Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,16

wished she could forget it.

She spoke just enough of the Highland tongue to translate his title.

Colban the Champion.

Not mac Giric. Not mac anything. How valuable could the Highlander be if he didn’t have his clan’s surname?

Chapter 8

Colban had to admire the Valkyrie. For a lass of tender years, she had her clan well in hand. She was levelheaded, brilliant, and in command.

Now that he’d taken the measure of the warriors in the courtyard, he was relieved they didn’t intend to attack Creagor. Not only were mac Giric’s forces outnumbered. Aside from Morgan and himself, their men would have been dwarfed by the towering Rivenloch knights, half of whom looked like Vikings straight off a longboat.

He didn’t fool himself. Things could still go badly.

When Hallie discovered that Creagor did indeed belong to the mac Giric clan by right of the king, her air of calm could very well turn to frost. She might—with calculating malice and a cold heart—use him as a pawn in a deadly game of revenge.

But he’d glimpsed something in the courtyard that gave him hope.

He’d seen how much Hallie loved her clan.

From her infuriating, dreamy-eyed romantic of a sister. To the fierce young man eager to defend her. From the gape-jawed lad with the curious mind. To the grizzled black bear of a guard who had her back.

Hallie wouldn’t do anything to bring harm to them. He was sure of it.

All Colban had to do was keep the peace and make no trouble.

As Rauve steered him past the bevy of young lasses, who were fluttering their lashes and sharing secrets behind their hands, he thought that might be easier said than done.

He was glad when Rauve ushered him to safety in the great hall, securing the door behind him.

Then Colban stopped in his tracks. He’d already been amazed at first sight of the castle, which was easily twice the size of Creagor and far more imposing than anything in the Highlands. The outer wall, with its gate offset from the inner wall, was ingenious. The enormous courtyard, which enclosed numerous stalls and gardens, was impressive. The keep at its center was well-fortified and well-guarded.

But the great hall was a thing of majesty. Its ceiling soared high above the rush-covered floor. Morning light streamed in through the arched windows, illuminating dozens of colorful shields and pennons hung on the walls.

They were trophies, he realized. The trophies of defeated enemies. And there were at least a score of them. His let out a breath. He hoped he could keep the targe of mac Giric from hanging among them.

Rauve guided him up a set of spiraling stairs at one corner of the hall, then along a passage to a wide oak door.

“A word of warning,” Rauve grumbled. “Hallie may be a wisp of a thing. But don’t underestimate her.”

Colban nodded, though he wouldn’t call Hallie “a wisp of a thing.”

“You’ll be imprisoned here,” Rauve continued. “But as long as you act honorably, you’ll be treated with fairness. You’ll also be safe. Her brother might issue threats, but he’ll do you no harm.”

Colban appreciated Rauve’s reassurances. Her brother’s smoldering, youthful rage couldn’t be easy to contain.

“To be honest,” Colban confided, “I’m more worried about Hallie’s schemin’ sister.”

To his surprise, the growling guard actually barked out a laugh at that. “Isabel’s a lovesick lass, to be sure. But she’s not grown enough to get past my sword. At least not yet.”

Rauve opened the door to a beautifully appointed bedchamber.

Colban thought there must be some mistake. This was hardly a prison cell. It was, however, proof of Hallie’s evenhandedness. After all, her cousins were being held in similarly luxurious quarters at Creagor.

“Hell,” Rauve groused. “Someone left the shutters open. I’ll get a fire going. You’re no good to us, frozen to death.”

Colban murmured, “I’m a Highlander. ’Twould take more than this kiss o’ frost to freeze my bones, I assure ye.”

He perused the chamber. A large bed draped at the corners in dark blue velvet took up most of the room. A carved oak chest stood at its foot. The hearth was flanked by a chair with cushions and a small table, which held a wash basin, a ewer, a stack of linens, and a small assortment of combs and bottles. Three empty cloak pegs and a sconce with a beeswax candle graced one wall. And a small curtained opening indicated an adjoining garderobe. It was the grandest bedchamber he’d ever seen.

“Sit,” Rauve commanded, guiding him to the chair while he gathered up