“What? Nay.” Brand straightened defensively. “’Tis like Ma says. In battle, you have to take every advantage that’s given you.”
Hallie suddenly seized the dagger from him with her free left hand. A quick flick of her wrist sent it point-first into the sod. “Like that?” she asked.
Colban snickered. She was certainly a cocky lass.
His pride bruised, Brand folded his arms and thrust out his stubborn chin.
“And you,” she accused, facing Gellir. “You should have summoned a man to relieve you.”
“I’m fine,” he lied.
“Is that so?” she asked. “Your reflexes are fine?”
He scowled. “They’re bloody perfect.”
Brand, sensing what was about to happen, scrambled in retreat.
“Come on then,” Hallie invited, raising her sword. “Let’s see those perfect reflexes of yours.”
Colban narrowed his eyes. Gellir wasn’t actually going to fight his sister, was he?
The lad might be younger and shorter than Hallie. But he was packed with burgeoning muscle and full of youthful rage. One slip of the lad’s impetuous blade could do her serious harm. And she’d cast aside her helm and shield.
Colban clenched his fists on the ledge of the window as they warily circled each other.
Graceful Hallie looked impossibly defenseless against her aggressive brother.
Of course, that hadn’t stopped her from subduing Colban last night in the woods. And it wasn’t stopping her from challenging Gellir now.
Like a wildcat, she suddenly sprang, taunting him with attacks from all angles. Again and again she thrust and slashed, driving him back as he struggled to keep up his defenses.
Gellir staggered and floundered, barely able to knock her sword aside before the next attack came. After two dozen blows, she’d backed him against the wall.
“Now,” she said, “go get some sleep.”
Then she made the mistake of lowering her blade and turning away. While her back was turned, enraged Gellir raised his sword to lash out at her.
The breath caught in Colban’s throat as he waited for tragedy to unfold.
But Hallie whirled, anticipating his move and intercepting his blade in a grating slide of steel and sparks.
She shoved him away. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
He nodded, and she shook her head, preparing to engage again.
He lunged at her.
She batted away his blade.
Gellir, gripping his hilt in both hands, took a swing at her throat.
She ducked beneath the sword, and it whistled through the air with such force it spun Gellir backwards.
Before he could turn round, she prodded the lad’s backside with the point of her sword, hard enough to make him yelp.
Colban could almost feel the waves of rage and humiliation roiling off of Gellir as he stumbled forward.
Brand, who’d been watching them from what he thought a safe distance, chortled with glee.
But the lad’s mirth was cut short when Hallie lunged toward him, jabbing his shoulder and proving he wasn’t quite out of range.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked Brand.
While Brand blinked in surprise and pain, Gellir crowed at his brother in smug approval, “Ha!”
Then, while Hallie was still engaging Brand, Gellir pried the dagger from the ground.
Colban’s eyes widened. His heart dropped. His mouth went dry.
Gellir was going to stab his sister in the back.
“Nay!” The word exploded from Colban’s lips, drawing all eyes to him.
But the dagger was already in motion.
Time stood still as Colban watched the blade, winking in the dawn’s light as it lunged toward Hallie’s defenseless body.
His heart stood still as well.
Chapter 13
Hallie’s ability to outguess opponents was her secret weapon. She was always one step ahead in any skirmish. It was how she knew Gellir would come after her while she was entangled with Brand. And how she managed to anticipate the dagger’s path toward her back.
If she hadn’t, that cursed Highlander’s sudden outburst might have thrown off her timing and caused considerable damage.
But she was already in motion. Wheeling reflexively, she swept her sword down to block the dagger, colliding with the blade at exactly the right spot.
Gellir dropped the weapon, shaking his hand from the impact, and glared at the Highlander.
Brand, still clutching his shoulder where Hallie had poked him, gaped up at Colban.
And Hallie turned a frosty glower on the man at the window. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Colban seemed taken aback. “What am I doin’? What are ye doin’? Tryin’ to get yourself killed?”
