Bride of Ice

by Glynnis Campbell

  Every year for centuries, the knights of the castle had tried their best to defend the virgins. Every year, they had failed, the wizard said, gesturing to a folded screen in front of the curtain wall. Two lads moved the screen aside to reveal a great pile of armor and what Colban hoped were beef bones.

  While the lad playing the laird despaired over their hopeless predicament, night fell. At last, the dragon made its appearance at the top of the wall.

  Colban grinned at the sight. The spectacle inspired oohs and ahhs from the clan, as well as frightened whimpers from several of the younger children.

  Ian had definitely had a hand in creating the impressive beast. Two giant reptilian legs, sporting daggers for claws, perched atop the wall. A great mail-covered head with eyes of amber glass peered down at the crowd as the beast puffed smoke from between its jaws.

  In Gellir’s disguised but unmistakable deep and surly voice, the dragon demanded a virgin for his supper.

  The laird reluctantly offered a maiden as sacrifice. The brave and noble virgin was led up the stairs of the platform and tied to the post.

  But before the dragon could claim its feast, a young knight leaped in front of the platform with a sword to save the maiden from her horrible fate.

  “Fear not!” he declared. “My steel will defeat the beast!”

  There was much hacking and roaring back and forth. But eventually, the knight was flung onto the pile of armor with a mighty crash. In a haze of smoke, the virgin disappeared, apparently consumed by the dragon.

  Even Colban had to blink in amazement at the effect. He supposed it was done with a secret door in the platform. But it had been executed so quickly while all eyes were fixed on the dragon that no one saw the lass vanish.

  The castle grieved all the next day, lamenting when the dragon returned at nightfall and a second virgin volunteered to save her clan. This time, the knight who stepped in to rescue her was armed with a bow and arrows.

  “Fear not!” he announced. “My fire will defeat the beast!”

  He lit a pitch-dipped arrow and fired it from the bow. The arrow trailed flame across the sky, landing with a thunk between the dragon’s eyes.

  There was a tense moment when Hallie shot to her feet, no doubt fearing her siblings’ antics would either kill someone, set the castle on fire, or both.

  But the fire sputtered out. Hallie sank back onto the faldstool.

  Once again, the dragon triumphed. The hapless knight was tossed onto the pile. The second maiden was consumed in a cloud of smoke.

  On the third and final night, the maiden who allowed herself to be tied to the post was Isabel. She smiled with calm confidence as the youth dressed like a Highlander stepped forward on her behalf, completely unarmed.

  “Fear not!” he cried. “My heart will defeat the beast!”

  The dragon chortled. “Your heart? That soft and tender thing that tastes so lovely going down my gullet? I shall dine on yours after I eat this virgin.”

  With that, the dragon turned toward Isabel, blowing out a thick, smoky cloud.

  But when the air cleared, Isabel was still there, grinning in victory.

  The dragon snarled in rage, sending out another billow of roiling smoke.

  Again, Isabel emerged triumphant.

  “Nay!” the dragon howled. Exhaling with the last of his strength, he expelled a pathetic gray puff. “How can this be?” he despaired. “How can I be defeated by a weak human heart?”

  “Because you don’t understand the power of love,” the youth declared, rushing to untie Isabel. “This day, while your belly was craving virgin flesh, my heart stole it from you.” He turned to the crowd to announce, “We were wed this morn. She is no longer a maiden.”

  Colban almost choked on surprise. He had not foreseen that twist in the tale.

  As for the crowd, their reaction was mixed. Some crowed at the clever ruse. Some gasped in outrage. Some silenced. Some erupted with laughter.

  Hallie slowly rose, stone-faced and pale, as if she feared the young lad’s claim upon Isabel might be more than just a part of their performance.

  But Colban sensed there was more behind Isabel’s story. There was a reason Isabel had dressed the hero like a Highlander. She was sending a message to her sister about the man she persisted in calling The One. It was a clumsy attempt at making a love match between the two of them, made clumsier by the fact that Isabel had performed the play for all the clan to see.

  Hallie’s frown made it clear she saw the parallel too and did not approve.

