Chapter 27
“Merraid,” Gellir breathed in horror.
Dropping his crimson-stained blade as if it were on fire, he fell to his knees beside her. He felt sick. Distraught. Devastated.
“Merraid,” he groaned.
God’s eyes, what had he done?
He tore off his helm and cast it aside.
Blood trickled from between her gauntleted fingers as she pressed them against her side, trying to stanch the flow. How badly had he hurt her? Was she mortally wounded?
Guilt made his fingers tremble as he eased off her helm. Her hair spilled across the ground in bright contrast to her pale face as she barely clung to consciousness.
“Merraid,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Stay with me, do you hear? Stay with me.”
She didn’t open her eyes, but she managed to croak, “The king. Is he all right?”
Gellir didn’t know. And he didn’t care.
He threw off his gauntlets. Reached under his chain mail. Tore off the bottom half of his linen undershirt. Wadding it into a ball, he moved her hands away and pressed hard against her wound.
She grimaced, letting out a weak whimper of pain that tortured his heart. But he dared not let up, lest she bleed to death.
Meanwhile, the violent melee continued around them. Swords clashed. Spittle flew. Snarls erupted. Screams ensued. No one stopped for a bloody slash or a broken bone.
Merraid grabbed at his arm. Her voice was an insistent hoarse whisper. “The king.”
If it would calm her, Gellir supposed he could see how the king fared. He glanced around and spied Malcolm, standing safely amidst a sea of Rivenloch warriors.
“He’s fine.”
She relaxed then, and in desperation, Gellir clapped at her cheek with his free hand, trying to keep her awake.
She bristled at his harsh touch and gave him a groggy gaze of accusation. “Why were ye tryin’ to kill him?”
“Kill who?”
“The king.”
Gellir wondered if she was delirious. He hadn’t been trying to kill the king. He meant to kill the man whose sword had almost ended Merraid’s life.
He took a breath to deny her accusation when he suddenly realized she was right.
It had been Malcolm’s blade he’d seen. The blade arcing toward Merraid.
It had been the king he’d meant to stop.
Bloody hell. If Gellir had succeeded, he would have killed Malcolm.
Dizzied by the mortifying truth, he hardly noticed when Laird Deirdre came up beside him.
“Take her off the field,” she commanded, blocking a claymore that swung near Gellir’s head.
“We’ve got the king,” Lady Helena assured him as she used her targe to shove a shaggy Highlander away from Malcolm.
Lady Miriel cleared a path for him with a graceful arc of her sword. “Go. We’ll make things right.”
While the warrior maids watched his back, he scooped Merraid into his arms and carried her away from the battle.
A month later, Merraid was still grateful to be alive. Even more grateful to be home.
She leaned out the window to gaze at the courtyard below.
The late sun slanted across the thatched rooftops of the busy workshops.
Craftsmen and crofters and servants crossed the daisy-studded grass.
A flock of ducks waddled past the garden gate.
Two kittens made chase around the well. Nearby, a litter of hound pups growled and snapped at each other, their tails wagging furiously.
Along the wall, a pair of lads with wooden swords waged war.
A flock of pink-cheeked lasses looked on, giggling.
It was hard to believe so little time had passed since she’d been wed—and stabbed—by her husband at Perth.
Even harder to believe she already considered Rivenloch her home.
It felt like home. Not just because the castle was all she could hope for with its enormous keep, magnificent armory, beautiful countryside, and vibrant courtyard.
But because Gellir’s kin had made her feel like a welcome part of their clan.
She received frequent visits from his siblings, who felt sorry she’d been confined to her bed while she healed.
Isabel regaled her with tales of King Arthur and his knights.
Ian shared his clever inventions, including a device to help sailors navigate the seas.
And Brand demonstrated his warrior skills below her window, challenging a new victim each day for her entertainment.
Laird Deirdre and Pagan visited her as well, telling her charming stories about Gellir as a wee lad.
How he’d saved the miller’s daughter from a fierce kitten.
How he’d stayed up all night to guard three-year-old Ian when he took ill.
How he’d pummeled the Laird of Kerr’s son when the lad had called the warrior sisters of Rivenloch changelings.
Merraid had shaken her head at that. She couldn’t imagine speaking ill of the Rivenloch sisters.
After all, it was the warrior maids who had come to her rescue after witnessing the horrible mishap during the melee at Perth.
They claimed it was a random stray blade that had come too near the king, that Merraid had intercepted it to save Malcolm’s life.
