Page 23 of Laird of Steel
Gellir felt the mutton congeal in his stomach. He gave her a weak smile. Then he took a bracing swallow of wine.
Oblivious to his disappointment, she blathered on about how silly she thought it was for a lady like her to learn skills she could easily hire others to do.
No one contradicted her. But Lady Feiyan’s eyes grew cold. And Laird Dougal’s fingers tightened on the cup of wine. All of his female kin were well-educated. It was a point of pride that Rivenloch women were as clever as they were fierce.
Gellir needed to turn the conversation before Feiyan throttled the lass. Surely there was some subject at which Forveleth excelled. Some strength she possessed. Something that made her special.
He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and turned to her. “What would you say your greatest talent is, my lady?”
“Talent?” She wrinkled her nose as if he’d made a jest.
“Aye,” said Feiyan, grateful for the change of subject. “Do you hawk? Sew?”
Laird Dougal chimed in. “Sing? Or play draughts?”
Forveleth caught her lip under her teeth and gave her head a little shake. Then a tiny crease appeared between her brows. “I suppose ye might say I’ve a talent for purchasin’.”
“Purchasing?” Gellir asked. Now they were making progress. “So you purchase goods for the castle? Supplies and so forth?” That required careful accounting and skill so as not to create waste.
Her mouth made an “oh” of surprise. “Och, heavens, nay. All those figures and ledgers? I get dizzy just thinkin’ about it. Nay, my father has a man who does that. I mean I have a talent for purchasin’ goods at the market. Ribbons. Jewels. Scented oils.”
His eyes flattened. “I see.”
“I can find just the perfect shade o’ ribbon to complement my tresses,” she proudly gushed, “and I can spot which pendant is the highest quality…”
“And negotiate a reasonable price?” he guessed hopefully.
“Well, my servant does that,” she admitted. “But I’ve managed to acquire quite a collection.” She held up her pendant to show him the green cabochon. “’Tis an emerald. Is it not breathtakin’?”
He studied the piece. “Aye.” Even more breathtaking if she’d known it was not an emerald, but some kind of glass. Of course, he wouldn’t be so crass as to tell her.
He was beginning to realize, however, that marrying Lady Forveleth would be a disaster. As Merraid had warned him, she had the emotional maturity of a child. What would happen when he marched off to battle, leaving her in charge of the keep? Would she let the stores of food run out? Allow their children to run amok like wild animals? Drain his coffers to purchase a worthless bauble?
How could he wield his sword like a tournament champion, distracted by the fear that his wife might at any moment hand over his castle in exchange for a ribbon in just the perfect shade?
It was a shame. Shewasquite beautiful. Her clan was well off and well respected. She and Gellir, with their complementary natures, even made an attractive couple. He was sun-bronzed, and she was fair. He was grim, and she was sunny. He was clever, and she was…
He shuddered, imagining a life of hand-feeding and coffer-guarding and caring for her as if she were a bairn in tailclouts. How would such a woman ever raise bairns of her own?
He scowled. He wondered if she even knew how they were made. Did she understand the intimacies between a man and a woman? Or would she run screaming from their marriage bed, crying to her maids that Grim Gellir had attacked her with a fleshy dagger?
The longer the evening wore on with music and entertainments, the more morose he became. After supper, Forveleth prattled on, drowning out the lute player. She frowned in confusion over the morality play. She gasped in exaggerated shock when the magician pulled a silk scarf from her sleeve.
All the while, Gellir remained polite. But he grew impatient with her naivete. And his smile grew thin. Each insipid giggle made the muscle of his jaw ache.
Clearly, he’d made a terrible mistake in thinking any lass would suffice for a wife. To be condemned to a woman who grated on his nerves and bored him to tears was unthinkable. How could he face a lifetime of such evenings?
“M’laird, here’s the feverfew ye requested.”
Gellir startled. It was Merraid. She leaned between him and Lady Forveleth and placed a vial on the table. As she withdrew her hand, she turned to him and added, “For your headache?”
For an instant, he stared mutely at her. Then he saw a conspiratorial glimmer in her sky blue eyes.
“Och. Aye.” He pressed his fingers to his temple. “My thanks.”
“Och nay, Sir Gellir,” Lady Forveleth complained. “Do ye have a headache?”
“Alas, I fear so,” he said, silently praising Merraid’s genius. “I regret I must leave your sweet company.”
