His lips, though swollen on one side, looked capable of expressing both grim determination and gentle mercy. Of bellowing curses. Or whispering persuasions.
As he seemed about to do.
“Ye should know ye need not fret about your cousins,” he assured her. “They will be safe.”
“Jenefer and Feiyan?” She smirked. “I’m more concerned for your laird. My cousins can be…wily and unpredictable.”
She creased her brows. Why had she told him that? Why was she even engaging in conversation with him?
It was far more difficult to inflict necessary harm upon a captive once she befriended him. Furthermore, the Highland cadence of his voice—the playful lilt crossed with a gruff manliness—was fascinating her ears in a troubling manner.
“Still,” he said, “I assure ye Laird Morgan is a man of honor.”
She couldn’t resist reminding him, “You mean the man who charged at a lass—an unarmed, naked lass—brandishing his claymore?”
The man sighed. “God’s truth, he hasn’t been himself o’ late.”
She pressed her lips together. That piqued her curiosity. But of course he knew that. He was trying to provoke her into conversation.
She refused to be drawn in. Prying further would be a mistake.
He added, “Not since he lost his wife.”
Shite.
Lost his wife?
Now the rogue was trying to play on her sympathies. Having failed to reason his way to freedom, he was attempting to thaw her heart.
She wouldn’t allow that. She refused to ply him for details. It didn’t matter. Whatever tragedy the new laird of Creagor had endured didn’t change the fact that he was holding her cousins against their will in his bedchamber.
Knowing the laird had had a wife, however, made her wonder if the woman had given him an heir ere she died. Being in line for a lairdship herself, Hallie thought often of such things. And thinking of heirs made her remember the babe next to the laird’s bedchamber.
“That babe wailing all night…” she murmured.
“’Tis Morgan’s,” the man volunteered. “The poor wee thing has no ma. She died givin’ birth to the lad.” He let out a breath full of sorrow. “The bairn doesn’t even have a name. The laird is too heartbroken to give him one.”
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, even she might 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?”
“Tendin’ coos?” Colban felt the blood start to throb in his temples. “I’ll have ye know the mac Girics have the finest fightin’ forces in the Highlands.”
“Indeed?” she said. “Why?”
He stopped in his tracks, turning to scowl at her. “What do ye mean—why?”
“’Tisn’t as if you need a fighting force. You only quibble among yourselves, aye?” She shrugged. “Who stole whose coo? Who’s been swiving the sheepherder’s wife o’er the hill? Which lad has the biggest—”
“Hold on now!” Now he was truly riled. “Are ye insultin’ my clan?”
She arched a slender brow at him. “’Tisn’t as if you’ve ever faced a real foe.”
His eyes widened in shock.
Her voice was full of cool pride as she proclaimed, “For hundreds of years, the warriors of Rivenloch have engaged in full-scale battle against the English for control of the Border lands. We’re the progeny of Vikings, and we’ve guarded Scotland for generations of kings. There is no better force to defend Creagor.”