Gellir had been relieved of blame. And Merraid had become the king’s champion.
Of course, Gellir was her real hero. Since the return to Rivenloch, he’d seen to her every need with unflagging devotion.
Almost her every need. While he no longer felt crushing guilt for the grave mistake he’d made, he still treated Merraid like a crystal chalice that might shatter at the lightest tap.
Meanwhile, she grew restless.
Her cut had healed. She’d regained her strength. She was a bit stiff, but she could move without pain now. Most morns she was able to do taijiquan. For the last few days, she’d joined the clan in the great hall for supper.
She was anxious to take advantage of the beautiful summer weather. To take a walk in the meadow. Or bathe in the nearby pond. Or ride with Gellir through the forest. And she soon discovered that watching Brand spar in the courtyard whetted her appetite for combat.
That wasn’t the only appetite whetted by neglect and nurtured by the summer sun. Which was why she’d invited Gellir to her chamber this afternoon.
A soft knock sounded on the door. There he was now.
“Come,” she said.
He entered and closed the door behind him. “You wanted me?”
She smiled, leaning back against the ledge. He had no idea how much she wanted him. Especially the way he looked right now. Dusty from the tiltyard. His dark hair disheveled by the breeze. His swarthy skin kissed by the sun. His broad chest heaving from racing up the steps to her summons.
“’Tis been a full month now, husband.”
He frowned, remembering. “Since I wounded you.”
“Well. Aye.” She pushed off the wall and sauntered closer. “But I was thinkin’ o’ somethin’ else.”
“Something else?”
She twisted the ring around her finger.
“Ah,” he said. “Our marriage.”
“Aye,” she said, reaching out to flick a piece of straw from his leather hauberk. “And now that I’m healed…” She gave him a smoldering glance.
“Are you?” He raised a brow in smoky speculation.
She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Och aye.”
She felt his shudder of desire. Glimpsed the spark of lust in his steely eyes. Saw the flare of his nostrils as he breathed in her scent.
She snaked one hand around his neck to tangle in his lush, damp curls, pulling him down to her. Closing her eyes, she pressed her lips against his, relishing their suppleness. The contrasting rasp of his stubbled chin. The musky, malty, salty taste of his mouth.
He returned the kiss, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. Growling softly with desire. Exhaling his passion against her lips.
He smelled of battle, she realized. Sweat. Leather. Steel. Hot and manly. She gasped as lust filled her veins with erotic fire, igniting her senses. Her body remembered the ecstasy of swiving. And she wanted it again.
She curled her fingers over the top of his hauberk to haul him closer and deepen the kiss.
He responded, delving his tongue into her mouth as he threaded his fingers through her hair.
Suddenly ravenous, she began to feast on him with unfettered abandon. Her desire rose faster than a rain-swollen stream, and she couldn’t stop it.
She longed to tear off his armor. Pin him to the bed. Have her way with him. And she didn’t want to wait another moment.
“Wait,” he suddenly choked out, ending the kiss. “Wait.”
Breathless, she looked at him in confusion.
He caught her wrists and pried her hands away. Then he gazed at her with smoky amusement. “Are you trying to have your way with me?”
She chuckled once. “I thought that was fairly obvious.”
He clucked his tongue. “If I recall, we had a wager at that tournament,” he reminded her. “And I won. I believe I’m the one to have my way with you.”
“Fine,” she said. At this point, she didn’t care who swived whom, as long as it came to pass. “So what’s your biddin’?”
“I want to go slowly,” he said. “Undress you. Piece by piece. Worship every inch of you as you deserve.”
Merraid swallowed hard. His words moved her. But she didn’t know how long she could endure such torture.
Gellir wondered how long he could restrain himself. Part of him wanted to throw his lovely bride onto the bed and take her like a beast.
But that was how a man swived a lass who meant nothing to him.
And today, he wanted to make love to his wife.
He lowered onto one knee before her, catching the embroidered hem of her blue woolen surcoat.
Then he rose with reverence, lifting the garment higher and higher.
She raised her arms to accommodate him. Carefully avoiding the intricate braids of her hair—Isabel’s work, no doubt—he slipped the surcoat off over her head and set it aside at the foot of the bed.
Her white linen leine clung to her curves, and already he felt lust stirring in his body again.
Her eyes glazed with seductive anticipation.
He started at the top of her head, placing a kiss where her silky hair was swept back from her brow. “I love your bright, coppery tresses. They’re like a beam of sunlight shining through the clouds.”