Chapter 17

The Valkyrie’s words felt like a blunt knife shoved between Colban’s ribs.

For a stunned instant, all he could say was, “I see.”

A stony silence fell as his hurt slowly coiled into anger.

Damn it, twice now he’d been willing to forfeit his life for the lass. Even her men were impressed by his deeds.

True, this time his judgment had been faulty and his rescue misguided. But his sacrifice had been genuine.

Was this how she repaid him? With cool indifference and callous rejection?

Maybe Isabel was right. Maybe Hallie was too cold and unfeeling for her own good.

Bitterness compelled him to remind her of the cost of his actions. Indicating his injury, he said with heavy sarcasm, “Then I must apologize for damagin’ your goods and decreasin’ my value.”

It gave him some satisfaction to see her color at his remark. Then she breezed past, muttering, “Breakfast will be up soon.”

When she closed the door behind her, he was left with an ache in his gut. An empty place that no amount of frumenty was going to fill.

For a brief moment, he’d felt something burning between them. A spark of life. An ember of affection. A flame of lust.

For an instant, he’d forgotten they were foes. He’d seen her as a capable warrior. A brilliant commander. A clever lass. An alluring woman.

Just as he’d let his instincts guide him in defending her, he’d allowed his heart to lead him in desiring her.

But his instincts had been wrong. It appeared his heart was as well. And he was paying the price of his miscalculation with a throbbing ankle and a hollow chest.

With a sniff of self-disgust, he pushed up from the chair to test his bandaged limb. Putting weight on it sent a twinge up his leg that made him grimace and sit back down. He supposed he’d limp for a few days. But the pain would remind him never to come to Hallie’s rescue again. At least not without a formal invitation.

Her indifference did serve one useful purpose. It made the prospect of betraying her much more palatable.

Battling her knights had already taught Colban a valuable lesson. While his claymore had proved a powerful weapon against Lowland longswords, the pace of fighting was quicker with a lighter blade. The Rivenloch soldiers had been able to spin and dodge, maneuver and infiltrate his defenses while he was still hefting his heavy weapon.

Morgan’s forces were unaccustomed to that kind of warfare. Pitted against such an army, they would find their legs cut from beneath them before they could even raise their swords.

Colban had to warn them. He had to train them. He had to study the Lowlanders’ fighting style and their weapons and pass that information along to Morgan.

He’d seen Rivenloch’s numbers now and witnessed their impressive unity. They were formidable and awe-inspiring.

Not that the men of the mac Giric clan weren’t intimidating in their own way. Wild and fierce, they brandished their blades and gnashed their teeth, charging like a herd of galloping beasts. Morgan’s warriors could make the enemy soil their braies ere they could engage their weapons, if they dared to stand their ground.

But these Lowlanders fought shoulder to shoulder, battling as a single force. They operated as smoothly as the gears of a gristmill. When one man fell back, another would take his place. Without a word, they sensed when and where to fill gaps in the line, maintaining an unrelenting and impenetrable advance.

If that army attacked Creagor now, the castle would fall. Good mac Giric men would die. And what was left of the clan would be sent hobbling back to the Highlands in disgrace.

Colban couldn’t let that happen. He had to learn all he could about Rivenloch. Her defenses. Her weaponry. Her strengths and weaknesses. Which ramparts were unassailable. And where the chinks in her armor were.

He knew just where he could unearth that kind of information.

Hallie’s siblings.

Hallie might have turned a cold shoulder to him. But Brand admired him. And Gellir was growing to respect him. They could teach him all about Rivenloch’s fighting style and tactics.

Young Ian hungered for Colban’s company. Studying that detailed notebook of his would tell Colban all he needed to know about the castle defenses.

As for Isabel, she’d hand him her heart if he asked. It would be child’s play, coaxing her to reveal Hallie’s vulnerabilities.

Indeed, he’d just begun to consider who he would question first when the lovesick lass knocked at his door.

“Sir Colban? Are you dressed? May I come in?”

“Aye, come in.”

She pushed through the door with a platter of food. “I’ve brought you brea—”

He figured his leine was long enough for decency. Until the lass’s eyes dropped immediately to his bare legs—and her platter almost followed.

Perhaps he should have put on his trews before he let her in. These Lowlanders didn’t seem to run about bare-legged the way they did in the north.

To close her jaw and break the awkward silence, he donned his trews and nodded toward the platter. “Did Hallie send ye?”

“Nay. I mean, aye!” She closed the door behind her. “She insisted you have a hero’s breakfast, since you saved her life and all.”

Colban smirked. He didn’t believe that for an instant.

