“Hallie,” Colban breathed. Gate, cottage, leg, leg, man, pitchfork.
“That’s all for now,” Ian decided. “I’ll show you more later. I’ve got to take these rocks to the garden.”
“My thanks, lad.”
“Be sure to practice.”
“I will.”
His own name he’d scrawl on the Rivenloch’s hearth.
Hallie’s name he’d sear into his memory.
Chapter 14
Hallie became so busy, she never made it to the practice field.
First there was a squabble in the kitchens when Tommy the turnbrochie fell asleep at his post and burned the roast.
Then she had to assist when one of the hounds began delivering a litter of four pups.
No sooner did she finish with the birth than the maidservant Gillian tripped over a cat on her way to the kitchens, cracking the entire basket of eggs meant to replace the burned roast. The cat lapped up the remains, further enraging the cook.
Next, a sheep slipped into a bog and needed rescuing.
Then she had to scribble out a hasty order for Abygail so the maid could purchase cloth for winter garments before the market closed.
Three coos went missing, likely reived by the neighboring Lachland lads. Hallie sent the Gordon twins off to reive them back.
After shooing Ian out of the doocot, she’d tasked him with transporting stones from the orchard to the herb garden, mostly just to keep him occupied and out of trouble.
But now that it was nearing time for supper, she figured the lad had come inside. After searching every inch of the keep, from the storerooms to the garderobes, the unthinkable occurred to her.
Against her orders, Ian might have returned to their parents’ bedchamber to play chess with the hostage.
She took the stairs two at a time.
Rauve pushed off the door when she arrived. “What is it?”
Her heart in her throat, she asked, “Ian. Did he go in?” She nodded at the door.
“Nay. No one’s come in or out since breakfast.”
She wasn’t convinced. After all, Ian had hidden in the room all day yesterday, unbeknownst to any of them. The lad had a knack for finding his way into all sorts of places he wasn’t supposed to be.
“Let me in,” she said.
“Are you sure?” Rauve asked. He clearly disapproved of any contact between the hostage and the laird he was assigned to protect.
“Aye.”
With a disgruntled scowl, he stepped aside.
When she pushed open the door, the Highlander was hunkered down before the fire with a chunk of coal, looking as guilty as hell. He glanced up, biting his lip, like a lad caught with his hand in the honey jar. When she saw what he’d done, she understood why.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded with cold accusation. “Defacing the laird’s bedchamber?”
Even as he flushed with guilt, he managed to shrug in defiance. “There’s naught else to do.”
Behind her, Rauve growled. “I could find him something to—”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said, closing the door and shutting Rauve out of the conversation before she glided forward. “So what filth have you drawn there?”
She expected a lewd illustration of fornicators or a bawdy depiction of a cock and ballocks. It was the sort of scribbling her brothers loved to leave in the garderobes.
Instead, he’d written his name.
“Colban?” she read.
He blinked in surprise. “Ye can read that?”
“Of course.”
The Rivenloch children had all been taught to read. Reading empowered a person. And since Hallie was to inherit the lairdship, it was vital that she be able to understand contracts and documents.
But she realized it was a rare talent for a woman to possess. And the fact that he was staring at her with wonder and admiration secretly pleased her.
“I did it right then?” he asked.
“What?”
“I wrote the letters right?”
She realized his eyes were sparkling, not with amazement over her ability to read, but with pride over his ability to write. Indeed, he seemed so pleased, she decided she wouldn’t tell him the L was backwards. But before she could marvel at how a Highland warrior—an orphan and a bastard—could come by such knowledge, he gave her the answer.
“Ian was showin’ me a few words.”
She lowered her brows and scanned the room. “Ian is here?”
“Nay, just outside.”
She brushed past him and went to the window. Sure enough, the lad was in the courtyard, tossing rocks from the grass into the wheelbarrow. But she could clearly see the pattern of the remaining stones on the sod. They made an incriminating H.