  Before Hallie could order a halt to the play, Isabel sent a panicked glare toward Brand the wizard. He raised his arms and hastily intervened.

  “Because the champion was true of heart,” he cried by way of explanation, “the castle was saved! The dragon returned no more! And thus were born the immortal words, the rallying cry of Rivenloch—Amor vincit omnia! Love conquers all!”

  The clan cheered, and the performers immediately launched into a celebratory dance. In the aftermath of the revelry, the details of the play were forgotten.

  But not by Colban.

  Love conquers all?

  Surely the Lowlanders didn’t really believe that. Aye, civility was useful in negotiations. And diplomacy was helpful when seeking peace. But when it came to war, a sturdy claymore served a man better than Cupid’s arrows.

  Still, as he watched Hallie rise and turn to leave the courtyard, he felt a bolt of longing pierce his heart. Remembering the silken threads of her hair between his fingers. The sparkling crystal of her melting eyes. The spicy-sweet taste of her warm mouth.

  “Did you like the play, Sir Colban?” Isabel called up to him.

  “What? Oh, aye.”

  “I’ll bring up your boot when I’m finished here.”

  He gave her a preoccupied nod.

  “Did you know ’twas me?” Brand yelled out, removing his hat. “’Tis a good disguise, aye?”

  “Brilliant,” Colban replied, distracted as he sought Hallie, who had disappeared into the crowd.

  “What did you think of the dragon?” Ian called out from atop the curtain wall. His arm was wrapped companionably around one of the dragon’s legs. “I used a bellows to make the smoke. I wanted to use Greek fire, but—”

  “I told him ’twas too dangerous,” Gellir chimed in beside Ian.

  “Impressive,” Colban said vaguely, unable to locate the Valkyrie.

  Gellir spoke to his brother. “I don’t think he knows about Greek fire, Ian. I don’t think they have it in the Highlands.”

  Suddenly their words sank in, and Colban gave the lads his full attention. “Hold on. Greek fire? Ye know how to make Greek fire?”

  “’Twas a bit tricky figuring it out,” Ian said, “since the formula is a secret.”

  Gellir was right. They’d never encountered it in the Highlands. Foreign armies had never invaded that far north. But the horrors of Greek fire were legendary. Unable to be extinguished, the vile substance clung to whatever it contacted—stone walls, armored men, even the surface of water—and burned for hours. If Rivenloch truly held the secret to Greek fire, they were a formidable foe indeed.

  “Anyway,” Ian continued, “I think the peat worked to good effect, though Sir Rauve may need a new helm.” He knocked on the dragon’s steel head. “This one’s gone all smoky inside.”

  Colban was only half-listening.

  Part of him was worrying about the possibility of Rivenloch using Greek fire to kill his clansmen at Creagor. He was calculating the chances of confiscating Ian’s notebook again, where the formula for the destructive substance was probably recorded.

  And part of him was distracted once more by the beautiful Viking princess he’d finally spotted in the crowd, making her way to the great hall.

  Love conquers all?

  Then what bloody use could Hallie possibly have for Greek fire?

  Chapter 21

  As she walked stiffly across the courtyard, Hallie wished she’d let Ian use
his mix of Greek fire for the dragon. The conflagration might have been a useful distraction from the heavy-handed message Isabel had delivered in her play.

  Love conquers all.

  Bloody hell.

  Now that she thought about it, it was hardly a fit rallying cry for a clan of warriors in charge of defending the Scottish border. And it was a weak warning indeed to someone bent on claiming the neighboring castle.

  Rivenloch’s byword should be Loyal and Invincible.

  Or Always Up for Battle.

  Or Foes Beware—We Have Greek Fire.

  While Hallie agreed war was not the answer here—at least not while her cousins were held captive at Creagor—neither was undermining all the leverage Rivenloch had by befriending her enemy.

  She would not be cruel to her captive. But neither should she be too familiar.

