Page 53 of Bride of Ice
Yet this morn, she was troubled by her unsettling fascination with the Highlander. Thoughts of Colban an Curaidh had consumed her all night. She’d gone to bed, imagining his twinkling eyes. She’d dreamt of his broad shoulders and impressive stature. Her first waking thought had been of his snow-melting smile.
The best way to purge distractions, she’d found, was to engage in swordplay. Nothing required such undivided attention. When one’s welfare was at risk—when a stray thought could mean a painful slash, or the loss of a finger, or worse—it was easy to set aside everything but the immediate threat.
Still, as she prepared for combat in the hour before dawn, something was definitely wreaking havoc with her. And she wasn’t sure battle was the answer.
Donning her padded cotun, her fingers fumbled with the buckles.
When she snatched her shield from the wall, it slipped out of her grasp and almost rolled away.
As she reached to claim her sword, her gaze was drawn to the Highlander’s claymore hanging above it. Distracted, she paused.
The claymore, like the Highlander himself, was formidable. Long and powerful and heavy, its design and heft were magnificent. Like the man, it also had obvious flaws. But it had been well-loved, well cared for.
Nicks marred the steel. But the blade was sharpened to a keen edge.
The maker’s marks on the crossguard were long worn away. But the metal was polished to a high sheen.
Pressed into the weathered leather hilt were the impressions of Colban’s hands, each finger delineated by a dark indentation.
Blood surged to Hallie’s face. She remembered all too well the touch of those warm fingers on hers.
Her thoughts were abruptly scattered as she heard the Rivenloch knights coming to the armory, their raucous laughter echoing along the passage.
As they arrived, she snatched the sword from the wall and made a grab for her helm, intending to shove it down over her head to hide her blush. But in her haste, she knocked the helm to the floor. It clanged loudly enough to turn all their heads.
“Hallie. You all right?” one of them asked. “You’re up early.”
Mortified, she swept up her shield and tossed her braid over her shoulder with a cool confidence she didn’t feel. “Just restless. Eager to leave one of you idle sluggards in the dust.”
They laughed at that.
One of the knights nodded toward her weapon. “Are you going to try the claymore then?”
The claymore? In that instant, she suddenly noted the weight of the sword in her grip. The width of the crossguard. The indentations in the hilt from fingers larger than hers.
Shite. Somehow she’d whipped the wrong sword off the wall.
Another knight elbowed the first. “Don’t be ridiculous. ’Tis nigh as tall as she is.”
“Aye,” a third agreed, “and far too heavy for a lass.”
She wasn’t fooled by their taunts for an instant. They knew she couldn’t resist proving them wrong. She might have made a mistake, seizing the Highlander’s sword. But she wasn’t about to back down now. She gave them a grim smile.
“If that wee mouse of a Highlander can handle it,” she boasted, “then ’twill be like a child’s dagger in my hands.”
The knights guffawed at her cocky claim.
“I’ll take that challenge,” one of them called out as he thrust his arms into his cotun.
“Me as well,” another added, plucking his sword from the wall.
“I wager we’dalllike to take a crack against a Highland claymore,” a third said.
The rest cheered in agreement.
“Fine,” she said, wondering if her arm would hold out. Even carrying the thing to march Colban through the woods had tired her shoulder. A claymore was a two-handed weapon, heavy and slow. Hallie was accustomed to fighting with speed, not force.
“I’ll meet you on the field,” she said, intending to take a few practice swings before she engaged with an opponent.
