Page 7 of Laird of Steel
She quietly voiced his thoughts. “Roving across the countryside. Winning every tournament. Your name and your exploits have surely reached the king’s ear. We don’t want to draw his attention here.”
“Right. Which is why I need to lie low. And why the tournament must be delayed.”
“But what will you do? You can’t hide here forever.”
He grimaced at her use of that reprehensible word again.
“Sooner or later,” she said, “the king will recall there’s an eligible bachelor in the Rivenloch clan.”
“Two.”
“Two?”
“Hew was sent away as well. He’s staying at a castle betwixt here and Glasgow.” Laird Deirdre had sent their cousin Hew to a remote spot. A place where none could hear his hotheaded bellows of rage over the ludicrous possibility of marriage to an English lass.
Feiyan stiffened. Her brow creased with worry. “What of Adam?”
“Your brother should be safe enough,” he assured her. “He’s young. Besides, he can always make himself invisible.”
Adam was a master of disguise. Able to disappear in plain sight. Or impersonate royalty. Traveling with Gellir, he’d once feigned to be the king’s right hand man.
“But then what?” she wanted to know. “Will you just wait? And hope the king’s fascination with the English fades?”
“Nay. ’Tis worse than that.”
“Worse?”
Gellir stopped before the doors of the great hall. He took a deep breath and let it out again. Steeling his expression to grim determination. It was the expression he donned before challenging an opponent in lethal combat.
“Laird Deirdre has commanded me to secure a bride. Before the king does.”
For a moment, Feiyan didn’t speak, waiting for him to continue. “Is that all?”
He frowned. “What do you mean, is that all?”
“You just have to…find a bride?”
His scowl deepened. “’Tis a grave quest.”
She fought back a grin tugging at her lips. “Is it?”
He straightened, towering and glowering down at her. “Do not make light of my situation.”
Despite his foreboding scowl, she burst into uncontrollable giggles.
“You find my quest amusing?” he demanded.
“’Tis hardly a quest,” she said, “when half of Scotland is in love with you.”
That was nonsense.
He cursed and turned on his heel. But as he stalked away from her, headed to the armory, looking for a fight, Feiyan’s mocking laughter echoed in his ears.
Perhaps crossing swords with one of Darragh’s warriors would temper his aggravation with her.
The instant he stepped into the armory, he was welcomed with cheers and claps on the back. These were men he’d trained four years ago. They gathered round, begging him for tales of his tournament victories. What honors he’d won. Which challengers he’d defeated.
Primed to do battle, Gellir had no interest in singing his own praises. But he supposed he should oblige them. It was his duty as a champion, after all, to inspire others.
