That was a lie. But he hoped, once Morgan discovered that both his right hand man and the Valkyrie were gone, he’d assume that Colban had gone after the lass and would ultimately capture her. Not the other way round.
Under that assumption, Morgan had no reason to come to Rivenloch. The laird’s best course of action was to hold onto the two remaining lasses until the messengers from the king arrived with the documents that would prove his ownership of Creagor.
If all went well, the prisoner exchange would be bloodless.
“You may be a bastard,” Rauve said, rubbing doubtfully at his jaw. “But I doubt you’re worthless. Not carrying a blade like that.”
A tapping at the door saved him from having to defend his worthlessness.
It was an apple-cheeked old woman.
“Hallie said I’m to treat his injuries,” she explained to Rauve, showing him her things.
“Burunild,” the guard grunted, motioning her in.
As she crouched beside Colban to dab at his cuts and bruises, she shook her head and clucked her tongue in sympathy.
He wondered if she’d feel the same, knowing he’d earned the injuries in a fair fight and that he’d done just as much damage to Morgan.
While she was finishing, another rap came at the door. A young lass—one he’d seen in the courtyard, giggling with Isabel—had brought him breakfast. She turned pink at once, shoving the tray of frumenty and oatcakes at him, and then wheeling with a delighted squeak as she hurried out the door.
“Witless wench,” the old woman muttered.
The enticing scent of apples and warm oats made his belly rumble.
“Poor lad. Did your laird starve you as well?” the old woman asked with a frown as she gathered her things. As she rose to go, she leaned down and confided in a loud whisper, “You might be better off staying here at Rivenloch. You’d be treated fairly. No one beats a servant here. Faith, half the clan maidens are already twitter-pated o’er you. You’d probably find a wife in no time.”
“That will be enough, Burunild,” Rauve said, ushering her out the door and closing it behind them.
Colban found the woman’s words amusing and thought-provoking. He was being treated more like an honored guest than a hostage. He shook his head, wondering what would happen if a hostage refused to be returned.
After the tender care of his injuries and enjoying a hearty and delicious meal, he sat on the edge of the bed, intending to rest a moment before determining his next course of action.
Hours later, he awoke with a snort. He found himself sprawled in the middle of the plush velvet coverlet with his long legs hanging off the bed. He rose up on his elbows, blinking to clear his vision.
Then he rasped in a startled gasp.
From within the folds of the bedhangings, studying him with the intensity of a hawk on the hunt was a young lad with ice-blond hair.
Chapter 9
“What do you think causes snoring?” the lad asked.
Colban froze, as baffled by the question as he was by the lad, who’d seemed to appear out of nowhere.
“Is it the lungs, collapsed in sleep, gasping for air?” the lad continued. “Or is it the voice producing the sound, as a means of assuring others that one is still alive?” The lad held a quill over an open ledger, as if he intended to record Colban’s reply.
“What?” He prayed the lad wasn’t some fae being—that Colban’s life didn’t depend on his answer—because he could think of none.
The lad set aside the quill and ledger and emerged then, crawling across the bed to sit cross-legged in front of him. Once out of the shadows, he looked to be an ordinary young man of perhaps ten years, with the same fair hair and blue eyes as Hallie.
“Sometimes the hounds snore,” he said. “But I’ve ne’er heard a snoring mouse. Have you?”
Colban blinked. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
“I’ve been here since you arrived.”
“That’s impossible.”
The lad was taken aback. “You don’t believe me?” Then he furrowed his pale brows. “I suppose there’s little proof for you, since you’ve been only partially conscious most of the day. But I assure you I’ve been here. I’ve been watching you sleep.”
The lad said that as if it were a good thing.
“Who are ye?” Colban asked again.
“Oh. I’m Ian.”
“Ian. Ye’re the one Hallie was lookin’ for. She sent Bart to—”
“I know. I was here. Remember?”
Nay, he didn’t remember.
Ian shrugged and whispered, “I stayed quiet, because I didn’t want to be found.” He leaned closer. “But who are you? Besides some sort of Highland hostage who fights off wolves and lasses with a claymore.”
Colban had to smile at Ian’s appraisal of him.
“My name is Colban. Colban an Curaidh.”
“That means ‘the Champion.’”
“Aye, it does.”
Slowly, so as not to startle the lad, Colban dragged himself upright until he was sitting cross-legged as well. He could see the sun had moved across the sky. It must be late afternoon.
“You don’t have your sire’s name,” Ian remarked.
“Nay. I don’t have a sire. I’m a bastard.”
“You must have a sire,” Ian informed him. “It takes both male and female to produce offspring.”
A grin tugged at Colban’s lips. He wondered if the lad knew all the details about procreation as well.
“Aye, I do have a da. Somewhere. But I don’t know who he is.”
Ian’s eyes widened at that. Then he said thoughtfully, “’Tis a pity. A da is a good thing to have. My da taught me how to read and fish and play chess. Do you know how to play chess?”
“Aye.”
Ian sprang abruptly from the bed and rushed to the wooden chest at the foot of it. Lifting the lid, he retrieved a board and a velvet satchel. Then he climbed back onto the bed, setting the board between them and shaking the pieces out of the satchel.
