Page 30 of Laird of Steel
She could have avoided those injuries. It frustrated her to appear so helpless. Especially to Gellir.
Unfortunately, fighting back wouldn’t have served her purpose. But now everyone knew the rumors were true. Lady Affraic was short-tempered and prone to brutality.
“Where are you hurt?” Gellir asked.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“Where are you hurt?” he said more insistently.
“My ribs,” she admitted with a grimace. “And my leg. And there’s a wee scratch…” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. They came back bloody.
“That’s more than a wee scratch.”
He snapped up his napkin from the table and tucked it into his belt. Then he wrapped an arm around her and helped her limp across the great hall. He grabbed a pitcher of water from a passing maid as they headed up the stairs.
“So I suppose ye’ll be takin’ Lady Affraic off your list o’ prospects now?” Merraid asked.
He stopped on the step. Realization dawned on his face. “You conniver. You knew.”
She stared at him blankly.
“You knew,” he repeated. “You spilled the blancmange on purpose.”
She feigned surprise. “Why would I spill perfectly good blancmange?”
“To incur her wrath. To make a point.”
“And did it?”
He compressed his lips and shook his head in disgust. Then he continued up the steps with her, muttering, “You could have been gravely injured. Why didn’t you just tell me she was a hothead?”
“I wasn’t sure the rumors were true.”
“That’s a hell of a way to find out.”
They topped the steps and hobbled along the hall. He shouldered open the door of the solar. There he settled her onto a chair by the hearth.
He whipped the rag from his belt and dipped it into the pitcher of water. Then he knelt before her to dab at the cut on her brow.
It stung. She winced.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
If he’d known how many injuries she’d incurred in training—a twisted ankle, a slashed arm, a blow that left her senseless for half a day—he wouldn’t have fretted over this wee scratch.
On the other hand, she had to admit it was pleasant to have him fretting over her.
This close, she could study the furrow between his brows. The stormy streaks in his gray eyes. The way his nostrils moved with every breath of air. She could smell his intoxicating scent of mead and leather and steel. And she wondered if his lips were still as warm and supple as they’d been all those years ago…
“There’s a lump,” he told her. “But I don’t think ’twill leave a scar.”
He’d said the same thing when she’d broken her nose. And he’d been right.
“It seems ye’re always mendin’ my injuries,” she said softly.
His mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “Well, if you weren’t so intent on getting them in the first place…”
She smiled back. “’Twas a necessary sacrifice.”
