Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,14

mean? The One.

“Cease, Isabel,” Hallie bit out. To Colban’s amazement, the unflappable Valkyrie was blushing. “’Tisn’t what you—”

Isabel gasped, then blurted out, “I’ll plan the wedding! We can have it after Martinmas, when the snow’s on the ground, and—”

“Weddin’!” The word burst out of Colban, unbidden. Was that what the lass meant, calling him The One?

“Enough, brat,” Rauve said, planting himself squarely in Isabel’s path. Then he addressed Hallie, nodding toward Colban. “Where would you like me to stow him?”

“Oh!” Isabel exclaimed. “Our bedchamber! He can have my side of the bed, Hallie, and I’ll sleep with Swannoc,” she eagerly offered. “That way, the two of you can be together.”

The horrified look on Hallie’s face would have been amusing, had it not mirrored Colban’s own shock.

The young lass, impatient with Rauve’s interference, gave his black beard a hard sideways yank. He staggered out of her way. Then she glided forward, flashing Colban a kind smile.

“I’m Isabel, Hallie’s sister. Who are you?”

“He’s nobody,” Rauve growled, rubbing his offended chin.

“He’s not a guest,” Hallie told her. “He’s a hostage.”

The smile froze on Isabel’s face as she glimpsed Colban’s chained hands. Then, perusing his injured face, her brow crumpled in dismay. “Did you do this, Hallie? Did you hurt him?”

“’Tisn’t your concern,” Hallie snapped, clearly upset by the accusation.

Isabel pouted. “How could you be so coldhearted, Hallie? That’s why it’s taken you so long to find The One. Everyone’s afraid of you.”

Hallie’s gasp of hurt was so slight it was almost imperceptible. But Colban heard it. Her sister had touched a nerve.

In the next instant, Hallie’s eyes frosted over. “Go back to bed, Isabel.”

“Bed?” Isabel scoffed. “I’ve been up for hours. So why are you holding him hostage?”

“I warned you,” Hallie bit out, “this is not your affair.”

“’Tis, if I’m giving him my side of the bed.”

“You’ll do no such thing. He’ll stay in…in…”

She struggled to come up with a proper cell. Apparently, none of the Border castles had been built with accommodations for prisoners.

“The laird’s chamber is empty at present,” Rauve suggested, “I can keep watch over him there.”

“Aye. Good.” Hallie straightened. Then she faced Isabel. “As for you, say a word to anyone about this, and I’ll throttle you with your braid. Do you understand?”

Isabel scowled. “See?” She picked up her skirts, and stomped off, snarling back over her shoulder, “A heart of ice.”

Hallie wanted to smack her meddling sister.

The One indeed.

She compressed her lips.

There was no such thing as The One.

There never would be.

Not for Hallie.

Hallie was destined to be a powerful laird. She had no use for a husband, except to forge a favorable alliance and create heirs. And for that, a suitable match would be chosen for her by the king.

Her wee sister was a foolish lass. A hopeless romantic. She believed in true love. In couples destined to be together. In happily ever after.

Maybe that would be true for Isabel. As the fourth in line, she was a lass with no responsibilities. No expectations.

For Hallie, however, love was not in the stars.

But a heart of ice?

Hallie only did what she had to do. What was required of a woman in her position. She’d had to harden her heart in order to survive.

Nonetheless, as she nudged the captive forward, she took care not to jab him too forcefully with the point of the sword. There was no need to be unnecessarily rough. After all, a damaged hostage was of little value.

The moment they breached the castle walls, Hallie knew Isabel had disobeyed her. What had the wag-tongue told the clan? That her captive was The One? That Hallie had beaten a defenseless man to a bloody pulp? That she meant to keep him in her bedchamber?

Whatever it was, the news of an exciting arrival had spread like wildfire. It seemed the entire clan had rushed to the courtyard—some fresh from their beds—eager to feast their eyes on the captive. They stared at him as if they’d never seen a hostage before.

“Shite,” she muttered.

Brand, Hallie’s middle brother, loped up to meet her. At fifteen, he was half-lad, half-man. His upper lip was downy, but he still moved like an awkward pup.

“Is it true?” he asked, his face alight as he perused the captive. “Did he put up a fight?” Then he spied her sword. “Sard a bard! Look at that sword. You seized it from him, didn’t you, Hallie? Is that a claymore?”

“Aye,” she said with a scowl. She didn’t need her little brother admiring the weapons of the