Chapter 11 #2
What did it matter that his clothing was sticky and damp? His hair full of salt and sand? What difference did it make if he reeked of fish and the sea? If the lady intended to marry him, she’d have to get used to the idea that he didn’t always look and smell like a freshly bathed champion.
Still, he felt shame and regret when he saw her. Lady Carenza had obviously taken great pains with her own appearance. Her skin glowed. Her hair shone. Her sumptuous velvet gown was spotless. And she smelled of lavender.
Now he looked like a cad.
He extended his hand and grumbled, “Lady Carenza.”
His regret was amplified by her subtle yet unmistakable shiver as she placed her delicate hand in his grimy paw.
He frowned, cursing himself for not taking the time to change into clean garments and wash his hands. This was no way to meet one’s betrothed.
She mistook his frown for disapproval. After murmuring “Sir Gellir” in greeting, she nervously withdrew her hand.
“Sir Gellir has just returned from fishing,” Feiyan explained, smiling gently at the lady.
Then she wrinkled her nose and waved her hand in front of her face.
“I fear you smell of the sea, cousin.” Then she turned on him with a glare so sharp, pointed, and lethal, she could have slain him with it.
“Perhaps you’d like to clean up before dinner? ”
Feiyan’s scolding was the last thing he needed. This was her fault. She was the one who’d sent him fishing to get rid of him. Did she expect he’d return smelling like a flower?
He glowered back at her.
Lady Carenza softly intervened, averting her eyes. “Prithee do not trouble yourself on my account, m’laird. My father says sweat is the sign of an honest man.”
“Your father is wise,” he said, arching a rancorous brow at Feiyan.
Foiled, Feiyan turned again toward Carenza with an encouraging smile. “Aye, and very kind, allowing our cousin Hew to reside at Castle Dunlop.”
“How is Hew?” Gellir asked. Aside from Hew’s recent missive extolling Lady Carenza’s virtues, he hadn’t heard from his cousin in over a year.
“He’s…well,” she replied.
Gellir scowled. “Aye?” He’d hoped for a little more than that. “Any news?”
She blanched and studied her clasped hands. “My clan is fond of him, and…and…”
“Silly Gellir,” Feiyan said through a gritted-teeth smile, “you can ask him yourself at the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“Your wedding.”
“Oh. Aye.” He’d resigned himself to being married. But he’d overlooked the intricacies of getting married. “When will that be?”
“We thought just after Beltane?” Feiyan suggested, raising her brows at Carenza.
“The sooner, the better,” he said. He was eager to get back on the tournament circuit. Then he remembered it was not his decision alone. “If ’tis your wish as well?” he asked Carenza.
She bowed her head. “Aye, m’laird.”
“Call me Gellir. Please.”
“Aye, Sir…Gellir.”
He sighed. It didn’t take a wise man to see the lady was anxious. Less than enthusiastic about wedding him. Which was awkward.
But who could blame her? She was meeting the worst version of Sir Gellir of Rivenloch. His brow was menacing. His voice was gruff. His hair was a tangle. Sand clung to his boots. Filth covered his hands. And he reeked of fish.
“I should clean up,” he decided. “With your permission?”
“O’ course, m’laird,” Carenza replied, bowing her head to murmur the correction, “Gellir.”
He quickly excused himself—ignoring Feiyan’s glare of condemnation—and strode out of the great hall.
He was drawing a bucket of water out of the well when Merraid approached.
“Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
She gave him a chiding cuff on the arm. “What do ye think o’ Lady Carenza?”
He shrugged. “She’s pleasant enough to look at.”
“And?”
“She seems to have a kind enough nature.”
“Aye? And?”
“She doesn’t wish to be my wife.”
“Did she say that?”
“She didn’t have to.”
“Well, to be fair,” Merraid said, covering her nose, “the way ye smell right now, only a fishwife would want ye.”
He lifted the bucket, showing her he intended to remedy that. Then he sighed. “I’m not sure a bucket of water is enough to change her heart.”
Merraid bit her lip. He was right.
As for Merraid, she’d love Gellir, whether he was bloody from battle, sweaty from labor, or covered in pig slop.
But changing Carenza’s heart would take all the tools at her disposal. Still, a bucket of water was at least a good start.
“Give her time,” she said. “She’ll come around.”
