Bride of Ice Page 4

  Chapter 6

  This wasn’t the first time Hallie had taken a captive. She knew all their tricks. Charging like an ox. Yelling for help. Fleeing on foot. Feigning illness.

  She hoped he wouldn’t try anything foolish. The thought of marring his handsome face bothered her.

  Of course, she’d do what she had to do. But she wasn’t so blinded by purpose that she couldn’t see how magnificent a man he was. Nor what a shame it would be to ruin such magnificence.

  Not only did he exceed her in height. He possessed a fine figure as well. His shoulders were broad. His legs were long. His arms were capable.

  But aside from his warrior attributes, there was something in his face—as damaged as it was—that quickened her heart.

  Behind the bruises, his dark brown eyes shone with wisdom and experience, like ancient polished gems. Beneath the cut on his forehead, his brow creased with earnest honor. His nose was straight, and his cheekbones were unbroken, signs of expert fighting skills. His square jaw was covered with stubble a shade darker than the streaked blond hair he’d earned from a life spent laboring under the sun.

  His lips, though swollen on one side, looked capable of expressing both grim determination and gentle mercy. Of bellowing curses. Or whispering persuasions.

  As he seemed about to do.

  “Ye should know ye need not fret about your cousins,” he assured her. “They will be safe.”

  “Jenefer and Feiyan?” She smirked. “I’m more concerned for your laird. My cousins can be…wily and unpredictable.”

  She creased her brows. Why had she told him that? Why was she even engaging in conversation with him?

  It was far more difficult to inflict necessary harm upon a captive once she befriended him. Furthermore, the Highland cadence of his voice—the playful lilt crossed with a gruff manliness—was fascinating her ears in a troubling manner.

  “Still,” he said, “I assure ye Laird Morgan is a man of honor.”

  She couldn’t resist reminding him, “You mean the man who charged at a lass—an unarmed, naked lass—brandishing his claymore?”

  The man sighed. “God’s truth, he hasn’t been himself o’ late.”

  She pressed her lips together. That piqued her curiosity. But of course he knew that. He was trying to provoke her into conversation.

  She refused to be drawn in. Prying further would be a mistake.

  He added, “Not since he lost his wife.”

  Shite.

  Lost his wife?

  Now the rogue was trying to play on her sympathies. Having failed to reason his way to freedom, he was attempting to thaw her heart.

  She wouldn’t allow that. She refused to ply him for details. It didn’t matter. Whatever tragedy the new laird of Creagor had endured didn’t change the fact that he was holding her cousins against their will in his bedchamber.

  Knowing the laird had had a wife, however, made her wonder if the woman had given him an heir ere she died. Being in line for a lairdship herself, Hallie thought often of such things. And thinking of heirs made her remember the babe next to the laird’s bedchamber.

  “That babe wailing all night…” she murmured.

  “’Tis Morgan’s,” the man volunteered. “The poor wee thing has no ma. She died givin’ birth to the lad.” He let out a breath full of sorrow. “The bairn doesn’t even have a name. The laird is too heartbroken to give him one.”

  Hallie cursed under her breath. Against her will and to her aggravation, the shield of ice surrounding her heart cracked just a wee bit.

  “Morgan came to Creagor, hopin’ to make a new beginnin’,” he told her. “Alas, he’s been met by foes.”

  For an instant, Hallie felt a splinter of guilt. Losing his wife was bad enough. But to face the prospect of losing his holding…

  Then she furrowed her brow. “Wait. He attacked those foes while they were unarmed.”

  The man shook his head. “’Tis true. Melancholy has made him reckless. But I assure ye he’s a decent man. No harm will come to your cousins.”

  He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already guessed. From her interactions with the laird so far, she’d learned he was—on the whole—fair and reasonable. To be honest, in his place, even she might have gone after Jenefer with a blade. The wench had a way of drawing an attack with a sneer and a few choice words.

  Still, Hallie could see the value in allowing the man to rattle on about his master’s qualities. Knowing one’s enemy—and their weaknesses—was the best way to prepare for battle, should it come to that.

  So she encouraged him.