“White or black?” he inquired.
The lad obviously hadn’t received the warning about not fraternizing with the prisoner. And now Colban supposed they were going to play chess, whether he wanted to or not.
“Black.”
What he really wanted to do was eat. He hadn’t supped since morn. Neither had the lad, if he’d been watching him sleep the entire day.
Ian began distributing the pieces. “My ma taught me how to play hnefatafl as well. Do you know it?”
He shook his head.
“’Tis a Viking game, similar to chess,” Ian said.
“Is your ma a Viking then?” Colban asked, lining up his pieces.
“My mother was born in Scotland. But her ancestors were Vikings. Where was your mother born?”
A dozen replies flitted through Colban’s head. In a brothel. Out of wedlock. On the wrong side of fate. Into the arms of despair.
In the end, he decided on, “In the Highlands.”
“And is she a good ma?” Ian put his last pawn into place.
“She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“She died when I was a lad.”
Ian’s brow crumpled in distress. “You have no parents at all then.”
“I have a clan.” It was true. Spending his youth with Morgan, he’d grown to think of Laird Giric and Lady Hilaire as his mother and father.
“My mother is the laird of our clan,” Ian volunteered, “though my sister Hallie is watching o’er us while she’s away.”
At that revelation, dangerous thoughts began to swirl through Colban’s brain.
He edged one pawn forward.
He could use this chance meeting with the laird’s son to his advantage. It would be the work of an instant to seize the wee lad and take him hostage. Even without a weapon.
Anyone could see how easily he could break the lad’s scrawny neck. In the blink of an eye. With his bare hands.
Using the
son of the laird as a shield, he could get past Rauve. Once all of Rivenloch understood the threat Colban posed, he’d be granted free passage back to Creagor.
Once at Creagor, he would not only provide Morgan with a third hostage, but he could give the laird useful information about Rivenloch’s defenses if war came to pass.
Colban wouldn’t even be breaking his word. He’d made no specific promises about taking hostages.
“Well?” Ian had made his move. Now he looked up at Colban with wide blue eyes.
But Colban couldn’t do it. It was a matter of chivalry. No matter how desperate the situation was, threatening to harm a helpless lad went against his sense of honor. Honor he’d cultivated all his life.
In a few days, he told himself, things would work themselves out, and he’d be returned to Creagor. There was no need for bloodshed. Or violence. Or carrying off wee Viking lads.
He slid another pawn forward.
“Have you e’er watched a lightning storm?” Ian asked.
Colban grinned. The lad was an endless font of questions. “Aye.”
“’Tis curious, isn’t it, how the branches of lightning form like the branches of a tree.”
“I suppose so.”
“I was almost struck by lightning once.” He lowered his voice to confide, “I was watching a storm atop the tower. My grandfather told me not to go up there. But ’twas too exciting to resist.”
“What happened?”
“My skin started to tingle. And my hair stood on end. All at once, with a loud crack, the lightning struck the tower wall right next to me.” His eyes widened with the memory, then lowered to the chessboard. “Your move.”
To Colban, the lad’s mind moved like lightning, darting about in seemingly random patterns.
While Colban was choosing which piece to move, Ian volunteered, “I’ve built a siege engine.”
“Is that so?”
“Well. A model of a siege engine. Da won’t let me have the timbers to build an actual engine. At least not until the model proves its worth. Would you like to see it?”
“Is it in here?”
“Nay. I keep it in the stable. But I can show it to you from the window later.”
“I’d like that.”
As strange as it was, Colban was enjoying Ian’s company. The lad was bright and fearless and full of curiosity. For someone who’d claimed to need peace and quiet, he chattered endlessly. And he played chess with a skill far beyond his years. Indeed, Colban might well lose this match.
But there was something Colban could win from his encounter with Ian. Something that would serve him well in the critical days ahead. He could win the lad’s trust.
“What are ye writin’ there?” Colban asked, nodding at the ledger the lad had set aside.
“Everything.”
“Everythin’?”
“Would you like to see?”
He nodded. What Colban saw in the ledger left him speechless. Crowded onto each page were dozens of drawings and hundreds of words, written in tiny letters. On one page was a sketch of a mill, a v-shaped flock of birds, and what looked like a design for a knight’s helm. Another was filled with lines of text. A third featured a detailed cart and several depictions of flowers. A branching tree took up one entire page. Squeezed between the branches were hundreds of words, written in tiny letters. Colban wished he could read them.
“Ye made these?”
“Aye.”
“They’re wondrous indeed.” He turned the page and narrowed his eyes. “And this?”
“’Tis Rivenloch. I’m working on the defenses.” He pointed out the various features. “Here’s the courtyard. And the great hall. And the armory. Here’s where we are right now.”
Colban had to temper his excitement as he scanned the illustration. It was a detailed map of the castle. Nothing could be more valuable to the mac Girics, should they need to lay siege to Rivenloch.
“I think ’tis your play,” Ian reminded him.
Colban returned the ledger to him with a wink. “And I think ye’re eager to pummel me.”
Ian grinned.
Colban studied the board and finally slid a bishop forward.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Ian asked.
