Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)
Lynsay Sands
Chapter 1
Claray was standing at the window, debating the merits of leaping to her death rather than marry Maldouen MacNaughton, when knocking at the door made her stiffen. The loud banging sounded like a death knell. It meant her time was up. They’d come to take her to the chapel.
Claray’s fingers tightened briefly on the stone edging of the window, her body tensing in preparation of climbing up and casting herself out. But she could not do it. Father Cameron said that self-killing was a sin certain to land you in hell, and she was quite sure that ten or twenty years of hell on earth as MacNaughton’s wife were better than an eternity in the true hell as one of Satan’s handmaidens.
Shoulders sagging, Claray pressed her cheek to the cold stone and closed her eyes, silently sending up one last prayer. “Please God, if you can no’ see yer way clear to saving me from this . . . at least make me death quick.”
Another knock sounded, this one a much louder, more insistent pounding. Claray forced herself to straighten and walk to the door, brushing down the skirt of the pretty pale-blue gown she wore as she went. She wasn’t surprised when she opened it to see her uncle Gilchrist framed by the two men he’d had guarding her door for the last three days since her arrival. She was a little surprised by the guilt that briefly flashed on his face though. It gave her a moment’s hope, but even as she opened her mouth to plea that he not do this, Gilchrist Kerr raised a hand to silence her.
“’Tis sorry I am, niece. But I’m tired o’ being looked down on as a lowlander and MacNaughton has promised MacFarlane to me do I see this through. Ye’re marrying him and that’s that.”
Claray closed her mouth and gave a resigned nod, but couldn’t resist saying, “Let us hope, then, that ye live a long time to enjoy it, uncle. For I fear yer decision will surely see ye in hell for eternity afterward.”
Fear crossed his face at her words. It was closely followed by anger, and his hand clamped on her arm in a bruising grip. Dragging her out into the hall, he snapped, “Ye’ll want to be watchin’ that tongue o’ yers with the MacNaughton, girl. Else ye’ll be in hell ere me.”
Claray raised her chin, staring straight ahead as he urged her up the hall toward the stairs. “Not I. Me conscience is clear. I may die first, but ’tis heaven where I’ll land. Unlike you.”
She’d known her words would anger him further, and wasn’t surprised when his fingers tightened around her arm to the point she feared her bone would snap. But words were her only weapon now, and if what she’d said gave him more than a sleepless night or two between now and when he met his maker, it was something at least.
Claray tried to concentrate on that rather than the trials ahead as her uncle forced her down the stairs and out of the keep. The man was taller than her, his legs longer, but her uncle didn’t make allowances for that as he pulled her across the bailey. He was moving at a fast clip that had her running to keep pace with him. Claray was concentrating so hard on keeping up that when he suddenly halted halfway to the church, she stumbled and would have fallen if not for that punishing grip on her arm.
For one moment hope rose within her that his conscience had pricked him and he’d had a change of heart. But when she glanced to his face, she saw that he was frowning toward the gate where a clatter and commotion had apparently caught his attention.
Hope dying in her chest, Claray turned her uninterested gaze that way to see three men on horseback crossing the drawbridge. Guests arriving late to the wedding, she supposed unhappily, and shifted her attention toward the chapel where a large crowd of people awaited them. The witnesses to her doom were made up mostly of MacNaughton soldiers and a very few members of the Kerr clan. It seemed most did not wish to be a part of their laird’s betrayal of his own niece.
“The Wolf,” her uncle muttered with what sounded like confusion.
Claray glanced sharply back at her uncle to see the perplexed expression on his face and then surveyed the three men again. They were in the bailey now and riding straight for them at a canter rather than a walk, she noted, some of her disinterest falling away. They were all large, muscular warriors with long hair. But while the man in the lead had black hair, the one behind him had dark brown, and the last was fair. All three were good looking, if not outright handsome, she decided as they drew nearer.
Claray didn’t have to ask who the Wolf was, or even which of the three men he might be. The warrior who went by the moniker “the Wolf” was a favorite subject of the troubadours of late. Every other song they sang was about him, praising his courage and prowess in battle as well as his handsome face and hair that was “black as sin.” According to those songs, the Wolf was a warrior considered as intelligent and deadly as the wolf he was named for. But he was actually a lone wolf in those songs, because he spoke little and aligned himself with no particular clan, instead offering his sword arm for a price. He was a mercenary, but an honorable one. It was said he served only those with a just cause.
“What the devil is the Wolf doing here?” her uncle muttered now.
Claray suspected it was a rhetorical question so didn’t bother to respond. Besides, she had no idea why the man was here, but she was grateful for it. Any delay to this forced wedding was appreciated, so she simply stood at her uncle’s side, waiting for the men to reach them.