Page 38 of Laird of Steel
The cloth merchant, who’d been so eloquent as he coerced Lady Feiyan into purchasing just a few more ells of sendal, had fallen silent. Perhaps he had to rest his tongue.
She sighed as he hauled his cart of goods over the hard-packed road without a word. No doubt Lady Feiyan thought she was doing Merraid a favor by pairing her with an eligible, handsome, skilled merchant who might whisk her off her feet and into a happy marriage.
The lady would have been more successful trying to turn lead into gold.
As Merraid gazed into the distance where the road forked, she saw a pair of horses being led their way. She narrowed her eyes. The one on the left looked like Feiyan’s palfrey. Hadn’t that been the horse Gellir had borrowed?
She straightened. Could that be Gellir?
Surely not. The second horse and both travelers were covered head to toe in filth. They looked like gong farmers. Or horse thieves. Or beggars in sore need of a bath.
In any event, they’d likely be welcomed at Darragh. Laird Dougal and Lady Feiyan never turned away a soul in need.
But as the distance closed between them, Merraid felt a tingle of faint recognition. If that wasn’t Gellir, it was someone of the same stature, with the same gait.
The second figure appeared to be female. She limped along in a soiled white underdress with mucky, torn rags wrapped around her. She was missing a shoe. And her hair was bedecked with clumps of mud.
When the first traveler raked his hair back with his hand, just like Gellir, Merraid froze with a loud gasp. She startled the cloth merchant, who dropped the handles of his cart.
“What is it,signorina?”
“Gellir,” she breathed. But what had happened to him?
She strode forward again, fast enough that the cloth merchant, wresting his cart up, had to lope to keep up with her.
When she drew within hearing, she heard Gellir’s companion railing at him.
“Ne’er have I been so humiliated!” the woman cried. “I shall tell my father about this, sirrah! He’ll make ye pay for my shame.” She bit out nastily, “Once he goes to the king, your reputation will be ruined.”
Merraid’s hackles rose. Whatever had happened, she was certain Gellir was not to blame. There must be a good reason for their filthy appearance. Gellir would sooner cut out his tongue than dishonor a woman.
She was close enough to feel the waves of fury roiling off of the lady. She may have once been bonnie underneath all that slime. Presently her face was contorted in a mask of ugly rage.
As for Gellir, even coated in grime, he looked noble. He trudged along with his head lowered, the weight of silent chivalry resting upon his shoulders.
When he offered no reply to the lady’s threats, she continued to harangue him, oblivious to Merraid’s approach.
“Ye’re a monster, do ye hear me? Forcin’ a titled lady to slog half-naked for miles like a bloody maidservant.”
Merraid’s hands tightened involuntarily into fists at the insult. Her blood grew hot. But she managed to keep a cool head, as she’d been trained to do in combat. After all, losing one’s temper was a deadly mistake.
The woman continued. “Ye’ll ne’er fight in another tournament, champion,” she sneered, “and when I’m through draggin’ your name through the mud, no woman will e’er wish be your bride.”
That did it. That touched a spark to the tinder of Merraid’s temper.
Merraidwished to be his bride, even if this shite-mouthed shrew of a wench did not.
“Ye’re a vile fiend, Gellir Cameliard. A brute. A devil,” the woman spat, punctuating each insult with a punch to his shoulder. “Loathsome. Despicable. Dishonora—”
Livid, Merraid surged forward all at once, intending to shove the abusive woman away from Gellir.
She would have succeeded too. But Gellir flung out an arm and caught her about the waist, pulling her back against his chest.
“Merraid?” he said, astonished to see her. “What are you—”
“Let me go.” She strained against his arm. “I’ll show this screechin’ harpy ‘dishonorable.’”
“What did ye call me?” the woman bellowed in shock.
