Page 117 of Bride of Ice
The shiver of chain mail and the squeak of leather mingled with the rumble of low and somber chatter about the battle to come.
Colban imagined his companions, the few brave swordsmen of mac Giric, facing this magnificent army. His heart squeezed within the cage of his ribs, knifing painfully sideways. They would be slaughtered by these warriors.
“There they are!” a man called out from the midst of the throng. “Gellir! Brand!” The tall, tawny-haired man had a noble bearing. Creases of age and battle seasoned his face. He made his way forward to address Gellir. “Is this the Highlander?”
Before Gellir could reply, Colban straightened to his full height and looked the man in the eye. He might be a hostage. But it was a mistake to cower before one’s captors. “I am.”
“He has a claymore, Da!” Brand said. Then, flush with the excitement of defending Rivenloch, the lad squeezed between the rows of knights to fetch his own weapon.
Da? Colban narrowed his eyes. So this was Hallie’s father, Pagan Cameliard.
His gaze slipped away to the blonde woman making her way over. She must be Hallie’s mother, Deirdre, the Laird of Rivenloch.
She was tall and commanding, almost as beautiful as Hallie, with the same piercing sky blue eyes and fair hair, though her golden strands were shot through with threads of silver.
“This is him?” She swept him with a swift but thorough scrutiny, as if she were sizing up a pig for butchering.
“Aye,” her husband replied.
“He’ll do.”
He’ll do?What did that mean?
Gellir sighed and addressed his mother. “The negotiations were unsuccessful?”
“What?” she asked absently, her attention elsewhere. “Not that one! ’Tis cracked!” she shouted to a squire pulling a shield from the wall. She pointed to another. “Try that one!”
“The negotiations with the mac Giric,” Gellir repeated. “They failed?”
“Failed?” she asked, mildly irritated at the interruption. “Nay.”
Gellir and Colban exchanged puzzled glances. Then he asked the question they both wanted to know. “Then why are we going to war with the Highlanders?”
She frowned. “Rauve!” she called out to the burly guard. “Who’s assembling the archers?”
Pagan shook his head and gave his wife a gentle nudge toward the soldiers, where she was most needed. “Go!” Then he turned to Gellir. “Now what did you want to know, son?”
Colban answered. “Why are ye attackin’ Creagor?”
Pagan blinked. “We’re not attacking her. We’re defending her.”
“Against my clan?” he asked.
“Your clan?” Pagan smirked. “Nay. Against the English.”
Colban felt like Pagan had smacked him on the back of his head and rattled his brain.
Gellir sheathed his dagger. “I guess I won’t be needing this after all.”
“The English?” Colban echoed woodenly.
“Aye,” said another nobleman who joined them, his mouth curving up into a mischievous grin. “Perhaps you’ve heard of them? They’re a gang of troublesome folk that live just the other side of the border.”
“Colin!” A woman with thick honey hair and a smoky gaze thumped the man on his chest. “Don’t tease the man. ’Tis his clan they’re after, and our Jenefer’s in danger.”
Jenefer. The fiery lass who’d been fighting naked in the moonlight with Morgan. So she was still Morgan’s hostage.
And Creagor was under siege.