“Ian!” she barked. “What are you doing?”
The lad jumped. “What you asked. Taking the stones to the herb garden. I just spilled a few.”
“Oh aye? Then what’s that?” She nodded to the letter.
“How did that happen?” he marveled. “’Tis a perfect H.”
“Ian,” she warned, “were you teaching the hostage to read?”
He kicked at the wheel of the wheelbarrow. “Maybe.” In his defense, he added, “’Tis so boring to cart stones back and forth, Hallie. Besides, Da says the gift of knowledge is the best gift of all.”
Hallie sighed. Ian was bright and well-intentioned, but sometimes his affections were misplaced. “I don’t think he meant for you to give gifts to hostages.”
“Sorry.”
“So what is the H for?”
He hesitated, and then gave her a wide-eyed smile. “Hostage.”
Colban coughed.
Ian was a quick thinker. That was certain. But Colban didn’t suppose Hallie was going to allow him to continue his lessons.
Sensing she might punish the lad for his efforts, he told her, “’Tis my fault. I was restless. I asked the lad to entertain me.”
She arched a fine brow. “You’re lucky he didn’t entertain you with the trebuchet again. He might have knocked out your teeth.”
He chuckled.
Her eyes glimmered in response.
Hallie of Rivenloch was not coldhearted at all. Though why Isabel thought so was understandable. Like a rampaging Valkyrie, Hallie could steel herself to look fierce and full of icy threat.
But behind that shield was a woman of subtle wit and warm humor. A woman who certainly commanded his respect. But also a woman he could grow to like.
He hoped he wouldn’t need to betray her.
“You must be hungry,” she said. “Supper is on its way. I’ve no idea what the cook has made. The turnbrochie burned the roast, and the maidservant cracked the basket of eggs meant to replace it. But—”
She was interrupted by a knock on the door.
Rauve called out from the other side. “Supper for the hostage?”
“Come in,” she said.
It was Isabel who brought supper, though Colban was more interested in what was on the platter than who was carrying it. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d become. But he did notice the array had been made up for two again.
“I’ve come to apologize,” she told him with a meek bow of her head, “for our shameful behavior this morn. The words you heard were spoken in the heat of battle. I assure you ’tis not our normal manner of speech and—”
Hallie choked over that obvious falsehood, but let her continue.
“And I assure you, ’twill not happen again.”
Colban gave her a nod of acceptance. “We’ll speak no more of it, aye?” He reached eagerly for the platter.
Hallie grasped his forearm to stop him and narrowed her eyes at her sister. “You didn’t flavor the wine again, did you?”
Isabel shook her head.
“And are you finished with the lads’ stockings?”
“Aye.”
“Good,” she said, adding pointedly, “You’re free to go now.”
A twinkle emerged in Isab
el’s eyes as she whispered to him. “’Twas so brave of you to come to Hallie’s rescue.”
“Isabel,” Hallie warned.
“He did, Hallie. You’re just too stubborn to see it.”
“Off with you,” Hallie ordered, “ere I find more stockings for you to mend.”
The lass scurried out the door, sidling past a gray-haired man with his cap in his hands and a worried frown on his face.
“Sorry to trouble you, Hallie,” he said, “but the stallion’s loose in the lists again.”
Hallie gave a last longing look at the platter of food. “Enjoy your supper.” Then she followed the man out the door.
Despite his hunger, Colban was sorry to see her go.
Meanwhile, Rauve still stood in the doorway, scratching at his beard and glancing at the supper. The man must be hungry as well. Like Colban, he’d had no relief all day. He supposed it would be rude not to share.
“Come join me,” he said. “There’s enough for two.” To be honest, Colban was hungry enough to finish off both coffyns, the entire trencher of pottage, the two tankards of ale, and the pair of berry-topped custards winking at him from the tray.
Rauve tried and failed to look reluctant. “Perhaps I will,” he grumbled. “I’d go down to the great hall to sup, but no one’s here to relieve me. And Hallie’s got her hands full today.”
