Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,19

young lad with ice-blond hair.

Chapter 9

“What do you think causes snoring?” the lad asked.

Colban froze, as baffled by the question as he was by the lad, who’d seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Is it the lungs, collapsed in sleep, gasping for air?” the lad continued. “Or is it the voice producing the sound, as a means of assuring others that one is still alive?” The lad held a quill over an open ledger, as if he intended to record Colban’s reply.

“What?” He prayed the lad wasn’t some fae being—that Colban’s life didn’t depend on his answer—because he could think of none.

The lad set aside the quill and ledger and emerged then, crawling across the bed to sit cross-legged in front of him. Once out of the shadows, he looked to be an ordinary young man of perhaps ten years, with the same fair hair and blue eyes as Hallie.

“Sometimes the hounds snore,” he said. “But I’ve ne’er heard a snoring mouse. Have you?”

Colban blinked. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“I’ve been here since you arrived.”

“That’s impossible.”

The lad was taken aback. “You don’t believe me?” Then he furrowed his pale brows. “I suppose there’s little proof for you, since you’ve been only partially conscious most of the day. But I assure you I’ve been here. I’ve been watching you sleep.”

The lad said that as if it were a good thing.

“Who are ye?” Colban asked again.

“Oh. I’m Ian.”

“Ian. Ye’re the one Hallie was lookin’ for. She sent Bart to—”

“I know. I was here. Remember?”

Nay, he didn’t remember.

Ian shrugged and whispered, “I stayed quiet, because I didn’t want to be found.” He leaned closer. “But who are you? Besides some sort of Highland hostage who fights off wolves and lasses with a claymore.”

Colban had to smile at Ian’s appraisal of him.

“My name is Colban. Colban an Curaidh.”

“That means ‘the Champion.’”

“Aye, it does.”

Slowly, so as not to startle the lad, Colban dragged himself upright until he was sitting cross-legged as well. He could see the sun had moved across the sky. It must be late afternoon.

“You don’t have your sire’s name,” Ian remarked.

“Nay. I don’t have a sire. I’m a bastard.”

“You must have a sire,” Ian informed him. “It takes both male and female to produce offspring.”

A grin tugged at Colban’s lips. He wondered if the lad knew all the details about procreation as well.

“Aye, I do have a da. Somewhere. But I don’t know who he is.”

Ian’s eyes widened at that. Then he said thoughtfully, “’Tis a pity. A da is a good thing to have. My da taught me how to read and fish and play chess. Do you know how to play chess?”

“Aye.”

Ian sprang abruptly from the bed and rushed to the wooden chest at the foot of it. Lifting the lid, he retrieved a board and a velvet satchel. Then he climbed back onto the bed, setting the board between them and shaking the pieces out of the satchel.

“White or black?” he inquired.

The lad obviously hadn’t received the warning about not fraternizing with the prisoner. And now Colban supposed they were going to play chess, whether he wanted to or not.

“Black.”

What he really wanted to do was eat. He hadn’t supped since morn. Neither had the lad, if he’d been watching him sleep the entire day.

Ian began distributing the pieces. “My ma taught me how to play hnefatafl as well. Do you know it?”

He shook his head.

“’Tis a Viking game, similar to chess,” Ian said.

“Is your ma a Viking then?” Colban asked, lining up his pieces.

“My mother was born in Scotland. But her ancestors were Vikings. Where was your mother born?”

A dozen replies flitted through Colban’s head. In a brothel. Out of wedlock. On the wrong side of fate. Into the arms of despair.

In the end, he decided on, “In the Highlands.”

“And is she a good ma?” Ian put his last pawn into place.

“She’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“She died when I was a lad.”

Ian’s brow crumpled in distress. “You have no parents at all then.”

“I have a clan.” It was true. Spending his youth with Morgan, he’d grown to think of Laird Giric and Lady Hilaire as his mother and father.

“My mother is the laird of our clan,” Ian volunteered, “though my sister Hallie is watching o’er us while she’s away.”

At that revelation, dangerous thoughts began to swirl through Colban’s brain.

He edged one pawn forward.

He could use this chance meeting with the laird’s son to his advantage. It would be the work of an instant to seize the wee lad