Page 66 of Laird of Steel
When the lady dismounted, she thanked Campbell for taking her horse, which made the young stable master blush.
When she picked her dainty way across the courtyard to meet Laird Dougal and Lady Feiyan, she offered her hand and a timid, sweet smile.
When she gazed round at the towers and gardens of Darragh, her wide-eyed and earnest admiration made the laird’s chest swell with pride.
Lady Feiyan explained she’d sent Gellir off to fish. She meant to allow Carenza time to clean up and settle in before they met. Now she summoned Merraid to convey her to the solar and attend her bath.
Merraid complied, though she couldn’t imagine the woman becoming any cleaner or more comfortable in her surroundings. Lady Carenza was poised. Prepared. Perfect.
Still, for Gellir’s sake, it was up to Merraid to seek out a fatal flaw. A character deficiency. A nasty habit. Some well-concealed imperfection on her seemingly unblemished soul.
In the end, she could find nothing wrong with Lady Carenza. In fact, she liked the woman. A lot.
On the way to the solar, the lady asked Merraid about her life, her family, and the castle. Unlike most noblewomen, who largely ignored maidservants, she took great interest in Merraid’s thoughts.
She cooed over the steaming, fragrant bath that awaited her. And she placed a humble hand over her heart when she saw that Merraid had added lavender petals to the water.
“They’re my favorite,” she confided. She glided gracefully to the makeshift pallet to remove her boots.
Merraid knelt to assist her.
But the lady shooed her away. “There’s no need for that. I’m perfectly capable of undressin’. Indeed, if ye have other chores to do, ye can leave me. I promise I won’t drown.”
“I have no other chores, m’lady.” Merraid was sure Lady Feiyan wouldn’t approve of her deserting their guest. Besides, she needed to see if the woman had an ugly scar. A flat bosom. A wart on her arse she should warn Gellir about.
Since Merraid didn’t want to stare, she busied herself. Moving the candles. Poking at the fire. Rearranging the bath linens.
Lady Carenza took off each item of clothing with great care. Her leather girdle. Her linen hose. Her deep blue velvet surcoat. Her light blue woolen kirtle. And finally her linen underdress. She draped them on the pallet so they wouldn’t wrinkle.
Then she sank into the tub.
Merraid could discern no physical flaw whatsoever. Not a single blemish, freckle, or bruise. There was a feminine softness to her body. She was petite, but round in all the right places.
Merraid tried not to simmer with envy, recalling her own lean physique and unsightly scars. Some, like the hairline slash across the side of her neck and her crisscrossed knuckles, were from swordplay. Some, like the burn mark on the heel of her hand, were from the everyday hazards of work.
“Do ye need me to scrub your back, m’lady?” she asked.
“Nay, I can manage.”
Merraid settled onto the edge of a chair beside the tub and clasped her hands, at a loss for what to do.
“So tell me…” The lady had spoken so softly, Merraid wondered if she was speaking to herself. “What’s he like?”
“Who, m’lady?”
“Gellir Cameliard o’ Rivenloch.”
Was that hesitation she heard in the lady’s voice? Worry? Dread?
How could she answer?
To Merraid, Gellir Cameliard was a shining paragon of men. A brave, magnificent warrior. A chivalrous knight without compare. A steadfast, loyal friend. A brilliant, honorable, devoted nobleman who would make his bride the luckiest woman in all Scotland.
She couldn’t say that. Not without melting into tears.
“He’s very tall. Striking. Dark-haired. With gray eyes.”
“Is he as grim as they say?”