Even her brothers scoffed at that. The notion was ridiculous. Hallie had defeated half the knights of Rivenloch. She could certainly handle Brand and Gellir.
She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe you’re trying to get me killed.”
“What?”
“By distracting me.”
“Distractin’?”
“I don’t know how they spar in the Highlands,” she said. “But at Rivenloch, coming between two fighters is a sure way to get someone killed.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to get ye killed. Bloody hell, I was tryin’ to save ye.”
Save her? For an instant, Hallie hesitated, struck by the impossible possibility that Colban the Champion was trying to be her champion.
Unfortunately, it was enough of a hesitation to allow her meddlesome sister to burst onto the scene, trailed by her retinue of young lasses, at the worst possible moment. Where Isabel had come from, Hallie couldn’t guess. The maid seemed to have a nose for intrigue and ears everywhere.
“Oh, Hallie!” Isabel gushed as she rushed into the courtyard. “Did you hear that?” She turned aside to explain excitedly to her companions, “Sir Colban was trying to save Hallie.” At her prompting, the lasses waved shyly up at Colban. “What a noble gesture,” she added dreamily, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “So chivalrous and romantic.”
“Stay out of this, Isabel,” Hallie warned.
“But Hallie, he just admitted he was acting to save your life.” She smiled at her companions. “No wonder they call him The Champion.” They sighed in agreement.
That was nonsense, wasn’t it? After all, he was a bloody Highlander. A usurper. Her enemy.
Yet what other reason could there be?
“You addlepates,” Gellir growled at the lasses. “Of course he wants to save Hallie’s life. He knows if something should happen to her, he’d have to deal with me!”
“And me!” Brand chimed in.
“You two?” Isabel laughed. “Don’t be tomfools.”
Gellir sneered, “Who are you calling a tomfool?”
“You, if you think a Highlander is afraid of two half-grown—”
“Half-grown? I’m not half-grown, you fluff-headed flea-brain!”
“How dare you call me that, you…you pinheaded churl!”
“You’re nothing but a pack of blathering ronyons!”
“And you’re a pair of oafish cumbergrounds!”
“Dimwitted damsels!”
“Loggerheaded lads!”
The two factions continued hurling insults at each other like missiles from a trebuchet. Hallie sighed, knowing she was going to have to end this skirmish ere it turned into full-scale war.
Isabel had just called Gellir a skelpie simpleton when Hallie heard a curious sound intruding upon their battle.
Mirth.
She stole a glance at the Highlander at the window.
He was laughing.
While the fierce campaign raged below, he chuckled at each new insult.
Hallie arched a brow of disapproval. She was trying to rein in the youths’ misbehavior, not encourage it. Was he laughing at her expense? Or did he only find their bickering entertaining?
&nbs
p; Of course, it was entertaining. No one was more creative with insults than her siblings. The education of the children of Rivenloch had been rich and ribald. She supposed to a stranger’s ear that wealth of words must be a source of great hilarity.
When Brand called Isabel a fustilugs fopdoodle, Colban burst out with laughter that was so full of delight, Hallie couldn’t help but feel the tug of a smile at her own lips.
His laugh was as warm and delicious as honey, pouring out to soften and sweeten the bitter conflict.
It was also contagious. A giggle bubbled up in her own throat as she realized how ridiculous their name-calling had become.
When one of the vexed but less clever maids of Isabel’s retinue branded Brand a pricky pudding prick, the ensuing gasps of shock caused an immediate ceasefire.
But when Colban’s howls filled the silence, Hallie could no longer hold back. Her peals of laughter joined his, rolling out like church bells.
This naturally earned them the scorn of both factions. Now united in their fury, the lads and lasses turned on them.
“You’re in charge, Hallie,” Isabel pouted. “You’re supposed to be defending us.”
“You seem to have matters well in hand,” Hallie said, fighting back a giggle as she thought again of that pudding prick remark.
