Chapter 6 #2
He didn’t know why he’d asked that. He was fairly certain he knew.
Merraid had already made it known she was looking for a husband.
His cousin had undoubtedly had a hand in introducing her to eligible candidates like this merchant.
A too handsome, suspiciously well-dressed, slick-tongued foreigner who could probably wrap Merraid around his finger with a carefully chosen compliment.
“Lady Feiyan wanted to introduce Lorenzo to the neighboring nobles.” She winked. “I cast the wrong lot.”
“I doubt that,” he said, looking stoically ahead. “He seems the sort of fellow who has ladies drooling about him, hanging on his every word.”
Laughter was not the reaction he expected. It was a welcome surprise.
“Is that what ye think o’ me?” she asked. “Ye don’t know me very well then. It takes more than a bonnie face to turn my head.”
“He seemed a man of fair means,” he countered.
“Nor am I much moved by wealth.”
Her answer pleased him. “Still, you can’t deny the fellow’s charm.”
“He was charmin’ enough when there was profit to be made. But his words were as empty as bubbles.”
Hearing her wisdom convinced him there was no need to defend her further against the merchant’s advances. But if others tried to take advantage of Merraid’s naiveté, her innocence, her good nature…
Gellir intended to protect her, no matter how independent she thought she was. He meant what he said. Merraid was his friend. Part of his clan. Me and mine.
As they continued along the road, Merraid mused, “Do ye suppose the two o’ them will fall in love on the way to the tailor’s?”
“Who? Lady Metylda and Lorenzo?”
“Aye.”
He furrowed his brows. “I suppose she could keep him well employed, sewing new gowns every time she rides through a puddle.”
“And he could keep her sufficiently flattered well into her dotage.”
He snickered. “She did seem to like his flattery.”
“And he liked the depth o’ her coffers.”
“My cousin’s coffers,” he corrected, “which I’ll be replenishing.”
She clucked her tongue. “Ye shouldn’t have to pay for that gown. Ye said ye tried to warn her. ’Twas her fault she ignored ye.”
“True, but I’m a man of my word. And ’tis worth the cost to be rid of her.” He scowled. “She ran that poor horse down the hill and straight into the bog, laughing all the while.”
“What kind o’ person does that?”
“Not the kind of person I wish to wed.” He shook his head. “She could have killed that horse. Hell, she could have killed herself.”
“She was very lucky ye were there.”
Merraid’s words haunted him all the way back to the keep.
It was true. Metylda would have drowned if not for him. If he hadn’t been there at the right time, the right place…
But he had been. He had always gone where he was needed. Always defended the innocent. Always protected the helpless.
Whether she liked it or not, he considered Merraid one of those helpless innocents he was honor-bound to protect.
Her father was long gone. She had no brothers.
She needed someone like Gellir to make sure she stayed safe.
To hold aggressors at bay. To stand as a barrier between lecherous suitors and her virtue.
To weed out undesirables from the herd of rutting beasts who would surely come panting after her.
Chivalry was his calling. But what would happen when he returned to Rivenloch? When he could no longer be her knight in shining armor?
He had to make sure Merraid was well cared for, respected, cherished. And there was only one way to do that.
By the time they entered the gates of Darragh and he handed off the horse to Campbell for a thorough scrubbing, he’d made up his mind. He would insist that Feiyan let him screen all courters seeking to woo the maidservant.
“You want to what?” Feiyan stopped sparring and planted her pang, her staff from the Orient, in the ground.
Gellir halted as well, lowering his quarterstaff. He ran a hand back through his hair. It was still wet from his brisk dip in the firth to wash off the mud. “’Tis the only way she can be assured of a good match.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And you don’t think that’s a wee bit odd? You taking a personal interest in her affairs? The affairs of a maidservant? One you haven’t seen in years?”
“I consider her a friend,” he argued. “And so do you, I’m sure. If it weren’t for Merraid, your husband might not have won back his castle.”
“True,” she agreed.
She lifted her pang again and came at him with a series of five angled blows. For a woman with child, she could move rather swiftly.
He managed to deflect four of them. But the fifth whacked his shoulder. He grimaced and stepped back.
She braced herself and motioned him to attack.
“Look,” she said, “Merraid is…” He brought the pang straight down.
She blocked it. “A grown woman now.” He rammed his staff forward.
She cast it aside. “Not a child.” He sliced sideways toward her neck.
She deflected the blow. “She doesn’t…” He slipped both hands to the end of the staff and swung it at her head.
She ducked under it. “Need your protection.”
He waved her forward and held the quarterstaff defensively before him.
“I know how men think,” he told her. She thrust toward his throat.
He knocked her weapon upward. “The trickery they’ll try.
” She jerked the bottom of the pang up, aiming between his legs.
He lunged back out of reach. “I just want to keep her…” She advanced with three swift slices in a row. He blocked each one. “Safe.”
The fourth blow struck him in the chest, knocking him onto his back in the dust of the yard. She towered over him, the end of her pang jammed against his throat.
“Are you sure you don’t just ‘want to keep her’ for yourself?” She arched a brow.
He glowered at her. “God’s eyes. Don’t be ridiculous. Merraid is only a friend. She’s like a little sister,” he said, adding pointedly, “or a cousin.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
But was he? Now that Feiyan had introduced that pesky possibility, it took up residence in his head.
Feiyan moved the pang from his throat and held out a hand to help him up. “You need to stop spying on each others’ suitors to make sure they’re good enough.”
He grunted, dusting off his tabard.
“You’re both adults,” she said, retrieving his quarterstaff.
“You can make your own decisions.” She tossed the weapon to him.
He almost missed it. “Neither of you needs protection,” she said, resting the pang across the back of her neck and draping her hands over its ends.
“What you need is to mind your own affairs. You need to secure a wife before the king weds you to a Sassenach. And Merraid needs to quit looking after you.”
Then she left, telling him not to be late for dinner. But her words echoed in his thoughts.
Looking after him. Was that what Merraid was doing?
No one ever looked out for Sir Gellir of Rivenloch. No one ever offered. A tournament champion was supposed to be independent. Capable. In control.
Half the time, even he believed it.
But in his heart, he often felt alone, isolated, as if he were responsible for…everything.
That a wee maidservant would care about his happiness and wish to shoulder part of his burden warmed his heart.
Within an hour, however, that lovely warmth faded, replaced by icy dread.
Apparently, his efficient cousin had decided to hasten his selection of a bride by inviting a dozen prospects to dinner at once.
Merraid was aghast. The kitchen staff was expected to accommodate twelve bridal candidates and their guards? How would they all fit? Did they even have enough victuals this early in spring to feed such a gathering? A feast like this would surely deplete the castle’s winter stores.
As the seemingly endless stream of noblewomen arrived, the great hall of Darragh grew as crowded and noisy as the first spring fair. Merraid slipped through lavish gowns of russett velvet and golden sendal, scarlet brocade and azure fustian, like a needle stitching fabric.
The ladies greeted each other with sugary smiles that belied the hostility and competition brewing between them. Merraid wondered what kind of desperate race Gellir was engaged in that he would risk such a melee.
Somehow, they all managed to find a seat. Lady Feiyan had avoided conflict by assigning each lady a special place within view of Gellir.
When dinner began, and Merraid brought the first remove of salat to the high table, her breath caught. The sight of Gellir surrounded by fawning, beautiful women—fluttering their lashes, twittering like sparrows, touching his arm in faux fondness—was almost too much to bear.
Walking back to the castle with him earlier had stirred old feelings in her. Emotions she’d forgotten. Feelings she believed were long gone.
But she was wrong. They must have been there all along. Waiting like a sheathed sword for the right moment to strike.
It couldn’t happen at a worse time.
Not only was Gellir unattainable. He was actively pursuing another. Or rather twelve others.
She had to admire Lady Feiyan’s thriftiness when it came to time. Clearly the lady meant to force a decision as quickly as possible.
But she wondered again at the rush. A lass like Merraid might be considered a grape shriveled on the vine if she didn’t marry young. But a man as desirable as Gellir Cameliard could command an attractive, young bride well into his dotage.
She placed bowls of salat at the lower tables, where the ladies’ guards sat. But she couldn’t resist glancing now and then at Gellir and the brood of pigeons cooing around him.
She wasn’t jealous. At least that was what she told herself. She was only concerned. Concerned that he might not choose wisely under such pressure.
“Are ye goin’ to serve that, lass, or just keep wavin’ it under my nose?”
Merraid snapped her gaze back to the table. The guardsman who’d murmured that taunt had a merry green gaze and a lock of black hair that drooped over his brow like the wayward tail of a kitten.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, placing the salat before him.
“’Tis quite a spectacle, isn’t it?” he asked, nodding toward the high table.
A spectacle. That was a good word for it.
“That’s my lady to his left,” he confided in a whisper. “Lady Maut.” He shook his head sadly. “Frankly, I don’t think she has a chance.”
What a funny man he was. She gave him a quizzical look. “Why do ye say that?”
“Because the one on his right?” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head and knocking his kitten-tail lock askew. “She looks like she could wallop the devil out o’ Maut.”
She gasped in amusement.
He continued, lowering his brows in mock gravity. “But I’m lookin’ forward to the first bout between the second and third on his left. They’ve already exchanged minor blows off the field. Once they enter the real battle arena, fists raised…” He clucked his tongue.
Merraid stifled a laugh.
“The one next to Maut? She looks like a hair-puller. And the one next to her?” He whistled a breath between his teeth. “It would surprise me if she didn’t have a habit o’ scratchin’ out eyes.”
In the spirit of his jesting now, Merraid murmured, “What about the one on the end, the wee one?”
“Lady Gormal?” He arched a black brow. “She may look scrawny. But I’ll wager she’ll knock at least two o’ the others flat on their arses.”
Merraid fought the mirth twitching at her lips. “Sir, ye should guard your tongue,” she warned, glancing around the table at the other ladies’ guards.
“Och, them?” He waved to the other men, who waved back. “We’re all wagerin’ on the outcome o’ the melee. Lads, what say ye? Shall we let the bonnie lass in on the wager?”
Merraid blinked.
Two of the guards said aye. Three nodded. One rubbed his hands together. “How much ye want in for, lass?”
When she hesitated, the merry-eyed man added, “A penny should suffice.”
Wagering on which prospective bride would win the day was the silliest thing she’d heard in a long while. Silly. And hilarious. And irresistible.
He wiggled his brows. “So are ye in?”
“Absolutely.”
Her wager was modest. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that the guards understood how ridiculous the competition was. They were having fun at their mistresses’ expense.
Of course, a battle never ensued. But by the end of dinner, surrounded by the merrymaking guards and the man who finally introduced himself as Henry, Merraid was sufficiently distracted to forget Gellir for a moment.