“To what end?” he scoffed. “’Tis as I’ve always said. Marriage is only a single move in a game of draughts.”
He was absolutely wrong about that. Laird Dougal wouldn’t be a heroic warrior without Lady Feiyan.
Gellir’s own father, Pagan, wouldn’t be the man he was without his formidable wife, Deirdre.
Indeed, in all the neighboring clans, the lairds who’d taken good wives prospered, while those wedded to nags faltered and failed. A man’s wife could make or break him.
“I spent some time with her,” Merraid said.
“And?”
“She’s…” She rolled her eyes. “Perfect.”
He chuckled. “I doubt that.”
“She’s everythin’ Hew said she was. Kind. Courteous. Bright.” She frowned. “She hasn’t got a mark on her. No scars. No blemishes.”
“Shite, lass. Did you open her mouth and take a good look at her teeth as well?” he mocked, shaking his head.
“Teeth?” she teased. “Well, there is that. The woman has no teeth.”
“Out of my way,” he ordered, heading across the courtyard with the bucket.
As they slogged toward the armory, Merraid confided, “I think she’s a wee bit afraid o’ ye.”
He grunted. “She wouldn’t be the first maid to quiver in the presence of Grim Gellir.”
“But ye can be disarmin’, even charmin’, when ye want to be.”
“I’ve already vowed to wed her. What’s the point of charming her?”
She grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Ye’re not even goin’ to try?”
“We’re going to be married. Forever. I don’t think she’s going to be afraid of me all her life.” He jerked his arm away and resumed walking.
Peeved, she caught up with him. Seizing his arm in a more forceful grip, she hissed, “Shame on ye, Gellir Cameliard. She’s weddin’ a man she only knows by his fierce reputation.
And she’s tryin’ to be brave. Surrounded by strangers.
Not knowin’ her future or the land she’s goin’ to.
The least ye can do is put her at ease.”
She wasn’t afraid of his scorching glare. She mirrored it back at him until he lowered his gaze.
“Fine,” he bit out. “At supper, I’ll make every effort to…disarm and charm her.”
She nodded in approval.
Then he added, “But prepare to be disappointed. I doubt she wanted this alliance any more than I did.”
“Fair enough.”
That was what she said. What she thought was Gellir was oblivious to the force of his charm. One wink of his eye, a touch of his hand, the music of his laughter, and Carenza would fall under his power like a pup having its belly rubbed.
Unfortunately, Carenza never came to supper. She claimed to feel unwell and remained in her chamber.
Gellir presumed her illness was due to nerves. Lady Feiyan claimed it was his fault for frightening the lass. Which only furrowed his brow further and made his mood more morose.
Finally the glowering cousins parted. Supper was cleared away. Merraid took it upon herself to carry a trencher of thin pottage up to Carenza.
Entering the chamber, she expected to find Carenza looking as lovely as ever. Perhaps suffering from a mild case of anxiety.
She was wrong. The lady was curled into a miserable ball on the bed. Her pale face had a greenish cast. Her brow shone with sweat. Her lips were white. Her eyes looked dull.
Merraid gasped. Carenza looked sickly, almost as if she’d…
“Ye didn’t take…poison, did ye?” she whispered.
“What?” Carenza croaked. “Nay. ’Twill pass. It always does.”
“Ye’ve had this before?”
She nodded.
“I have wormwood or mint that may ease—”
“Nay. Prithee don’t fret o’er me. I’ll be right on the morrow.”
But Merraid wasn’t so sure. “Ye need to keep up your strength, m’lady. Here, I’ve brought broth and bread. ’Twill settle your stomach.”
Carenza’s brow wrinkled in distress as she fought off nausea.
“Perhaps ye’d prefer a bit o’ cheese?” she tried. “Or an oatcake?”
Carenza closed her eyes and shook her head.
Merraid bit her lip. She couldn’t let Gellir’s bride worsen on her watch. What else could she offer?
Carenza opened her eyes. “Maybe…pickled eels?”
“Pickled eels?”
“Aye,” she said hopefully. “Ye wouldn’t have any, would ye?”
For someone suffering from nausea, it was an odd request. Merraid had trouble eating pickled eels when she wasn’t feeling ill. Still, if it gave the lady sustenance and made her happy, Merraid would pickle the eels herself.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she promised.