Page 83 of Laird of Steel
He frowned. He didn’t like fear so much. Fear indicated weakness.
But if the wordsmovedhis bride, as Merraid reported, he supposed he could be forgiven a moment of weakness.
“All right.”
She hesitated a moment, then murmured the next line over her shoulder. “And cannot bear to leave my love unsung.”
That was exactly what he was being forced to do. Leave his love unsung. Deny his feelings for Merraid. It felt wrong. And yet he supposed that silence was just the price of chivalry. He was not the first to suffer unrequited affection.
“Love…unsung,” he finished.
She picked up a bottle of wine, blowing the dust from its shoulders. “For though at first I may seem hard as steel…”
His eyes widened. She obviously didn’t intend the lusty reference. But the beast in his braies understood it all too well. Even now he swelled to steely hardness.
When he finished the line, he nodded for her to go on.
“’Tis only armor for my tender heart.”
As he copied down the words, he felt a twinge of remorse. He hoped Carenza wouldn’t expect him to continue writing verse for her after they were wed. He had no talent for it. And he couln’t very well invite Merraid along to be his scribe.
The lass dictated two more lines of the verse. Then she asked him to read them back.
He cleared his throat and read, “My knightly pride forbids me to reveal…the gentleness I would to you impart.”
“One more verse should do,” she said softly.
He sighed, grateful. Looking at her in the candlelight, he tried to recall the wee lass with the bloody nose. Then he’d assured her the injury wouldn’t leave a scar. He’d been right. Her nose was straight. Her face was beautiful.
“I yearn to give ye comfort in my arms,” she murmured, casting her gaze toward the floor.
He swallowed hard and lowered his gaze to the page as he wrote.
“Aye?” he rasped out.
“To catch your mournful tears upon my cheek.”
Mournful tears? He hardly thought his bride-to-be would be mourning. After all, she was winning the hand of a respected warrior. Marrying into a legendary clan.
But when he completed the line and looked up at Merraid, he saw her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. Before he could wonder why, she turned aside and delivered the next line.
“To soothe and save and shield ye from all harms…”
Gellir nodded in satisfaction. That was his life’s purpose. Even as a younger lad, defending a wee maidservant from tyrants and tormenters, he’d known it was his calling to protect the innocent and helpless.
“And welcome ye with warmth when next we speak,” she finished.
He gazed down at the parchment as he wrote and asked her bluntly, “Do you think the warmth will be returned?”
“How could she resist?” she said. “Ye’re everythin’ a woman could ask for. An undefeated tournament champion. A noble as rich as Midas.” There was sorrow in her voice as she added, “But ye’re more than that. Ye’re kind. Decent. Honorable. Surely she’ll see that at once.”
Gellir had been flattered before. By ladies seeking his bed. Or his coin. They remarked on his dark good looks. They applauded his prowess on the field of battle. They raved over his brain. His brawn. His bravery. Some even called him a god.
Their praises had always felt as lasting as the night mist on a loch, burning away at dawn. They were brief, empty, meaningless.
But the simple observations Merraid made—calling him kind, decent, honorable—affected him more than they should. And that she thought he was “everything a woman could ask for” moved him beyond words.
That was how a wife should feel about her husband. It was the way his parents felt about each other. And it was how he wanted to feel about his bride.
