Bride of Ice

by Glynnis Campbell

  But it had only been a dream. Just as Isabel’s play was only a story.

  Hallie probably didn’t believe in dreams. She seemed to be a lass firmly rooted in reality, who had no time for sentiment or romance. If he’d realized that yesterday, he might have been able to see through the ruse of her lusty advances.

  Still stinging from her deception, he wanted to forget how easily he’d been gulled. In fact, considering how thoroughly she’d deceived him, he figured he owed her a bit of revenge.

  “An unlikely ending, to be sure,” he agreed. But then he let a wicked gleam enter his eye. “After all, everyone knows dragons aren’t that choosy.”

  Hallie, rising to the bait, whirled to face him in disbelief. “What?”

  “Dragons,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re pesky, to be sure. And they eat once a week, not once a year. But they’re not at all picky about their fare.”

  “You’re jesting, aye?”

  “Nay, ’tis true,” he assured her. Then he whispered as if in confidence, “They can’t actually tell the difference between the flesh of a virgin and that of a harlot.”

  She stared at him for a moment, as if questioning his sanity. “There’s no such thing as dragons.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe not in the Lowlands.”

  There was a tiny instant of doubt in her eyes before she noticed the twinkle in his.

  “Bloody knave,” she chided, clucking her tongue.

  He lifted one corner of his mouth in a sly grin.

  Then, as smoothly as she’d slipped the notebook from his belt, she added, “Everyone knows the only strange beasts in the north are those that come from Highlanders swiving sheep.”

  Her insult was so unexpected and comical that he almost snorted frumenty out of his nose. “Swivin’ sheep? Ach, ye’re a wicked lass.” The hint of amusement in her gaze only encouraged him. “The rumors are completely unfounded. After all, why would we swive sheep when we’ve got so many bonnie coos?”

  The laugh that burst out of her was broken and rusty, as if it hadn’t been used in a while. But it was open. And honest. And it rocked him to the core.

  He wanted more of it. More of her musical laughter. More of her brilliant smile. More of her humor-softened gaze.

  “Ian’s dragon, though…” He whistled. “That was a thing o’ beauty.”

  “For shite’s sake,” she teased, her eyes dancing, “have you no lasses in the Highlands?”

  None as beautiful as ye.

  That was his first thought. But it would have been foolish to blurt that out, no matter how true it was. So instead he asked, “Have ye ne’er been to the Highlands?”

  She shook her head.

  He suddenly longed to whisk her away to the home he loved. To take her by the hand and run laughing with her across the moors, through the woods, past the lochs, into the mountains.

  “Och, lass, ye’d love the mac Giric land.” For the moment, his lust was at bay and his breakfast forgotten. “There’s not a bonnier spot in all o’ Scotland.” He set the platter aside and rose with the aid of his crutch.

  “Despite the dragons?” she quipped.

  “Despite the dragons.” He grinned.

  She smirked. “It can’t be as beautiful as Rivenloch.”

  “’Tis…different.” He hobbled toward the window to join her. “The mac Giric property is bordered by majestic peaks o’ stark stone,” he said, waxing poetic. “In winter, they’re covered in snow, whiter than sheep’s fleece. But in spring, they weep waterfalls as tall as a castle.” He gazed out toward the rolling hills and thick forest, painting a different landscape in his imagination. “Under the summer sun, the lochs gleam like a fierce blue blade. And at this time o’ year, the hills are cloaked in brilliant purple heather. Burns flow through the glens, silvery and bright, like…” He hesitated and let his gaze roam down her fair tresses. “Like your hair.”

  Only then did he realize how close he was standing to her. Close enough he could have twined a lock of her bright hair around his finger. Close enough to feel her warm breath upon his face. To smell the womanly fragrance of her skin. To gaze into her eyes and glimpse the sparkle of reflected enthusiasm. Shared joy. And the tiniest glimmer of hope.

  “Ye should come sometime,” he whispered.

  His gaze fell to her tempting lips, which parted in longing.

