Bride of Ice Page 5

  Hallie wanted to smack her meddling sister.

  The One indeed.

  She compressed her lips.

  There was no such thing as The One.

  There never would be.

  Not for Hallie.

  Hallie was destined to be a powerful laird. She had no use for a husband, except to forge a favorable alliance and create heirs. And for that, a suitable match would be chosen for her by the king.

  Her wee sister was a foolish lass. A hopeless romantic. She believed in true love. In couples destined to be together. In happily ever after.

  Maybe that would be true for Isabel. As the fourth in line, she was a lass with no responsibilities. No expectations.

  For Hallie, however, love was not in the stars.

  But a heart of ice?

  Hallie only did what she had to do. What was required of a woman in her position. She’d had to harden her heart in order to survive.

  Nonetheless, as she nudged the captive forward, she took care not to jab him too forcefully with the point of the sword. There was no need to be unnecessarily rough. After all, a damaged hostage was of little value.

  The moment they breached the castle walls, Hallie knew Isabel had disobeyed her. What had the wag-tongue told the clan? That her captive was The One? That Hallie had beaten a defenseless man to a bloody pulp? That she meant to keep him in her bedchamber?

  Whatever it was, the news of an exciting arrival had spread like wildfire. It seemed the entire clan had rushed to the courtyard—some fresh from their beds—eager to feast their eyes on the captive. They stared at him as if they’d never seen a hostage before.

  “Shite,” she muttered.

  Brand, Hallie’s middle brother, loped up to meet her. At fifteen, he was half-lad, half-man. His upper lip was downy, but he still moved like an awkward pup.

  “Is it true?” he asked, his face alight as he perused the captive. “Did he put up a fight?” Then he spied her sword. “Sard a bard! Look at that sword. You seized it from him, didn’t you, Hallie? Is that a claymore?”

  “Aye,” she said with a scowl. She didn’t need her little brother admiring the weapons of the enemy.

  “Is he a Highlander?” Brand’s eyes went wide with amazement as he neared the hostage. “Are you a Highlander?”

  Hallie’s oldest brother, named after their grandfather Gellir, arrived next. A year older than Brand and as grim as the grave, he caught his brother’s sleeve.

  “Get back, Brand,” he warned. “You should ne’er approach a prisoner.”

  Brand frowned in annoyance and pulled free of Gellir’s grasp. But he heeded his brother’s advice, taking a judicious step away.

  Meanwhile, in the midst of the courtyard, Isabel was conspiring with three of her friends. She whispered something to them, and all four began staring at the Highlander with dreamy eyes.

  “Enough!” Hallie announced, holding up a hand for quiet. It was time to set things straight.

  She handed the claymore and the prisoner off to Rauve and waited for silence.

  When the crowd hushed, she made the announcement. “You should know, Jenefer and Feiyan have been taken prisoner at Creagor.”

  There was a loud collective gasp.

  “What!” Gellir snarled. His brows collided. His fists clenched. “By whom?” He looked ready to kill whoever had captured his cousins. And anyone else who got in his way.

  “We’ll get them back,” Brand bravely chimed in. “Won’t we, Gellir?” Then his gaze dropped to the sword in worry. “Wait. Do they all have claymores?”

  “I can put the hostage in irons,” Rauve offered, “and have the men ready to attack ere breakfast.”

  Grumblings of vengeance began to circle the crowd.

  “Nay.” Hallie held her hand up again to silence the plots that were hatching throughout the clan. “There’s no cause for war. Not yet. Feiyan and Jenefer are being kept by the Highland laird, mac Giric. And they’re safe for now.”

  She hoped that was true. She glanced briefly at the Highlander’s battered face, wondering again about the man who’d inflicted those injuries.

  “I’ve stolen his right hand man as leverage,” she told them.

  “His right hand man,” Brand repeated in awe, eyeing the prisoner with new respect. “Brilliant.”

  “What’s his name?” one of Isabel’s friends called out, eliciting giggles from the group of lasses.

  Hallie ignored her. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t want to know his name. Becoming too familiar with one’s foe—like getting too close to a prisoner—was a sure way to give him the upper hand. Even Brand knew that.

