Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(32)

Claray wasn’t at all sure that was true. The “all would be well” part. Not when the man made her toes curl and her body tingle with his kisses and caresses. His decision to give up this mercenary work and claim her might see her in hell for heaven’s sake. Which was something she planned to talk to Father Cameron about first thing on the morrow. Surely he would know some way to save her soul from the lust her betrothed stirred in her. Perhaps a pilgrimage or something would do it. Those were perilous and painful and took a long while, but she doubted Conall intended to rush her to the chapel of a sudden. He certainly hadn’t shown any indication that he was in a hurry to marry her ere this.

Aye, she’d talk to Father Cameron about a pilgrimage first thing on the morrow. Before she even broke her fast, she decided, and then glanced to her father and asked, “If he’s the Laird o’ MacDonald, why has he been livin’ as a mercenary all these years?”

Her father grimaced at the question, and then said, “Right after the murders, most o’ the survivin’ clan members fled. They had no idea what had happened, and there were superstitious whisperings about God strikin’ them down or some such rot. The few that remained behind had it rough with no laird or warriors to protect them. Ross did his best, but he was constantly sendin’ men to ask questions and try to sort out who would want Bean and Giorsal dead. And he did no’ have the manpower to set a permanent guard on MacDonald that would have been big enough to protect it from rievers and rival clans. He lost a lot o’ men to the effort to do so before givin’ it up,” he added solemnly.

“Anyway,” he said after a moment of silence, “Bryson was six when his parents died and he went to Sinclair. By all accounts he was a good quiet lad, and worked hard. He actually earned his spurs at sixteen, which is young as ye ken?”

Claray murmured her agreement. Most were closer to eighteen when they earned their spurs.

“Well, he rode straight to MacDonald when he was done with his trainin’,” her father went on. “But ten years had passed. The fields had disappeared under grasses, shrubs and young trees, the wall and roof were crumblin’ from lack o’ attention and repair and the keep . . .” He shook his head. “A lot o’ coin was needed to repair everything . . . and o’ course there were no longer MacDonalds there to work the fields either. He had no choice but to try to earn coin with his sword. He’s been workin’ these last twelve years to earn enough to not only repair MacDonald, but to lure back the survivors o’ his clan, and support them all until the fields could be made good again and start supportin’ everyone.”

“Twelve years,” Claray breathed.

“Aye,” her father said solemnly. “But now he’s made enough to do it. He can marry ye, and return to MacDonald where he’ll take up his title o’ laird and lead his people once more. As his wife, ye’ll assist him with that.”

“I will?” Claray asked weakly, but supposed she would. It seemed she would be marrying Conall. Or Bryson. She really wasn’t sure what she should call him now. But then there was a lot she wasn’t sure of at the moment. She’d spent so long thinking she’d never marry, have bairns or rule her own home, but now it seemed she would. Which was fine. Once she was over the shock of it she was sure she’d be happy about this turn in events. At least she would once she sorted out how to do it without landing herself in hell for enjoying her husband’s attentions. She would definitely make sure she sought out Father Cameron first thing on the morrow, before she’d even broken her fast, to broach the subject. Surely, he’d have some helpful advice for her on the matter.

“Here we are,” her father interrupted.

Dragged from her thoughts, Claray shifted her attention to her father to note that they’d stopped and he was dismounting. She then glanced around to see that while they’d been talking, her father had led her horse out of the bailey, over the drawbridge and out into the midst of the warriors camping outside the castle’s curtain wall. They had actually ridden out past the Buchanan soldiers and were in the middle of Conall’s warriors. Though it looked like even more soldiers had arrived and were setting up camp beyond Conall’s men.

Her gaze slid over the mass of soldiers crowding around them with now dozens of fires beyond, and then settled on the small circle her horse was stopped on the edge of. Men bearing torches made up the edge of the circle, lighting the area and keeping the others back. Conall, Roderick, Payton, Hamish and Laird and Lady MacKay, along with their daughter, were there as well. Ross MacKay was a big brawny older warrior with salt and pepper hair, while his wife and daughter were both petite women with dark hair. Lady Annabel’s was dusted with gray, however, while Kenna MacKay’s was lush and glistening in the firelight as it curled around rosy cheeks and a lovely face.

“Why are the MacKays here?” Claray asked when her father moved to her side to help her down.

“They’re Conall’s uncle and aunt and cousin,” her father pointed out as he lifted her off her mount and set her on the ground. “We sent word to them when Conall left to collect ye and they headed out at once. They arrived shortly after you did.”

“Oh,” Claray murmured, and started to turn toward her father, but paused when Ross MacKay moved aside and she spotted Father Cameron behind him. The priest was dressed in his finest vestments, and for some reason that sent alarm coursing through her. “Why is Father Cameron here?” Turning to her father she caught his arm and asked, “What are we doin’ here?”