  In another moment, he would kiss those lips. He was sure of it. He felt drawn by an irresistible force. Compelled to her like steel to a lodestone.

  She felt it too. He was sure of it. He could see desire misting her eyes as they dipped to his mouth.

  But he hesitated an instant too long. And in that instant, something shifted.

  Her gaze faded into dismay, then sorrow, and finally frosted over with solemn duty.

  She turned away, fixing her eyes on the horizon.

  “I can’t just dash off any time I like,” she told him, though her voice cracked with regret. She cleared her throat to regain her composure. When she spoke again, it was with the cool authority of a leader. “And if your clan remains here, you won’t be able to either. Defending the border requires constant vigilance. ’Tis a position of great responsibility. There’s no time for jaunts off to the Highlands. You’ll have to forget all about your idyllic home.”

  He frowned. The tempting lass he’d nearly kissed was gone. In her place was a woman who issued orders and commanded armies. A woman who was used to putting country before clan. And clan before self.

  Morgan Mor mac Giric had been like that…before his wife died and his world went awry. Colban had always been there for him when the demands of being a laird’s son became too great and Morgan needed to get away. Whether that meant taking a bracing hike up to the snowy brae. Or casting a line into the trout-choked river. Hazarding a refreshing dip in the loch. Or a relieving plunge into one of the willing wenches of the neighboring clan. Colban covered for him.

  “Surely someone can give ye a reprieve?” he said.

  She straightened defensively. “The enemy never sleeps. So I can’t afford to.”

  “The enemy?”

  “Those who threaten Scotland.”

  “So ye are defendin’ the keep against dragons?” he asked, hoping to return the smile to her face.

  He failed.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’m defending it against something more insidious than dragons.”

  “Ah. So ye mean the English.”

  “The English. Turncoat clans.” Her gaze sharpened like a pointed dagger. “Anyone who threatens our claim to the land.”

  Her unspoken warning was clear. Highlanders were on her list of enemies.

  “I would think ye’d be glad of allies in your fight,” he countered.

  “Allies?” she scoffed. “Is that what you are?”

  “Why not? We’re both Scots, aye?”

  By her furrowed brows, she didn’t quite believe that.

  “We share a common foe, at least,” he said. “I don’t like the English any more than ye do.”

  “I doubt you’ve ever seen an Englishman.”

  “True,” he admitted. “But I can tell ye this.” He sobered, pinning her with eyes as grim as the grave. “I too will fight anyone who tries to take away what’s mine.”

  Chapter 22

  Hallie’s breath caught.

  The intensity of Colban’s stare magnified the gravity of his threat. But she sensed he was talking about more than just battling the English. More than defending Creagor and challenging Rivenloch.

  There was a solemn vow in his eyes that said he protected everything that he deemed belonged to him. Whether that was a country. A castle. Or a wife.

  That kind of chivalry was rare. Her father possessed it. So did her uncles. Most of the men of Rivenloch had had to learn that kind of loyalty.

  But unless the woman was their laird, perhaps one in a dozen men had the kind of the honor to risk their life for a lass. And no one risked their life for a lass they hardly knew. No o
ne but Colban an Curaidh, who had leaped from a window to save the woman who’d taken him prisoner.

  Once again, admiration and adoration washed over her like a warm wave, softening her sharp edges, lapping gently at her soul.

  “Besides,” he murmured, “if we end up neighbors, we’ll have to be allies. With the English at our door, we can’t afford to be wagin’ war upon each other all the time.”

  She bristled at the suggestion Creagor might indeed fall into the hands of Morgan Mor mac Giric. Nonetheless, she nodded.

  “So for the moment, until we get word from the king, why not make a pact o’ peace between us? An alliance between Rivenloch and Creagor?”

  A pact of peace sounded dangerously close to fraternizing with the enemy. And yet it made sense. There was no point in engaging in aggression before it was absolutely necessary. Unless harm was done to her cousins, hostilities could wait until the king’s decision was announced.

