He peered down. “What is it, lad?”
“Watch!” Ian called up.
Her little brother was always hungry for an audience. Whether it was to see his inventions or listen to his theories, to examine his drawings or hear his verse, Ian loved nothing better than a new set of eyes and ears with whom to share his work. Particularly since he’d exhausted nearly everyone in the clan.
She supposed there was no way to prevent Ian from fraternizing with the prisoner. But she’d at least make sure it was only at a distance, where Colban could do him no harm.
She didn’t worry the Highlander would hurt the lad now. He’d proved he was a man of his word. She believed his vow that he’d bring no harm to her clan.
But there were other ways to manipulate one’s enemy.
Without even trying, he’d already found his way into Isabel’s heart and the hearts of several young swooning lasses. He’d befriended Ian with a game of chess. He’d convinced old Burunild, who’d treated his hurts, that he was in need of motherly affection. Brand and Gellir spoke with awe about the man’s claymore.
The prisoner wasn’t going to insinuate himself into the Rivenloch clan. Not on her watch. Not while her parents were away. And her cousins were in danger.
Hallie set about collecting the shards of the wine bottle. She might trust Colban now. But fate, like the wolves in the wood, had a way of turning on a person, biting at the most unexpected times.
Colban called down to Ian, “That’s very…impressive. Did ye build it yourself?”
Ian was probably showing off his latest project. A waterwheel propelled by buckets that filled and emptied with water.
“Are ye certain ’tis safe?” Colban asked.
Safe? Of course it was safe, Hallie thought. What could be unsafe about a wee toy waterwheel?
She picked up a shard shaped like a tiny dagger and placed it on the platter.
“Aye,” Ian replied. “I’ve taken precautions this time.”
Hallie froze. Precautions? This time? What was Ian showing him?
“I’m using a leather ball,” Ian called out.
“I see.”
“Last time I used a rock,” Ian said proudly, “and it made a dent in Rauve’s helm.”
Hallie gasped.
Not the trebuchet.
She dropped the platter and rushed to the window, pushing Colban aside.
“Ian Cameliard of Rivenloch!” she bellowed. “Don’t you dare—”
She was an instant too late. The lad had already loaded the sling of the wooden siege engine with a missile and raised the counterweight. As Hallie reached the window, the cord twanged, dropping the weight and releasing the arm.
Colban had heard of trebuchets. But he’d never seen one in action. Though the device was only about the size of a wheelbarrow instead of the building-high behemoths used in warfare, its force was undeniable.
Flung from the jointed arm, the apple-sized leather ball shot forward at great speed. It scattered a flock of hens in its wake, ruffled the skirts of a passing maidservant, and hit Ian’s older brother, who just happened to be crossing the courtyard, catching him hard in the belly and bowling him over.
Hallie gasped as Brand fell to the ground, laid low by the leather ball.
“Sorry, Brand!” Ian cried out.
Brand groaned, clutching his belly. Gellir, the oldest, ran to his brother, dropping to one knee to make sure he was unharmed.
“Ian,” Hallie ground out, “what did our da say?”
Ian lowered his head and dug his toe into the soil. “Not to fire the trebuchet in the courtyard.”
“And what did he say would happen if you did?”
“Nay, Hallie,” the lad protested, “Please don’t destroy it. I was only showing it to Colban.”
“The hostage,” she corrected, “has no interest in such playthings.”
Colban would beg to differ. A siege engine that could fire missiles with such speed and force was of great interest.
“Besides,” Gellir called out, casting a dark glance at Colban, “you’re revealing a secret weapon to the enemy.”
“Nay, I’m not,” Ian argued. “’Tis a…a show of force. Now that he’s seen our might,” he reasoned, “his army won’t dare to attack Rivenloch.”
It was brilliant—and somewhat true. Colban stifled a smile of admiration. The lad was apparently as inventive with his excuses as he was with his devices.
“Put it away, Ian,” Hallie commanded. “Brand, will you live?”