  But before she could stop him, the Highlander answered. “Colban,” he called out to the crowd. “I’m Colban an Curaidh.”

  Bloody hell. Now he’d done it. Every lass at Rivenloch would be whispering the handsome captive’s name, as if he were some kind of tragic hero. Even now, she could hear the murmurs from Isabel’s swooning friends.

  She had to put a quick halt to this.

  “There will be absolutely no fraternizing with the prisoner. No one is to look at him. No one is to speak to him. And no one is to exact vengeance upon him.” She gave stone-faced Gellir a pointed glance. “He’s here for leverage only, as a means to get Jenefer and Feiyan back.”

  “Wherever will you hold him?” cheeky Isabel asked.

  Her suggestive choice of words was no mistake. Hold him? Hallie clenched her teeth at the insinuation. She was tempted to hold her little sister by the scruff of her neck.

  Rauve replied to Isabel with a glare of warning. “He’ll be under my watch, lass. That’s all you need to know.”

  Hallie narrowed her eyes at Isabel. She wondered if there was anywhere Colban would be safe from the attentions of a pack of lusty and determined lasses.

  Gellir was still eager for battle. “When do we storm the gates?”

  “We won’t be storming the gates.”

  His shoulders fell in disappointment.

  She didn’t need to explain herself. Until her parents returned, Hallie was laird. The clan was obliged to obey her without question.

  But she believed, as did her mother, in leading by reason and inspiration, not by brute force.

  So she told them, “We should receive news from the king very soon, establishing once and for all our ownership of Creagor. I plan to hold the mac Giric’s man hostage until then. ’Twould be foolish to attack. After all,” she said, giving the clan folk a cool smile, “we wouldn’t want to damage the castle that will soon be ours, would we?”

  The clan cheered.

  She hoped she was right about that. Creagor had indeed been awarded to the Highlander. Only by the grace of her mother’s influence over the king would that decision be altered.

  Hallie couldn’t help but feel a shiver of doubt as the crowd parted to let Rauve through with the prisoner.

  Colban an Curaidh.

  She wished she’d never heard his name.

  And now she wished she could forget it.

  She spoke just enough of the Highland tongue to translate his title.

  Colban the Champion.

  Not mac Giric. Not mac anything. How valuable could the Highlander be if he didn’t have his clan’s surname?

  Chapter 8

  Colban had to admire the Valkyrie. For a lass of tender years, she had her clan well in hand. She was levelheaded, brilliant, and in command.

  Now that he’d taken the measure of the warriors in the courtyard, he was relieved they didn’t intend to attack Creagor. Not only were mac Giric’s forces outnumbered. Aside from Morgan and himself, their men would have been dwarfed by the towering Rivenloch knights, half of whom looked like Vikings straight off a longboat.

  He didn’t fool himself. Things could still go badly.

  When Hallie discovered that Creagor did indeed belong to the mac Giric clan by right of the king, her air of calm could very well turn to frost. She might—with calculating malice and a cold heart—use
him as a pawn in a deadly game of revenge.

  But he’d glimpsed something in the courtyard that gave him hope.

  He’d seen how much Hallie loved her clan.

  From her infuriating, dreamy-eyed romantic of a sister. To the fierce young man eager to defend her. From the gape-jawed lad with the curious mind. To the grizzled black bear of a guard who had her back.

  Hallie wouldn’t do anything to bring harm to them. He was sure of it.

  All Colban had to do was keep the peace and make no trouble.

  As Rauve steered him past the bevy of young lasses, who were fluttering their lashes and sharing secrets behind their hands, he thought that might be easier said than done.

  He was glad when Rauve ushered him to safety in the great hall, securing the door behind him.

  Then Colban stopped in his tracks. He’d already been amazed at first sight of the castle, which was easily twice the size of Creagor and far more imposing than anything in the Highlands. The outer wall, with its gate offset from the inner wall, was ingenious. The enormous courtyard, which enclosed numerous stalls and gardens, was impressive. The keep at its center was well-fortified and well-guarded.

  But the great hall was a thing of majesty. Its ceiling soared high above the rush-covered floor. Morning light streamed in through the arched windows, illuminating dozens of colorful shields and pennons hung on the walls.

