Page 69 of Laird of Steel
Gellir scowled. “Aye?” He’d hoped for a little more than that. “Any news?”
She blanched and studied her clasped hands. “My clan is fond of him, and…and…”
“Silly Gellir,” Feiyan said through a gritted-teeth smile, “you can ask him yourself at the wedding.”
“What wedding?”
“Yourwedding.”
“Oh. Aye.” He’d resigned himself to being married. But he’d overlooked the intricacies ofgettingmarried. “When will that be?”
“We thought just after Beltane?” Feiyan suggested, raising her brows at Carenza.
“The sooner, the better,” he said. He was eager to get back on the tournament circuit. Then he remembered it was not his decision alone. “If ’tis your wish as well?” he asked Carenza.
She bowed her head. “Aye, m’laird.”
“Call me Gellir. Please.”
“Aye, Sir…Gellir.”
He sighed. It didn’t take a wise man to see the lady was anxious. Less than enthusiastic about wedding him. Which was awkward.
But who could blame her? She was meeting the worst version of Sir Gellir of Rivenloch. His brow was menacing. His voice was gruff. His hair was a tangle. Sand clung to his boots. Filth covered his hands. And he reeked of fish.
“I should clean up,” he decided. “With your permission?”
“O’ course, m’laird,” Carenza replied, bowing her head to murmur the correction, “Gellir.”
He quickly excused himself—ignoring Feiyan’s glare of condemnation—and strode out of the great hall.
He was drawing a bucket of water out of the well when Merraid approached.
“Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
She gave him a chiding cuff on the arm. “What do ye think o’ Lady Carenza?”
He shrugged. “She’s pleasant enough to look at.”
“And?”
“She seems to have a kind enough nature.”
“Aye? And?”
“She doesn’t wish to be my wife.”
“Did she say that?”
“She didn’t have to.”
“Well, to be fair,” Merraid said, covering her nose, “the way ye smell right now, only a fishwife would want ye.”
He lifted the bucket, showing her he intended to remedy that. Then he sighed. “I’m not sure a bucket of water is enough to change her heart.”
Merraid bit her lip. He was right.
