Page 45 of Bride of Mist
He didn’t want to think about the future.
Huddled beside the shivering lass—holding her in his protective embrace, feeling tendrils of her wet hair against his cheek, smelling the damp linen of her garments—it was easy to believe they were simply friends waiting out the storm.
Part of him wished it could be so. That he could sit here in this island of time with the fey lass, holding off what was to come.
But he knew the truth.
If and when the mac Girics found him, a valuable hostage might be the only way to protect his clan. And when that time came, he would have to find the strength to hold a dagger against the lovely lass’s throat.
Chapter 12
The market at Melrose was loud and lively, despite the storm that had blown in from the west, frowning down from the clouds in dire threat, ready to loose a deluge at any moment. But even the pouring rain wouldn’t keep the four Rivenloch lads from enjoying this rare taste of freedom.
They were on their own. Four dashing cousins, in the prime of life, eager for adventure. Even if that only meant browsing through the market a dozen or so miles from their home.
Gellir was in charge, of course—of the cousins and the coin. At sixteen, he was the oldest. He was the son of the laird, Deirdre of Rivenloch. And he was the most levelheaded. It was his task to make sure none of them wasted silver on a charlatan’s goods, picked a quarrel with someone they couldn’t trounce, or fell prey to the maids of questionable virtue who strolled the lanes.
His cousin Hew was only a few months younger, but he was cursed with the temper of his mother, hotheaded Helena. Hew was useful in a fight, not so handy for haggling over prices. The hardest thing to rein in, of course, would be Hew’s raging lust. Lately, anything in a skirt might become the target of his affections. It was up to Gellir to keep him out of trouble.
Gellir’s younger brother Brand, on the other hand, had nothing but disdain for lasses, whom he considered an inferior species. Brand’s particular foible was an obsession with arms and armor. If Gellir didn’t keep an eye on him, Brand could easily spend most of his coin in the first hour and have to beg for the funds for a cart to transport it all home.
Like Brand, Adam was fourteen years old, but the two cousins could not have been more different. Adam was deviously brilliant, as elusive as his mother Miriel. With his quiet charm and clever mind, he could convince a merchant to part with his goods at a loss, which was one reason Gellir had brought him along.
The other reason was to get Adam’s mind off of his sister, Feiyan. She was missing, though no one had really noticed except Adam. He hadn’t seen her since the fateful melee at Creagor, and he was worried about her, sure she’d gone after the perpetrator of the violence. The claymore left behind bore the name of clan mac Darragh, a stronghold more than thirty leagues away. Much could happen on the long journey, and Adam couldn’t shake the feeling that Feiyan was in trouble.
Suddenly Hew waved two silk ribbons in Gellir’s face—one blue, one red. “Which one do you think?”
Gellir smirked. “I think green is more your color.”
Hew elbowed him. “Not for me, you dolt. Forher.”He nodded to a simpering lass at the next pavilion who was running a teasing finger along the neck of her surcoat.
Gellir clucked his tongue, then leaned close to whisper, “She’ll have that ribbon tied round your ballocks—and your purse empty—faster than you can say ‘kiss me.’”
Hew’s face heated at once, making the ugly black eye he’d earned at the tournament stand out in harsh relief. “How dare you insult the woman I love!”
Gellir crossed his arms and nodded toward the lass, who was now winking and waving at a pair of young nobles. “The woman you love seems to be…generous…with her affections.”
Before Hew could retort, Brand came running up, poking Gellir in the arm repeatedly with his bandaged finger, another injury from the tournament. “Hey, brother, get me two shillings.”
Gellir frowned. “What do you need two shillings for?”
“There’s a wicked pair of Toledo steel daggers in Armorers Lane.”
“Toledo steel? For two shillings?”
“I know! Amazing, aye?” Brand gushed. “Quick, before they’re gone.” He waggled his fingers out for coin.
Gellir rolled his eyes. “For that price, they’re likely made of English lead.”
Brand groaned in exasperation. “Will you at least come look?”
“Och, fine.” He clapped Hew on the shoulder. “Come along, cousin. Maybe we can find you a dagger to thrust through your broken heart.”
As the three strolled down the lane, Adam came striding briskly toward them. His expression was grim. His brow was furrowed. His face was pale.
“What is it?” Gellir asked.
“I think I found him,” Adam replied. His hand went instinctively to the new bruise that colored his cheek, a souvenir given to him by the savage at the tournament.