  “You sound certain of that. Tell me more about this ‘decent’ laird of yours.”

  A smile lurked at the corners of Colban’s mouth.

  The lass had fallen neatly into his trap. By inviting her curiosity, he’d opened the door to reason with her.

  Now, with the right words, he could placate her fears. Soothe her distress. And hopefully prevent a war.

  “Laird Morgan? He’s a man of honor and truth. Brave. Forthright. Loyal.”

  “Loyal enough to abide by the wishes of the king?”

  “Aye.”

  “Even if the king decrees that Creagor belongs to my cousin?”

  Colban knew that wasn’t true. He’d been there when the messenger arrived, announcing the death of Morgan’s uncle. Morgan had always been in line to inherit the keep.

  “Impossible,” he told her. “Creagor has belonged to the mac Giric clan for centuries.”

  “Young Malcolm is a new king. He may have his own ideas about who can best protect the keep.”

  “He made his decision. He awarded Creagor to Morgan, who is blood kin.” He hoped she wouldn’t press him on that. Though Morgan had the king’s word, the written document had not yet been received.

  “He may regret decisions made in haste,” she said adding pointedly, “like awarding a Lowland keep to a Highland laird.”

  He drew his brows together. Was that what the lass and her cousins were so peeved about? The fact that the clansmen squatting on the precious land adjoining theirs were Highlanders?

  He bristled at that. As an orphan with no real clan or claim, Colban had always been grateful for the home the mac Girics had given him. They were good folk. Kind. Compassionate. Welcoming.

  To think a Border clan would torment Morgan, arguing against his claim due to the place of his birth touched a raw nerve in Colban.

  His ire was magnified by the fact that the lass had introduced doubt now and made him wonder. Was King Malcolm trustworthy? Would the new king honor the pledges of the old?

  Malcolm was inexperienced, perhaps malleable. Was it possible the king would award castles on a whim, with no regard for tradition or clan bloodlines?

  Colban shuddered at the thought. But he refused to betray Morgan by casting any suspicion on his tenuous ownership of the holding. Negotiations had to be made from a position of strength, not doubt.

  So he spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel.

  “Creagor has been tended by Morgan’s uncle for the last fifty years.”

  “That may be. But ’tis Rivenloch knights who defended Creagor while the rest of the mac Girics were…what? Tending coos in the faraway north?”

  “Tendin’ coos?” Colban felt the blood start to throb in his temples. “I’ll have ye know the mac Girics have the finest fightin’ forces in the Highlands.”

  “Indeed?” she said. “Why?”

  He stopped in his tracks, turning to scowl at her. “What do ye mean—why?”

  “’Tisn’t as if you need a fighting force. You only quibble among yourselves, aye?” She shrugged. “Who stole whose coo? Who’s been swiving the sheepherder’s wife o’er the hill? Which lad has the biggest—”

  “Hold on now!” Now he was truly riled. “Are ye insultin’ my clan?”

  She arched a slender brow at him. “’Tisn’t as if you’ve ever faced a real foe.”

  His eyes widened in shock.

>   Her voice was full of cool pride as she proclaimed, “For hundreds of years, the warriors of Rivenloch have engaged in full-scale battle against the English for control of the Border lands. We’re the progeny of Vikings, and we’ve guarded Scotland for generations of kings. There is no better force to defend Creagor.”

  “Is that so?” He glared at her in challenge. “Then why has Rivenloch sent three maids to steal her from her rightful owner?”

  For an instant, the Valkyrie was rattled. She blinked, lost for words.

  He pressed his point. “If Rivenloch’s forces are so formidable, why were ye sneakin’ about in the dead o’ night?”

  While she was flummoxed, he delivered the killing blow. “And if ye’re so keen on defendin’ Creagor, why have ye absconded with the man who was guardin’ the gate?”

  She gave a quick gasp. But her retort was like a slim dagger slipped between his ribs. “You mean the man dozing at the gate?”

  He colored. Somehow she’d found a chink in his armor. But before he could bite out a word in his defense, she poked his hip with the sword, prodding him down the path again.

  “Go.”

