Laird of Steel, page 1
LAIRD OF STEEL
The Warrior Lairds of Rivenloch
Book 1
by
A Highland maidservant’s matchmaking efforts on her laird’s behalf go awry when she finds her heart entangled in this friends-to-lovers medieval romance.
LAIRD OF STEEL
Copyright © 2023 by Glynnis Campbell
Glynnis Campbell – Publisher
P.O. Box 341144
Arleta, California 91331
Contact: glynnis@glynnis.net
ISBN: 978-1-63480-135-5
Cover design by Richard Campbell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This work is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at www.glynnis.net.
Table of Contents
LAIRD OF STEEL
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Dear Reader
More Books by Glynnis Campbell
Dedication and Acknowledgments
About Glynnis Campbell
Contact Information
Prologue
Castle Darragh, Scotland
Autumn 1156
Fifteen-year-old Merraid stood on tiptoe, peering between the merlons of the castle parapet. She gazed into the distance, waving her kerchief. How she wished it were the silk scarf of a titled lady instead of a maidservant’s nubby linen rag. Despite her brave salute, her chin trembled. Her eyes filled with tears.
Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch, her beloved champion, was leaving her. Going home.
But home was a hundred miles away, near the east coast of Scotland. He might as well live on the moon.
Her spirits sank. How would she survive without the dashing warrior who’d stolen her heart? Would she ever see him again? If by some miracle their paths did cross, would he even remember her?
Her throat tightened. She choked back a sob.
She knew she should be glad for the time they’d had together. Gellir’s clan had helped return the castle to its rightful ruler, Laird Dougal mac Darragh. After a fierce battle, the grateful Laird Dougal had even married Gellir’s cousin—the beautiful and clever Lady Feiyan—uniting the two clans.
The marriage had been a godsend for Merraid. It meant seeing more of Gellir. The Rivenloch folk lingered at Castle Darragh for several fortnights, helping the newlyweds set their household to rights. And seventeen-year-old Gellir was put in charge of training Darragh’s new army.
In that time, Merraid had fallen helplessly in love with the Rivenloch warrior. Not only for his brave and thrilling fighting skills. Not just for his dark and dramatic looks that took her breath away. But for his chivalry and kindness. His unmatched courage and heart.
She’d made up her mind to make him fall in love with her.
Unfortunately, she was not well-schooled in the art of persuasion. Despite her best efforts, summer passed in the wink of an eye. In the end, she found herself no closer to winning his affections.
If only she could turn back time, she’d do things differently.
She wouldn’t waste time hiding behind doors. Stealing peeks at him. Lowering her eyes with shy blushes. Stumbling over her words in his presence.
Instead she would speak her mind. Reveal her heart. Bare her soul.
What she felt was nothing like her brief and childish infatuation with Laird Dougal. Nor her crushes on several other clan lads. Her affection for Gellir felt real. Lasting.
From the battlement, she watched her hero ride slowly away.
Curse her timid blood! She should have seized the moment. Acted on her impulses.
Now it was too late.
Even at this distance, within the retinue of his clan, she could recognize Gellir. His noble bearing was unmistakable. His back was straight. His shoulders were broad. The early autumn breeze flirted with his lush, dark hair.
“Farewell!” she sobbed out. But her voice was weak and thin. Faltering with heartbreak. He’d never hear her.
Her throat ached. This must be how noblewomen felt, watching their knights ride off to war. Uncertain of their destiny. Tormented by longing. Haunted by…
“He’ll be back,” came a wry voice behind her.
Merraid gasped as she whirled toward Gellir’s cousin, her laird’s new wife. “M’lady.” She clapped a startled hand to her chest and bobbed a curtsey.
It was troubling the way Lady Feiyan could steal up on a person. Doubly troubling was the knowing smile that graced the lady’s face.
Merraid had done her best to hide her feelings for Gellir. But she was sure her adoration was obvious. As obvious as the orange hair on her head.
She forced a casual shrug. “Will he?”
“Of course.” The lady’s silvery gaze softened. “One day.”
Merraid carefully lowered her eyes to hide the spark of hope. One day. Maybe not next month. Maybe not next year. But if one day he’d return, she’d wait for him.
Lady Feiyan nodded toward the departing travelers. “Keep an eye on them till they’re out of sight, will you? Make sure they get away safely into the woods.”
“Aye, m’lady,” Merraid dipped her head.
The lady’s command was laughable, of course. The Rivenloch clan hardly needed Merraid’s protection. Only a fool would attempt to cross the renowned warriors. Besides, there were a dozen tasks she should be doing instead. Polishing the oak chests. Sweeping out the rushes. Harvesting herbs for supper.