  And as she looked into Colban’s earnest, inviting eyes—eyes that sought her trust and melted her heart—the prospect of a pact of peace seemed pleasing indeed.

  He offered her his hand, palm up.

  Hallie hesitated. She gazed down at his battle-callused hand, extended to her in welcome. Should she trust him? Was that wise? Did Colban actually have the authority to speak on behalf of his laird? Would a pact secure a guarantee against attack? Or would she be letting down her guard and inviting invasion? And how did she know she was making the decision based on logic and not her emotions?

  “’Tis the Rivenloch creed, after all, isn’t it?” he asked. “Love conquers all?”

  That was true.

  But it was a fool who made peace with the enemy without negotiating first for some gain.

  “I’ll make a pact with you on one condition.”

  “Aye?”

  “I’ll have your word that if your laird has harmed my cousins in any way, the pact is deemed broken. Whatever damage he has inflicted will be upon your head. You will be punished for his deeds.”

  “Done.”

  He answered so quickly and with such confidence that she was taken aback. “You’re sure of that?”

  He gave her a curt nod. “I know Morgan Mor mac Giric like I know my own claymore. I know the damage he can do. But I also know his limits. My laird won’t harm a hair on their heads.”

  She stared at his hand, still extended, waiting for hers.

  The fate of Rivenloch rested in her decision about whether to trust him. A pact between them would ensure neither army would attack before her parents could return. That was what she’d always intended.

  There was no doubt in her mind that Rivenloch would triumph in any battle between them. But she didn’t want to needlessly sacrifice even one Rivenloch soldier. She didn’t want to endanger the lives of her cousins. And if, by some travesty of justice, the king did award Creagor to mac Giric, she didn’t want to make foes of her new neighbors.

  Making peace official was perhaps for the best.

  But when she finally reached out to accept his offered hand, he pulled it back.

  “I too have a condition,” he said.

  She blinked. Surely he wasn’t serious. “I’ll remind you, you’re my hostage. You have no leverage. I’m only agreeing to your pact to ensure the safety of my cousins and to avoid all-out war. You know you’re outnumbered at Creagor. I need not agree to your demands.”

  “True,” he admitted with a shrug. “’Tis only a matter o’ courtesy, as one champion to another.”

  Champion? Her? He was clearly trying to flatter her. And the flattery didn’t bother her as much as it should have.

  “’Tis a negotiation between equals, aye?” he continued. “Then think of it as a noble gesture on your part. A sign o’ chivalry. And respect.”

  His words prickled. Was he daring to challenge her honor?

  She was laird of the most powerful Scots clan guarding the border.

  He was a Highland soldier who fell asleep on his watch.

  Nonetheless, there was wisdom in what he suggested. If she wished to negotiate peace, she would do well to tamp down her outrage and treat him with deference.

  “Fine,” she decided. “What is your condition?”

  He took a deep breath and exhaled it. “I’d like a bath.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been here for half a week. Before that, I was travelin’ on the road for a fortnight. I stink to high heaven. I’d like a bath.”

  She hadn’t noticed. To her, he smelled like the outdoors. Of pine forests and wood smoke. For a moment, she was stunned by his curious request.

  At her silence, he prompted, “Ye do take baths in the Lowlands?”

  “Of course.”

  A bath? Why would he request a bath? Could he intend some trickery? Some ingenious scheme for escape requiring a tub full of water?

  Her hesitation amused him. “’Tisn’t too much to ask, is it? A hot bath to ensure peace between our clans?”

  He’d forced her hand. But she had to conclude there was no mischief afoot. “Fine. I’ll have Bart bring up a tub this even.”

  “Peace ’tis then.” He extended his right hand again.

  She stared down at it a moment longer before accepting his offer. As she slipped her hand into his, she felt curious warmth, as if a coal was enclosed between their palms.

  His clasp tightened. His eyes smoldered into hers. And she had a sudden misgiving about the peace they were brokering.

  She no longer felt in control. Unable to resist his dark, compelling, heart-melting eyes, she was also in no hurry to withdraw from the reassuring grip of his hand. Her command was slipping away from her, moment by moment. And yet that felt deliciously dangerous.