“As for you, hostage,” Gellir snarled at Colban. “’Tisn’t your affair.”
“’Tisn’t?” Colban replied with an innocent grin. “Wasn’t it me ye were fightin’ o’er?”
As her siblings frowned in consternation, Hallie shook her head. “You don’t actually remember what you’re fighting about, do you?”
No one could answer, which made Colban snicker.
Hallie straightened. “Sheathe your weapons, all of you. Gellir, off to bed. Send Erik to stand guard.”
“But I’m not—”
“Isabel, you and your lasses will spend the day mending the lads’ stockings.”
The lasses erupted in gasps of disgust while Brand grinned.
But Isabel’s lips and eyes narrowed with scheming. “Of course. We’d be glad to.”
“And don’t even think of sewing them shut,” Hallie said.
Isabel frowned and sighed. “Fine.”
“Brand, you’ll write a letter of apology to the lasses.”
“What? Ach!” He rolled his eyes. “Sod a cod.”
“One without profanity. And all of you—”
“M’lady, come quick!” came a cry from across the courtyard.
She whirled. The young lass who tended the doocot, was wringing her hands. “What is it?”
“Ian. He’s bothering the doves.”
“Again?”
Only a few days before, Ian had absconded with one of the doves, trapping it in the buttery to study its wings. The startled bird had left feathers all over the room and laid an egg under the shelf.
Hallie’s shoulders fell. She’d donned her armor, hoping to get started early on the practice field. Now it seemed she’d be delayed.
“Send the lad up here,” Colban suddenly suggested. “I’ll keep him out o’ trouble.”
Surely he wasn’t serious. Colban may have earned her trust. But no matter how tempting his offer, it was irresponsible to let her brother fraternize with a hostage. Wasn’t it?
“We can play chess,” he added. “I owe the lad for the drubbin’ he gave me yesterday.”
Nay, she didn’t want the Highlander to think she couldn’t handle her own siblings, let alone her own clan. And she absolutely didn’t want to give him the chance to pry any more secrets from loose-lipped Ian.
“I have chores for him,” she lied.
Colban breathed an invisible sigh of disappointment. He liked the lad. And he’d hoped to glean more information from him.
Following the lively entertainment of the morn, most of the day was deadly dull. After a breakfast of frumenty with raisins, he spent the next hours staring at the rafters, stirring the fire, and standing at the window in the hopes of getting a glimpse of the beautiful Valkyrie. She crossed the courtyard several times, but always in a tabard-flapping hurry.
Gellir’s replacement, Erik, standing guard at the courtyard wall, seemed more interested in mining his nose than conversing with a hostage.
Everyone who passed by was on a mission. Herding geese. Transporting goods. Chasing after stray children.
Rivenloch had a busy household. How a single lass managed it all, he didn’t know. Even Morgan, with his much smaller clan, relied upon Colban to be his eyes and ears. To serve as an advisor. A protector. A confidant. And a friend in dark times.
Someone like Colban could have helped Hallie. He’d spent his life at the right hand of a laird. He could spot trouble about to happen and was quick to quell it. He was a worthy diplomat who could broker peace before the rumblings of dissidence ever reached the laird’s ears. He could sense when the laird was stretched too thin, and he was skilled at taking up the slack.
If only they were allies instead of foes, Colban could have lent a hand to the overworked lass.
Instead, he was reduced to pacing the chamber in frustration and boredom.
Thankfully, Ian’s chores didn’t keep the lad busy for the entire day. Just after noon, he arrived, rolling a wheelbarrow full of stones across the sod and dumping them into a pile below Colban’s window.
“Hist, Ian, what’s that?” Colban teased in a loud whisper. “Are ye stackin’ stones to help me escape?” He grinned.
Ian took his question seriously. “Nay, we don’t have enough stones. ’Twould probably take three or four days anyway. And Hallie would notice straightaway.”
“I see. What do ye have planned then?”
“I’m going to teach you to read.”
