Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,28

stirred his skin and heightened his senses, as if it might strike at any moment to fill him with sparks and lay him low.

And the expression on Hallie’s face—her look of breathless wonder—quickened his heartbeat and heated his blood.

Besotted by an intoxicating blend of desire and awe, he was reluctant to let go of her.

Only when their gazes collided over the goblet, when the soft melt of her eyes frosted over, did he finally release her.

It was probably his imagination anyway. A beautiful Valkyrie of noble bloodlines couldn’t possibly be attracted to a baseborn Highland soldier.

And he couldn’t possibly be the least bit interested in a maid who’d taken him captive, threatened to maim him, and was more than willing to sacrifice him as a pawn. Could he?

Before he could think about it too deeply, Hallie finished cleaning up the mess, muttered a hasty farewell, and left.

One thing he knew for certain. Contrary to what her little sister believed, Hallie of Rivenloch did not have a heart of ice. Within a thin and frosty shell beat a vibrant pulse of deep passion and great tenderness. One need only crack the shell to reveal the warmhearted woman within.

Armed with this new knowledge about his captor’s vulnerability, Colban was left with an uncomfortable choice. A decision that troubled his heart and nagged at his conscience.

Should he continue to bide his time, remain civil, and wait to hear from Morgan, trusting the king’s promise was reliable?

Or should he exploit Hallie’s weakness and worm his way into her heart, knowing he might need to turn on her to protect Morgan’s claim?

His instincts were for compassion.

But the sense of duty to his clan was strong in him.

Did he have the fortitude to do what must be done, in spite of the emotional damage it might inflict?

He ambled to the window, gazing to the courtyard below.

At one end stood the quartet of young lasses with Isabel. As he appeared, they gasped and giggled, shyly waving his way.

Against the opposite wall leaned Gellir, sharpening his sword with a whetstone and glaring up at him.

It was exactly how Colban felt, imprisoned by honor and caught between love and war.

After a short while, he tired of both the admiring glances and the stare full of hate. Restless, he backed away from the window.

In the rugged Highlands, Colban always had something to do. Cattle to herd. Fish to catch. Walls to repair. Sheep to shear. Game to hunt. Cloaks to mend. The line between subsistence and death was narrow. Survival required vigilance and hard work.

Of course, no matter how hard he worked, Colban would always owe the Giric clan a great debt. They had taken Colban into their fold, despite the shameful and unfortunate circumstances of his birth. Laird Giric and Lady Hilaire had allowed him to be raised alongside their own son. He owed them a debt he could never repay. He owed his life to Morgan and his clan. He never forgot that.

Living with that knowledge, however, meant he’d never experienced a time of leisure. A time when debt and duty weren’t foremost in his mind.

Every decision he came to hinged upon its effect on the clan.

Every choice he made was weighed by whether it would be good or bad for Morgan.

And lately, while Morgan languished over the loss of his wife, Colban had had to step into the role of the laird himself in order to protect Morgan from his own grief.

With such responsibility came great rewards. But sometimes it was exhausting to devote oneself to the service of others. He’d seen that in Morgan, and he felt it in his own life as well.

Sometimes, especially considering his humble beginnings, Colban felt overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his duties.

And sometimes he wondered if he’d lost his own identity somewhere along the way.

Was it thus for Hallie as well? Did the burden of responsibility sit heavy upon her shoulders? Had she given away so much of herself to the clan that she didn’t remember who she was?

That would explain the targe of ice around her heart. The protective layer that kept her from acknowledging her own emotions when the clan needed her to be strong.

But he knew her icy heart was penetrable. He’d glimpsed an undeniable tenderness in her. In her affection for Ian. In her sisterly frustration with Isabel. In her concern for Brand. And her understanding of Gellir.

It seemed all virtuous people in a position of power, whether it was the king, a laird, or