The platter was piled high with oatcakes, butter, bacon, bread, frumenty, cheese, sweetmeats, and ale. It appeared the lass had raided the pantry and brought him a feast fit for an army.

He took the tray from her, setting it on his lap. “Hallie agreed to this?”

Isabel nodded, insisting, “She said ’twas the least she could do.”

He doubted that. He suspected Hallie would just as soon feed him gruel.

Isabel clasped her hands meekly before her, almost as if in prayer. “I know my sister seems hard and heartless. But I beseech you, don’t judge her in haste. You’ll see. She’s not as unfeeling as she seems.”

“Hmm.” He buttered half an oatcake and offered it to the lass.

She shook her head. “I’ve already eaten.”

He popped the oatcake into his mouth.

She began to pace, wringing her hands. “’Tis only that Hallie is going to be Laird of Rivenloch one day. She’ll have to manage the lands and command the army. So she has to prove her worth. And sometimes that means she has to black an eye. Or break a nose. Or lop off a finger.”

Colban nearly choked on the oatcake.

“But I’ll tell you a secret,” she confided in a murmur, stopping before him. “She’s never actually killed a man before.”

“That’s…comfortin’.” Of course, Hallie had already assured him he was no use to her dead. He took a sip of ale.

“And…” She glanced left and right as if she feared someone might be listening. Then she lifted her brows to impart the grave significance of what she whispered. “I don’t think she’s ever kissed a man either.”

Somehow he managed to swallow the ale and keep up a pensive frown.

Isabel seemed to sense his doubt. “I know ’tis hard to believe. But you don’t know her like I do.”

Here was his opportunity. “So tell me, since ye know her so well. What is this ‘not as unfeelin’ as she seems’ sister o’ yours really like?”

Isabel’s eyes lit up. She hopped up onto the bed, dangling her legs over the edge and kicking her slippered feet back and forth as she warmed to the subject.

“Hallie is fierce but fair. Above all else, she cares for the clan. She loves and protects all of us. Faithful Sir Rauve who’s guarding you. Burunild who dressed your wounds. Bart who laid your fire. Wee Tim who mucks out the stalls every day. John and James, who tend the sheep. The Rivenloch children just learning to crawl. Even the wrinkled white-haired wenches who bicker all day.”

Colban chewed thoughtfully at a bite of bacon. Hallie’s loyalty to her kin was likely her fatal flaw. It was the reason she’d taken such drastic action—absconding with him—in order to protect her foolish cousins.

“She’s generous,” Isabel continued. “She’s always buying us gifts from the fair. New weapons for Brand and Gellir. Something scholarly for Ian. A trinket for me. Oh!”

Hopping down from the bed, she came close. She reached for the sheath at her hips and whipped out a dagger. For an instant, Colban wondered if she meant to stab him. But she turned the blade in her hand to show him the haft. It was a small eating dagger, and the delicate handle was inlaid with pearl.

“She brought me this last spring. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Colban swallowed the bacon as he nodded.

Two thoughts popped into his head as he studied the jeweled crossguard.

One, the lass was entirely too careless. He could easily snatch that dagger from her, leaving her at his mercy.

Two, Hallie must be a woman of wealth to afford such a lavish gift. Was her wealth inherited? Or won off of unfortunate foes?

“And what does she purchase for herself?” he asked.

Isabel furrowed her brows as she put away her dagger. “Not much. Maybe new stockings. Or tallow candles. Once she bought an orange. I don’t think she liked it.”

He’d heard of oranges, though he’d never tasted one. They came from far away. And foreign merchants seldom traveled to the remote Highlands.

Isabel gave a sharp, startling gasp. “Are you thinking of getting her a gift?” Her eyes brightened. “That’s brilliant! She can hardly refuse a gift. And it would surely soften her heart toward you.”

Colban’s jaw hung open. Was she mad? He had no intention—and little hope—of softening Hallie’s heart. But before he could tell her so, Isabel began pacing again, twirling the dagger in her fingers and chattering all the while.

“She has little use for ribbons or jewels. And she’s got plenty of daggers. Ink? Too practical. A bottle of French wine or beeswax candles? Nay, gone too soon. Something lasting, like an ivory comb or a silver chalice…”

Colban’s head was spinning. A silver chalice? The lass must think he was made of coin. He had absolutely no intention of buying a gift for his captor. Not only was he certain it would do naught to soften her heart. But he knew the only “gift” she was interested in was the return of her cousins.

“I know!” she suddenly cried. “I know the perfect gift for my sister!”

Before she could reveal her perfect gift, there was another knock on the door, accompanied by an announcement of, “Breakfast!”

Apparently, Rauve was no longer overseeing who came in and out of Colban’s room.