Lady Feiyan had taken pity on her. She probably dismissed Merraid’s affection for Gellir as trivial. The fleeting sentiments of a lovestruck lass. She probably figured there was no harm in letting Merraid feast her eyes upon her hero one last time.
The lady was wrong, of course. Merraid’s affection was anything but trivial. Her love for Gellir was true and everlasting. Merraid knew it. She could feel it in the depths of her soul.
“When they’re gone,” Lady Feiyan continued, “come to the courtyard. I have a gift for you. Something my cousin thought you should have.”
“A gift?” Merraid was so astonished, she stared at the lady like a gape-mouthed salmon.
A gift from Gellir? What could it be? Her heart soared as she contemplated the possibilities.
A ribbon for her wild hair he complained was always escaping its braid?
A new apron to replace the one he’d torn when he’d saved her life in battle?
A ring inscribed with the Rivenloch motto, Amor vincit omnia, Love conquers all, and a promise to return for her hand in marriage?
She bit her lip. She mustn’t let hope make a fool of her.
“I’ll see you below.” Lady Feiyan gave her a secret smile as she slipped down the steps.
Merraid turned back to the departing company in the distance. Summoning all the intensity of her passion, she narrowed her eyes. She stared hard, sending a formidable message of desire toward the target of her love. She fired it across the grassy sward like an arrow aimed at his heart.
To her surprise, he turned her way.
Her breath caught. He’d received her message.
There could be only one reason for that. There was a connection between them. A mysterious bond. Their love was meant to be.
He was too far away to hear her call out. But he gave her a wave and a nod. Then he reined his mount about again and plodded into the trees.
Her pulse was still pounding as he vanished into the forest. She was left with a thirst that would fever her dreams and remain unquenched until that one day when she saw him again.
She wiped away a stray tear. But her sorrow was softened by a thrill of hope in her heart. She clambered down the stairs, eager to discover the gift her magnificent champion had left for her.
Gellir was eager to get home to Rivenloch.
It wasn’t that he disliked Castle Darragh. It was exciting to train warriors who admired him. Men who didn’t scoff at the fact he was only seventeen summers old. Not even a proper knight yet. Warriors who welcomed his instruction. Who worked hard to improve. And it had been rewarding to know that in just a few short months, he’d molded Laird Dougal’s clansmen into a respectable fighting force.
But he missed his brothers, Brand and Ian. He missed Hew and Adam, his oldest cousins. And he missed the challenge of sparring with knights who could actually best him.
Aside from the fierce Laird Dougal, none of Darragh’s men could put up the
The remote Westlanders simply didn’t face the kind of battles Gellir had grown up with at the Borders. Where he lived, war was a way of life. Gellir may have taught them the skills to hold off an English army. But the Darragh clan weren’t likely to tussle with more than an occasional band of Highland reivers.
Indeed, Gellir feared if he lingered much longer in the peaceful, boring, impressionable Westland, he’d grow fat and lazy, inclined to rest on his laurels.
Already he was treated like a paragon among men. Dogged by packs of wee lads who wanted to be just like him.
Wee lads weren’t the only ones hanging on his every word. Following him about like orphaned pups. That sweet-faced, redheaded maidservant Merraid was never far away. Gazing at him with adoring eyes and a dreamy smile.
He’d been kind to the lass, of course. Chivalry had always come as naturally to him as breathing. In the great battle to save Castle Darragh, he’d comforted her when a brute had broken her nose. He’d protected her from villains who sought to have their way with her. He may have even given her a harmless, celebratory kiss or two in the heat of victory.
Afterward, she’d brought him breakfast every morn. Made sure his armor was always polished. Listened to his strategies for war. Bandaged his battle nicks.
In turn, he’d given her his protection. When lads gaped at her, Gellir barked at them to mind their eyes. When drunken sots snapped at her to fill their cup, he poured ale over their soused heads.
She’d worshipped him like a hero. And he’d become like a big brother to her.
Bright and clever for her age, Merraid was full of spirit and courage. A hard worker, willing to learn and eager to please. It would be a lucky lad who won the heart of such a loyal and loving lass.
But Gellir was not that lad. He had no time for courting. No patience for the sundry tasks it required. Writing verse. Picking flowers. Extolling virtues. He was far too loyal to his first love—warfare—to take a serious interest in a lass. Any lass.
His cousin Hew was the sort to heap spontaneous praises upon every damsel who caught his eye. But “Grim Gellir,” as Hew called him, was uninterested in practicing his charms.
