Page 15 of Bride of Ice
And as an adult, he knew his place.
Colban was a pawn. And pawns were meant to be sacrificed.
Still, he’d prefer not to lose any body parts in defense of his laird.
The lass had claimed his claymore. But he still had a formidable weapon at his disposal. The persuasive power of his words.
Chapter 6
This wasn’t the first time Hallie had taken a captive. She knew all their tricks. Charging like an ox. Yelling for help. Fleeing on foot. Feigning illness.
She hoped he wouldn’t try anything foolish. The thought of marring his handsome face bothered her.
Of course, she’d do what she had to do. But she wasn’t so blinded by purpose that she couldn’t see how magnificent a man he was. Nor what a shame it would be to ruin such magnificence.
Not only did he exceed her in height. He possessed a fine figure as well. His shoulders were broad. His legs were long. His arms were capable.
But aside from his warrior attributes, there was something in his face—as damaged as it was—that quickened her heart.
Behind the bruises, his dark brown eyes shone with wisdom and experience, like ancient polished gems. Beneath the cut on his forehead, his brow creased with earnest honor. His nose was straight, and his cheekbones were unbroken, signs of expert fighting skills. His square jaw was covered with stubble a shade darker than the streaked blond hair he’d earned from a life spent laboring under the sun.
His lips, though swollen on one side, looked capable of expressing both grim determination and gentle mercy. Of bellowing curses. Or whispering persuasions.
As he seemed about to do.
“Ye should know ye need not fret about your cousins,” he assured her. “They will be safe.”
“Jenefer and Feiyan?” She smirked. “I’m more concerned for your laird. My cousins can be…wily and unpredictable.”
She creased her brows. Why had she told him that? Why was she even engaging in conversation with him?
It was far more difficult to inflict necessary harm upon a captive once she befriended him. Furthermore, the Highland cadence of his voice—the playful lilt crossed with a gruff manliness—was fascinating her ears in a troubling manner.
“Still,” he said, “I assure ye Laird Morgan is a man of honor.”
She couldn’t resist reminding him, “You mean the man who charged at a lass—an unarmed,nakedlass—brandishing his claymore?”
The man sighed. “God’s truth, he hasn’t been himself o’ late.”
She pressed her lips together. That piqued her curiosity. But of course heknewthat. He was trying to provoke her into conversation.
She refused to be drawn in. Prying further would be a mistake.
He added, “Not since he lost his wife.”
Shite.
Lost his wife?
Now the rogue was trying to play on her sympathies. Having failed to reason his way to freedom, he was attempting to thaw her heart.
She wouldn’t allow that. She refused to ply him for details. It didn’t matter. Whatever tragedy the new laird of Creagor had endured didn’t change the fact that he was holding her cousins against their will in his bedchamber.
Knowing the laird had had a wife, however, made her wonder if the woman had given him an heir ere she died. Being in line for a lairdship herself, Hallie thought often of such things. And thinking of heirs made her remember the babe next to the laird’s bedchamber.
“That babe wailing all night…” she murmured.
“’Tis Morgan’s,” the man volunteered. “The poor wee thing has no ma. She died givin’ birth to the lad.” He let out a breath full of sorrow. “The bairn doesn’t even have a name. The laird is too heartbroken to give him one.”
