Page 37 of Laird of Steel
“Take my hand,” he said.
He managed to drag her across the muck to firmer ground. But by the time she was able to pull herself out, muddy and bedraggled, her animal was thrashing in panic, sinking deeper and deeper into the bog.
Gellir furrowed his brows and scoured the area. There was no tree nearby. No vine. No rope. Nothing to help pull a horse from a bog.
“Your gown,” he said, eyeing the voluminous muddy folds.
“Aye, ’tis ruined.”
“Nay, I need it.”
“What?”
“Give it to me.”
“What?”
“Now. Quick.” He beckoned her with his fingers. “Take it off.”
“I will not,” she said, outraged.
An explanation wasted valuable time. So did gallantry. He drew his dagger, seized her gown, and began to cut, rending the cloth into a long strip to make a rope.
She shrieked at him. Shrill, angry protests that rivaled the panicked squeals of the horse, now sunk to its belly.
Ignoring Lady Metylda’s furious curses, Gellir crawled carefully toward the horse again.
It was huffing with panic and fatigue.
“Easy there,” he coaxed. “I’ve come to help you.”
The animal seemed to understand. It let him approach. There was just enough room to sneak the doubled and twisted strip of cloth under the horse’s barrel and around its legs. The rest would rely on pure strength.
Bracing himself as well as he could against the most solid bank of the bog, he hauled back on the makeshift rope, clucking to the horse to come toward him. Then his feet slipped, and the horse sank back again.
Coiling his fists tighter in the rope, he pulled once more, taking a step backward. This time the horse stepped forward. Another hard tug brought the animal a foot closer. Inch by inch, straining his shoulders and back, Gellir managed to gradually ease the horse out of the mud and finally onto hardened ground.
By the time the horse was safe, Gellir was drenched with sweat and muck, as exhausted as he was relieved. The horse looked traumatized and weary.
Lady Metylda was still spitting in fury.
But Gellir had no patience for her wrath. It was her carelessness that had caused this debacle and nearly cost the life of a good horse.
When he was finally able to struggle to his feet, he seized the reins of her steed. Then he made a decision that eliminated his chances of ever becoming her husband. “We’re walking back.”
Chapter 6
Lorenzo, the cloth merchant from Florence, was fit, handsome, and unwed. He’d stopped by Castle Darragh with his wares. All the maidservants were agog over his wide smile. His glimmering eyes. His lush, curled hair. And the fashionable attire he wore, which delineated every tempting muscle. When he opened his mouth, no one could resist him. Even Lady Feiyan fell prey to his cunning persuasion, purchasing more than her usual yardage from the charming vendor.
Once Lady Feiyan’s coffers were suitably drained, she tasked Merraid with accompanying the merchant to the neighboring villages to introduce him to possible patrons. The other lasses seethed with envy.
Merraid, however, felt nothing for the eye-catching merchant. Certainly Lorenzo knew how to wink and grin. He whispered the right sort of flattery to open ladies’ purses. But there was little substance behind his merchant’s mask. And as she discovered, ambling beside him along the path leaving the castle, when he wasn’t selling something, he had very little to say.
That was fine. It was a lovely day for quiet walking. No late winter rain or early spring showers. Bright and cold and crisp. She didn’t mind leaving the castle for the afternoon. It was better than pacing in worry, which she’d been doing since morning.
Where Gellir had gone, she couldn’t follow. He was out riding with his next prospective bride. She’d overheard Lady Feiyan telling him the young woman was rather bonnie. But for Merraid, not knowing the bonnie young woman—or where they were, or what was going on—was driving her mad.
Fresh air and a brisk walk would do her good.
