Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,105

of them were Hallie. This lass was too short. That one too ruddy. One reminded him of a nun he’d once met. Another was old enough to be his mother.

Then he realized any one of them could have been his mother. Struggling for survival. Trying to support herself and her bastard son. Painting on a smile that belied the horror of her existence. Subjecting herself to the tawdry whims of whatever brute pressed a coin into her palm.

Despite being steeped in ale, he instantly sobered.

Gazing around the room at young faces aged by abuse and rejection, he wished he had enough silver to free them all.

Discouraged, he returned to the inn, which by now was teeming with soused patrons.

“Ye’re back quick,” the innkeeper said with a chortle. “The lasses do right by ye?”

Colban shook his head and gestured for another drink.

“Nay?” As the innkeeper filled his cup, he leaned in close so no one else could hear. “Maybe ye’re interested in somethin’ out o’ the ordinary?”

Colban frowned. “Out o’ the ordinary?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Somethin’ of a…different…nature.”

Colban’s frown deepened. What the hell did that mean?

The innkeeper, sensing Colban’s disapproval, raised his palms defensively. “’Tis up to ye. Just let me know if ye’re in the market for, well…”

“Somethin’ out o’ the ordinary.”

“Aye.” He raised his brows toward the corner of the room. Alone at the table, a pale, black-haired nobleman with thin lips and a sharp nose sat with his beringed fingers wrapped around his ale, surveying the inn in quiet speculation. “If ye’ve got coin, the gentleman there can look after your…unusual requirements. I can make the introductions.”

Colban studied the man. He looked like a lizard, waiting in coldblooded calculation, seeking his next fly.

The innkeeper confided, “’Tis said Sir Geoffrey procured special entertainment for the laird’s son.”

“The laird’s son?”

“Aye, Archibald Scott himself, though he’s gone now.”

Colban furrowed his brows. Archibald Scott. That name sounded familiar. Wasn’t it the name Isabel kept muttering at him at Morgan’s wedding? The one he didn’t want to hear? The name of Hallie’s betrothed? Surely it couldn’t be the same man.

“He’s gone, ye say?”

“Aye,” the innkeeper said, shaking his head. “Sent away by the new king. Wedded to a Lowland warrior bride as cold as ice.” He shuddered.

Colban’s world tipped on its edge.

Dread kicked him in the gut.

That had to be the same Archibald Scott.

But what “special entertainment” had Archibald Scott required? God’s blood. What kind of twisted monster had the king sent to wed his Hallie?

He set down the ale. Done with drinking. He needed to speak with Sir Geoffrey. And for that he needed a clear head.

Hallie woke abruptly. The winter moon cast a thin sliver of light through the shutters. It was not enough to see by. But she didn’t need her eyes to tell her what had made her stir. Her ears told her everything she needed to know.

Archie apparently thought she was sleeping. Otherwise, he wouldn’t engage in such licentious activity. Wrinkling her nose at the pungent smell of wool grease, she heard the sounds of moist, rhythmic smacking and Archie snatching quivering breaths through his teeth, as if he were having a nightmare.

He was pleasuring himself.

She wasn’t annoyed. Only mystified. He wasn’t completely incapable of lust then. He was only anxious with her.

It was all ridiculous. No matter how fierce she was in battle, in bed she’d been as harmless as a kitten. She’d let him take the lead. She’d acquiesced with his preference for the dark, for silence, for complacency.

But now she had a reason for assertiveness, for urgency.

Sometimes in war, it was merciful to be quick. Rather than letting the enemy languish in unnecessary dread, it was best to dispatch things quickly.

Perhaps if she could waylay him while he was aroused…

Casting caution to the wind, she took swift action. While he was in the throes of passion, she tossed off the coverlet and flung a leg over his thighs.

He shrieked in surprise and threw up his hands.

“Here,” she coaxed. “Let me help you.”

Climbing atop him, she wrapped her fingers around his stiff, greasy stump, angling it toward her waiting womb.

But he shuddered beneath her, shriveling in her hand, letting out a mournful moan of defeat.

She silently cursed. She wasn’t angry. Not really. Mostly she felt sorry for him. And for herself, she felt terribly frustrated.

They’d been wed for three months now, and this was the longest, most agonizing siege she’d endured. Despite letting down her guard and opening the palisade gates, he still hadn’t managed to breach