Page 125 of Bride of Ice
Instead, her Aunt Miriel had slyly suggested that Morgan’s people remain for a while to help Jenefer settle in. They no doubt imagined that familiarity would soften the blow of the betrothal.
As if she’d read Hallie’s thoughts, Feiyan caught up with her as she was crossing over one of the silver ribbons of a burn that wound through the glen. She nudged Hallie with her elbow.
“She loves him, you know,” she said.
“What?”
“Jenefer,” Feiyan said. “She loves Morgan.”
Hallie scoffed. “Impossible.”
“I was as surprised as you are. But ’tis true.”
“He’s a Highlander. She hates Highlanders.”
“Not any more. And she adores his wee babe.”
“Jenefer?OurJenefer?”
Jenefer had about as much use for babes as she did for a boar on a leash. She’d risked death, climbing to Creagor’s nursery window to silence the squalling infant.
“Aye,” Feiyan said, “and until that whole affair with his wife…”
“His what?” Hallie stopped in her tracks.
The knight behind her collided with her, muttered an apology, and continued on.
“’Tis a long tale,” Feiyan said. “Suffice it to say it wouldn’t surprise me if sheaskedto wed Morgan mac Giric within a sennight.”
Hallie shook her head. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I told your mother. We’re all wagering on it.”
“You’re wagering?”
Hallie’s mother stole up beside them to chime in, “We’re giving them a sennight. If they haven’t settled their differences, confessed their love, and figured out that marriage is the best answer by then, we’ll tell them about the betrothal.”
Hallie had to admit the deception was a clever ploy. Flies were more easily lured with honey than vinegar.
Then she let out a silent sigh of self-pity. It was a shame her mother couldn’t dream up a way to make her fall in love with Archibald Scott.
Chapter 32
Archibald Scott was inconsolable.
He should never have answered the knock on his bedchamber door. Normally, he let nothing interrupt his nocturnal entertainment. But the servant had said it was a missive from the king. And Archie had mistakenly assumed it was good news.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Not only was King Malcolm forcing Archie to wed against his will. He was being required to marry a woman who carried a sword. Rumor said Hallidis Cameliard of Rivenloch was as tall as a Viking berserker, kept wolves as pets, and had a reputation as a callous, cruel, coldhearted bitch. Nothing like the sweet, pure, compliant lovers Archie preferred.
He chewed his thumbnail as he paced his bedchamber, past the comely young initiate Geoffrey had secured for them this evening.
Though at eleven years of age, the lad was a bit older than Archie liked, he was suitable for their purposes.
Pale. Blond. Naked and pure as the day he was born. Freshly bathed, then slathered in wool grease for Archie’s pleasure, smelling like the innocent wee lamb he was.
The lad shivered despite the fire roaring on the hearth and stared at Archie with eyes as blue and wide as robin’s eggs.
