Page 115 of Bride of Ice
When she finished, Isabel said nothing, but her bonnie face was full of grit and determination. “Is that it then?”
Hallie shrugged. She’d explained everything. What more did Isabel want?
She stood up. “So you still love him?”
There was no point in lying. She nodded sadly.
“And he still loves you?”
Why would he? He’d been cheated out of everything—his clan’s inheritance, his freedom, his bride. There was no reason for him to trust her, let alone love her.
But hedidlove her. She’d seen that in his face. He’d donned a helm that concealed his feelings. But she knew that defense all too well.
“Aye,” she admitted.
“Then all we have to do is tell everyone you’ve already swived him.”
“Nay!” Hallie’s eyes widened. “Shite, nay! Swear you won’t do that.”
“But why? ’Tis the truth. Besides, do you think whoever the king has picked out is going to want a sullied maiden for his wife?”
Hallie was fairly certain most brides were not virgins. But none of them confessed it. They did their best to conceal that fact on their wedding night. Still, she wasn’t about to reveal any of that to impressionable Isabel.
“He must never know,” Hallie said. “For my sake and for Colban’s, you mustn’t breathe a word. I will wed the man as I’ve been commanded. I won’t defy the king.”
“But ’tis unfair,” Isabel lamented.
Isabel was allowed to think that. She was still a lass. But when that same word tried to wind its way through Hallie’s brain, she fended it off like an invading army, knocking it down and crushing it underfoot.
No one had ever said life was fair.
It was far past midnight when Colban fell asleep at last. After several games of chess, stories of tournaments, contests of strength, and discussions of philosophy, the Rivenloch brothers refused to let him sleep on the floor. They insisted he crowd into the big bed with them for the few hours before his inevitable return to Creagor.
He drifted off to the soothing saw of their snores, wishing he could dream a new destiny for himself. One in which he was happily wed to Hallie. Where he gave her an army of bairns. And where these affable lads became their doting uncles.
Whatever dreams might have come were shattered in the wee hours by a thunderous pounding on the door. On his left, Brand snorted awake, clipping him with a stray fist. On his right, Ian scrabbled up in a panic and tumbled off the bed. Gellir leaped up, dagger in hand, to defend everyone.
Rauve pushed through the door. “Lads!” He glared at Gellir’s dagger, as if it were no match for his tough hide. “Gellir, Brand, dress and arm yourselves. We’re going to battle.”
“Battle?” Brand asked, his eyes lighting up. “Where?”
“Creagor.”
The word hit Colban in the chest like a warhammer.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
What had happened? Had diplomacy failed? Had Jenefer refused the bargain? Had she wounded Morgan? Or worse? Were the clans now at war?
“What happened?” Gellir asked.
“No time to explain,” Rauve said.
“What about me?” Ian called out, popping up from behind the bed. “I want to go.”
“Nay, lad,” Rauve said. “You’ll stay here with Brand. He’ll need your help to protect Rivenloch in case of a counterattack.”
“Aye, Ian,” Brand said, already scrambling into his clothes. “I’ll be in charge of Rivenloch now. You can set up the trebuchet atop the wall walk.”