Especially on a fiery-haired, freckle-faced, wide-eyed wisp of a maidservant with whom he could have no possible honorable intentions.
As far as dishonorable intentions… Other lads his age might wave their flags and cast their seed about indiscriminately. But Gellir would never compromise a woman’s virtue. Not even a maidservant’s.
He was the son of the Laird of Rivenloch. Namesake of his noble Viking grandfather.
When the time came for him to be shackled to a wife, it would be to one of the king’s choosing. She would be the daughter of a laird. Or a widow with valuable property. Or a nobleman’s sister from a land with which the king wished to form an alliance.
It didn’t matter to Gellir.
His path was clear. He might have to wed. But he was a warrior at heart.
Who needed a woman in his bed? He was perfectly content with a sword in his hand and a horse between his knees.
Maybe for lads like his cousin Hew, happiness came in the arms of a pleasing wife. A woman with a bonnie face and childbearing hips. But for Gellir, the prospect of bairns…
He blinked as a comical image careened through his head. A wild horde of children with Merraid’s orange hair and blue eyes. Wee beasts running loose through the halls of Rivenloch. Wreaking havoc. Sowing chaos.
He shuddered, curling his lip in a combination of amusement and horror.
He’d father his own brood one day. It was his duty, after all. But his progeny would possess his discipline. His decorum. His dark hair and serious gray eyes.
Merraid’s eyes weren’t serious. Not at all. They sparkled with frivolous joy. Irreverent ideas. Clear and blue as a summer sky, they were disruptive, disturbing, distracting.
Her tresses were distracting as well. Startling, like a marigold in a field of violets. Full of unruly curls. It had been a surprise how soft to the touch they were the first time he kissed her brow during the battle for Darragh.
That vivid memory suddenly struck his heart like a bolt fired from a bow. Why would that occur to him now?
A strange prickling along his shoulders made him turn around to cast one final glance toward Castle Darragh.
Even at this distance, her bright pennon of long, loose hair was unmistakable. Merraid was watching him leave. He shook his head and smiled to himself. Of course she was.
In truth, he was going to miss the lass.
He waved at her, wondering who the funny wee maidservant would obsess over when he was gone.
It didn’t matter. Aye, it was dangerous for a young lass to wear her heart on her sleeve the way Merraid did. But he’d tasked his cousin Lady Feiyan with looking after the hapless maid in his absence. Feiyan would keep her safe enough.
One day the right lad—a lad deserving of her sweet nature, her quick wit, and her unreserved devotion—would come along to claim her hand.
With that assurance, he nodded a silent farewell. He steered his mount and his mind toward Rivenloch. And he completely forgot about the wee lass with the orange hair.
For four years at least.
Chapter 1
Spring 1160
One day had arrived. Merraid’s champion, Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch, was at long last returning to Darragh.
Fifteen-year-old Merraid would have been elated.
Nineteen-year-old Merraid was not.
She was mightily peeved.
The knave couldn’t have chosen a worse time.
Even the measured movements of the taijiquan—the morning ritual of martial arts Lady Feiyan had taught her, the ritual Merraid currently performed atop the western wall walk—couldn’t calm her ire.
She bent her knees and slowly circled her arms with as much grace as she could muster. But her mind roiled with exasperation. With an angry puff that made fog in the chill air, she blew back the tendril of fiery hair that kept dripping down over her brow.
Why now? Why, after four years of avoiding Castle Darragh, had Gellir chosen to return at this particular moment?
Four years ago, Merraid would have given Gellir everything. Her heart. Her body. Her soul. But that had been once upon a time. When she was a young and foolish lass.
How she’d raced to the courtyard on the day Gellir left to find the gift he’d given her. She’d discovered Lady Feiyan waiting for her, empty-handed. Gellir’s gift, the lady said, was protection in his absence. The lady intended to train Merraid in combat.
At first, she’d been confused. Protection? Did Gellir think she was a child? Completely helpless? Or was it something else?
In the end, she convinced herself it was a sign of his devotion to her. He’d come from a clan full of warrior lasses, after all. For Gellir, such a gift was surely the greatest expression of love a Rivenloch man could bestow.
He must be readying her to join his clan. Making certain she was worthy of the Rivenloch name. Once she was brought up in the ways of a warrior lass, he’d return to claim her as his own.
Her heart full of promise, she’d thrown herself into training. Mirroring Lady Feiyan’s movements. Following her intellectual pursuits. Learning to read and write and do sums. Molding herself into the kind of woman Gellir could respect and admire. A woman like his cousin Feiyan. Fierce. Brave. Educated. Independent.
When he came back, she meant to impress him with her accomplishments.