  His face burning with humiliation and rage, he stalked down the path with new determination. Now he was eager to get to Rivenloch.

  This lass might be lovely and desirable. But she was as cold and cunning as a serpent, twisting his words and biting him where he was most vulnerable with her deadly fangs.

  Surely the men of Rivenloch would be more reasonable.

  Hallie hated to admit it, but this Highlander wielded a weapon far more pointed and powerful than his claymore. He was gifted with a sharp tongue and a sharper wit.

  Even she, who prided herself on her way with words, had trouble defending against his logic.

  She dreaded to think whose soft minds he might bend to his will once they arrived at Rivenloch.

  Nonetheless, it was a risk she had to take. She couldn’t hold him captive in the forest forever. Not with wolves ranging the woods.

  Besides, the man now seemed hell-bent on getting there as quickly as possible, swallowing up the trail with his long strides. He probably hoped to outdistance her or at least make her struggle to keep up with him. But she matched him, stride for stride, and it wasn’t long before she glimpsed the gray stones of Rivenloch through the thinning branches of pine.

  Of course, they were noticed as soon as they emerged from the trees. The guards atop the battlements were already awake and alert.

  By the time they reached the castle wall, Sir Rauve himself had arrived to open the palisade gate. By the look of him, he hadn’t slept a wink. And he minced no words as he ushered them in.

  “Where are the others?” he growled.

  “Captive,” she replied.

  He bit out a curse. “And this one?” He glowered at the Highlander.

  “Leverage,” she said.

  Rauve grunted. “Who is he?”

  “No one,” the Highlander answered before she could reply.

  She shook her head. “He’s the usurper’s right hand man.”

  “I tell ye, I’m nobody,” he insisted. “Ye’re goin’ to a lot o’ trouble for naught.”

  She and Rauve exchanged a knowing look. They’d heard that line of reasoning before from captives.

  Rauve gave him a threatening smile. “’Tis no trouble, I assure you.”

  To her surprise, the Highlander didn’t cower in the least.

  “I may owe my allegiance to Morgan Mor mac Giric,” he told Rauve, “but I’m not valuable to him. He won’t hesitate to sacrifice me, should it come to that.”

  He sounded quite reasonable. He sounded like he was telling the truth. But she wasn’t fooled.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said smoothly. “I saw how distraught your laird was, thinking Feiyan had killed you.”

  “What? Feiyan tried to kill you?” Rauve blinked at the man. “And failed?” He regarded the captive with new respect.

  “’Tisn’t the point, Rauve,” she said. “Besides, if she’d meant to kill him, he’d be dead.”

  Rauve narrowed his eyes pointedly at the man’s face, riddled with cuts and bruises. “Bloody hell, Hallie. I thought ’twas a mission of peace.”

  Before Hallie could explain, the prisoner hastened to say, “No lass gave me these injuries, I assure ye.”

  It must chafe at his pride to be taken captive by a mere lass. Men always expected women to be frail and powerless.

  But his next words surprised her.

  “These were given to me by the man from whom ye seek ransom.” He cast his eyes down in shame. “So ye see how…valuable…I am to him.”

  Hallie’s throat caught. Was it true? Had Morgan Mor mac Giric inflicted this damage?

  She glanced at Rauve. His brow had darkened. Such abuse from one’s laird was unconscionable.

  Against her will, she began to feel sorry for the man.

  Was he telling the truth? Was he as invaluable and dispensable as he believed? Had she made a mistake in taking a hostage who was worthless?

  She studied his face. Surely he wasn’t worthless. Not only was he a formidable warrior. He was bright. Honorable. Dedicated. Of course he was valuable. How could he not be?

  He must be lying to her. Yet she’d never she seen a man look so guileless. Beneath brows creased in an earnest frown, his eyes shone with sincerity.

  She challenged him with her stare. Waiting for him to blink. Waiting for his mask of honesty to crack. For his gaze to slip away and reveal his lie.

  It never did.

  Indeed, she began to feel discomfited by the steady gaze he returned. Her cheeks grew hot. Her heart beat rapidly. She felt as if she were slipping into the deep, dark sea of his eyes.

