Page 14 of Bride of Ice
“Slay you? Nay.”
For one fleeting moment, hope flared in his chest. Maybe she had a shred of decency after all.
Then she added, “But if you don’t yield, I won’t hesitate to maim you. Slice off an ear. Collect a finger. Carve a roast from your—”
“Fine. I yield.” He shuddered.
“Cross your hands behind your back,” she commanded.
He hesitated. What was she planning?
“Now,” she bit out.
She jabbed his neck hard enough to show she was serious. Hard enough to draw a sharp breath of pain through his teeth.
He complied with her demand then. But his face flamed with anger and humiliation. How had things come to this?
The merciless maid shifted the claymore until the entire length of the blade’s keen edge rested against the back of his neck. She held it in place with her foot while she bound his wrists together. It was a precarious position. One movement of his head, and the blade would sink into his flesh. One slip of her boot, and he’d be decapitated.
He held his breath as she used the silver chain from her leather girdle to bind his wrists. Like the wench herself, it turned out the belt was less a thing of delicate beauty, more a deadly weapon. The chain was not silver as he’d imagined, but forged of interlocking links of strong steel. She must wear it expressly for occasions like this, he thought bitterly, when she decided on a whim to take a man captive.
Once his hands were bound, she removed the blade from his neck.
He exhaled in relief. It seemed he’d keep his head another day.
Then she hunkered down beside him, speaking in a soft, low, throaty voice. A voice at odds with her harsh words.
“Make no trouble, and I won’t have to mutilate you. But cry out, and I’ll gag you with your own leine. Attack me, and I’ll relieve you of an ear. Try to run, and I’ll bind your ankles anddragyou to Rivenloch. Do you understand?”
He glared at her boots. Aye, he understood. But he was too full of frustration and shame to meet her eyes. His mouth worked as he resisted the urge to defy her.
“Do youunderstand?”she repeated.
“Aye,” he growled.
How could his noble intentions have gone so wrong? How could he have let her make him a hostage? He should have left her to the wolves. Hell, she might have singlehandedly slaughtered the whole pack.
In the end, he had no choice but to admit he’d been bested by a lass. Much to his chagrin and disgrace and fury.
Of course, he had no intention of letting her take him all the way to Rivenloch. He’d be vigilant. Sooner or later there would be a moment of weakness. Complacency. Misplaced trust.
Whether shehelpedorhauledhim to his feet was a matter of opinion. Somehow he managed to stand. Then, at the prodding of the claymore, he started down the trail.
His fate might be bleak. But the morn was no reflection of that. As if mocking his misery, the sun danced merrily among the branches. Squirrels made chase across the mulch as they foraged for fallen acorns. Birds seized the rare moment of autumn sunlight to twitter madly from the trees.
He expected the warrior maid to be cocky. Full of swagger and bragging. Proud and gleeful, like the morn.
Instead, she traversed the bright woods as quietly as winter, silencing the autumn cheer like solemn frost.
He supposed she had good reason to be sober. No doubt the weight of what she was doing lay heavy upon her shoulders. Absconding with him to Rivenloch, she was playing a dangerous game of chess.
Laird Morgan held her queens. And she meant to get them back, using—for leverage—one of his valuable knights.
But she didn’t realize the truth.
Colban an Curaidh might be Morgan’s right hand man. But he was hardly valuable. He wasn’t even a proper member of the clan. He was baseborn. A foundling. An outcast. The mac Girics might have taken him in. But he was an outsider.
Even as a lad, he’d recognized that.
