Page 13 of Laird of Steel
But she knew now that Gellir Camelliard was the very same young man who’d won her heart all that time ago. Humble. Brave. Chivalrous. Self-sacrificing. He possessed the lofty trappings of a hero. But under them, he was still the simple lad whose only wish was to use his sword arm. Defeating evil. Defending honor.
She thought she’d locked her affections for him away. But God help her, they spilled forth from her heart like an uncorked cask of wine. Preserved. Mellowed. Aged to a complex and delicious elixir. One with the power to render her helplessly drunk on his love.
Her fingers trembled on the cup. Her face glowed with admiration. Her pulse raced. Her heart melted like butter.
Somewhere in the back of her thoughts came a whisper of warning.
She couldn’t let this happen.
She dared not fall in love with him.
Nothing good could come of it.
They lived in different worlds.
He’d already broken her heart once. She couldn’t let it happen again.
Yet the tender feelings were all too familiar and completely unavoidable.
As he knelt before her, her eyes swept over his shaggy hair—the dark color of wet wood, and his swarthy face—shaded with manly stubble, and lingered on his wry mouth.
Then she made the mistake of letting her attention drift up to his steadfast, beautiful, honest gray eyes.
She was lost at once. Falling into the deep, silvery pool of his gaze. Drowning in the strong currents of temptation, where nothing could save her.
For a moment, she considered extinguishing the flames of longing by pouring the ale over her own head.
“Merraid!” came a bellow from the back of the crowd. Tom the kitchen lad made his way forward. “Merraid!”
Someone needed her. She quickly downed half the cup and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Aye?”
“Ye’re needed in the hall. The cook says ye’re to help set up the feast for Sir Gell-…” He stopped abruptly when he noticed Gellir at her feet. Unsure what to make of the situation, he backed away, muttering, “Ye’re to come at once.”
For Merraid, the command was a clear and painful reminder. Sir Gellir might be kneeling before her at the moment. But that was only for show. He was a nobleman. The son of a powerful laird. And she was but a servant in his cousin’s household.
With a quick bob of her head, she pressed the half-drained cup back into his hands. Then she picked up her skirts and fled the armory.
Gellir watched her go. He still couldn’t believe the dazzling beauty was Merraid. Gone was the timid, scrawny, wide-eyed maidservant. She’d grown into a woman who was lovely. Self-assured. And undeniably tempting.
He was unaccustomed to noticing such things. In the last two years afield, he’d enjoyed a sampling of lasses—from lowly camp followers to titled ladies. They swooned over him. Showered him with tournament favors. Begged for his affection.
None had turned his head.
He’d been too centered on improving his skills in the lists to care about the ladies who filled the spectator stands.
To be distracted by a woman was a novel experience for him.
One of the men nudged him from his thoughts. “Ye let her win, aye? I mean, the greatest warrior in all o’ Scotland couldn’t be defeated by a wisp of a lass.”
Gellir looked up. All the men were staring at him, waiting for his answer with a mixture of hope and disappointment.
“Of course,” he replied. He wasn’t altogether certain that was true. But if he’d unleashed the full measure of his power from the very first, he might have squashed her like a flea. “Trouncing her would have been discourteous, aye? Chivalry is a warrior’s guiding principle. A knight’s foremost duty is to protect the helpless. Never forget that.”
Merraid was far from helpless, as he’d discovered. But the men seemed satisfied with his answer.
“M’laird?” A servant entered the armory with a bob of his head. “Lady Feiyan is requestin’ your company.”
Gellir left the men musing over his advice as he followed the servant up the stairs to his cousin’s solar.