  Then, before she could either break him or drown in his gaze from the attempt, the unthinkable happened.

  From the distant slope behind her came a sweet, musical squeal of delight. “Hallie!”

  Chapter 7

  It required all of Colban’s willpower not to look away. Staring into the Valkyrie’s eyes was more demanding than he imagined.

  But he dared not waver, lest she doubt his words and think him a liar.

  So he fixed his forthright gaze on her, while her eyes of crystal blue ice pierced his soul and probed the darkest recesses of his heart.

  Who would have surrendered first, he’d never know. Their contest of wills was cut short by a feminine cry in the distance.

  The Valkyrie flinched at the sound.

  Behind him, the newcomer tripped merrily down the rise, crying, “Is it him, Hallie? Is it The One?”

  Colban saw Hallie’s jaw tighten.

  The new arrival appeared to be a younger version of Hallie. A lass on the verge of womanhood, she was lanky, too tall for her kirtle. She had a snow-blonde braid and large blue eyes.

  The hulking bear of a guard moved to block Colban’s view of the lass, snarling, “Isabel! Go back to the keep.”

  Undaunted by his growls, Isabel replied, “Pah! You’re not my laird.”

  “What do you want?” Hallie said with cold warning.

  “I was watching you from the parapets,” she said, trying to peer around Rauve’s massive bulk. Then she gushed, “’Tis him, isn’t it? You’ve finally found The One. I knew it. He’s tall and handsome and… Oh, Hallie, I’m so happy for you.”

  What did she mean? The One.

  “Cease, Isabel,” Hallie bit out. To Colban’s amazement, the unflappable Valkyrie was blushing. “’Tisn’t what you—”

  Isabel gasped, then blurted out, “I’ll plan the wedding! We can have it after Martinmas, when the snow’s on the ground, and—”

  “Weddin’!” The word burst out of Colban, unbidden. Was that what the lass meant, calling him The One?

  “Enough, brat,” Rauve said, planting himself squarely in Isabel’s path. Then he addressed Hallie, nodding toward Colban. “Where would you like me to stow him?”

  “Oh!” Isabel exclaimed. “Our be
dchamber! He can have my side of the bed, Hallie, and I’ll sleep with Swannoc,” she eagerly offered. “That way, the two of you can be together.”

  The horrified look on Hallie’s face would have been amusing, had it not mirrored Colban’s own shock.

  The young lass, impatient with Rauve’s interference, gave his black beard a hard sideways yank. He staggered out of her way. Then she glided forward, flashing Colban a kind smile.

  “I’m Isabel, Hallie’s sister. Who are you?”

  “He’s nobody,” Rauve growled, rubbing his offended chin.

  “He’s not a guest,” Hallie told her. “He’s a hostage.”

  The smile froze on Isabel’s face as she glimpsed Colban’s chained hands. Then, perusing his injured face, her brow crumpled in dismay. “Did you do this, Hallie? Did you hurt him?”

  “’Tisn’t your concern,” Hallie snapped, clearly upset by the accusation.

  Isabel pouted. “How could you be so coldhearted, Hallie? That’s why it’s taken you so long to find The One. Everyone’s afraid of you.”

  Hallie’s gasp of hurt was so slight it was almost imperceptible. But Colban heard it. Her sister had touched a nerve.

  In the next instant, Hallie’s eyes frosted over. “Go back to bed, Isabel.”

  “Bed?” Isabel scoffed. “I’ve been up for hours. So why are you holding him hostage?”

  “I warned you,” Hallie bit out, “this is not your affair.”

  “’Tis, if I’m giving him my side of the bed.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. He’ll stay in…in…”

  She struggled to come up with a proper cell. Apparently, none of the Border castles had been built with accommodations for prisoners.

  “The laird’s chamber is empty at present,” Rauve suggested, “I can keep watch over him there.”

  “Aye. Good.” Hallie straightened. Then she faced Isabel. “As for you, say a word to anyone about this, and I’ll throttle you with your braid. Do you understand?”

  Isabel scowled. “See?” She picked up her skirts, and stomped off, snarling back over her shoulder, “A heart of ice.”