Page 12 of Laird of Steel
But when he looked into Merraid’s eyes, triumph wasn’t what he felt. Not at all.
The brave maidservant had challenged him when no one else would. She’d been unafraid to put him in his place. Fierce and fearless, she didn’t care a whit about his reputation or his status or how many tournaments he’d won. She treated him as an equal.
Unfortunately, while he was reflecting upon that, the sneaky wench used her knee to give him a swift jab in the ballocks.
He yelped and recoiled at once. Rolling off of her onto his back, he clutched his offended manhood with a groan. Now he remembered why he hated fighting women.
The men winced, making empathetic grunts.
Merraid popped up to her feet and dusted off her skirts. As he grimaced in pain, she crouched beside him, arching a brow and whispering, “He who tries to fly among the gods gets burned by the sun.”
He narrowed smoldering eyes up at her. He probably deserved that. But he wasn’t quite ready to forgive her.
“Sung Li?” he guessed, croaking. It sounded like something Feiyan’s teacher—that wizened old relic from the Orient—would say.
“Nay,” she replied. “Icarus’s da.”
He sighed. Of course. Icarus. The cocky Greek knave who had thought himself invincible and had fallen to his death.
Maybe she was right. In some ways, success had spoiled Gellir. Flush from a year of praise and glory in the lists, he’d forgotten how to be humble. Maybe a sobering slap in the face—or a punishing knee to the groin—was just the thing to remind him he was a mere mortal.
Still, it was unpleasant to receive such comeuppance from his cousin’s maidservant. One who could quote Greek mythology.
By their grumbling, the Darragh warriors were just as disgruntled as he was. But their remarks, mostly aimed at Merraid for what they perceived as dirty brawling, made him realize her precarious position. Whether by fair means or foul, the men’s appointed champion had fallen. They would naturally seek retribution for that slight. Perceiving Merraid as the source of their affront, they would target her for insult. Or worse.
He couldn’t allow her to suffer for what was essentially his failing. It was up to him to frame her battle for the victory it was.
Merraid expected the sweetness of her conquest to be short-lived. As Feiyan had warned her long ago—and experience had verified—men hated to be bested by women.
The slurs muttered around her were familiar and unsurprising. A few of the Darragh warriors had met their own demise at her hands. They were doubtless relieved to be in good company. She expected Gellir would have a few choice names to call her as well.
Which was why she was taken aback when his brow softened. His stormy gray eyes melted into fog. And the corner of his mouth lifted in a conspiratorial grin.
“Well executed, m’lady,” he said, applauding her even while wincing from the blow she’d inflicted. “See, lads? You should never let your guard down. Always be prepared for the unexpected. The noblest lion can still be lamed by a rose with thorns.”
She was so shocked by his praise, she didn’t even hesitate when he reached out a hand for her assistance. This time he didn’t betray her trust. He allowed her to help him to his feet.
“Let this be a lesson to you all,” he continued, still clinging to her hand. “Never underestimate an opponent.”
While Merraid stood in open-mouthed wonder, he raised her hand to his lips, and brushed her fingers with a gentle kiss.
“I thank you for the challenge, m’lady.”
The men of Darragh, baffled at first, soon joined in with cheers.
Merraid was left speechless. The back of her hand tingled where his lips had touched it. Her cheeks flushed. Her heart throbbed. For a moment, she was reduced to that naïve fifteen-year-old lass again. Stumbling over her words. Blushing with desire. Overwhelmed by passionate yearning.
She thought she’d left that lovelorn lass behind. She was so certain her heart, once broken, was now safely encased in steel plate.
Yet here it was, pounding again for Gellir of Rivenloch with the force of an armorer’s hammer. Softening under the twinkling light of his amused eyes and proud smile.
“Well, why are you all standing about?” he called out to the men. “Someone bring the lady an ale!”
A cup was passed forward through the crowd. He handed it to her. Then he went down on one knee before her. “Go on then, champion. Pour it o’er my head.”
She had no intention of doing any such thing. Not now. Not since he’d shown her such knightly courtesy.
He may have arrived four years too late. Basking in the light of his grand achievements. Heralded by tales of unmatched glory.
