Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(69)

“Yer chest hurts?” he asked with alarm.

“Well, I guess ’tis me shoulder,” she admitted after taking a moment to pinpoint where the residual pain actually was. It had felt like it shot through her chest, but she supposed it had originated from her shoulder.

Relaxing a little, he nodded. “Do ye no’ recall being in yer beastie stables and—”

“I was shot with an arrow,” she exclaimed as his words prodded her memory and she recalled the punching sensation and seeing the arrow sticking out of her upper chest.

“Aye,” he sighed the word, and then squeezed her hand, and added, “I’m sorry, wife.”

She glanced at him with surprise. “Why? Ye did no’ shoot me; ye were standing there with me.”

“Aye, but if I had no’ moved when I did, I would have been the one shot. They were aiming for me,” he said solemnly.

Claray frowned at this news as she recalled his kissing her on the nose and then stepping from in front of her just before the arrow struck. Oddly enough the thought that he’d been the target was more alarming to her than the fact that she’d been hurt. Frowning, she asked, “Where are Gilly and Machar and the other two men? Should they no’ be here guarding ye?”

“They’re in the hall with yer guards,” he said, dropping back in the chair and running his hands over his face as if to clear away any remaining traces of sleep. That and the fact that he’d obviously been dozing off in the chair when she woke up made her survey the room again, this time looking for the fireplace and window. The fireplace was no help; there was no sign that a fire had been built in it yet, or for quite a while from the looks of it. There was a jumble of unidentifiable things in it, including old nests from the look of it. It obviously hadn’t been cleaned after the men had rebuilt the second floor of the keep, and she wondered if that had been because they’d left it for the women, or because Conall had rushed them out to move the furniture and her in. She couldn’t imagine they’d missed it. By her guess, they’d probably used the placement of the stone fireplaces on this level as an indicator of the height the floor should be built at.

Shrugging those thoughts away, she continued looking and found the window. It was more helpful, showing her that the sun was up. She could see it through the window, but it hadn’t fully risen and she guessed it was midmorning. It had been afternoon when the wagons had arrived.

“So, I slept through the evening and night?” she asked.

Conall let his hands drop to his lap and shook his head. “Ye’ve slept fer three days and nights.” When dismay filled her face, he explained, “Ye got the fever, lass. Thank God yer da sent a bath with the things in the wagons. The only way we could cool ye down was to fill it with cold water and put ye in it.”

“Da sent a bath?” she asked with a happy grin.

For some reason Conall’s lips quirked at the question and he turned to gesture over his shoulder at a large brass tub he’d been blocking until he moved in the chair. “It was full o’ vegetables and had sacs o’ flour and bolts o’ cloth all around it in the wagon.” Turning back, he asked, “Ye did hear the part about ye being feverish?”

Claray dragged her eyes from the tub to his face, and flushed as she realized he’d also said they’d had to put her in the tub. She was guessing she’d been nude at the time.

Conall nodded, apparently taking her blush as confirmation. “Yer fever broke late last night. I sent me aunt to bed then. She’d been up with me tending ye since I carried ye into the keep.” He frowned and then added, “But I promised to wake her if ye woke, so I’d best go let her ken.”

Conall stood then and headed for the door, but paused once there and turned back to say, “Yer probably thirsty. I should have thought to—” He shrugged that away, and asked, “Are ye hungry too?”

Claray nodded silently. Her stomach had been gnawing at her since she’d woken up, but it was only now that she knew she hadn’t eaten for three days that she recognized what her body was trying to tell her.

“I’ll fetch ye some broth,” he said solemnly, and then slid out of the room, leaving her alone to examine the chamber she was in. It was quite large. She wondered if the men had managed to finish other rooms too. She hoped so; she’d hate to think she was taking up the only bedchamber in the keep. If Claray had been awake, she would have given it to Kenna and her mother. She’d have to ask her husband when he returned.





Chapter 21




“Do ye prefer the name Conall or Bryson?”

Conall glanced up from the chessboard set up on the bed between them at that question from his wife. Claray was looking better than she had when she’d first awoken. She’d been pale, her eyes dull and hair limp then. Some of that pallor had gone after she’d eaten the broth he’d brought for her. But after the sleep they’d both had afterward, then the sup he’d fed her when they woke up, and the bath he’d helped her with, she was much improved. Her hair was still damp from her bath, but she was also rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed again. She was definitely on the mend, he decided. But it didn’t ease any of his guilt over getting her shot in the first place.

“Well?” Claray prompted. “Bryson or Conall?”

Conall stared at her for a moment, wondering how she could bear to even look at him after what he’d put her through, let alone smile as sweetly as she was. Claray had nearly died because of him, but when he’d admitted this was all his fault and apologized while helping her in the bath, she’d waved his words away and assured him she didn’t hold him responsible. In fact, she’d taken on some of the responsibility herself, saying she could have protested the men leaving, but hadn’t because she’d missed his kisses and touch too and had hoped for what had happened to occur. Claray had blushed while she admitted it . . . everywhere. Her naked body had gone pink in the bathwater, and he’d wanted her all over again. It was only the fact that she was so weak and in obvious pain that had kept him from dragging her from the tub and making love to her again. It was an urge he was still fighting. They were finally alone in their own chamber, something he’d been looking forward to and imagining for that whole week and a half before she’d got shot with the arrow, and he still couldn’t love her as he’d fantasized . . . and it was all his own damned fault.