Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,37
Rivenloch or mac Giric won Creagor—it would be useful for Colban to witness firsthand the fighting strength of her clan.
If he saw it for himself, he would pass the information along to his laird. Rivenloch’s reputation as a force to be reckoned with would stand. And if the king ultimately decreed they should be neighbors, that knowledge would ensure they’d live in peace.
But there was more to it than that.
A part of her wanted to show him who she was. To let him see her—not struggling to run a household or squabbling with her siblings or dragging sheep out of the muck—but at her best, with a sword in her hand and a cold gleam in her eye.
Why she should care what he thought, she didn’t know.
After all, if things went well for Rivenloch, he’d hie to the Highlands within a sennight, and she’d never see him again.
And even if they went badly, if mac Giric won Creagor, the silent grudge between the clans would make it unlikely their paths would cross.
So what was this curious connection she felt with Colban an Curaidh? Was it because he was her hostage? Was it because they shared a sense of unflinching loyalty? Or the fact they found humor in the same things? Was it admiration for his warrior’s body? Appreciation for his honor? Respect for his fighting spirit?
Was he The One?
That sudden thought popping into her head so disturbed her she almost missed the slash Gellir leveled at her thigh. She managed to block it with her shield. But the impact made her stagger in retreat. She landed with a humiliating plop on her hindquarters.
Reflexively, she cast a glance toward the window to see if Colban had seen her. And that filled her with even more self-disgust.
Why should she care what he thought? He was nobody. He was a Highland foe. A hostage. An orphan. A bastard. He certainly wasn’t The One. No matter what Isabel said.
Gellir held out a hand to her. But even before he pulled her to her feet, a new responsibility reared its head. The laundress came scurrying across the courtyard toward Hallie with a dispute that needed settling.
It was hours before Hallie finally found time to address the platter of supper left in her bedchamber.
Isabel was already asleep in their bed.
The bacon coffyn was cold. The pottage had hardened into a paste. But the ale was drinkable. And the sweet custard was delicious. She’d slurped up the last of it when she realized it was drenched in rosemary-studded honey.
“Isabel,” she said under her breath.
Her little sister was incorrigible.
She was also awake.
She smiled sleepily. “You’ll thank me later, Hallie. You’ll see.”
Hallie didn’t believe in love potions. She kept telling herself that, all the way to the armory.
Yet this morn, she was troubled by her unsettling fascination with the Highlander. Thoughts of Colban an Curaidh had consumed her all night. She’d gone to bed, imagining his twinkling eyes. She’d dreamt of his broad shoulders and impressive stature. Her first waking thought had been of his snow-melting smile.
The best way to purge distractions, she’d found, was to engage in swordplay. Nothing required such undivided attention. When one’s welfare was at risk—when a stray thought could mean a painful slash, or the loss of a finger, or worse—it was easy to set aside everything but the immediate threat.
Still, as she prepared for combat in the hour before dawn, something was definitely wreaking havoc with her. And she wasn’t sure battle was the answer.
Donning her padded cotun, her fingers fumbled with the buckles.
When she snatched her shield from the wall, it slipped out of her grasp and almost rolled away.
As she reached to claim her sword, her gaze was drawn to the Highlander’s claymore hanging above it. Distracted, she paused.
The claymore, like the Highlander himself, was formidable. Long and powerful and heavy, its design and heft were magnificent. Like the man, it also had obvious flaws. But it had been well-loved, well cared for.
Nicks marred the steel. But the blade was sharpened to a keen edge.
The maker’s marks on the crossguard were long worn away. But the metal was polished to a high sheen.
Pressed into the weathered leather hilt were the impressions of Colban’s hands, each finger delineated by a dark indentation.
Blood surged to Hallie’s face. She remembered all too well the touch of those warm fingers on hers.
Her thoughts were abruptly scattered as she heard the Rivenloch knights coming to the armory, their raucous laughter echoing along the passage.