Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,9

his head in the direction they’d come and held his hand out for his claymore.

“We’re not going to Creagor.”

Her chilling assertion sent a shiver along his spine. His eyes flattened. His lips thinned.

“Ye made a vow,” he reminded her.

“And I’ll keep it.” She lowered her eyes. “Just not yet.”

“Not yet? What is that supposed to—”

Her hand tightened on the claymore.

He muttered a curse. She’d seemed so honorable, so upstanding. But he should have known better than to take her at her word. To a lass like her, words were tools to be bent to her will.

He shook his head. A wise man never relied upon a woman. They were about as trustworthy as wolves.

It was a shame. He’d half-hoped to have a pleasant stroll back to Creagor with the lovely lass on his arm.

That was obviously not to be.

But he had no intention of going with her to Rivenloch, if that’s what she planned.

He gave the sword a fleeting glance. The blade might be lowered. But her grip at on it was firm and at the ready.

Still, she was only a maid. And the claymore was heavy. He could wrench the blade from her hands before she found the strength to lift it.

As if she read his thoughts, she said, “Don’t try anything foolish. I’d hate to have to disfigure that handsome face.”

She was clearly mocking him. Handsome? He was a mess from his fight with Morgan. His brow was cut. His eye was bruised. His lip was swollen.

And though she appeared cool and fearless, he wasn’t threatened by her.

She might be tall. But he was far stronger.

She might be disarmingly attractive. But he could ignore her looks.

She might be trained as a warrior. But he’d spent a childhood fighting for his life.

Confidence compelled him to disregard her warning. To take a risk.

He cast up his left arm in front of his face as a diversion. Then he lunged forward with his right to seize the hand holding his sword.

The two things he didn’t count on were her speed and cunning.

Anticipating his attack, she stepped backward. When he reached to grab her wrist, his fist closed on empty air.

Once he was thrown off-balance, it took only a hard shove at his right shoulder to send him sprawling to the ground.

Shocked and angered at his quick demise, he scrambled to right himself. But by the time he flipped over onto his elbows to face her, the point of the sword was already against his throat.

He grimaced as she applied pressure. Not enough to pierce the skin. Just enough to make her point.

“I warned you,” she told him.

Every fiber of his being rebelled against the fact that a woman was threatening him—with his own blade.

Surely he could gain the upper hand.

He sighed, feigning surrender. “Aye, lass, I suppose ye—”

Mid-sentence, he ducked his head back from the sword. Batted the blade aside with the flat of his palm. And rolled away in the opposite direction.

Yet again, before he could get his knees under him to spring upward, she stomped her boot on his backside, forcing him down.

In the next instant, the claymore pricked at the back of his neck with deadly intent.

“Well, now you’ve given me no choice,” she said. To his astonishment, her voice was still calm and collected.

He gulped. Was she the kind of coldblooded killer who would slay him while he lay helpless on his belly?

Being torn apart by wolves in the service of chivalry was one thing.

Having a woman sever his spine with his own blade was another.

He growled over his shoulder. “Ye’d slay an unarmed man?”

“Slay you? Nay.”

For one fleeting moment, hope flared in his chest. Maybe she had a shred of decency after all.

Then she added, “But if you don’t yield, I won’t hesitate to maim you. Slice off an ear. Collect a finger. Carve a roast from your—”

“Fine. I yield.” He shuddered.

“Cross your hands behind your back,” she commanded.

He hesitated. What was she planning?

“Now,” she bit out.

She jabbed his neck hard enough to show she was serious. Hard enough to draw a sharp breath of pain through his teeth.

He complied with her demand then. But his face flamed with anger and humiliation. How had things come to this?

The merciless maid shifted the claymore until the entire length of the blade’s keen edge rested against the back of his neck. She held it in place with her foot while she bound his wrists together. It was a precarious position. One movement of his head, and the blade