Chapter 8
Merraid felt the impact of the shivering targe as it struck Gellir, rocking his chin back. His head wobbled unsteadily on his neck. His eyes seemed to lose focus. He staggered onto one knee, dropping his sword.
“Och!” she cried. She hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “Are ye all right?”
He tried to answer. His words were muffled. “Och, aye, lassssssssss. Ahm fi—”
Then he fell back to the ground with a thud.
“Gellir!” Merraid cried, dropping to her knees beside him.
She’d never meant to hurt him. Bloody hell. She’d meant to lose the fight. What had she done?
She could hear the crowd murmuring in concern as she clapped frantically at his cheek, trying to revive him. She muttered under her breath. “Wake up now. Come on.”
He didn’t respond. She hadn’t hit him that hard, had she?
“Shite,” she whispered in panic, jostling his shoulders.
“Come on, Gellir. Lady Feiyan will ne’er forgive me for bashin’ ye.
Laird Dougal will ne’er forgive me for shamin’ ye.
And the warriors, they’ll ne’er forgive me for humiliatin’ their champion.
Twice.” She let out a sob of despair. “Please, Gellir. Ye’ve got to wake up. ”
His eyes were still closed when he grunted, “Fine. Seems you’ve won. So what’s your bidding? What would you have me do?”
She gasped. “Ye faker.”
“Nay,” he said, wincing and rubbing his chin. “’Twas a good clout.” He struggled up to his elbows. Then he waved to the silent crowd to let them know he was alive. “You won the match fairly.”
There was a mix of cheering and booing from those gathered at the fence. As she feared, many were displeased to see their hero fall.
Lady Feiyan called out, “You haven’t broken his nose, have you, Merraid?”
“Never fear, cousin!” Gellir yelled back. “A wee crook would only add character to my face.”
“Och!” Feiyan cried. “Leave off your fighting then. We’ve got guests arriving after dinner. Merraid has chores to do.”
“As you wish,” he told her. Then he glanced up at Merraid. “Well, you’ve won. I’m at your command. What’s your bidding?”
The way he was looking at her—his eyes misty and mysterious, his lips curved in a smile that was half irritation and half amusement—a dozen wicked thoughts coursed through her brain. Thoughts she dared not voice. Instead she lowered her gaze.
“What would your biddin’ be if ye’d won?”
“My bidding?”
He reached up toward her. She took his hand to help him up. When he didn’t immediately release her, she felt a blush warm her cheeks.
There was an awkward moment as their eyes met. Surely the smoldering she saw in his piercing gaze was only a reflection of her own desire. But for an instant, she feared he might blurt out something deliciously improper. Like “a kiss.” Or “a caress.” Or “a tryst in the woods.”
Then the smoke dissipated from his eyes, and he arched his brow. “I would bid you stop spying on me for a day.”
She frowned. Disappointment effectively quashed her lust. “Spyin’ on ye? I haven’t been spyin’ on ye.”
She very much had been spying on him. But it wasn’t because she was meddlesome, as he imagined. It was because she cared. She was trying to safeguard him.
He was a blind fool if he couldn’t see that.
Damn his ungrateful hide. She’d exchanged serving duties with a kitchen lad just so she could watch over Gellir last night at supper.
Manipulated her way into the garden the other day to keep an eye on him.
Taken time out of her busy schedule to interrogate other servants, researching each prospective bride.
He had no idea what effort it took, what pains she’d gone to, looking after his welfare without neglecting her household duties.
Then inspiration hit her. She would show him how difficult it was.
“Ye’ll do my biddin’?” she asked.
He placed a hand across his heart. “So I have vowed.”
“Then ye can do my chores today.”
Gellir had never been one to complain about hard labor.
He was not as high-and-mighty as Merraid seemed to believe.
He was always willing to help a crofter push his cart out of a rut.
Chase after a lady’s runaway palfrey. Help deliver a litter of pups.
On the tournament circuit, he polished his own armor and cared for his own horse.
But he quickly learned Merraid’s long list of tasks rivaled those of a king’s squire.
It didn’t help that the other servants snickered behind their hands at his clumsy efforts. Smoothing linens over trestle tables. Emptying a dozen chamberpots. Polishing wooden furnishings with beeswax. Carrying a basket of live eels to the kitchen.
With all Merraid’s responsibilities, it was a wonder she found spare hours to perfect her fighting skills. How she carved out time to spy on him, he didn’t know.
The Darragh warriors, apparently unable to stand the sight of their appointed hero subjected to such indignity, largely avoided crossing his path.
