Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(89)

Conall’s gaze sharpened on the back of the man. He hadn’t recognized him until his wife spoke the man’s name. Now his gaze narrowed on his first with confusion as he tried to sort out why he was here with Claray. He didn’t have to wait long for his answer.

“I told ye why. To save ye from eternal damnation,” Hamish answered simply.

“Aye, but Conall—”

“Bryson,” Hamish corrected. “He’s Bryson MacDonald, and while I always just assumed me mother was mad when she ranted on about his parents’ behavior, now that I’ve seen how he treats ye, I begin to see her point. It’s no’ right, Claray.”

“But he trusts ye, Hamish. He told me so himself. He said ye’d been his first fer a good five years. How can ye just—?”

“And I trusted him,” Hamish interrupted. “But he lied to me all these years, lettin’ me think his name was Conall. He lied to ye too,” he added solemnly. “Lettin’ ye think he was dead and ye’d never marry. Seein’ how he’s treated ye since the weddin’, it might ha’e been kinder if that had been the case,” he added grimly.

There was a moment of silence and then Claray said defiantly, “Well, I’ll no’ marry ye. So, I guess ye’ll have to kill me too.”

“O’ course ye’ll marry me,” Hamish said with a certainty that was either the most condescending thing Conall had ever heard, or the most arrogant. “’Tis the easiest way fer me to claim Deagh Fhortan and the position o’ clan chief without a lot o’ bother.”

Claray issued a snort of disgust. “So, there’s the truth. Yer just like MacNaughton, wantin’ to marry me to gain property and power. Only, while he wants MacFarlane, ye want to rule MacDonald and claim Deagh Fhortan.”

“Aye, and why no’? Me father was the younger brother o’ Conall’s father. I’m the next in line once he’s dead.”

Conall stiffened in shock at that. The only sibling his father’d had was a bastard half brother who had died along with everyone else during the poisoning. His uncle had told him that. He’d also told him that the man’s wife had been Conall’s own caretaker for a short while after marrying him. She’d been in charge o’ seeing he was bathed, dressed and fed, and had kept an eye on him when his parents were busy or away. Conall didn’t remember either of them, the half brother or his wife. Those memories had left him after that night, and were among a few that hadn’t yet returned. But while his uncle had told him that the woman had got him away from Deagh Fhortan after the murders and brought him to MacKay, he hadn’t mentioned her having a son. However, if Hamish was the son of his bastard uncle, Conall supposed the man might have a claim to Deagh Fhortan if he himself were dead.

Claray’s clucking with irritation drew his attention back to the conversation taking place in the small, crumbling cottage.

“Wonderful. Here I thought ye as mad as yer mother, and turns out yer just greedy,” she said with disgust. “And ’tis that greed that’ll see ye found out. Do ye kill us and try to claim Deagh Fhortan as yer own, ye’re the first one they’ll suspect, because ye’ll be the only one to benefit,” Claray pointed out. “Conall’s uncle Ross’ll figure it out and see ye dead.”

“I told ye, I’ll no’ kill ye. Just him. I’m marryin’ you,” Hamish muttered.

“And I told ye I’ll no marry ye,” she responded tartly, and then warned, “If ye kill Conall as ye plan, and then drag me before a priest, I’ll refuse. And then I’ll tell one and all that ye murdered me husband. I’ll see ye hang fer it.”

Cursing under his breath at her foolish bravery in threatening the man like that, Conall moved around the building, a frown curving his lips when he saw Lovey creeping around the back corner of the cottage. Wondering what he was up to, