Page 124 of Laird of Steel
Adam tried to shield her from the worst of it. But even ducking into the roadside trees couldn’t keep her from being soaked by day’s end.
Thankfully, just before dark, Adam spied smoke from a wooden keep on a hillside nearby. He motioned her to follow him.
“What clan is it?” she called out over the din of the storm.
“I don’t know.”
She winced in disappointment. It appeared their luck had run out. But she would be grateful to sleep in a dovecot if she could only get out of the cursed rain.
As it turned out, Adam could foment connections out of thin air. Using hints and vague references, a bit of knowledge and a bit of guesswork, he managed to convince the laird—the head of Clan Drummond—that they were long-lost cousins who had fought side-by-side years ago in a clan battle.
Adam’s skills were truly amazing. And terrifying.
Merraid decided the woman who made Adam fall in love with her would have to be clever indeed to match his brilliance. She’d also have to hang on for dear life, for Adam was not only bright, but dangerously impulsive.
Nonetheless, tonight Merraid was grateful for his shameless deceit.
As she drifted off within the folds of damp wool, steaming dry by the fire, she wondered how Gellir was faring.
She tried to imagine him nestled warmly in a friendly clan’s keep.
But she thought it was more likely, considering his current disposition of self-sacrifice, he was shivering under the trees in the pouring rain, miserable in his drenched cloak.
She murmured a quick prayer that good fortune would find him and keep him safe.
Chapter 21
Gellir shivered under the trees in the pouring rain, miserable in his drenched cloak.
At least the people he loved were safe and warm. By now, Hew would have taken Carenza to her lover. His clan were likely still at Darragh. And Merraid…
He pulled out the prize he’d tucked into his leine. Merraid’s braid. He closed his eyes and brushed her hair against his lips, inhaling the floral scent, enjoying the silken texture, remembering her sunny countenance, her dancing eyes, her summery smile. The thought of her was enough to warm him in the midst of the storm.
Then he tucked his treasure away and opened his eyes. Through the punishing drops, he glimpsed a dim light in the dark distance.
Shelter?
With fingers made clumsy by the cold, he opened his leather purse and dug out two coins. It was all he had left from yesterday. Little work could be had in such foul weather. But it was enough to purchase an ale, a bit of pottage, and, if he ate slowly, an hour or two of respite from the rain.
He left the trees, scowling against the hammering of the storm as he trudged through the muck and mire.
Luck was with him. An alestake protruded from the cottage, announcing the availability of freshly brewed ale, though the sign’s wreath of ivy had fallen into the mud. He stomped the grime from his boots and pushed open the door. The blast of warmth from the cheery fire, the scent of hearty fare, and the pair of travelers huddled over cups of foamy ale made him sigh with relief.
He nodded in greeting and hung up his cloak and sword. A toothless old wench pulled out a three-legged stool for him at the wee table.
“Ye’ll be wantin’ pottage, no doubt,” she said. “’Tis cold as the grave tonight.” Before he could answer, she added, “And a hefty cup o’ ale as well.” She turned away, calling over her shoulder. “And ye won’t want to venture out again till morn, I’m sure.”
He opened his mouth to ask how much she’d be charging for all that.
“Don’t bother,” one of the travelers said. “She won’t take nay for an answer.”
“Aye,” the other agreed. “A right captain o’ the guard she is.”
Gellir settled onto the free stool.
“I’m Walter,” the first man said, wiping his hand on his thick black beard before extending it.
Gellir shook his hand. It was thick and callused, and beneath his woolen sleeve, Gellir glimpsed the dull silver of chain mail.