But Merraid stayed close to him all day. She seemed intent on lapping up every gloating drop of his humiliation.
“Ye missed a spot,” she complained with an impish sparkle in her eye as he ran a waxy rag over the lid of Feiyan’s oak chest.
He glared at her and swabbed across the wood…again.
“Don’t break the eggs,” she warned as he carefully counted out a dozen from the day’s collection.
“I won’t,” he said, smugly tossing one in the air.
She caught it midflight, scowling as she handed it back to him.
When he entered the kitchen lads’ quarters to empty chamberpots, she stopped him with a warning. “For this chamber, ’tis best to tie a scarf o’er your face.”
“I need no—” His words cut off abruptly as the stench of waste hit him full in the face. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
She handed him a scarf.
He finished that mortifying task. Then she said he had time to nibble a morsel before the cook would send him for herbs from the garden.
He declined. After chamberpot duty, he had little appetite.
“Ye should keep up your strength,” she said. “Otherwise, ye won’t eat until well after supper.”
“Why not?”
“Ye have to clean up after everyone else first.”
He sighed. There was just enough time to choke down a stale crust of bread and a cup of ale. Then, as she predicted, the cook put in a request for thyme and parsley.
Merraid found it highly amusing that he didn’t know parsley from parsnips.
He grumbled back that she probably didn’t know a bludgeon from a battleaxe.
He was wrong. And to rub salt in his wounds, as they cut herbs, she taught him the names of several weapons from the Orient. He knew none of them.
They delivered the herbs to the cook. Then they trudged up the stairs with besoms and buckets to sweep the hearths.
“Honestly,” he told her as they entered the solar, “I don’t know how you find the time to spy on me.”
“I make the time.” She began sweeping ashes into her bucket.
“Why?”
“Ye truly don’t know?”
He shook his head.
“Ye’re in such a hurry to claim a bride,” she said, “that ye’re bein’ reckless.”
“Reckless?” He started sweeping beside her. “You don’t think I have good judgment?”
“Not when it comes to women.”
He scoffed.
“Faith,” she said, “’Tis like watchin’ a great warrior snappin’ up a blunt sword to go into battle.”
He grinned. “You think I’m a great warrior?”
She swatted him with the bristle end of the besom. “Ye’re a great-headed warrior.”
He swatted her back. Ashes made a gray blob on the seat of her blue kirtle.
Her mouth went round. “Don’t swat me.” She swatted him again.
“Me? You started it.” He swatted her again.
She picked up the besom in both hands, holding it horizontally before her like a quarterstaff. There was a gleam in her eye.
“Och,” he said, “you’re keen for a rematch, are you?”
He tossed aside the bucket. It clanged across the floor. Then he mimicked her stance with his besom.
She attacked first. With skillful lunges, she whipped the besom back and forth, driving him backwards toward the window.
“Ha!” she crowed as his back hit the shutters and he could retreat no more.
He pushed his staff forcefully against hers, casting her off. While she was scrambling backwards, he used the bristle end to sweep her apron up in front of her face.
She shrieked out in surprise and whacked her apron back down with one hand. Then she jabbed blindly forward with the handle of the besom.
“Whoa!” he cried, dodging out of the way.
At her second poke, he grabbed hold of her besom.
“A-ha!” he cried in triumph. He jerked the handle back.
Unwilling to let go of her weapon, she careened forward. And would have collided with him. But at the last minute, she dropped, skidding on her skirts and sliding onto the floor at his feet, besom still in hand.
“Let go,” he warned.
“Nay,” she said, laughter twitching at her lips.
“Let.” He raised a brow. “Go.”
“Never.”
He’d warned her. While she lay helpless on the floor, stubbornly clinging to the handle of her makeshift quarterstaff, he angled the bristled heads of both besoms to bat repeatedly at her skirts, like a maidservant beating dust from a tapestry.
She squealed in dismay. But she couldn’t help giggling at the absurdity of the situation.
“Surrender your weapon, wench!” he demanded with a grin.
“All right!” she cried at last, coughing at the rising cloud of ash. “’Tis yours!”
She let go of her besom. But she used his instant of inattention to seize his weapon with both hands, tearing it out of his grip. She rolled away with it and managed to scramble to her feet.
When she faced him, tendrils of her bright hair had come loose from her braid. They made a wild fringe around her glowing face. Her bosom heaved with each breath. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes were fiery with challenge. And her teeth were bared in triumphant delight.
She was beautiful.
Before he could fully absorb just how beautiful she was, the wicked lass dipped the bristles of the besom into the bucket of ashes, like a plasterer loading a brush with lime. Then she renewed her attack.