Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(71)

Conall swallowed and reached out to make another move on the chessboard as the memory of her pinned to the post with an arrow through her shoulder filled his head, along with the memory of the horror and fear that had clutched at him then. He’d been desperate to get her to his aunt so she could heal her, and terrified that she wouldn’t be able to. That fear had barely begun to ease when Claray had gone feverish on them, and then Conall had suffered the agonies of hell, worrying that she would yet die on him.

Conall had refused to leave her side for the three days and nights she’d battled for her life. He’d bathed her forehead with cool cloths, dribbled liquids down her throat and even submerged her in the tub filled with cool water, and the whole time he’d sent silent prayer after prayer to the heavens, begging God to let him keep her.

That was when he’d realized that she’d somehow slipped into his heart and made a home there. Because Conall had stayed there in their room with her, uncaring what was going on outside the bedchamber door. Deagh Fhortan had been his only concern these twelve years since gaining his spurs, but with Claray sick and possibly dying, he hadn’t cared at all about his childhood home. If it had crumbled around their ears, he could and would build another home for them. He could not build another Claray.

“Ye never did say whether ye prefer Conall, or Bryson, husband,” Claray said suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts.

Giving his head a shake, he moved his bishop and then glanced at her before admitting, “I’m more used to Conall and have come to prefer it after being called that fer twenty-two years,” he said slowly, and then added, “But Bryson is the name me parents gave me, and I feel I should honor that, so I’m undecided which to go by.”

Claray nodded with apparent understanding, and said, “Then I shall just address ye as husband until ye’ve decided.”

Conall was smiling faintly at that decision when she added, “Or mayhap I could use endearments.”

Eyes widening slightly, he raised his eyebrows. “Such as?”

Claray seemed to consider the matter briefly, and then shook her head. “I am no’ sure. I can no’ call ye lovey, ’twould confuse me wolf.”

His gaze followed hers to the huge beast whose ears had pricked up and whose head had lifted at her use of his name. Conall silently sent up a prayer of thanks that the endearment lovey was taken and wouldn’t be used on him. He couldn’t even bear to call the wolf that. It was just too undignified for such a majestic beast, and—he’d like to think—for himself too.

“Let me see,” Claray said now, tilting her head up and peering toward the ceiling thoughtfully. “I could call ye me honey sweet.”

Conall’s eyes widened with horror at the thought of her calling him that in front of the men.

“Or my own heart’s root,” she added.

Now he grimaced. It was a common endearment, but the root part always made him think of a cock for some reason.

“My sweeting is nice,” Claray commented.

“Nay,” Conall said quickly, and when she looked at him with surprise, he tried to cover his horror at the thought of being called that, by saying, “I’d rather call ye that and we can no’ both use it.”

“Oh,” she breathed, seeming pleased at the idea of his calling her that.

He made a mental note to use it, and to come up with other endearments to please her. Flower, perhaps. Or petal, to reflect how beautiful and precious he found her.

Her suddenly covering her mouth to stifle a yawn drew his attention, and Conall looked her over carefully, noting that some of the color in her cheeks had faded and she was beginning to droop. She hadn’t been awake that long, but she was healing and would need sleep to aid with that, so he grabbed the chessboard and stood up to carry it to the table.

“What are ye doing?” Claray asked with sudden alarm.

“Ye need yer rest,” he said, turning to walk back to the bed. “We can finish the game later.”

“Oh, but—” Pausing, she bit her lip, and then asked, “Will ye sleep too?”

Conall hesitated briefly, considering all the things he’d neglected these last days, but then his gaze took in her hopeful face, and he decided to stay and rest with her awhile. It was probably for the best anyway. The few winks he’d managed to get in the chair after her fever broke, and before she woke, plus the four hours they’d slept that afternoon, was all the rest he’d had since she’d been wounded. He probably needed to sleep too. So, he patted the wolf’s rump to get him to move to the foot of the bed, and then removed his plaid.

Recognizing that he meant to join her, Claray smiled with relief and eased from her sitting position to lie down. Once she was flat on her back, Conall then slid into the bed next to her with his shirt still on.

He would have been more comfortable without the shirt, but had deliberately left it on to remind himself that she was wounded and he shouldn’t start in kissing and caressing her like his body wanted him to do. Like it always seemed to want to do.

“Thank ye.”

Claray’s whisper made him smile, but all he said was a gruff, “Sleep,” before closing his own eyes and trying to do the same himself.



Claray woke up with sunlight splashing across her face and a smile on her lips. That smile faded though when she turned her head to find the space next to her empty. Conall had already risen and gone, and even Lovey and Squeak were not there. Blowing her breath out on a sigh, she turned her gaze to the window, trying to guess what time it was.