Page 26 of Bride of Ice
“Whoareye?” Colban asked again.
“Oh. I’m Ian.”
“Ian. Ye’re the one Hallie was lookin’ for. She sent Bart to—”
“I know. I was here. Remember?”
Nay, he didn’t remember.
Ian shrugged and whispered, “I stayed quiet, because I didn’twantto be found.” He leaned closer. “But who areyou?Besides some sort of Highland hostage who fights off wolves and lasses with a claymore.”
Colban had to smile at Ian’s appraisal of him.
“My name is Colban. Colban an Curaidh.”
“That means ‘the Champion.’”
“Aye, it does.”
Slowly, so as not to startle the lad, Colban dragged himself upright until he was sitting cross-legged as well. He could see the sun had moved across the sky. It must be late afternoon.
“You don’t have your sire’s name,” Ian remarked.
“Nay. I don’t have a sire. I’m a bastard.”
“Youmusthave a sire,” Ian informed him. “It takes both male and female to produce offspring.”
A grin tugged at Colban’s lips. He wondered if the lad knew all the details about procreation as well.
“Aye, Idohave a da. Somewhere. But I don’t know who he is.”
Ian’s eyes widened at that. Then he said thoughtfully, “’Tis a pity. A da is a good thing to have. My da taught me how to read and fish and play chess. Do you know how to play chess?”
“Aye.”
Ian sprang abruptly from the bed and rushed to the wooden chest at the foot of it. Lifting the lid, he retrieved a board and a velvet satchel. Then he climbed back onto the bed, setting the board between them and shaking the pieces out of the satchel.
“White or black?” he inquired.
The lad obviously hadn’t received the warning about not fraternizing with the prisoner. And now Colban supposed they were going to play chess, whether he wanted to or not.
“Black.”
What he really wanted to do was eat. He hadn’t supped since morn. Neither had the lad, if he’d been watching him sleep the entire day.
Ian began distributing the pieces. “My ma taught me how to play hnefatafl as well. Do you know it?”
He shook his head.
“’Tis a Viking game, similar to chess,” Ian said.
“Is your ma a Viking then?” Colban asked, lining up his pieces.
“My mother was born in Scotland. But her ancestors were Vikings. Where was your mother born?”
A dozen replies flitted through Colban’s head. In a brothel. Out of wedlock. On the wrong side of fate. Into the arms of despair.
In the end, he decided on, “In the Highlands.”
