Page 72 of Laird of Steel
He shrugged. “We would correspond by missives, I suppose.”
“Right. Ye’d have to woo her with words, aye?” She brightened. “So that’s what ye should do. Ye should send a missive to her.”
“A missive?” He arched a brow at her. “Why? I could just shout at her through the door.”
“Silly cad,” she sneered, throwing a pebble that hit him in the chest. Then she wrapped her arms around her bent legs and gazed dreamily across the loch. “Nay, ye must write her beautiful verse. Somethin’ extollin’ her virtues and expressin’ your love.”
“Verses?” He shuddered. She may as well suggest he eat beetles. “I don’t write verses.”
“I do.”
He frowned. “You do?”
Because he was destined to be laird, Gellir had learned to read and write. Mostly legal agreements and royal orders. But only a few of his fellow warriors were literate. And aside from his clanswomen, he could count on one hand the lasses he knew who could read.
“Is there anything you can’t do?” he asked sincerely.
She smiled, clearly pleased by his praise. Then she answered, “I can’t catch eels.”
He snorted. “Apparently, neither can I.”
He retrieved the net. It came up empty again.
She rested her chin atop her knees, contemplating the rushes growing at the edge of the loch.
“The missive would have to be in your hand,” she informed him.
He shook his head. “I told you I can’t write verses.”
“But that’s the beauty of it. Ye won’t have to. I’ll help ye. I’ll recite the words. Ye can write them on the parchment.”
He lowered his brows. “It sounds deceitful.”
“It sounds romantic. And this way, she won’t be afraid o’ ye the next time ye meet.”
She had a point. This marriage had been rushed. They’d had little time to get to know each other. He had to convince his bride he wasn’t a filthy brute. Only then would she recover from her illness and agree to meet him in the flesh.
“Very well,” he said. “If I can ever manage to fill this basket, we’ll write her a missive, aye?”
“Aye.” Her eyes lit up with mischief. She scrambled down from the boulder. Then she pointed to a clump of rushes about five yards from where he stood.
“There,” she said. “The eels usually hide at the bottom o’ the thick rushes.”
The little minx had known it all along. “I thought you said you couldn’t catch eels.”
She gave him the saucy, wicked smile he’d come to cherish. A smile that lingered in his mind’s eye. Even after he filled the basket. Even after they trudged back to Darragh.
He wondered if his bride-to-be had a smile like that. A smile that quickened his heart. That warmed him from head to toe. That made him feel treasured and adored and alive. A smile impossible to resist.
“I long to gaze into your lovely eyes…”
Merraid ambled past the barrels in the storeroom. The candle flickered on Gellir’s makeshift table, fashioned out of a crate. They needed privacy for this clandestine endeavor. Somewhere no one would interrupt them. And the ale cellar was the most private place she could think of.
Gellir dipped the quill in ink. “I long…to gaze…into…your lovely eyes,” he recited as he carefully scrawled the letters onto the parchment. “Go on.”
“Like sparklin’ gems set in the midnight skies.”
He nodded. “Like sparkling gems…set in…the midnight skies,” he said, copying down the words. “That’s quite good.”
