Page 82 of Laird of Steel
Merraid dragged a stool across the floor of the buttery. Moving aside a wheel of cheese and several bottles of wine, she cleared a space on the lowest shelf. Then she smoothed the parchment atop the shelf and set the quill and ink beside it. She gestured to him to take a seat.
He glanced around the chamber in recognition. “Is this where…?”
He remembered. She smiled. “Where ye looked after a wee maidservant with a broken nose? Aye.”
It seemed like half a lifetime ago. But she recalled that day in the buttery as clearly as the day it had happened. The fierce battle. The close quarters. Fighting for her life. Throwing cheeses. Throwing punches. Being saved.
“You were attacked by those wretched brutes,” he recalled.
“Fergus and Morris,” she said. “And ye came to my rescue.”
“Not soon enough to save your nose.”
She shrugged. “And afterward…”
He scowled. “My cousin stole my clothes.”
“To disguise herself.” Merraid winked. “I can’t say I was unhappy about that.”
He clucked his tongue. “You know, a polite lass would put it right out of her head.”
“I’m not a polite lass.”
He smirked.
Besides, she thought, that memory had sustained her while Gellir spent four long years traipsing across Scotland. Fighting in tournaments. Puttingherout ofhishead.
It was that memory—of Gellir’s kindness and honor and empathy—that would inspire her now as she dictated what she hoped was the last missive he’d need to seal his marriage to Lady Carenza.
Gellir hoped he wouldn’t have to transcribe too many more missives to the lass.
For one thing, he had a fierce reputation to uphold. He didn’t mind revealing his thoughts to the one he meant to wed. But if anyone should intercept his tender notes… He shuddered. The thought of his fellow warriors chuckling over such softhearted sentiments was too awful to consider.
And for another? Hearing words of powerful passion and deep devotion, knowing they came from Merraid’s lips, her heart, her brain… That fascinated and—what word had she used?—movedhim, more than he wished to admit.
Years ago, in this very place, he’d been coerced to bare himself to the young maidservant. Now it seemed she exposed her heart to him, leaving herself likewise vulnerable. When she spoke, he felt as if he peered into her very soul. And what he saw there made his pulse race and his breath catch.
He was beginning to have feelings he should not. Feelings for Merraid. Feelings that were sinful. Tempting. Destructive. For a man loyal to the king, such feelings were distracting. For a man promised to another, they were deadly.
Perspiring despite the cool air of the buttery, he settled onto the stool. He opened the ink, dipped the quill, and braced himself.
She began with, “If ever I give cause to make ye grieve…”
Merraid had already given him cause to grieve by bringing him here, where lusty memories danced about like taunting tongues of flame.
But it was too late to change that. With a sigh, he copied down her words.
“Go on,” he said.
“I pray ye to forgive my careless tongue.”
He nearly strangled on that line. A vision of what he’d like to do to the lass with his careless tongue blinded him for a moment. His quill hovered over the parchment.
She didn’t seem to notice. She picked up a cheese, sniffed it, and put it back.
He wrote down the line without repeating it. “Aye?”
She tapped her lip. “’Tis true…nay…I know…nay…Ifear.Aye. I fear I wear my heart upon my sleeve.”