Brand sat up with the aid of his brother. He was clearly in pain. But seeing Colban watching him, he snorted once, and labored to his feet.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, demonstrating his own show of force despite the strain in his voice. “No toy siege engine will lay me low.”
Gellir tried to loop his brother’s arm over his shoulder. But Brand batted away his help, limping bravely across the courtyard under his own power.
Meanwhile, it was a brooding and disappointed Ian who rolled the trebuchet back to the armory.
Colban stole a sidelong glance at Hallie. For an instant, he glimpsed the weight of duty reflected in her face.
“They must be a handful,” he murmured in sympathy.
Then her mask of icy indifference returned. “I can handle them.”
He had no doubt of that. His ballocks still throbbed from her handling of him.
“Ye won’t destroy his toy, though?” he prodded. “’Tis impressive.” He let the shine of humor creep into his eyes. “If ye can reload it fast enough, ye could lay low an entire army. One by one. In a day or so.”
There was a subtle, reluctant twitch of amusement in Hallie’s lips. But it vanished when a knock sounded at the door.
Before Hallie could give her permission to enter, Isabel rushed in.
“Did you finish dinner?” the lass eagerly asked.
Then her gaze lowered to the floor, littered with greens, overturned trenchers, and smashed apple coffyns.
She gasped, and her brow furrowed. “What happened?”
“You,” Hallie accused, starting toward the lass. Isabel inched backward in retreat. She might have fled. But Hallie closed the door behind her, sealing her escape and cornering her. “What did you put in the wine?”
“N-nothing.”
“Isabel?”
She bit her lip and glanced nervously at Colban. “I only…flavored it a wee bit.”
“Flavored it. With rosemary and honey?”
“Fine,” Isabel admitted. “’Twas a love potion. But ’twas perfectly harmless. Besides, you needed something to smooth o’er your…hostilities.”
“Smooth o’er…” Hallie said in disbelief. “There’s a reason to be hostile. The Highlander is a hostage. A foe. A usurper.”
Colban took issue with the last term. Creagor rightfully belonged to the mac Girics. “Now just a moment. I’m not a usur—”
“You have no right to stick your nose into my affairs, Isabel,” Hallie scolded.
Isabel thrust out her chin. “I do when you’re too blind to see what’s right in front of you, Hallie.”
“And what’s that?”
They stood nose-to-nose now, and Isabel gave Colban one quick glance before she whispered, “He is The One.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but ’tis the truth.”
“Go, Isabel,” Hallie said, opening the door.
“You’ll see,” she promised. Then she turned to Colban with a sympathetic smile, fluttering her fingers and her eyelashes. “Farewell.”
Hallie closed the door on her conniving sister. Then she busied herself, cleaning up the mess on the floor.
She’d never been so humiliated.
Keeping a hostage required a firm hand. A show of strength. The capacity for violence and the willingness to use it.
In the space of half a day, her unruly siblings had completely undermined her authority.
How would sh
e maintain the Highlander’s respect when she couldn’t even control her own clan?
“Let me help,” he offered, hunkering down beside her. “I made the mess. I should clean it up.”
She sighed in spite of herself. Now he was offering to do her a kindness? For a savage from the Highlands, he was certainly well-mannered, more so than her own family.
She nodded. Together they made quick work of the scattered dinner.
All was going well until they reached for the same overturned goblet.
Their contact was brief. But in that instant, with his hand enveloping hers, she felt the gentle warmth of his flesh. The potent strength of his grip. The calluses of a man seasoned in battle. A determined man who’d battled his way up through the ranks.
In that fleeting moment, she realized he was the most dangerous foe she’d ever met.
Not because of his size. He was no bigger than some of the clansmen she’d handily tossed to the ground.
Not because of his strength. Strength was a double-edged weapon she could turn on a man in the blink of an eye.
Not because he was clever. Hallie was clever. Growing up in a warrior clan, she’d learned, while men could not always be overpowered, they could usually be outwitted.