“Read?” He lifted his brows. “Me? With stones?”
“Hallie won’t let me come to your chamber anymore, so ’tis the best I can do. You should be able to see well enough from there.”
A smile pulled at the corners of Colban’s mouth. Ian might well be the most determined lad he’d ever met.
No one had ever thought to teach Colban to read. The skills required of a laird’s right hand man were a strong arm, a loyal heart, and a keen nose for the scent of danger. Reading was a luxury. At least in the Highlands.
Nonetheless, he was bored. He might as well humor the lad.
So he watched as Ian meticulously arranged some of the rocks into a large curve.
“This is a C,” Ian said. “You can make it with your hand, like so.” He held up his left hand, mimicking the shape by curving his fingers and thumb. “You do it.”
Colban obliged him. “Like the wanin’ sliver o’ the moon.”
“Aye! Now watch,” Ian said, arranging more rocks beside the curve, into a circle. “This is an O.” With a finger, he traced the shape his mouth made as he said the letter.
Colban grinned. “O,” he repeated.
“And next…” Ian placed two rows of rocks in angled lines. “L. ’Tis like a leg with a wee foot.”
“L.”
“C, O, L,” Ian told him, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “COL.”
A shiver tightened the back of Colban’s neck. The same kind of shiver he got when he sensed an impending threat. But this was a frisson of excitement.
“Ye’re writin’ my name,” he said in wonder. He’d never seen it before. “Do the rest,” he urged.
He suddenly realized the value of knowing how to write his name. With such knowledge came power. Men wrote their name at the bottom of documents that imparted land and goods and rights. Betrothals could be forged. Cattle could be purchased. Hell, even Morgan’s claim to Creagor relied upon the king writing his name on a document.
The wee lad was bestowing upon him a gift of great magnitude, whether he knew it or not.
“B,” Ian said, adding in a loud whisper, “which looks like buttocks, aye?”
Colban was going to say breasts. “Aye.”
“And this…is an A.” I
an cocked his head. “I suppose it resembles a wee cottage.”
Colban nodded.
“Lastly…” Ian said, arranging the rocks in a zigzagging line. He scratched at his head. “’Tis an N, but I’m not sure what—”
“’Tis the path o’ my claymore when I knock a blade aside.” He smiled, mimicking the motion with his sword arm.
“That’s it then. C. O. L. B. A. N. COL-BAN. COLBAN.”
It seemed simple enough. Moon, mouth, leg, breasts, cottage, claymore. He could remember that.
“I can’t bring you a notebook,” Ian confided, “but you can practice writing on the hearthstones with ashes from the fire.”
“I can.” He would. Indeed, it would give him a certain satisfaction to inscribe his name on the hearth of his captors.
“Would you like to see my name?” Ian asked.
“Aye.”
“’Tis much shorter. Watch.”
He picked up the stones of the first four letters of Colban’s name. In the empty spot, he made the shape of a single line, like a man standing alone.
“Ian,” the lad said.
Man, cottage, claymore. “Ian,” he repeated.
“Oh! And I can show you Brand,” he offered.
He took away the first letter. In its place he laid out the pair of breasts again, followed by a shape that looked like a knight holding a targe. After the cottage and the claymore, he placed a final letter.
“That looks like an apple coffyn, doesn’t it?” Ian said.
“Aye.” It did resemble the round pastry filled with fruit and folded in half. His belly grumbled with hunger at the suggestion.
“B. R. A. N. D. BRAND.”
Breasts, targe, cottage, claymore, coffyn.
There was just one other word he wanted to see. A word that might serve him well one day.
“Can you write Hallie?”
“Oh, aye!”
Enthused by Colban’s interest, Ian quickly scraped away all of the stones except for the cottage. In front of the cottage, he made a shape like a gate. After the cottage, he placed letters he’d used before—two legs and a man—and added something that resembled the head of a pitchfork.
“H. A. L. L. I. E. HALLIE.”
Bride of Ice Page 9