Brand didn’t wait for an answer, but shouldered his way in. Carrying a platter piled high with fruit tarts, he grinned and kicked the door shut behind him.

His face fell when he saw the tray already on Colban’s lap. His brow furrowed when he saw who had brought it.

“Isabel! How did you get in here?”

“I knocked,” she said, adding pointedly, “and waited for permission. You can take that food away. I’ve already brought him breakfast. Shoo.”

“Don’t shoo me.”

Before they could begin bickering, Colban said, “’Tis fine. He can stay. I’ll have the tarts for supper.” Salvaging Brand’s pride would serve Colban well when he wanted information out of the lad.

“Fine,” Isabel agreed. Anger smoldered deep in her eyes, but she kept a civil tongue for Colban’s sake.

Brand set the platter on the bed. “I brought cherry and apple. I wasn’t sure which you preferred.”

“I like both,” Colban said.

“Aye, right?” Brand enthused. “’Tis like choosing a weapon. Sometimes you like the reach and power of a full blade. And other times you want the speed and flexibility of a dagger.”

“What are you jabbering about, Brand?” Isabel said. “’Tis pastry filled with fruit.”

“Oh, Dizzy Izzy, you wouldn’t understand.” Brand smirked knowingly at Colban.

Isabel bristled. “You’d better guard your tongue, Braying Brand.”

When her fingers tightened on the dagger, Colban decided to intervene before a full-out battle could ensue.

“I wouldn’t mind tryin’ one o’ those cherry tarts right now.”

Brand brushed past Isabel, dangerously close to her bare blade. But he passed unharmed and offered the platter to Colban.

Colban took one of the jewel-red tarts.

“Did ye break your fast yet?” he asked Brand, who was eyeing his bountiful feast. “I have far more than I can eat. Here, have a bit o’ bacon and an oatcake.”

Colban could feel Isabel’s frosty glare from a yard away. She’d brought the food for him, not for her pesky brother.

Colban took a bite of the cherry tart and then cooed to her, “Oh, lass, ye must try one o’ these. They’re like a wee bite o’ heaven.”

Her feelings somewhat mollified, she put away her dagger and came forward to take a bite of the tart.

She closed her eyes, savoring the sweetness. “Cherry is my favorite,” she divulged, licking her lips.

“Which does your sister prefer?” he murmured. “Cherry or apple?”

Brand barked out a laugh. “Hallie? She wolfs down food so fast, I doubt she tastes it.”

Isabel jabbed the sharp point of her elbow into Brand’s belly, hard enough to make him cough out crumbs of oatcake.

“Don’t be an oaf,” she scolded. “’Tis only that she has no time to dawdle over dinner. She’s too busy training, protecting your worthless arse.”

“Trainin’. Indeed?” Colban interjected, heading off another skirmish. “What weapon does she prefer then?”

Brand straightened proudly. This was something he knew. “Oh, Hallie’s weapon of choice is definitely the longsword. She’s deft and strong. And none can match her for speed.”

“Aye,” Isabel admitted, adding carefully, “though she’s clever enough to avoid a fight when she can. She’s not a violent person by nature.”

Brand scoffed at her. “You didn’t see her lay the friar out flat when he dared to put a hand on her—”

They were startled by a sudden single pound on the door, as if someone had struck it with a battering ram.

“Stand back from the door!”

“Gellir?” Brand murmured.

Isabel nodded.

“Did you hear me?” Gellir added.

Colban realized the lad must be addressing him. “Aye. I’m well away.”

The door opened an inch, and Gellir spoke through the crack. “I’ve got a dagger at the ready. So don’t try anything.”

The three of them exchanged puzzled glances.

Colban replied, “I won’t. Ye have my word.”

Gellir must have used his boot to swing the door open. One hand gripped a small dagger. The other held aloft a platter draped with a napkin. He stopped with a scowl. “What the devil?”

“Don’t be an arse, Gellir,” Isabel scolded. “Poor Colban can hardly walk. He’s not going to wrestle you for that plate of…whatever you’ve brought.”

Gellir closed the door and lowered the dagger. “Why are you here?”

Isabel raised her chin. “Why are you here?”

“Even a hostage needs a proper breakfa-…” He glanced at the two trays. “What’s that you’re feeding him? Tarts?”

Brand took offense. “What’s wrong with tarts?”

“He’s a man of war. He needs something of more substance than tarts.”

Brand countered, “He likes tarts.”

“Besides,” Isabel chimed in, “he has all this as well.” She swept her arm toward the feast she’d brought. “So he doesn’t really need more of your…” She narrowed her eyes at his platter. “What is that?”