  Isabel had gone too far this eve with her play. Wrapping the champion in a plaid. Casting herself as the heroine when she knew very well people remarked on Isabel’s resemblance to Hallie. And then suggesting that they’d outwitted a dragon by swiving…

  Her cheeks grew hot as she neared the door of the great hall. But she couldn’t stop herself from casting one last curious glance toward the bedchamber window.

  Colban was there in all his handsome glory. His hands rested with quiet strength on the sill as he leaned out over the ledge. His golden hair shone in the moonlight. And where his leine gapped away, she glimpsed the sculpted contour of one broad shoulder.

  Engaged with her chattering siblings, he didn’t notice her, which was fortunate, because Hallie tripped at the sight of him. Her breath caught. Her heart bounded against her ribs. And she couldn’t get inside the castle fast enough.

  When Isabel came to bed hours later, Hallie pretended to be asleep. She didn’t want a loud confrontation with the lass while the hostage was in the adjoining chamber. But on the morrow, she’d corner her scheming little sister and let her know in no uncertain terms how she felt about the prisoner.

  “He’s a hostage. No more,” Hallie insisted, spooning frumenty from the steaming cauldron into a bowl for Colban’s breakfast.

  Isabel lifted a brow in doubt and reached into a jar on the kitchen shelf to add a far too generous handful of dried apples to Colban’s frumenty.

  “Our cousins are hostages,” Isabel reminded her. She affected a sigh and creased her brow in worry. “I can only hope their captor isn’t cruel and coldhearted.”

  “I’m not col-…” Hallie began, then tempered her tone. “I’m doing what I must do, Isabel.” To assuage her sister, she added, “And I’m sure Feiyan and Jenefer are fine.”

  “Are you?” Isabel added a fat stack of oatcakes to the platter. “Did you see the bruises on poor Sir Colban’s face? What if Colban’s laird raises a hand to our cousins? What if he tries to starve them?”

  Hallie removed half of the oatcakes from the platter and steered Isabel out of the kitchens.

  She had her own concerns about Morgan Mor mac Giric’s patience, especially when it came to Jenefer’s inflammatory nature. But fretting over it served no purpose.

  Isabel tried to take the platter from her. “I’m going to question Colban,” she decided, “and find out what kind of a man his master is.”

  “Oh, nay you won’t,” Hallie countered, holding fast to the platter. “You’ve caused enough damage as it is.”

  “Damage? Me?” Isabel’s eyes grew dewy with hurt. “I’ve done naught but try to make peace—”

  “I’ll take him his breakfast,” Hallie insisted. “You gather your lasses and go down to the loch. Maybe you can bring in one last catch of salmon ere winter.”

  Isabel’s hurt vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She couldn’t resist a day of fishing. “You’re sure?”

  “I’ll see the prisoner doesn’t go hungry. You see the clan doesn’t.”

  Isabel skipped away, all but forgetting the captive.

  Hallie nodded in satisfaction. That should keep the lass busy for a good part of the day.

  Meanwhile, perhaps it was a good idea to get further reassurances from Colban. She was getting a bad feeling about her parents petitioning the new king. They should have returned by now. Every day without word from them was a day the ownership of Creagor remained in question. Every day that decision was prolonged, the odds of harm to her cousins increased.

  She took the tray upstairs, opening Colban’s door with her free hand. She expected to find the occupant pacing across the chamber or tending to the fire or staring wistfully out the window.

  But he was still asleep. And he didn’t awaken when she entered.

  He might be an impressive warrior. But he didn’t make a very good guard. Three times now she’d been able to slip past his drowsy watch.

  She closed the door softly behind her and observed him in silence.

  No longer fierce and challenging, he appeared as innocent as a bairn. His brow was untroubled. His hair was unkempt. His jaw was relaxed, and his lips parted just enough to emit the soft, growling breath of slumber.

  He was helpless. At her mercy. Thoroughly subdued. Exactly where she should want a foe to be.

  Yet dominance was not what she felt when she looked at him. As she continued to stare—at the stray lock of golden hair dangling over one eye, at the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, at his bare toes peeping out from the bandage—her heart melted.