  They were trophies, he realized. The trophies of defeated enemies. And there were at least a score of them. His let out a breath. He hoped he could keep the targe of mac Giric from hanging among them.

  Rauve guided him up a set of spiraling stairs at one corner of the hall, then along a passage to a wide oak door.

  “A word of warning,” Rauve grumbled. “Hallie may be a wisp of a thing. But don’t underestimate her.”

  Colban nodded, though he wouldn’t call Hallie “a wisp of a thing.”

  “You’ll be imprisoned here,” Rauve continued. “But as long as you act honorably, you’ll be treated with fairness. You’ll also be safe. Her brother might issue threats, but he’ll do you no harm.”

  Colban appreciated Rauve’s reassurances. Her brother’s smoldering, youthful rage couldn’t be easy to contain.

  “To be honest,” Colban confided, “I’m more worried about Hallie’s schemin’ sister.”

  To his surprise, the growling guard actually barked out a laugh at that. “Isabel’s a lovesick lass, to be sure. But she’s not grown enough to get past my sword. At least not yet.”

  Rauve opened the door to a beautifully appointed bedchamber.

  Colban thought there must be some mistake. This was hardly a prison cell. It was, however, proof of Hallie’s evenhandedness. After all, her cousins were being held in similarly luxurious quarters at Creagor.

  “Hell,” Rauve groused. “Someone left the shutters open. I’ll get a fire going. You’re no good to us, frozen to death.”

  Colban murmured, “I’m a Highlander. ’Twould take more than this kiss o’ frost to freeze my bones, I assure ye.”

  He perused the chamber. A large bed draped at the corners in dark blue velvet took up most of the room. A carved oak chest stood at its foot. The hearth was flanked by a chair with cushions and a small table, which held a wash basin, a ewer, a stack of linens, and a small assortment of combs and bottles. Three empty cloak pegs and a sconce with a beeswax candle graced one wall. And a small curtained opening indicated an adjoining garderobe. It was the grandest bedchamber he’d ever seen.

  “Sit,” Rauve commanded, guiding him to the chair while he gathered up anything he deemed of value or possible harm from the room, bundling them into a linen square. Then he opened the door and yelled out, “Bart!”

  A few moments later, a freckled youth scrambled into the room.

  “Light the fire, lad,” Rauve told him, placing the bundle near the door. “Then lock this in the storeroom.”

  While Bart started a fire on the hearth, Rauve removed the steel chain binding Colban’s wrists and outlined the terms of his captivity.

  “I’ll be standing guard at the door. Another guard will be posted outside, below the window. Only a child could fit down the garderobe hole. And setting the room on fire will just mean a painful death for you.”

  Apparently, Rauve had already thought of every means of escape.

  “You’ll be brought meals,” he continued, “and water for washing.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “But make no trouble or—”

  “I’ll make no trouble,” Colban assured him, rubbing his freed wrists, “nor abuse your generosity.”

  Rauve sniffed at that. But Colban could tell the guard was pleased by his praise. In that way, they were kindred spirits. Colban knew all too well that a man’s loyalty and kindness too often went unrecognized.

  “Ye’re lucky to have a merciful mistress,” Colban said, casually pressing his fingertips to the tender flesh of his swollen eye. It wouldn’t hurt to perpetuate the myth that his laird had mistreated him. The less value Rivenloch believed Colban had, the less leverage they could exert over Morgan.

  Rauve, discomfited by the compliment, mumbled, “I’ll get someone to tend to your injuries.”

  “My thanks.” Then, realizing it would serve him well to be thought a hero, Colban let out a sigh of relief. “I’m just glad I was fit enough to save Hallie from the wolves.”

  From the hearth, Bart coughed.

  “What?” Rauve asked.

  “There was a pack o’ them in the woods. We were lucky to escape with our lives. I told Hallie to climb a tree while I fended them—”

  “A pack of wolves?” Rauve’s bushy brows lifted.

  Bart snickered.

  Colban frowned at him. What was wrong with the lad?

  Rauve crossed beefy arms over his chest. “You saved Hallie from a pack of wolves?”