Gellir whipped off the napkin. An enormous slab of glistening meat sat on a flat trencher of bread. “A roast.”

“A roast?” Isabel snickered. “A whole roast?”

Gellir’s face clouded. “I’ll have you know it came at a great price. I had to promise the cook a new cleaver.”

To keep the peace, Colban said, “Thank ye for your generosity. Let me sample that roast then, since it came at such a cost.”

Gellir wasn’t about to let Colban have the dagger. So he cut several slices from the roast himself. Then he offered the platter to Colban.

The siblings all waited with bated breath as he took a bite. The beef was savory and succulent, fattier than the meat of the wild cattle grazed on Highland grasses. He nodded his approval.

“That’s a meal for a champion,” Gellir boasted.

In truth, it was more like a dozen meals for a champion. He hoped the lad didn’t expect him to finish off the roast.

“Ye’ve been very kind,” Colban said with gentle diplomacy, adding a wee lie. “In truth, I feared your sister might wish to starve me for my foolishness this morn.”

As predicted, all three rushed to her defense.

“Hallie wouldn’t do that!” Isabel assured him.

“I wouldn’t let her,” Brand said.

“Our sister can be firm,” Gellir said, “but she’s not cruel.”

It appeared her siblings were as loyal to her as she was to them. Still, they’d gone behind her back to bring him food.

“There’s far too much here for me to eat alone,” he said. “I hope ye’ll join me and indulge yourselves. Gellir, can ye carve up the rest o’ this roast while Brand gives everyone a tart?”

They seated themselves on the edge of the bed, filling their bellies. Before long, their chins were shiny with beef fat and their fingers were sticky with fruit.

“What’s going on?” came a wee voice from the open doorway.

Ian had entered so quietly, no one had noticed. In one hand was his ubiquitous notebook. In the other was a long wooden staff.

“Come on in, Ian,” Brand called out. “Shut the door.”

Mildly annoyed, Isabel asked, “You didn’t bring food too, did you?”

“Wait,” Gellir scowled. “Did you come here alone?”

“Aye.” Ian closed the door. “But I didn’t bring food. No one told me to bring food. Were we supposed to?”

“What did you bring?” Gellir nodded toward the wooden staff.

Ian hurried forward. “A crutch. ’Tis oak. It should be strong enough to support your weight,” he told Colban. “About half a sack, aye?”

Colban had no idea how much he weighed.

Ian handed him the wooden crutch. “Here. Try it. The length is three-quarters of your total height, which I estimate is seventy-four inches. So I set the crossbar at fifty-five and a half inches.”

“Ye made this?”

“Aye.”

Colban couldn’t imagine how the lad could have garnered so much information about him, things he didn’t even know himself. Nor how he could have fashioned the crutch so quickly. But his siblings seemed unimpressed. They must be used to Ian’s genius.

“I haven’t used a crutch before,” Colban said.

“Here,” Ian offered, setting his notebook on the table. “I’ll show you.”

He helped Colban to rise.

“Tuck it here, on the opposite side of the injured limb,” he instructed, slipping the crutch under Colban’s arm. It fit perfectly. “When you walk, instead of stepping on your foot, let the crutch take the weight.”

“Like this?” He took a stumbling step forward.

Ian caught his forearm so he wouldn’t fall. “Aye, that’s it.”

With Ian by his side, he made slow progress. When he reached the window, Isabel cheered as if he’d completed a pilgrimage.

“Now you try it alone,” Ian encouraged.

Colban limped back with the aid of the crutch, faltering only once and leaning on the table for balance. Ian rushed forward to help, but Colban warned him away with a quick, “I can do it.” He took two more steps, then collapsed back into his chair.

Brand and Isabel clapped in congratulations.

Colban grinned. “’Tis amazin’,” he told Ian. “This will be o’ great aid. Thank ye, Ian.”

The lad glowed with pride.

“I’ll need more practice,” Colban said. “In the meantime, who’s hungry?”

A few moments later, Ian was squeezing in between Brand and Isabel, consuming an apple tart. It seemed food was an effective way to silence the lad’s ongoing commentary. For a long while, the only sounds in the room were chewing and slurping while Colban practiced limping past the hearth on the crutch.

He wondered how long it would be before he wouldn’t require the thing. Before he’d be back in fighting form. Before he’d be well enough to escape to warn Morgan, should the need arise.

He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Glancing up at the four siblings seated in a row on the bed as they licked their fingers and smacked their lips, he couldn’t help but smile. They might be on the verge of adulthood, but in some ways they were still as innocent, honest, and trusting as children.

Getting to know them was a double-edged sword, because he was growing to like them. Betraying them would break his heart.