“So it seems. Come in.”
The coffyns were flaky, stuffed with smoky bacon and onions. Thick vegetable pottage filled a pair of trenchers. The tankards brimmed with cool, foamy ale. And the cream-colored custard was drizzled generously with honey and chopped rosemary.
Honey and rosemary. Colban shook his head. It seemed the scheming Isabel had done it again. He wondered if Rauve would fall prey to the lass’s love potion.
He didn’t. After wolfing down his portion, Rauve smacked his lips, wiped his beard, gave Colban a nod, and returned to his post.
And Colban returned to practicing letters, drawing them on the hearth with a piece of coal, then wiping them away with the sleeve of his shirt.
The shadows had grown long and his saffron sleeve was black with ash when he heard the sound of swordplay outside his window.
In the courtyard below, by the afternoon light, a well-rested Gellir battled with Brand. This time it was no wild and angry fight, but a controlled practice. The brothers moved slowly, studying each angle of attack, working out new defenses.
He watched them for several moments as they repeated the same movement over and over. Gellir slashed at Brand’s head. Brand deflected the blow with his shield. Then Gellir wheeled away, returning to lunge forward with a thrust to Brand’s heart.
Each time, Brand had difficulty crossing his shield quickly enough from high on one side to counter the strike on the opposite side.
“Brand,” Colban finally called down. “Instead o’ blockin’ his second thrust head-on with your shield, turn sideways. That way ye can dodge the blow and divert it with your blade.”
“What?” Brand asked, squinting up toward the window.
“No one asked you, hostage,” Gellir sneered.
Colban shrugged. “Just tryin’ to help the lad.”
“He doesn’t need the help of a Highlander.”
“Wait,” Brand said. “What did you say?”
“Don’t listen to him, Brand,” Gellir growled.
“After ye toss away his first blow,” Colban said, “turn sideways to him. Use your blade to deflect the second thrust.”
“Like this?” Brand lifted his shield high on his left, then turned to his left side, leaving his sword arm behind him.
“Nay, turn the other way, to the right side.”
“What would you know of real fighting anyway?” Gellir argued. “You’ve probably never even seen an Englishman.”
“True. But unless they’re twelve feet tall with horns and claws, I suppose they fight the same as any other men.”
“So like this?” Brand asked. After raising his shield, he turned to the right, sweeping his blade before him.
“Aye, exactly. Ye make a smaller target that way, and your blade does the work o’ defense.”
“Come at me, Gellir,” Brand said, facing his brother.
“’Tisn’t going to work,” Gellir warned.
“Come.”
Of course, it did work.
Brand was delighted.
Gellir was peeved.
“What else can you show me?” Brand asked.
“Traitor,” Gellir accused.
“’Tisn’t treason to steal the weapons of the enemy,” Brand countered.
Gellir fumed in silence.
Colban took that as a challenge.
“I have another maneuver,” he said. “But I doubt ye can do it.”
“What is it? I can do it,” Brand said. “Let me try.”
“I don’t know,” he said with a dubious grimace, rubbing his chin. “It requires a steady hand and a long reach. Maybe when ye’re older…”
“Show me.”
Gellir scowled. “Brand, he already said you can’t do it.”
“I want to try.”
Colban shook his head. “Very well. But I’m warnin’ ye, take care. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I won’t.”
While Gellir crossed his arms and glowered, Colban talked Brand through the motions.
“First, ye sweep your sword just inches above your foe’s head, like so.” He demonstrated a leftward slice. “’Twill make him duck, aye? Then, while ye’re spinnin’ away with the force o’ your sword, ye toss your shield o’er his right shoulder.”
“Toss away your shield?” Gellir’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “Oh, that’s brilliant.”
“Aye, and here’s the key,” Colban said. “While he’s distracted by the shield, ye come full circle with your blade, dropping it low to knock his feet out from under him.”
Gellir scoffed. “Oh, aye.”