  Not often, but more of late, Hallie had been thinking about the man she would eventually wed. Wondered what he would be like. Whether she would grow fond of him. How it would feel to wake up to the same face every day for the rest of her life.

  She would have no choice in the selection of a husband, of course. The position of laird of Rivenloch was too valuable to king and country to be left to chance. Her marriage would be a carefully arranged alliance.

  But once in a great while—when she was lying in bed at night or bathing in the loch on a lazy summer day or watching her parents gaze longingly into each other’s eyes—she indulged in a selfish dream that she would one day find a love match.

  Looking at Colban now, she felt closer to that tantalizing dream than she’d ever felt before. She could easily imagine awakening with the Highlander beside her each morn, savoring the simple beauty of his face. The idle power of his body. The soothing sound of his breathing. She could even imagine growing to care for him.

  She bit her lip, indulging in the fantasy.

  The champion had much to recommend him as a husband.

  He was a fine warrior. His skills with the claymore, his strength, and his spirit inspired admiration among her men.

  His loyalty and chivalry were undeniable. Not only did he place his laird’s life above his own. He’d risked death to come to Hallie’s rescue, unwilling to leave her in the hands of attackers. Her parents would doubtless consider him a valuable addition to the Rivenloch army.

  He would make an excellent father. He had a way with children. He knew how to listen to Ian. How to charm Isabel. How to make Brand worship him like a hero. Even how to impress dour Gellir.

  Her husband’s most important duty, of course, would be giving her heirs. Whether Colban was capable of siring offspring she didn’t know. But she remembered the lust in his eyes. The heat of his kiss. The quickening in his braies.

  The memory of touching him triggered a wave of molten desire. If Colban an Curaidh was unable to plant his seed, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying. Not only was he well-equipped for the task. He also seemed to have no qualms about a woman overstepping the bounds of propriety. Looking into his eyes. Kissing him. Caressing him.

  Nor did he hesitate to return her affections. Claiming her lips with his enticing mouth. Grazing her bosom with his rough fingertips.

  She was still adrift in a sea of sensual musings when Colban wakened with a gasp.

  She gasped in response, almost spilling the frumenty.

  “Hallie.”

  Her name spilled out on a sigh, disrupting her thoug
hts the way a sudden breeze stirred the leaves. He rose on his elbows, and his leine slipped off one magnificent shoulder.

  Her heart leaped. Her nostrils flared. She thrust the platter forward, as if it had the power to shield her from temptation. “I brought you breakfast. I thought you’d be up by now.”

  Up? Colban was up, though not in the way Hallie imagined. He was still savoring the dregs of a delicious dream about silky blonde hair and crystal blue eyes, of tender lips and a velvety hand wrapped around…

  “I hope you like apples,” she said.

  Apples. That seemed somehow fitting. Hallie looked as tempting as Eve, radiant and breathless, offering him a feast for his eyes, as well as his belly.

  “Love them,” he rasped out.

  He wanted to fetch the platter from her. But not in his present condition. Clad only in his thin leine, he feared he’d look like he was coming at her with a lance. He bunched the coverlet over his lap.

  She awkwardly cleared her throat and averted her gaze. Setting the platter on the edge of the bed, she walked stiffly toward the window, then threw open the shutters.

  He grimaced as blinding light streamed in.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Nay, ’tis late,” he said, shaking the sleep from his head and pulling the platter onto his lap. He took a bite of frumenty. It was warm and delicious, spiced with cinnamon and apples. “I hardly slept a wink, fightin’ for virgins half the night.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “In my dreams,” he clarified. “Isabel’s play? I must have battled a dozen fiery dragons.” He didn’t add that his defeat of the last dragon had won him the devoted affections of a certain beautiful Valkyrie.

  “My sister is quite the storyteller,” Hallie said in mild irritation. She faced the window, frowning into the distance. “Her head is full of improbable tales. Magic. Miracles. Impossible creatures.” Her voice grew wistful. “Unlikely endings.”

  Was that regret he heard in her voice? Did she not believe in happy endings? In his dream, at least, the ending had been happy. It had been more than happy. It had been fulfilling. Inspiring. Satisfying.