Nay, he was dangerous because he was persistent.
The bruises marring his face? The pain in the depth of his eyes? The rough calluses lining his palms?
They were proof of unflagging determination. This foundling Highlander was seasoned by struggle. He’d had to fight for everything he possessed.
She could see that now.
Born a bastard, abandoned as an orphan, he must have fought to earn his place with a respected clan. He must have battled long and hard to become the laird’s trusted right hand man. Worthiness couldn’t have come easy for him.
Colban an Curaidh wasn’t dangerous because he’d been given the title of The Champion.
He was dangerous because he’d earned it.
Chapter 12
Colban was beginning to wonder if there was something to that love potion.
With their fingers tangling awkwardly on the goblet, an invisible current coursed between them. Powerful as lightning, it stirred his skin and heightened his senses, as if it might strike at any moment to fill him with sparks and lay him low.
And the expression on Hallie’s face—her look of breathless wonder—quickened his heartbeat and heated his blood.
Besotted by an intoxicating blend of desire and awe, he was reluctant to let go of her.
Only when their gazes collided over the goblet, when the soft melt of her eyes frosted over, did he finally release her.
It was probably his imagination anyway. A beautiful Valkyrie of noble bloodlines couldn’t possibly be attracted to a baseborn Highland soldier.
And he couldn’t possibly be the least bit interested in a maid who’d taken him captive, threatened to maim him, and was more than willing to sacrifice him as a pawn. Could he?
Before he could think about it too deeply, Hallie finished cleaning up the mess, muttered a hasty farewell, and left.
One thing he knew for certain. Contrary to what her little sister believed, Hallie of Rivenloch did not have a heart of ice. Within a thin and frosty shell beat a vibrant pulse of deep passion and great tenderness. One need only crack the shell to reveal the warmhearted woman within.
Armed with this new knowledge about his captor’s vulnerability, Colban was left with an uncomfortable choice. A decision that troubled his heart and nagged at his conscience.
Should he continue to bide his time, remain civil, and wait to hear from Morgan, trusting the king’s promise was reliable?
Or should he exploit Hallie’s weakness and worm his way into her heart, knowing he might need to turn on her to protect Morgan’s claim?
His instincts were for compassion.
But the sense of duty to his clan was strong in him.
Did he have the fortitude to do what must be done, in spite of the emotional damage it might inflict?
He ambled to the window, gazing to the courtyard below.
At one end stood the quartet of young lasses with Isabel. As he appeared, they gasped and giggled, shyly waving his way.
Against the opposite wall leaned Gellir, sharpening his sword with a whetstone and glaring up at him.
It was exactly how Colban felt, imprisoned by honor and caught between love and war.
After a short while, he tired of both the admiring glances and the stare full of hate. Restless, he backed away from the window.
In the rugged Highlands, Colban always had something to do. Cattle to herd. Fish to catch. Walls to repair. Sheep to shear. Game to hunt. Cloaks to mend. The line between subsistence and death was narrow. Survival required vigilance and hard work.
Of course, no matter how hard he worked, Colban would always owe the Giric clan a great debt. They had taken Colban into their fold, despite the shameful and unfortunate circumstances of his birth. Laird Giric and Lady Hilaire had allowed him to be raised alongside their own son. He owed them a debt he could never repay. He owed his life to Morgan and his clan. He never forgot that.
Living with that knowledge, however, meant he’d never experienced a time of leisure. A time when debt and duty weren’t foremost in his mind.
Every decision he came to hinged upon its effect on the clan.
Every choice he made was weighed by whether it would be good or bad for Morgan.
And lately, while Morgan languished over the loss of his wife, Colban had had to step into the role of the laird himself in order to protect Morgan from his own grief.
With such responsibility came great rewards. But sometimes it was exhausting to devote oneself to the service of others. He’d seen that in Morgan, and he felt it in his own life as well.
