Page 16 of Bride of Ice
Hallie cursed under her breath. Against her will and to her aggravation, the shield of ice surrounding her heart cracked just a wee bit.
“Morgan came to Creagor, hopin’ to make a new beginnin’,” he told her. “Alas, he’s been met by foes.”
For an instant, Hallie felt a splinter of guilt. Losing his wife was bad enough. But to face the prospect of losing his holding…
Then she furrowed her brow. “Wait. He attacked those foes while they were unarmed.”
The man shook his head. “’Tis true. Melancholy has made him reckless. But I assure ye he’s a decent man. No harm will come to your cousins.”
He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already guessed. From her interactions with the laird so far, she’d learned he was—on the whole—fair and reasonable. To be honest, in his place, evenshemight have gone after Jenefer with a blade. The wench had a way of drawing an attack with a sneer and a few choice words.
Still, Hallie could see the value in allowing the man to rattle on about his master’s qualities. Knowing one’s enemy—and their weaknesses—was the best way to prepare for battle, should it come to that.
So she encouraged him.
“You sound certain of that. Tell me more about this ‘decent’ laird of yours.”
A smile lurked at the corners of Colban’s mouth.
The lass had fallen neatly into his trap. By inviting her curiosity, he’d opened the door to reason with her.
Now, with the right words, he could placate her fears. Soothe her distress. And hopefully prevent a war.
“Laird Morgan? He’s a man of honor and truth. Brave. Forthright. Loyal.”
“Loyal enough to abide by the wishes of the king?”
“Aye.”
“Even if the king decrees that Creagor belongs to my cousin?”
Colban knew that wasn’t true. He’d been there when the messenger arrived, announcing the death of Morgan’s uncle. Morgan had always been in line to inherit the keep.
“Impossible,” he told her. “Creagor has belonged to the mac Giric clan for centuries.”
“Young Malcolm is a new king. He may have his own ideas about who can best protect the keep.”
“He made his decision. He awarded Creagor to Morgan, who is blood kin.” He hoped she wouldn’t press him on that. Though Morgan had the king’s word, the written document had not yet been received.
“He may regret decisions made in haste,” she said adding pointedly, “like awarding a Lowland keep to a Highland laird.”
He drew his brows together. Was that what the lass and her cousins were so peeved about? The fact that the clansmen squatting on the precious land adjoining theirs were Highlanders?
He bristled at that. As an orphan with no real clan or claim, Colban had always been grateful for the home the mac Girics had given him. They were good folk. Kind. Compassionate. Welcoming.
To think a Border clan would torment Morgan, arguing against his claim due to the place of his birth touched a raw nerve in Colban.
His ire was magnified by the fact that the lass had introduced doubt now and made him wonder. Was King Malcolm trustworthy? Would the new king honor the pledges of the old?
Malcolm was inexperienced, perhaps malleable. Was it possible the king would award castles on a whim, with no regard for tradition or clan bloodlines?
Colban shuddered at the thought. But he refused to betray Morgan by casting any suspicion on his tenuous ownership of the holding. Negotiations had to be made from a position of strength, not doubt.
So he spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel.
“Creagor has been tended by Morgan’s uncle for the last fifty years.”
“That may be. But ’tis Rivenloch knights who defended Creagor while the rest of the mac Girics were…what? Tending coos in the faraway north?”
