Page 8 of Laird of Steel
Urged on by the insistent young knights, he planted one foot on the bench, crossed his arms over his knee, and began to regale them with his adventures.
A half dozen stories in, the men’s rapt eyes shone with dreams of glory. They pleaded for more. Gellir was feeling better already. Less ashamed. More self-assured. Less of a fugitive. More of a hero.
Besides, he told himself, it was a good thing he did for the men of Darragh. He remembered how rousing a knight’s tales of courage could be. Especially to unseasoned warrior lads.
He told the tale of how he’d fought a French knight at Stirling for a full hour. How the knight finally fell to the ground, exhausted. Then he related the story of his unlikely triumph in Edinburgh after he broke his blade mid-battle. Then he gave his account of the Roxburgh melee, where he singlehandedly took down five swordsmen.
After several stories, his throat began to grow dry.
From the corner of his eye, between the gathered men, he spotted the swish of a servant’s faded woad-blue skirt.
“Fetch me an ale, lass, will you?” he called out. “All this blathering has left me parched.” Then he turned his attention back to the warriors. “As I was saying… There I was. Knocked to my hands and knees. My sword just out of reach. And there stood the Moor, looming over me like a mighty oak. But then I thought to myself, oaks are meant to be felled, aye? So I picked up my shield in both hands,” he said, miming his actions, “and, swinging it like an axe, I—”
He froze as the men parted, revealing the most beautiful serving lass he’d ever seen. Wordless and breathless, he could only stare at her with his arms aloft, ready to vanquish the imaginary Moor.
The maid’s lush coppery locks were swept back into a braid that fell seductively over one shoulder. Her lips were rosy temptation. Her breasts swelled above her linen shift like two soft loaves of rising bread.
She sauntered forward with a seductive smile. Her hips moved with a sinuous grace that stopped his breath and roused the beast in his braies.
His foot suddenly slipped off the bench and hit the ground with a thud.
“Good morn, Sir Gellir,” she purred. “’Tis been a long while.”
Who was this vision? And how did she know him?
He narrowed his eyes at her face. Her eyes sparkled like blue crystals. A frisson of recognition suddenly stirred his memory. “Merraid?”
Like a magic incantation, reciting her name released a torrent of memories. Memories he hadn’t recalled in years.
The battle for Darragh. The wee orange-haired waif sneaking him into the castle. Rescuing him from the dank gaol beneath the keep. Bringing him his sword so he could join the fray. Waving goodbye from the parapet.
“Yedoremember me,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes.
But this was not the Merraid he remembered—the funny-looking, freckle-faced lass with the marigold hair who hung on his every word.
This was a beautiful woman with tempting curves. A dangerous woman who could wrap him around her finger. Leave him speechless. Make him forget his thoughts. Rattle his world. And steal his soul.
Merraid had been watching Gellir from the shadows of the armory for nigh an hour. At first sight, she’d felt stunned, as if she’d been struck on the helm by a war club. Her heart fluttered. Her breath caught. A girlish blush warmed her cheeks.
He was even more handsome than she remembered. He’d grown several inches and broadened at the shoulders. His voice was deeper, his face seasoned with manhood.
For a long, delicious moment, passion gushed through her veins. Desire blossomed in her heart. Lust bloomed betwixt her legs.
Then she gave herself a sobering shake. She no longer had designs on Gellir of Rivenloch. The days of foolish yearning for her hero’s return were gone.
Inside, Merraid was not the same awkward lass. And by the way he gazed at her now—his mouth agape, his nostrils flaring, his eyes smoldering—he saw that as well. He could no longer dismiss her as an infatuated maidservant worshiping at his feet. Indeed, it seemed he didn’t quite know what to make of her.
As for Merraid, she was still peeved at him for appropriating her tournament. And hearing his lofty tales—injected with equal amounts of stirring bravado and feigned humility—made her roll her eyes several times.
A season of uncontested triumph and glory had obviously gone to his head. What self-assured, swellheaded Gellir needed most was someone to humble him. Someone who remembered the beardless lad he’d once been. Someone to knock him off his high horse. To remind him that even the mighty could fall.
Merraid turned up the corner of her mouth. She could do that.
It was time to bring the braying braggart back down to earth.
She planted her hands on her hips and faced him with a confident smile. “If I do fetch ye an ale, sirrah,” she promised in a voice that was hardly that of a lovelorn lass, “’twill be to pour it o’er your swollen head.”
He coughed in disbelief. “What?”