  “Aye,” she managed to murmur. “Peace.”

  Yet as they continued gazing into each other’s eyes, sharing desire through the conduit of their joined hands, she felt anything but peaceful.

  Colban suddenly realized the solution. It was in the rallying cry of Rivenloch. Love conquers all. The way to dispel hate was through love.

  He’d told Hallie he’d fight anyone who tried to take away what was his. All the mac Giric men felt that way. The answer to peace between their clans was obvious. They needed to bind the two clans together by marriage. Find one Rivenloch lass willing to serve her clan by sacrificing herself to a mac Giric.

  Colban was fairly confident the king was going to rule in Morgan’s favor. By blood and by rights, Creagor belonged to the mac Giric clan. The Laird of Rivenloch may have petitioned the king for ownership of the keep. But Rivenloch already possessed a generous holding. Indeed, too much control of the border by a single powerful clan could be seen as posing a threat to the king’s authority.

  According to Ian, his parents had been expected to return three days ago. Their delay indicated trouble with the negotiations. Colban suspected they were having difficulty convincing the king to award Creagor to them.

  It was tempting to think of that as a victory for the mac Girics. But Colban wasn’t so sure.

  What would happen when the king failed to yield to Rivenloch’s demands? When he instead awarded the keep to Morgan?

  Creagor was miles away from the throne. A vengeful Rivenloch could wreak havoc upon Morgan and make minced meat out of the mac Girics ere the king could intervene to enforce his will. Hell, they might even blame the casualties on the English.

  Colban needed a way to ensure Morgan’s continuing safety at Creagor. A way to guarantee there would be no heated battle for the castle. No question of ownership. And no animosity between the clans.

  The two clans needed to forge a lasting alliance. One that couldn’t be broken. One that would ensure ongoing peace for generations.

  For that, the king had to be convinced that a marriage between the clans would strengthen the border alliance and keep the English at bay.

  But first, he had to persuade Hallie it would be good for Rivenloch.

  At the moment, she looked highly pers
uadable. There was a soft glow in her eyes and a yielding pressure in her hand.

  But she had a streak of loyalty and willfulness in her that would always make her place the clan’s needs above her own. Her warmth would vanish in an instant if she perceived Colban as a threat to Rivenloch, if she saw him, not as a gallant diplomat, but as a coarse Highland barbarian.

  Convincing her of his worth and his wisdom required him to be at his best. Responsible. Capable. Devoted. And smelling a good deal better than he did at the moment. Which was why he’d requested a bath as part of their negotiations.

  Nonetheless, it was with reluctance that he extricated his hand from hers and stepped back to allow her to leave.

  Just before he lowered his gaze, he thought he glimpsed a hint of regret in her eyes. And though she addressed him with dignity, there was a flustered note in her voice. “About your bath… I’ll have… I’ll have…”

  “Bart?”

  “Aye, Bart. I’ll send him up after supper.”

  “My thanks.” As she gave him a curt nod and swept toward the door, he added, “Ye won’t be sorry.”

  As she hurried out the door, he grimaced.

  Ye won’t be sorry?

  Those weren’t exactly the words of a gallant diplomat.

  He sighed. Battle strategy he knew. But he was unpracticed at peace negotiations. They were going to be a challenge. He would have to take his time. Temper his thoughts. Tame his tongue. All while in the presence of a formidable Valkyrie.

  “Oh, nay, you won’t,” Hallie commanded.

  Isabel scurried around their bedchamber with a wicker basket full of linen cloths and sponges. She pilfered several tallow candles and vials of herbs and oils from the table, tucking them into the basket.

  “But someone has to scrub his back,” Isabel replied with a shrug.

  “Scrub his…” Hallie grabbed her arm and spun her around. “Not you, Isabel. We have maidservants for that.”

  Isabel glared pointedly at her arm, still in Hallie’s grip, until Hallie was shamed into releasing her.