Colban wasn’t sure. But he’d already made his move. “Aye. Once a man makes up his mind, I believe he should commit to that choice and follow through with—”
“Checkmate.”
How the imp had infiltrated his ranks so quickly, he couldn’t fathom.
But before he could recover from the shock, there was a sound at the door. Ian gasped, upsetting the chessboard and scattering pieces across the coverlet. As the door swung open, Colban instinctively leaped from the bed to defend the lad.
In the doorway stood the Valkyrie. She was breathless and beautiful. Her blue eyes were cold and fierce.
Hallie had been scouring the castle for her missing youngest sibling all day long. He hadn’t shown up for supper, and now the clan was gathering for the last meal of the day.
There was still no sign of her parents. Ian was her responsibility. She needed to locate him before the inquisitive lad heard about the hostage and made it his mission to question him.
She’d checked the storeroom to be sure Rauve had concealed the tunnel entrance and that Ian hadn’t escaped through the passage.
She’d searched the dovecot where he sometimes liked to observe the birds.
She’d looked in the armory, where he spent hours designing armor plate and war machines.
Finally, she’d been forced to give up. She’d told herself Ian would probably turn up before nightfall. After all, he’d have to eat eventually.
So would Rauve.
When she came upstairs to relieve him, Rauve was slowly pacing along the hallway, bored with the task of guarding the door.
“Go on to dinner,” she told him. “And take your time.”
“But the prisoner…”
“He won’t know you’ve gone. I’ll watch the door.” As Rauve left, she had a second thought. “Bring a platter up when you return. I don’t want to starve the hostage.”
Rauve was long gone when Hallie, leaning back against the opposite wall, began staring at the door, transfixed by a sickening thought.
Ian had wanted peace and quiet. What was more peaceful and quiet than her parents’ abandoned bedchamber?
“Shite,” she breathed.
Dreading the worst, she braced herself and pushed away from the wall, hesitating as she reached for the door handle.
When she finally shoved open the door, her greatest fears were realized.
“Ian.” The word came out of her on a rush of air.
Ian sat cross-legged on the bed, no more than four yards away. But between Hallie and her innocent little brother loomed the scowling Highlander, menacing and deadly.
“Don’t be angry, Hallie,” Ian called out. “We were only playing chess.”
His sweet voice caught at her heart. He had no idea what peril he was in.
Curse the Fates. She’d brought no sword. And she’d just sent Rauve downstairs to dine.
The tension was palpable as Hallie and her captive stared at each other in silence, at a horrifying impasse.
Her throat closed with alarm, but she held her breath, maintaining an icy glare. She might fear for Ian’s welfare, but she dared not reveal that fear. Nor that she was at a disadvantage.
By the calculating glint in his eyes, the Highlander knew he had the upper hand. The lad was in arm’s reach. And by now loose-tongued Ian had probably revealed he was the laird’s son, therefore a valuable hostage.
“I promise I wasn’t boring him,” Ian added, as if that were her greatest concern.
Her little brother was a genius when it came to facts and figures, brilliant beyond his years. But he had the trust and naivete of his age, which was a tender ten years old.
Her throat thickened as she continued to stare at the Highlander. If anything happened to Ia
n…
And then a curious thing occurred. Colban an Curaidh’s hard brown gaze softened with kindness. His shoulders dropped. His fists relaxed. And he stepped out of the way.
“He didn’t bore me,” he said. “But he did beat me soundly at chess.”
Hallie was stunned. There was no reason for the Highlander to surrender. As a captive, he should do everything in his power to escape. She expected no less. She had fully expected him to seize Ian and hold him as a counter hostage.
But he hadn’t.
He’d done the gallant and chivalrous thing.
She’d always believed the tales about rough-hewn Highlanders. That they were savages. Undisciplined. Incapable of honor. Even he had tried to convince her he was worthless.
But his actions proved the stories wrong. Only a keen sense of virtue could prevent him from taking what would have been an easy means of escape.
Hallie released an awe-filled breath. She wondered if the Highlander could see the flood of relief in her eyes. Relief and respect.
She wouldn’t thank him aloud. But she conveyed her gratitude with a subtle nod of her head.
He nodded back. The hint of a smile graced his lips.
“’Tis time for dinner, Ian,” she choked out. “Come now.”
“But what about Colban?”
She winced. Colban. Apparently, they’d exchanged first names. What other information had they exchanged?
“I’m having food brought up for him,” she said, summoning Ian with a wave of her hand.
“Then I’ll dine here as well,” Ian decided.
“What? Nay.”
Ian raised his stubborn chin. “We can’t just leave him alone, Hallie. His mother is dead. And he doesn’t even know who his father is. He told me so.”
The Highlander’s mouth opened in surprise. He was obviously unaccustomed to wee lads who blurted out truths.
“Did he?” she asked.
This was an interesting coil. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that Ian had had time to interrogate the captive, after all. Colban an Curaidh had confessed he was a bastard and an orphan. Perhaps she could glean more useful information from her little brother.
On the other hand, it made her wonder… What had Ian revealed to the prisoner about Rivenloch, about her? The possibilities were unsettling.
Bride of Ice Page 6
