Chapter 6
Lorenzo, the cloth merchant from Florence, was fit, handsome, and unwed.
He’d stopped by Castle Darragh with his wares.
All the maidservants were agog over his wide smile.
His glimmering eyes. His lush, curled hair.
And the fashionable attire he wore, which delineated every tempting muscle.
When he opened his mouth, no one could resist him.
Even Lady Feiyan fell prey to his cunning persuasion, purchasing more than her usual yardage from the charming vendor.
Once Lady Feiyan’s coffers were suitably drained, she tasked Merraid with accompanying the merchant to the neighboring villages to introduce him to possible patrons. The other lasses seethed with envy.
Merraid, however, felt nothing for the eye-catching merchant.
Certainly Lorenzo knew how to wink and grin.
He whispered the right sort of flattery to open ladies’ purses.
But there was little substance behind his merchant’s mask.
And as she discovered, ambling beside him along the path leaving the castle, when he wasn’t selling something, he had very little to say.
That was fine. It was a lovely day for quiet walking. No late winter rain or early spring showers. Bright and cold and crisp. She didn’t mind leaving the castle for the afternoon. It was better than pacing in worry, which she’d been doing since morning.
Where Gellir had gone, she couldn’t follow. He was out riding with his next prospective bride. She’d overheard Lady Feiyan telling him the young woman was rather bonnie. But for Merraid, not knowing the bonnie young woman—or where they were, or what was going on—was driving her mad.
Fresh air and a brisk walk would do her good.
The cloth merchant, who’d been so eloquent as he coerced Lady Feiyan into purchasing just a few more ells of sendal, had fallen silent. Perhaps he had to rest his tongue.
She sighed as he hauled his cart of goods over the hard-packed road without a word. No doubt Lady Feiyan thought she was doing Merraid a favor by pairing her with an eligible, handsome, skilled merchant who might whisk her off her feet and into a happy marriage.
The lady would have been more successful trying to turn lead into gold.
As Merraid gazed into the distance where the road forked, she saw a pair of horses being led their way. She narrowed her eyes. The one on the left looked like Feiyan’s palfrey. Hadn’t that been the horse Gellir had borrowed?
She straightened. Could that be Gellir?
Surely not. The second horse and both travelers were covered head to toe in filth. They looked like gong farmers. Or horse thieves. Or beggars in sore need of a bath.
In any event, they’d likely be welcomed at Darragh. Laird Dougal and Lady Feiyan never turned away a soul in need.
But as the distance closed between them, Merraid felt a tingle of faint recognition. If that wasn’t Gellir, it was someone of the same stature, with the same gait.
The second figure appeared to be female. She limped along in a soiled white underdress with mucky, torn rags wrapped around her. She was missing a shoe. And her hair was bedecked with clumps of mud.
When the first traveler raked his hair back with his hand, just like Gellir, Merraid froze with a loud gasp. She startled the cloth merchant, who dropped the handles of his cart.
“What is it, signorina?”
“Gellir,” she breathed. But what had happened to him?
She strode forward again, fast enough that the cloth merchant, wresting his cart up, had to lope to keep up with her.
When she drew within hearing, she heard Gellir’s companion railing at him.
“Ne’er have I been so humiliated!” the woman cried. “I shall tell my father about this, sirrah! He’ll make ye pay for my shame.” She bit out nastily, “Once he goes to the king, your reputation will be ruined.”
Merraid’s hackles rose. Whatever had happened, she was certain Gellir was not to blame. There must be a good reason for their filthy appearance. Gellir would sooner cut out his tongue than dishonor a woman.
She was close enough to feel the waves of fury roiling off of the lady. She may have once been bonnie underneath all that slime. Presently her face was contorted in a mask of ugly rage.
As for Gellir, even coated in grime, he looked noble. He trudged along with his head lowered, the weight of silent chivalry resting upon his shoulders.
When he offered no reply to the lady’s threats, she continued to harangue him, oblivious to Merraid’s approach.
“Ye’re a monster, do ye hear me? Forcin’ a titled lady to slog half-naked for miles like a bloody maidservant.”
Merraid’s hands tightened involuntarily into fists at the insult. Her blood grew hot. But she managed to keep a cool head, as she’d been trained to do in combat. After all, losing one’s temper was a deadly mistake.
The woman continued. “Ye’ll ne’er fight in another tournament, champion,” she sneered, “and when I’m through draggin’ your name through the mud, no woman will e’er wish be your bride.”
That did it. That touched a spark to the tinder of Merraid’s temper.
