Page 154 of Laird of Steel
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.
Almosther 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.
