Bride of Ice (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #2) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,2

have offered to take the night watch at the palisade gates of Creagor.

Despite his best efforts, he kept dozing off in the dark. After an exhausting fortnight of travel from the Highlands and a full day of settling the clan into their new home, he could hardly keep his eyes open.

But Colban was a man of duty. He’d made a promise. As Laird Morgan Mor mac Giric’s oldest and most loyal friend, Colban had vowed to keep the laird safe. He wasn’t about to break that promise.

Morgan needed him. He hadn’t been himself lately. Not since he’d lost his wife in childbirth.

Colban had done his best on the long journey to their new home to be Morgan’s right hand man, covering for him, acting as a leader in the laird’s stead. He’d spent all day making decisions on Morgan’s behalf. Organizing the household. Directing the servants. Sorting out the livestock. Stocking the armory.

Finally, Colban’s patience had worn thin. Frustrated over Morgan’s lingering grief and numb disinterest, Colban had tried to knock some sense into the laird. His good intentions had culminated in a juvenile battle of fists between the two. A fight that had ultimately jarred the laird back to life.

Now, however, Colban wondered if reviving him had been so wise after all.

It was Laird Morgan himself who’d just startled Colban awake. Bursting out of the palisade gates past him. Spitting curses. And brandishing his claymore.

Colban shook off the cobwebs of sleep, watching Morgan storm across the field and wondering where the devil he was headed. When he spied the target of Morgan’s wrath, his heart seized.

In the moonlit mist of the frozen sward stood a single lass. Pale. Naked. Shivering.

By all rights, she should have been screaming in terror, running away as Morgan Mor charged toward her.

Instead, the intrepid lass held her ground, standing up to her attacker as if she had the power of all the angels on her side.

Colban’s jaw tensed as he clenched his fist atop the palisade fence.

What the devil was Morgan doing?

Surely he wouldn’t harm a defenseless lass.

Morgan was a good man, a fair man. Aye, he hadn’t been himself lately. But that didn’t mean he’d abandon his honor.

Still, Colban didn’t dare leave anything to chance.

What if Morgan hurt the woman in his ire? What if he killed her?

There would be no warm welcome for the mac Giric clan at Creagor if its laird murdered one of the local lasses.

When he saw Morgan begin to confront the young woman, Colban knew he had no choice but to intervene. Someone had to reason with the laird and balance the odds for the helpless lass.

Startling them would be dangerous and might cause a tragic accident. Carefully closing the gate behind him, Colban quickly and quietly headed toward the trees.

He was only halfway to his goal, approaching with stealth, when he glimpsed two more figures emerging from the shadowy edge of the wood.

The arrival of more possible assailants changed Colban’s purpose. With Morgan outnumbered, now he had to make sure it was a fair fight for the laird.

Unfortunately, he’d left his claymore behind.

But armed with his wits and his courage, Colban was never completely defenseless. And once he heard female voices coming from the new arrivals, he breathed a sigh of relief. A pair of lasses? Those he could handle with his bare hands.

Morgan had one lass engaged. All Colban had to do was steal up and intercept the nearest arrival, the smaller, dark-haired lass. Surely, once two of them were caught, the third would surrender.

If he and Morgan couldn’t manage three wee maids on their own, they didn’t deserve their claymores.

Or so he thought. Until, just as he came within range of his target, she attacked without warning. Something—her fist? her elbow? her foot?—came out of nowhere to strike Colban’s jaw with punishing force, rocking his head back and making his vision swim.

An instant later, she somehow tossed Laird Morgan, still clutching the naked maid, flat on his back.

Then, while Colban staggered, struggling to make sense of what had just happened, from three yards away she pitched her arm violently forward. He felt the hard impact of a weapon striking his chest.

Several thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant.

He was dead. She’d thrown a dagger at him and killed him.

There was no pain yet. But there would be.

He couldn’t die. Who would protect the laird?

How could he have been killed by a lass? A lass?

After a moment, he realized the curious sharp star protruding from