain glance.
“Let me go,” the lady hissed between her teeth, trying to wrest free without attracting more attention.
Gellir held her firm. “You will never again raise a hand to a servant.”
Her eyes narrowed to simmering slits. “Fine.”
When he released her, she couldn’t help but mutter, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”
“Servants are not children,” Gellir murmured. “But if that’s how you feel, I don’t think I wish to father any of yours.”
Lady Affraic’s rasping gasp filled the shocked silence.
An awkward and heated exchange followed between the lady and her hosts. Then Lady Affraic departed with her entourage before anyone got to enjoy the blancmange.
While Feiyan and Dougal bid her a stiff farewell, Gellir came to rescue Merraid.
“Are you all right?” he asked, helping her to her feet.
“I’ll live.”
Her head was throbbing. She’d have a lump there tomorrow. Her ribs ached when she breathed. And there was probably a sizable bruise where Affraic had kicked her in the thigh. But what hurt most was her pride.
She could have avoided those injuries. It frustrated her to appear so helpless. Especially to Gellir.
Unfortunately, fighting back wouldn’t have served her purpose. But now everyone knew the rumors were true. Lady Affraic was short-tempered and prone to brutality.
“Where are you hurt?” Gellir asked.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“Where are you hurt?” he said more insistently.
“My ribs,” she admitted with a grimace. “And my leg. And there’s a wee scratch…” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. They came back bloody.
“That’s more than a wee scratch.”
He snapped up his napkin from the table and tucked it into his belt. Then he wrapped an arm around her and helped her limp across the great hall. He grabbed a pitcher of water from a passing maid as they headed up the stairs.
“So I suppose ye’ll be takin’ Lady Affraic off your list o’ prospects now?” Merraid asked.
He stopped on the step. Realization dawned on his face. “You conniver. You knew.”
She stared at him blankly.
“You knew,” he repeated. “You spilled the blancmange on purpose.”
She feigned surprise. “Why would I spill perfectly good blancmange?”
“To incur her wrath. To make a point.”
“And did it?”
He compressed his lips and shook his head in disgust. Then he continued up the steps with her, muttering, “You could have been gravely injured. Why didn’t you just tell me she was a hothead?”
“I wasn’t sure the rumors were true.”
“That’s a hell of a way to find out.”
They topped the steps and hobbled along the hall. He shouldered open the door of the solar. There he settled her onto a chair by the hearth.
He whipped the rag from his belt and dipped it into the pitcher of water. Then he knelt before her to dab at the cut on her brow.
It stung. She winced.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
If he’d known how many injuries she’d incurred in training—a twisted ankle, a slashed arm, a blow that left her senseless for half a day—he wouldn’t have fretted over this wee scratch.
On the other hand, she had to admit it was pleasant to have him fretting over her.
This close, she could study the furrow between his brows.
The stormy streaks in his gray eyes. The way his nostrils moved with every breath of air.
She could smell his intoxicating scent of mead and leather and steel.
And she wondered if his lips were still as warm and supple as they’d been all those years ago…
“There’s a lump,” he told her. “But I don’t think ’twill leave a scar.”
He’d said the same thing when she’d broken her nose. And he’d been right.
“It seems ye’re always mendin’ my injuries,” she said softly.
His mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Well, if you weren’t so intent on getting them in the first place…”
She smiled back. “’Twas a necessary sacrifice.”
“Was it?”
“Someone has to protect ye from schemin’ bride-finders.”
He chuckled. “I’m a grown man and a tournament champion. I don’t think I need protection. Not from a scrap of a lass like you.”
She gave him a playful shove that almost knocked him off his haunches. “This scrap of a lass tossed ye onto your arse in the armory.”
He grinned. “Fair enough.”
He leaned in to inspect his handiwork a final time.
She held her breath. He was inches from her face. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss.
As if she’d spoken her thoughts aloud, he lowered his gaze from her brow and looked into her eyes.
They never spoke. But she felt her heart melting as his expression slowly changed from amusement to affection. And then from affection to desire.
In another instant, she might have acted recklessly on her impulse. But the door flew open under Feiyan’s hand.
“Merraid, are you all right?” Feiyan demanded, frowning in concern.
“Fine, m’lady.”
“Nay, you’re not fine,” Gellir countered, then turned to his cousin. “That vicious wench could have killed Merraid.”
Feiyan knew otherwise. But she said nothing. “I’ll see to her injuries. You should get some rest. Three more—better—prospects are arriving on the morrow.”
Gellir grumbled at that, but gave them each a salute and made his exit.
“Who are the three, m’lady?” Merraid asked when the door closed.
“Why do you wish to know?” Feiyan said. “So you can dump blancmange on their laps as well?”
Merraid tried—and failed—to look shocked at her accusation.
Feiyan clucked her tongue as she hunkered down to inspect Merraid’s brow. “It took a lot of restraint for you to let her pummel you like that.”
There was no point in denying it. “One more kick,” she admitted, “and I might have fought back.”
Feiyan nodded. She pushed Merraid’s skirts up to examine her bruised thigh. It was red now. On the morrow it would be black and blue. “So why did you do it? Why did you goad her?”
“To show Gellir her nature.” She pushed her skirts back down. “Your cousin doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about his bride-to-be, m’lady. I vow he’d take more care in choosin’ a weapon.”
“Right,” Feiyan said. “I told him as much myself.”
“I fear he doesn’t understand. He could be stuck for the rest o’ his life with a nag. Or a wag-tongue. Or a…a servant-beater.”
“Exactly.”
“Someone has to protect him from himself.”
“And that someone would be you?”
Merraid gulped and averted her gaze. “We’re…friends. Four years ago, he looked after me. I owe him a debt. I should look after him. He deserves a wife worthy o’ his love.”
When Merraid looked up again, Feiyan was looking at her with those silvery eyes that sometimes seemed capable of peering into her soul.
Then she spoke gently. “Dear Merraid, I know you’ve always had a soft spot in your heart for my cousin.
It must be difficult for you, knowing he’s to wed another. But surely you’ve known all along—”
“Aye, m’lady.” Merraid’s cheeks burned. “I’m not stupid. I know my place. Sir Gellir is meant for greater things. I only want him to be happy. To choose wisely.”
“As do I. Believe me.”
They were silent for a long moment.
Then Feiyan said, “You know, Merraid, you’re of an age where you should start considering your own marriage.”
“Me?”
“Aye. Why not? You want a husband and bairns, do you not?” She stroked her belly with fondness.
“Aye.” She did. She wanted Gellir’s babes. Handsome sons with thick dark hair and iron gray eyes.
“Then let me see to it,” Feiyan offered. “While Dame Joan is seeking a bride for Gellir, she might inquire—”
“Nay! Thank ye, m’lady,” Merraid said in a rush. “I can find my own bridegroom.” Considering the candidates offered to Gellir, the last thing she needed was a ragtag bunch of marriage prospects rounded up by the clan gossip.
“Very well.” She stood to give Merraid a final perusal of concern. “You’re sure nothing’s broken?”
“Aye,” she said. Only her heart. “I may have cracked a rib. But ’twill mend with time.”
“I’ll leave you to heal then. I’ve had Ede and Swannoc take over your kitchen duties this eve. Meanwhile, think about what I said. You’re young and bonnie. The village is full of handsome young lads.”
“I’ll do that, thank ye, m’lady,” Merraid promised, though it was a promise she would find very hard to keep.