Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,129

still couldn’t believe she was his. That the stars had aligned and everything had worked out right.

The clans had agreed it was wolves that had killed Archibald Scott.

The king, made aware of Hallie’s condition, had granted her request to wed Colban.

Now Colban was going to be Morgan’s neighbor. He was getting a second clan. Brothers and a sister. And the most beautiful woman in all of Scotland as his wife.

He would be her helpmate, her right hand man, her champion. No longer would she have to shoulder the burden of leadership alone. No longer would she have to face the prospect of raising a fatherless child. No longer would she be forced to wed a man she didn’t love.

He intended to cherish his wife for the rest of their years. Starting tonight.

Hallie’s shining hair, crowned by a silver circlet, fell like pale satin over her lovely shoulders. Her lips, full and ripe, curved up in the slightest hint of a smile. Her eyes beckoned him with sultry blue promise.

“Are you going to stand there all night, Highlander,” she murmured, raking his body with her gaze, “or do you want to show me what you can do with your trusty blade?”

Giving her a smoky grin, he pushed off the door, unbuckling his belt.

Hallie shivered with anticipation. Though it had been months, her body remembered well the thrill of coupling with him.

This time, however, it was different. More thoughtful. More tender. There was more than wild passion in their lovemaking.

Together they crested the rise of their desire with their eyes locked, their hands clasped, their souls entwined. A deeper bond secured them, promising an infinite well of joy and love in the years ahead.

As their bodies glided together in the pursuit of pleasure, the pressure growing inside them was more than physical. It was the blossoming of something more. A union as powerful and everlasting as metals forged into steel.

They ascended together, soaring above the earth. Timeless. Weightless. When they could remain aloft no longer, they gasped in ecstasy, bursting into a thousand fragments and falling softly to the ground like flakes of snow.

Hallie lay back on the bed. Satiated. Drained. Exhausted. A warm and welcome carelessness settled over her in the afterglow of love. For those few moments, she felt no responsibility. She felt only utter bliss.

Summoning up the strength to turn her head toward Colban, it appeared he shared her carefree euphoria. A soft sparkle of delight lingered in his shining brown eyes. But the rest of him lay as limp and spent as a landed salmon.

For several long moments Hallie reveled in this haven, far from the outside world. Here there was no responsibility. No conflict. No challenges to face. No problems to solve. There was only peace and contentment.

Eventually, the elixir of love soothing her mind wore off, and her sense of honor and obligation returned. After all, she couldn’t dwell in a lofty paradise forever. But it was enough to know this place existed. And she intended to return to it as often as possible.

She smiled at her husband, who never ceased to amaze her with his gentle humor, his fierce devotion, his honest heart, his unflagging courage.

But duty called. She had a precious gift for him. One she’d managed to conceal until this moment. One she couldn’t give to anyone but him.

Before she could speak, Colban’s eyes lit up. “I have a wee gift for ye.”

She supposed hers could wait. “Is it the wee gift you keep in your braies?” she teased.

He clucked his tongue at her. “Wicked wench.”

He threw back the linens and hopped up from the bed. She rose on one elbow, savoring the sight of his sculpted shoulders, his broad chest, his narrow hips. Then he crouched down to fetch something from under the bed.

When he rose again, what he showed her took her breath away.

She scrambled upright. “Is that…”

He grinned. “Your own claymore.”

Her fingers trembled as she clasped the haft in both hands.

It was magnificent. A long blade of flawless polished steel. A hefty crossguard. A leather grip, soft and yielding. Heavy, but well-balanced.

“Do ye like it?”

“Oh, aye,” she breathed. It was the best wedding gift ever.

“I did that bit on the pommel myself,” he mumbled.

She turned the sword to look. He’d carved her name.

“You did this?”

He nodded, coloring.

“’Tis perfect,” she sighed.

Her heart melted. This man, born under the most unfortunate circumstances, had pulled himself up from his humble beginnings and become a champion. He’d shrugged off his past. He’d mastered the