Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(76)

“Aye, I do,” Conall admitted, his voice husky as he thought on the memories he had of his childhood before the poisonings. He had more now than he used to. Being here at Deagh Fhortan was stirring them back to life in his head. “She was a verra good mother. I’m sure she had days when she was angry or frustrated by some occurrence or another, but I only ever remember her smilin’ and laughin’.”

“What else do ye remember?” she asked when he paused, so Conall began to list things off.

“I remember she loved my da and me. I remember quiet nights with the three o’ us by the fire. I remember her takin’ me swimmin’ in the pond. I remember helpin’ her pick fruit in the orchard . . .” He paused briefly and then admitted, “She did the actual pickin’ and would hand me an apple or pear, and I’d carry it to the basket and set it in, then run back fer the next apple or pear.”

Conall smiled at that memory, and then chuckled and added, “And I remember she used to play a game o’ chase with me. She’d say she was the ticklin’ bandit, and she’d chase me about until she caught me and then she’d cuddle and tickle me until we were both breathless with laughin’.”

Claray stopped sorting and smiled at him. “She does sound lovely.”

Conall nodded, his gaze wandering back to the men. They hadn’t actually had to go far at all to find the rushes. They were growing all along the sides of the moat that surrounded Deagh Fhortan. The only reason they’d even needed to bring the wagons was to carry the rushes back. So, they’d walked out, following the wagons and then following them again each time the men cleared an area, and the wagons moved further along the moat.

“What was yer da like?”

That pulled his attention back to his wife, and Conall watched her work for a moment before answering. “I remember him as strong, and brave, and smart.”

“So . . . like you,” Claray said with a nod that suggested she wasn’t surprised.

Conall stilled at the words, and then smiled at the fact that she saw him that way, but said, “Nay. He was better than me. He loved me mother and me, and loved our people. He worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk and even later, making sure everyone had what they needed.”

“Ye do the same,” she pointed out solemnly.

“Aye, but he—” Conall frowned and hesitated, before finally saying, “He did no’ have a bitter bone in his body.”

“And ye do?” she asked, seeming surprised.

Conall’s mouth twisted, and he nodded. “I was very angry fer a lot o’ years. Bitterly so.”

Claray eyed him consideringly, and then shook her head. “Ye do no’ seem like that now.”

His eyebrows rose slightly, but then he considered her words. Conall supposed the bitterness and anger that had seemed almost to possess him at times when he was younger had mellowed over the years. Perhaps twelve years of warring had helped get it out of his system.

“And do ye no’ think that had yer da survived while yer mother and all the others died, he might have been bitter and angry too?”

Conall didn’t even have to think over that too hard. His father would have torn Scotland apart to find the one responsible, and make them pay. Aye, he would have been bitter and angry. Sighing, he pushed the thought away and asked, “What were yer ma and da like?”

Claray considered the question briefly, and then said, “Da is a good man. A good father too. He’s always fair with us, as well as with the clan members, and he cares about everyone’s wellbein’. Like yer da and you, he works long hours to be sure everyone has what they need.”

Conall nodded, not at all surprised to hear this. While they’d often been at loggerheads over the years—her father trying to convince him to claim Claray earlier than he was ready to, and he fighting it—he’d never disliked Laird MacFarlane. He’d actually respected him, and was glad he had the care of Claray until he could claim her. He’d liked her mother too the few times they’d met. Claray actually resembled her a great deal, and he knew she would be as beautiful as she aged as her mother had been.

That thought made him ask, “And yer mother? What was she like?”

Claray considered the matter briefly, and smiled. “Actually, I think me mother was a lot like yers, just perhaps not to the same degree. While she was often smilin’ and happy, she did no’ play chase games and such, but then she had eight children to look after rather than just the one, and was with child quite a lot when we were younger.”

“Ye’ve six brothers and sisters, do ye no’?” he asked.

“Seven,” she corrected, and then listed off her siblings and their ages. “Allissaid is nineteen, Annis is seventeen, Arabella is sixteen, Cairstane is fifteen, Cristane is fourteen, Islay is thirteen and Eachann is eleven.”

Conall’s eyebrows rose slightly, amusement curving his lips. “Aye, yer mother was most like too weary to play chase between havin’ all those children.”

From that accounting, Claray’s mother had been with child every year for five years in a row having Claray’s siblings, and only two years between the one before that grouping and the youngest. The three years between Claray and her next oldest sister was the longest rest the woman had got. Although he suspected that rather than a rest, she’d had a miscarriage or stillbirth or two. It was not uncommon.