Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,10

would sink into his flesh. One slip of her boot, and he’d be decapitated.

He held his breath as she used the silver chain from her leather girdle to bind his wrists. Like the wench herself, it turned out the belt was less a thing of delicate beauty, more a deadly weapon. The chain was not silver as he’d imagined, but forged of interlocking links of strong steel. She must wear it expressly for occasions like this, he thought bitterly, when she decided on a whim to take a man captive.

Once his hands were bound, she removed the blade from his neck.

He exhaled in relief. It seemed he’d keep his head another day.

Then she hunkered down beside him, speaking in a soft, low, throaty voice. A voice at odds with her harsh words.

“Make no trouble, and I won’t have to mutilate you. But cry out, and I’ll gag you with your own leine. Attack me, and I’ll relieve you of an ear. Try to run, and I’ll bind your ankles and drag you to Rivenloch. Do you understand?”

He glared at her boots. Aye, he understood. But he was too full of frustration and shame to meet her eyes. His mouth worked as he resisted the urge to defy her.

“Do you understand?” she repeated.

“Aye,” he growled.

How could his noble intentions have gone so wrong? How could he have let her make him a hostage? He should have left her to the wolves. Hell, she might have singlehandedly slaughtered the whole pack.

In the end, he had no choice but to admit he’d been bested by a lass. Much to his chagrin and disgrace and fury.

Of course, he had no intention of letting her take him all the way to Rivenloch. He’d be vigilant. Sooner or later there would be a moment of weakness. Complacency. Misplaced trust.

Whether she helped or hauled him to his feet was a matter of opinion. Somehow he managed to stand. Then, at the prodding of the claymore, he started down the trail.

His fate might be bleak. But the morn was no reflection of that. As if mocking his misery, the sun danced merrily among the branches. Squirrels made chase across the mulch as they foraged for fallen acorns. Birds seized the rare moment of autumn sunlight to twitter madly from the trees.

He expected the warrior maid to be cocky. Full of swagger and bragging. Proud and gleeful, like the morn.

Instead, she traversed the bright woods as quietly as winter, silencing the autumn cheer like solemn frost.

He supposed she had good reason to be sober. No doubt the weight of what she was doing lay heavy upon her shoulders. Absconding with him to Rivenloch, she was playing a dangerous game of chess.

Laird Morgan held her queens. And she meant to get them back, using—for leverage—one of his valuable knights.

But she didn’t realize the truth.

Colban an Curaidh might be Morgan’s right hand man. But he was hardly valuable. He wasn’t even a proper member of the clan. He was baseborn. A foundling. An outcast. The mac Girics might have taken him in. But he was an outsider.

Even as a lad, he’d recognized that.

And as an adult, he knew his place.

Colban was a pawn. And pawns were meant to be sacrificed.

Still, he’d prefer not to lose any body parts in defense of his laird.

The lass had claimed his claymore. But he still had a formidable weapon at his disposal. The persuasive power of his words.

Chapter 6

This wasn’t the first time Hallie had taken a captive. She knew all their tricks. Charging like an ox. Yelling for help. Fleeing on foot. Feigning illness.

She hoped he wouldn’t try anything foolish. The thought of marring his handsome face bothered her.

Of course, she’d do what she had to do. But she wasn’t so blinded by purpose that she couldn’t see how magnificent a man he was. Nor what a shame it would be to ruin such magnificence.

Not only did he exceed her in height. He possessed a fine figure as well. His shoulders were broad. His legs were long. His arms were capable.

But aside from his warrior attributes, there was something in his face—as damaged as it was—that quickened her heart.

Behind the bruises, his dark brown eyes shone with wisdom and experience, like ancient polished gems. Beneath the cut on his forehead, his brow creased with earnest honor. His nose was straight, and his cheekbones were unbroken, signs of expert fighting skills. His square jaw was covered with stubble a shade darker than the streaked blond