Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,18

by Colban’s ready agreement.

So Colban explained to him, “Like ye, I want this matter settled as quickly as possible. Without bloodshed.” He’d seen the might of the Rivenloch knights. To challenge them before reinforcements arrived at Creagor would be suicide. “A negotiation is always preferable to a skirmish.” He glanced again at Hallie. “Right?”

For one precious instant, Hallie’s eyes softened in surprise. For one precious instant, he felt the warmth of her approval and wondered what it would be like to feel the heat of her love.

Then she lowered her gaze. And when she lifted it again, her eyes were glazed over with ice. She’d returned to being his captor.

Eyeing his claymore, propped against the wall, she told Rauve, “Hang that thing in the armory. Out of Brand’s reach.”

And then, as brisk as the winter wind, she swept from the room.

“She’s a fine one,” Rauve remarked when Hallie had gone.

“Aye,” Colban agreed. It was a shame they were foes. She would make a good ally. And he could think of things he’d rather do with the lovely lass than fight her.

“Sharp,” Rauve said. “Beautiful. Powerful enough to cleave a man’s arm clean off, aye?”

Colban blinked, startled. Then he saw Rauve was examining his claymore. “Oh. Aye.”

“Do all your men carry these?” Rauve asked casually.

The guard wasn’t fooling him. Like any clever warrior, Rauve was attempting to discover the strength of his enemy.

“All o’ them,” Colban said with a glitter of humor in his eyes. “E’en the bairns.”

Rauve smirked at Colban’s jest.

“But ye needn’t fret,” he told Rauve. “My laird won’t attack Rivenloch. Not to ransom a bastard. Hell, I doubt he’ll notice I’m missin’.”

That was a lie. But he hoped, once Morgan discovered that both his right hand man and the Valkyrie were gone, he’d assume that Colban had gone after the lass and would ultimately capture her. Not the other way round.

Under that assumption, Morgan had no reason to come to Rivenloch. The laird’s best course of action was to hold onto the two remaining lasses until the messengers from the king arrived with the documents that would prove his ownership of Creagor.

If all went well, the prisoner exchange would be bloodless.

“You may be a bastard,” Rauve said, rubbing doubtfully at his jaw. “But I doubt you’re worthless. Not carrying a blade like that.”

A tapping at the door saved him from having to defend his worthlessness.

It was an apple-cheeked old woman.

“Hallie said I’m to treat his injuries,” she explained to Rauve, showing him her things.

“Burunild,” the guard grunted, motioning her in.

As she crouched beside Colban to dab at his cuts and bruises, she shook her head and clucked her tongue in sympathy.

He wondered if she’d feel the same, knowing he’d earned the injuries in a fair fight and that he’d done just as much damage to Morgan.

While she was finishing, another rap came at the door. A young lass—one he’d seen in the courtyard, giggling with Isabel—had brought him breakfast. She turned pink at once, shoving the tray of frumenty and oatcakes at him, and then wheeling with a delighted squeak as she hurried out the door.

“Witless wench,” the old woman muttered.

The enticing scent of apples and warm oats made his belly rumble.

“Poor lad. Did your laird starve you as well?” the old woman asked with a frown as she gathered her things. As she rose to go, she leaned down and confided in a loud whisper, “You might be better off staying here at Rivenloch. You’d be treated fairly. No one beats a servant here. Faith, half the clan maidens are already twitter-pated o’er you. You’d probably find a wife in no time.”

“That will be enough, Burunild,” Rauve said, ushering her out the door and closing it behind them.

Colban found the woman’s words amusing and thought-provoking. He was being treated more like an honored guest than a hostage. He shook his head, wondering what would happen if a hostage refused to be returned.

After the tender care of his injuries and enjoying a hearty and delicious meal, he sat on the edge of the bed, intending to rest a moment before determining his next course of action.

Hours later, he awoke with a snort. He found himself sprawled in the middle of the plush velvet coverlet with his long legs hanging off the bed. He rose up on his elbows, blinking to clear his vision.

Then he rasped in a startled gasp.

From within the folds of the bedhangings, studying him with the intensity of a hawk on the hunt was a