Page 42 of Laird of Steel
Half the time, even he believed it.
But in his heart, he often felt alone, isolated, as if he were responsible for…everything.
That a wee maidservant would care about his happiness and wish to shoulder part of his burden warmed his heart.
Within an hour, however, that lovely warmth faded, replaced by icy dread.
Apparently, his efficient cousin had decided to hasten his selection of a bride by inviting a dozen prospects to dinner at once.
Merraid was aghast. The kitchen staff was expected to accommodate twelve bridal candidates and their guards? How would they all fit? Did they even have enough victuals this early in spring to feed such a gathering? A feast like this would surely deplete the castle’s winter stores.
As the seemingly endless stream of noblewomen arrived, the great hall of Darragh grew as crowded and noisy as the first spring fair. Merraid slipped through lavish gowns of russett velvet and golden sendal, scarlet brocade and azure fustian, like a needle stitching fabric.
The ladies greeted each other with sugary smiles that belied the hostility and competition brewing between them. Merraid wondered what kind of desperate race Gellir was engaged in that he would risk such a melee.
Somehow, they all managed to find a seat. Lady Feiyan had avoided conflict by assigning each lady a special place within view of Gellir.
When dinner began, and Merraid brought the first remove of salat to the high table, her breath caught. The sight of Gellir surrounded by fawning, beautiful women—fluttering their lashes, twittering like sparrows, touching his arm in faux fondness—was almost too much to bear.
Walking back to the castle with him earlier had stirred old feelings in her. Emotions she’d forgotten. Feelings she believed were long gone.
But she was wrong. They must have been there all along. Waiting like a sheathed sword for the right moment to strike.
It couldn’t happen at a worse time.
Not only was Gellir unattainable. He was actively pursuing another. Or rather twelve others.
She had to admire Lady Feiyan’s thriftiness when it came to time. Clearly the lady meant to force a decision as quickly as possible.
But she wondered again at the rush. A lass like Merraid might be considered a grape shriveled on the vine if she didn’t marry young. But a man as desirable as Gellir Cameliard could command an attractive, young bride well into his dotage.
She placed bowls of salat at the lower tables, where the ladies’ guards sat. But she couldn’t resist glancing now and then at Gellir and the brood of pigeons cooing around him.
She wasn’t jealous. At least that was what she told herself. She was only concerned. Concerned that he might not choose wisely under such pressure.
“Are ye goin’ to serve that, lass, or just keep wavin’ it under my nose?”
Merraid snapped her gaze back to the table. The guardsman who’d murmured that taunt had a merry green gaze and a lock of black hair that drooped over his brow like the wayward tail of a kitten.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, placing the salat before him.
“’Tis quite a spectacle, isn’t it?” he asked, nodding toward the high table.
A spectacle. That was a good word for it.
“That’s my lady to his left,” he confided in a whisper. “Lady Maut.” He shook his head sadly. “Frankly, I don’t think she has a chance.”
What a funny man he was. She gave him a quizzical look. “Why do ye say that?”
“Because the one on his right?” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head and knocking his kitten-tail lock askew. “She looks like she could wallop the devil out o’ Maut.”
She gasped in amusement.
He continued, lowering his brows in mock gravity. “But I’m lookin’ forward to the first bout between the second and third on his left. They’ve already exchanged minor blows off the field. Once they enter the real battle arena, fists raised…” He clucked his tongue.
Merraid stifled a laugh.
“The one next to Maut? She looks like a hair-puller. And the one next to her?” He whistled a breath between his teeth. “It would surprise me if she didn’t have a habit o’ scratchin’ out eyes.”
