Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(68)

Straightening, Conall adjusted his hold on her so that he held her securely, but was a bit to the side so that he was as far from the shaft of the arrow as he could get. He then glanced to Roderick. Conall didn’t even have to speak; the man nodded and stepped forward to grasp the arrow’s end with one hand, then gripped it as close to Claray as he could without actually touching her and snapped the end off just past the fletching. He then helped Conall pull her forward off the arrow.

Once Claray was free, Conall released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and immediately scooped her up into his arms.

“Someone grab her medicinals bag,” he ordered, but didn’t stay to see if anyone did and simply hurried for the door, leaving the men scrambling to follow. Their guards surrounded them the moment he was outside the door, and stayed positioned around them as he hurried toward the keep. Hamish saw them coming and rushed to meet them, reaching them when they were halfway to the keep stairs.

“What happened? Is m’lady all right?” he asked, his concerned gaze moving over Claray as he fell into step next to Conall, forcing Gilly to make way for him.

“Someone shot through the window of the smaller stables, pinning her to the post,” Roderick said grimly when Conall didn’t answer.

“Did ye see who did it?” he asked at once.

“Nay,” Conall growled, and silently kicked himself for not thinking to look out the window the moment he realized what had happened.

“What about the rest o’ ye?” Hamish asked, his gaze still on Claray, his expression grim and face pale as he took in the blood soaking into and spreading on Claray’s gown.

“Nay. We were outside the door. They were inside alone,” Roderick admitted, and Conall could hear the guilt in his voice and knew his friend was regretting agreeing to leave them in the small stables alone.

“What?” Hamish asked with shock. “Ye were no’ inside guarding her? Ye were supposed to—”

“I ordered them out,” Conall growled, taking the blame he knew was his own. He wasn’t surprised at the shocked and angry look Hamish gave him. He knew this was his fault. Having the men inside with them wouldn’t have guaranteed the culprit wouldn’t shoot through the window, but he probably wouldn’t have bothered since one of the men guarding them would no doubt have been in front of the window rather than Claray. But the men hadn’t been there, because he’d ordered them out. Worse yet, he’d planned that all along when he’d suggested she see the animals settled. He’d intended to send the men out and take advantage of a few moments of semiprivacy to have at his wife.

Thanks to their present living arrangements, and the necessity for guards, he hadn’t been alone with Claray since the last time someone had shot an arrow at them. He hadn’t had a chance to kiss or touch her in a week and a half, and he’d wanted to. Enough that he’d sent their guards out and then pounced on her like an animal there in the pens, taking her with little care or concern.

The worst part was, he’d planned ahead to do it, and had set Hamish to the task of overseeing the unpacking of the wagons so that he could. He’d known his first would argue with him about leaving them alone in the small stables if he’d been there, and had wanted to avoid the argument. So, he’d set the man to a task to keep him busy, and rushed ahead with his plan. Now his wife might die because he couldn’t control his own desires.



Claray had no idea where she was when she woke up. She didn’t recognize the room she was in, or the dark blue bed-curtains around the bed she was lying in. Frowning, she tried to sit up, and fell back with a soft cry as pain shot through her upper chest.

“Claray?”

That voice, gruff with sleep, made her force her eyes open and turn her head to the side. She stared blankly at the man sitting up in a chair next to the bed, noting the sleepy way he was blinking as worry bloomed on his face. She’d obviously woken him with her cry, she thought, and felt bad about that. Her husband didn’t get enough sleep as it was. He was up in the mornings before the sun dawned and straight out to start working, trying to make Deagh Fhortan more habitable for them all. He also worked till late at night, using up torches and rushlights at a ridiculous rate to get things done.

“Wife?” he asked now, squeezing her hand.

Realizing her silence was worrying him, she asked, “Where am I?”

The question made alarm fill his face. “Yer at Deagh Fhortan, lass. Do ye no’ recall? We married and—”

“I remember,” she interrupted to assure him. “I just do no’ recognize this room,” she admitted, glancing around. “Or the bed-curtains, or these furs.” She ran her hand over the silk-lined fur covering the bed.

“Oh.”

That soft puff of sound drew her gaze around to see wry amusement on his face as he took in their surroundings. “’Tis our room. The men finished it the day after yer wagons arrived.” Turning his gaze back to her, he added, “And the bed-curtains and fur are from the things yer mother packed away fer ye. But yer in yer own bed, and the other furniture is from yer room as well.”

Claray glanced around the room again, this time taking in the familiar table and chairs by the fireplace, her chests pressed up against the wall and the smaller tables on either side of the bed. Recognizing them, she nodded and then asked, “Why am I in bed? And why does me chest hurt?”