Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,33
an N, but I’m not sure what—”
“’Tis the path o’ my claymore when I knock a blade aside.” He smiled, mimicking the motion with his sword arm.
“That’s it then. C. O. L. B. A. N. COL-BAN. COLBAN.”
It seemed simple enough. Moon, mouth, leg, breasts, cottage, claymore. He could remember that.
“I can’t bring you a notebook,” Ian confided, “but you can practice writing on the hearthstones with ashes from the fire.”
“I can.” He would. Indeed, it would give him a certain satisfaction to inscribe his name on the hearth of his captors.
“Would you like to see my name?” Ian asked.
“Aye.”
“’Tis much shorter. Watch.”
He picked up the stones of the first four letters of Colban’s name. In the empty spot, he made the shape of a single line, like a man standing alone.
“Ian,” the lad said.
Man, cottage, claymore. “Ian,” he repeated.
“Oh! And I can show you Brand,” he offered.
He took away the first letter. In its place he laid out the pair of breasts again, followed by a shape that looked like a knight holding a targe. After the cottage and the claymore, he placed a final letter.
“That looks like an apple coffyn, doesn’t it?” Ian said.
“Aye.” It did resemble the round pastry filled with fruit and folded in half. His belly grumbled with hunger at the suggestion.
“B. R. A. N. D. BRAND.”
Breasts, targe, cottage, claymore, coffyn.
There was just one other word he wanted to see. A word that might serve him well one day.
“Can you write Hallie?”
“Oh, aye!”
Enthused by Colban’s interest, Ian quickly scraped away all of the stones except for the cottage. In front of the cottage, he made a shape like a gate. After the cottage, he placed letters he’d used before—two legs and a man—and added something that resembled the head of a pitchfork.
“That’s all for now,” Ian decided. “I’ll show you more later. I’ve got to take these rocks to the garden.”
“My thanks, lad.”
“Be sure to practice.”
“I will.”
His own name he’d scrawl on the Rivenloch’s hearth.
Hallie’s name he’d sear into his memory.
Chapter 14
Hallie became so busy, she never made it to the practice field.
First there was a squabble in the kitchens when Tommy the turnbrochie fell asleep at his post and burned the roast.
Then she had to assist when one of the hounds began delivering a litter of four pups.
No sooner did she finish with the birth than the maidservant Gillian tripped over a cat on her way to the kitchens, cracking the entire basket of eggs meant to replace the burned roast. The cat lapped up the remains, further enraging the cook.
Next, a sheep slipped into a bog and needed rescuing.
Then she had to scribble out a hasty order for Abygail so the maid could purchase cloth for winter garments before the market closed.
Three coos went missing, likely reived by the neighboring Lachland lads. Hallie sent the Gordon twins off to reive them back.
After shooing Ian out of the doocot, she’d tasked him with transporting stones from the orchard to the herb garden, mostly just to keep him occupied and out of trouble.
But now that it was nearing time for supper, she figured the lad had come inside. After searching every inch of the keep, from the storerooms to the garderobes, the unthinkable occurred to her.
Against her orders, Ian might have returned to their parents’ bedchamber to play chess with the hostage.
She took the stairs two at a time.
Rauve pushed off the door when she arrived. “What is it?”
Her heart in her throat, she asked, “Ian. Did he go in?” She nodded at the door.
“Nay. No one’s come in or out since breakfast.”
She wasn’t convinced. After all, Ian had hidden in the room all day yesterday, unbeknownst to any of them. The lad had a knack for finding his way into all sorts of places he wasn’t supposed to be.
“Let me in,” she said.
“Are you sure?” Rauve asked. He clearly disapproved of any contact between the hostage and the laird he was assigned to protect.
“Aye.”
With a disgruntled scowl, he stepped aside.
When she pushed open the door, the Highlander was hunkered down before the fire with a chunk of coal, looking as guilty as hell. He glanced up, biting his lip, like a lad caught with his hand in the honey jar. When she saw what he’d done, she understood why.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded with cold accusation. “Defacing the laird’s bedchamber?”