Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(31)

She glanced to Alick then, hoping he might have some idea what was happening, but he merely shrugged.

“I’ve no idea what’s about. Best we go find out though,” he suggested when she just stood there.

“Oh. Aye.” Giving herself a shake, she started quickly across the great hall. “Ye do no’ think MacNaughton has caught up to us and approaches the castle, do ye?”

“He’d have to be an idiot to approach with all the soldiers here at the moment,” Alick assured her, and reached over her head to push one of the keep doors open for her as they arrived at them.

Claray was frowning over that when she slid under her cousin’s arm and walked outside. She paused then, confusion running rife through her as she saw that her father was waiting at the bottom of the steps with both her mount and his own. Aulay was already on his own horse and holding the reins of another.

“Hurry, you two. Come mount up. Ye’re holdin’ everyone up,” her father called impatiently, and then turned and mounted his own horse.

“What in heaven’s name,” Claray breathed, but tripped quickly down the stairs. Alick lifted her into the saddle the moment she reached her mount, then hurried to mount the horse Aulay was holding for him as Claray asked, “Where are we goin’?”

When her father didn’t answer, but started his horse moving, pulling her mount behind him, Claray shifted to hook her leg over the pommel of the saddle to keep her balance. She was not at all used to riding sidesaddle, especially on a normal saddle. But she wasn’t wearing braies under the plaid and wouldn’t ride astride without them. Hoping they weren’t riding far, she glanced over her shoulder. Alick and Aulay were following a little behind, her younger cousin leaning toward his older brother and obviously asking him what was happening. When she saw Aulay’s lips begin to move, she wished they were closer so she could hear the explanation. She had no idea what was going on.

“I’m sorry, lass.”

Claray turned to see that her father had slowed to ride beside her and was frowning almost guiltily. Eyebrows rising, she asked, “For what?”

“For ne’er tellin’ ye yer betrothed yet lived,” he said solemnly. “I wanted to. But . . . at first ye were too young to trust with the secret.”

“Why was it a secret?” she asked when he paused.

“Well, ye ken the boy’s parents were murdered,” he said, and when she nodded, he continued. “It seems the lad was meant to die too. ’Tis only luck he didn’t eat the poisoned food. Ross MacKay, his uncle,” he explained, “arranged it so that everyone thought young Bryson had died with his parents and everyone else at dinner that night. He was tryin’ to protect him, ye see, make the murderer think he’d succeeded. So he changed his name to Conall and sent him to train at Sinclair to keep him safe while we tried to catch the murderer.”

Gannon MacFarlane sighed unhappily. “In our arrogance, we thought we’d solve it right quick, bring the murderer to justice, and the lad’s survival could be revealed. He would have then been returned to his uncle’s home and raised amongst family as Bryson MacDonald again. But that did no’ happen,” he pointed out grimly.

“Still, we ne’er gave up,” he assured her. “But the years passed without any results in our hunt fer the killer.”

Claray nodded solemnly. She already knew that; as she’d told Conall and the other men, her father had seemed to her to be obsessed with the chore. Now she asked, “But why did ye and Mother never tell me that he still lived? Do ye no’ think I should have kenned?”

Her father grimaced. “At the time o’ the murders ye were but a bairn, and then later as a child we all agreed it was better no’ to tell ye fer fear ye might let it slip that young MacDonald still lived without ever meanin’ to. Such a slip could ha’e cost the lad his life. His parents’ murderer might ha’e got word he yet lived and hunted him down and killed him.”

Claray nodded again in understanding when he glanced her way. She supposed it would have been risky telling a young girl something like that. But she hadn’t been a young girl for a very long while. Before she could say that, her father continued.

“And then, once ye were older, yer mother and I wanted to tell ye, but the lad insisted we should no’,” he said, sounding a bit irritated. “Conall thought it better ye no’ ken in case he died in battle ere he could claim ye. That way, he said, I could just arrange another betrothal and ye’d be none the wiser and suffer no upset at his death.”

“Oh,” Claray murmured, and sort of understood his reasoning. If she had met and got to know him, she very well might have suffered upset and even grief at his passing. Except she’d never even met him ere this, so suspected she wouldn’t have felt much more than a bit of disappointment on learning of his death had that happened.

“No’ tellin’ ye was the only serious bone o’ contention between yer mother and I in all the years we were married,” he added sadly. “She wanted to tell ye when ye were twelve, so ye’d have something to look forward to. But I’d given me word, and I had to make her give me hers. Ye ken now though,” he added, sitting a little straighter in the saddle, “and he’s ready to give up his mercenary work and claim ye, so all will be well.”