Page 3 of Laird of Steel
In turn, he’d given her his protection. When lads gaped at her, Gellir barked at them to mind their eyes. When drunken sots snapped at her to fill their cup, he poured ale over their soused heads.
She’d worshipped him like a hero. And he’d become like a big brother to her.
Bright and clever for her age, Merraid was full of spirit and courage. A hard worker, willing to learn and eager to please. It would be a lucky lad who won the heart of such a loyal and loving lass.
But Gellir was not that lad. He had no time for courting. No patience for the sundry tasks it required. Writing verse. Picking flowers. Extolling virtues. He was far too loyal to his first love—warfare—to take a serious interest in a lass. Any lass.
His cousin Hew was the sort to heap spontaneous praises upon every damsel who caught his eye. But “Grim Gellir,” as Hew called him, was uninterested in practicing his charms.
Especially on a fiery-haired, freckle-faced, wide-eyed wisp of a maidservant with whom he could have no possible honorable intentions.
As far asdishonorable intentions… Other lads his age might wave their flags and cast their seed about indiscriminately. But Gellir would never compromise a woman’s virtue. Not even a maidservant’s.
He was the son of the Laird of Rivenloch. Namesake of his noble Viking grandfather.
When the time came for him to be shackled to a wife, it would be to one of the king’s choosing. She would be the daughter of a laird. Or a widow with valuable property. Or a nobleman’s sister from a land with which the king wished to form an alliance.
It didn’t matter to Gellir.
His path was clear. He might have to wed. But he was a warrior at heart.
Who needed a woman in his bed? He was perfectly content with a sword in his hand and a horse between his knees.
Maybe for lads like his cousin Hew, happiness came in the arms of a pleasing wife. A woman with a bonnie face and childbearing hips. But for Gellir, the prospect of bairns…
He blinked as a comical image careened through his head. A wild horde of children with Merraid’s orange hair and blue eyes. Wee beasts running loose through the halls of Rivenloch. Wreaking havoc. Sowing chaos.
He shuddered, curling his lip in a combination of amusement and horror.
He’d father his own brood one day. It was his duty, after all. But his progeny would possess his discipline. His decorum. His dark hair and serious gray eyes.
Merraid’s eyes weren’t serious. Not at all. They sparkled with frivolous joy. Irreverent ideas. Clear and blue as a summer sky, they were disruptive, disturbing, distracting.
Her tresses were distracting as well. Startling, like a marigold in a field of violets. Full of unruly curls. It had been a surprise how soft to the touch they were the first time he kissed her brow during the battle for Darragh.
That vivid memory suddenly struck his heart like a bolt fired from a bow. Why would that occur to him now?
A strange prickling along his shoulders made him turn around to cast one final glance toward Castle Darragh.
Even at this distance, her bright pennon of long, loose hair was unmistakable. Merraid was watching him leave. He shook his head and smiled to himself. Of course she was.
In truth, he was going to miss the lass.
He waved at her, wondering who the funny wee maidservant would obsess over when he was gone.
It didn’t matter. Aye, it was dangerous for a young lass to wear her heart on her sleeve the way Merraid did. But he’d tasked his cousin Lady Feiyan with looking after the hapless maid in his absence. Feiyan would keep her safe enough.
One day the right lad—a lad deserving of her sweet nature, her quick wit, and her unreserved devotion—would come along to claim her hand.
With that assurance, he nodded a silent farewell. He steered his mount and his mind toward Rivenloch. And he completely forgot about the wee lass with the orange hair.
For four years at least.
Chapter 1
Spring 1160
One dayhad arrived. Merraid’s champion, Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch, was at long last returning to Darragh.