Merraid wished to be his bride, even if this shite-mouthed shrew of a wench did not.
“Ye’re a vile fiend, Gellir Cameliard. A brute. A devil,” the woman spat, punctuating each insult with a punch to his shoulder. “Loathsome. Despicable. Dishonora—”
Livid, Merraid surged forward all at once, intending to shove the abusive woman away from Gellir.
She would have succeeded too. But Gellir flung out an arm and caught her about the waist, pulling her back against his chest.
“Merraid?” he said, astonished to see her. “What are you—”
“Let me go.” She strained against his arm. “I’ll show this screechin’ harpy ‘dishonorable.’”
“What did ye call me?” the woman bellowed in shock.
“Ye heard me,” Merraid bit out, struggling in Gellir’s grip, which was as solid as steel. “Only a monster would sully the good name o’ Sir Gellir Cameliard o’ Rivenloch.”
The woman gasped. “How dare ye insult me! Ye! A peasant! Ye’re not fit to wipe my stable lad’s arse. Ye’re nothin’. Nobody.”
Merraid felt Gellir tense. When he spoke, it was in a low growl that rumbled from his chest and sent a shiver up her spine.
“She’s twenty times the woman you are, Lady Metylda.”
Metylda purpled with rage as he continued.
“I vowed I would repay you for the loss of your gown. I will keep that vow. But you will not return to Castle Darragh. And ’tis only mercy that keeps me from confiscating your mistreated horse.”
Metylda’s jaw dropped. “Mistreated? I hardly—”
“If you whisper any of this into the ear of the king, I will tell him how you willfully and recklessly risked the life of a fine steed. How you disobeyed my command to stop. How you drove the poor beast into a bog where I narrowly saved it—and you—from drowning. How you complained when the animal was too exhausted to carry you back. And how you disparaged me and mine at length.” He snorted.
“Indeed, ’twould be best for you if my name never crossed your lips again. My lady.”
Merraid’s heart had caught on the words “me and mine.” Gellir was talking about her. Defending her.
She melted against him. He might never love her with the passion of a man for his wife. But his love for her as a friend was fierce.
Metylda was shaking with vitriol. “How do ye expect me to make my way home, lookin’ like this?”
Lorenzo, who recognized opportunity when he saw it, dropped the handles of his cart and stepped forward.
“If I may be so bold?” he said. “I think I can be of assistance.” He swept the cap from his head with a flourish and a bow. “I am Lorenzo, the celebrated cloth merchant of Firenze, at your service, signorina.”
Negotiations began at once to provide Lady Metylda with cloth for a new gown, at exorbitant expense, which would be added to Lady Feiyan’s account.
There was a tailor in the village who could sew the garment overnight.
Metylda was gradually calmed and mollified by Lorenzo, who described in great detail how beautiful she was going to look in a gown of his new yellow silk from Lucca.
But Merraid only half listened.
Though she’d quit fighting him, Gellir still held her close. Close enough to feel the heat of his chest against her back. Close enough to smell the earthy peat of the bog on him. Close enough to feel his warm breath tickling her neck.
It was unintentional, she was sure. He was only distracted and had forgotten to let her go.
She couldn’t help wishing he would forget a while longer.
Gellir should release Merraid. He knew that. She’d calmed now. She wasn’t going to attack Lady Metylda.
But somehow he didn’t want to.
For the past few miles, Metylda’s long litany of curses and threats against him had rolled off his back like rain off a duck. He was accustomed to contempt. He’d probably been cursed as a devil more times than Lucifer himself.
But when she’d called Merraid nothing and nobody, his iron resolve had cracked.
Merraid was not nobody. She was special. Unique. Brilliant.
She didn’t deserve that kind of scorn.
And while she was in his arms, he felt like he could protect her from the world and its cruelty.
While she was in his arms, he felt right. As if this was where she belonged. As if he were home.
Still, once Lorenzo left with Lady Metylda, there was no more reason to cling to her. With a sigh of regret, he let her go.
“I got muck all over you,” he apologized.
When she turned to him, she looked as shaken and breathless as he felt. She quickly lowered her eyes. “I lost my temper. Sometimes I have a hard time turnin’ the other cheek.”
He nodded and started down the road again, leading Feiyan’s palfrey. He gave a low whistle. “She certainly was a handful.”
“The horse?”
“Lady Metylda.”
Merraid fell in beside him. “So ye’ve crossed her off the bride-to-be list?”
“Definitely.” Then he remembered how surprised he’d been to see Merraid. “By the way, how did you come to be on the road?”