  The lad was grinning now. What was so amusing, Colban didn’t know. But before he could scold the lad for finding humor at Hallie’s peril, Hallie herself opened the door and breezed into the room.

  The power of her presence was undeniable. Bold and beautiful, she inspired awe and commanded admiration. Maybe Bart was right to laugh. Maybe the Valkyrie could handle a pack of wolves on her own.

  But beneath her air of cool competence, Colban glimpsed a hint of distraction in Hallie’s eyes. He’d seen a similar overwhelmed look from Morgan many a time over the last weeks. Leadership was a burden not easily borne by one person alone.

  “Is the chamber secure?” she asked Rauve, glancing around the room.

  Rauve ignored her question. “Is it true, lass?” he demanded. “Did you clash with wolves in the wood?”

  “What?” Caught off her guard, she colored. “‘Clash’ is a strong word. We weren’t in any real danger.”

  “No danger?” Colban’s brows shot up. “We were treed all night.”

  “They wouldn’t have harmed us,” she muttered, though her blush gave her away. She turned to Rauve. “You know he’d never hurt me.”

  “I warned you, lass,” Rauve said. “Wolves are not to be trusted. You may have raised him from a pup, but he’s grown now. To him, you’re prey.”

  She turned to Colban, swiftly changing the subject. “You must be hungry.”

  Colban probably was hungry, but he hadn’t noticed. He was still digesting the notion that Hallie was friends with a wolf.

  She didn’t wait for a reply. “I’ll send someone up with breakfast.” Then she addressed Rauve. “Have you seen Ian?”

  “Not this morn,” Rauve replied.

  Bart rose from the merrily crackling fire he’d laid. “I heard him talking to Gellir at breakfast, m’lady,” he volunteered, “saying he needed a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “If you’re done here, Bart, go look for him,” Hallie said. “Maybe he’s in the garden. Or the dovecot. Or hiding in a garderobe somewhere.”

  Bart gave her a bob, snatched up the linen bundle by the door, and left.

  “As for you,” she said, finally
turning her full attention on him, “I expect you’ll try to escape.”

  He took a breath, intending to assure her he would do no such thing.

  But she smoothly continued, “You won’t succeed. My men are loyal. Clever. And,” she added pointedly, “well-rested.”

  Rauve straightened with pride.

  “But I will have your solemn oath,” she added, “that you won’t harm my clansmen.”

  “You have it,” Colban replied.

  Rauve grunted, puzzled by Colban’s ready agreement.

  So Colban explained to him, “Like ye, I want this matter settled as quickly as possible. Without bloodshed.” He’d seen the might of the Rivenloch knights. To challenge them before reinforcements arrived at Creagor would be suicide. “A negotiation is always preferable to a skirmish.” He glanced again at Hallie. “Right?”

  For one precious instant, Hallie’s eyes softened in surprise. For one precious instant, he felt the warmth of her approval and wondered what it would be like to feel the heat of her love.

  Then she lowered her gaze. And when she lifted it again, her eyes were glazed over with ice. She’d returned to being his captor.

  Eyeing his claymore, propped against the wall, she told Rauve, “Hang that thing in the armory. Out of Brand’s reach.”

  And then, as brisk as the winter wind, she swept from the room.

  “She’s a fine one,” Rauve remarked when Hallie had gone.

  “Aye,” Colban agreed. It was a shame they were foes. She would make a good ally. And he could think of things he’d rather do with the lovely lass than fight her.

  “Sharp,” Rauve said. “Beautiful. Powerful enough to cleave a man’s arm clean off, aye?”

  Colban blinked, startled. Then he saw Rauve was examining his claymore. “Oh. Aye.”

  “Do all your men carry these?” Rauve asked casually.

  The guard wasn’t fooling him. Like any clever warrior, Rauve was attempting to discover the strength of his enemy.

  “All o’ them,” Colban said with a glitter of humor in his eyes. “E’en the bairns.”

  Rauve smirked at Colban’s jest.

  “But ye needn’t fret,” he told Rauve. “My laird won’t attack Rivenloch. Not to ransom a bastard. Hell, I doubt he’ll notice I’m missin’.”