Sometimes, especially considering his humble beginnings, Colban felt overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his duties.
And sometimes he wondered if he’d lost his own identity somewhere along the way.
Was it thus for Hallie as well? Did the burden of responsibility sit heavy upon her shoulders? Had she given away so much of herself to the clan that she didn’t remember who she was?
That would explain the targe of ice around her heart. The protective layer that kept her from acknowledging her own emotions when the clan needed her to be strong.
But he knew her icy heart was penetrable. He’d glimpsed an undeniable tenderness in her. In her affection for Ian. In her sisterly frustration with Isabel. In her concern for Brand. And her understanding of Gellir.
It seemed all virtuous people in a position of power, whether it was the king, a laird, or the laird’s right hand man, must deny their own desires for the good of the whole. Whether it was right. Or fair.
He scraped a chair across the floor to sit near the fire.
As he gazed into the flames, he realized a curious irony.
Being held prisoner here was the first time he’d experienced freedom. It was the first time he’d been separated from the Girics. The first time he’d actually considered his own circumstances, needs, and comforts—if even for one brief moment—apart from Morgan.
He took a deep breath, stretched his legs out toward the hearth, and let it out in a long, relieved sigh.
The moment wouldn’t last, he knew. Soon he’d learn whose side the king had taken. Soon he’d have to choose whether to undertake careful negotiations or prepare for battle. Soon he’d have to decide whether to betray the Rivenloch clan who’d shown him mercy or the mac Giric clan to whom he owed allegiance.
Soon he’d be called upon to use the shrewd and seasoned workings of his mind. But for now, he would listen to his heart.
Colban woke with the sun. He’d slept atop the bed, wrapping himself in the coverlet. But the Lowland weather was so mild compared to the snowy Highlands that he didn’t realize he’d left the shutters open all night nor that the fire had dwindled.
He arose with a stretch, raked back his hair,
poked the fire to life, and then stumbled toward the garderobe. On his return, he glanced out to the yard below.
Poor Gellir was still leaning against the courtyard wall. He must have been there all night, guarding against Colban’s escape. His locked legs were holding him upright. But he was fast asleep. His sword hung limp in his hand. His head lolled upon his shoulder. And his mouth was open wide enough to accommodate a sparrow’s nest.
Colban wasn’t the only one to spy Gellir, asleep on the watch. Brand, recovered from the trebuchet mishap, was stealing up on his slumbering sibling. Crouching before him, he slipped his hands around Gellir’s heels. Then, with a mischievous jerk, he pulled the lad’s legs out from under him.
Gellir landed with a yelp and a thud on his hindquarters, dropping his sword, which sent Brand into maniacal fits of laughter.
Infuriated, Gellir scrambled onto his feet. He lunged toward Brand, wrapping vengeful hands around his brother’s neck, choking him off mid-laugh.
But Brand wasn’t as helpless as he appeared. He plowed a fist into Gellir’s belly. When Gellir folded forward with a grunt, Brand snatched the dagger from his brother’s belt.
Gellir clapped his empty sheath. Then, aware of his disadvantage, he released his brother and made a swift retreat. Bending down, he swept up his sword in rage.
Colban stiffened. It looked as if Gellir would lop off Brand’s head in the next moment.
“Enough!” came a cry from across the courtyard.
Hallie came striding across the green. But this was a Hallie he hadn’t seen before. Clad in chain mail, bearing a blade and shield, she looked like a warrior queen on a mission of vengeance.
As she charged forward, her blue tabard whipped around her like angry ocean currents. She tossed her shield and helm aside, and the sun glinted off her bright hair and her silver blade.
The brothers lowered their weapons.
Colban crossed his arms, leaning a shoulder against the window to watch.
“Gellir was asleep at his post,” Brand accused.
Gellir scowled. “I was only…resting my eyes.”
“You were snoring,” Brand insisted.
Hallie turned on Brand. “So you attacked your brother while he was helpless?”
Bride of Ice Page 8