“’Tis tricky. Not many can do it,” Colban said with a shrug. “But ye can try.”
“Come on, Gellir,” Brand said. “Come at me.”
“This is stupid,” Gellir muttered. Still, he unfolded his arms, picked up his shield, and swept up his blade.
Brand extended his weapon as far as he could to graze Gellir’s head. But no matter how many times he made the attempt, the angle was too steep. He wasn’t tall enough for the maneuver.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Gellir said.
Colban sighed. “Aye, ye’re a wee bit too short. Maybe when ye’re full-grown…”
“I’m full-grown,” Gellir snapped. “Come on, Brand. Let me try it.”
Colban stifled a smile as Gellir performed the move with carefully measured grace. He swept his blade easily over Brand’s head. Cast his shield over the lad’s shoulder. And spun round to ostensibly finish him at the ankles.
The defeated Brand was the one to cheer. “Swive a swan! That was brilliant, Gellir. I was fully waylaid by your shield, even when I knew ’twas coming! Do it again!”
Gellir wore an expression of reluctant pride. “Fine.”
He repeated the maneuver a dozen times. Each time, his speed increased and his accuracy improved.
“I didn’t think ye could do it, Gellir,” Colban said. “But ye’ve got the grace of an assassin. Fluid and deadly.”
His praise clearly pleased Gellir, though the lad was determined not to show it.
“So now I have to work out a defense,” Brand decided.
“Against that?” Gellir scoffed. “There is no defense.”
“I’ll find one,” Brand said. “Go again. Slowly.”
Colban was fascinated by their process. It made sense. Working out a defense should be the natural extension of any new offense developed within the ranks of one’s own army. It would better all the warriors’ skills.
Eventually, Brand did find a good defense.
The seventh time Gellir swung around low with his sword, Brand simply jumped over it. The momentum
of his unobstructed blade threw Gellir off-balance. Brand gave him a shove with his shield that sent Gellir stumbling backward.
Colban was impressed.
So was Hallie, who arrived in the courtyard just in time to witness the exchange.
“Clever, lads,” she decreed. “Did you come up with that yourselves?”
Gellir glanced up at the window. Colban quickly withdrew into the shadows. He’d let the lad take credit.
But before Gellir could reply, Brand boasted, “I came up with the defense.”
“Let me try,” Hallie said.
Colban arched a brow as he peered out from the darkness. Borrowing Brand’s sword and shield, Hallie mimicked Gellir’s attack.
Colban had thought Gellir an agile fighter. But Hallie moved with an elegance and economy of motion that was breathtaking to behold. Her arc with the blade was seamless. She tossed off her shield with the ease of a falconer releasing a bird of prey. And when she swept her sword low, it was with such speed that Gellir barely had time to jump up to avoid being cut off at the ankles.
The lad managed to evade injury. But when he looked up toward Colban again, seeking his approval, Colban withdrew entirely from the window.
He told himself he wanted to let the lads bask in their own glory.
But the truth was, watching Hallie was doing something strange to him.
His heart thrummed.
His blood warmed to a simmer.
And there was a definite tightening in his trews that hinted at something more than a thirst for battle.
Chapter 15
Hallie followed Gellir’s gaze to the window. It was empty. Perhaps the lads hoped to impress the Highlander with their fighting skills.
But Colban was probably busy, defacing the plaster walls with the letters Ian had taught him.
She sighed and returned to sparring with her brothers, distracted by troubling thoughts. Though she hated to admit it, she’d hoped to impress the Highlander with her fighting skills.
She told herself it was to earn his respect.
No matter the outcome of the siege ahead—whether Rivenloch or mac Giric won Creagor—it would be useful for Colban to witness firsthand the fighting strength of her clan.
If he saw it for himself, he would pass the information along to his laird. Rivenloch’s reputation as a force to be reckoned with would stand. And if the king ultimately decreed they should be neighbors, that knowledge would ensure they’d live in peace.
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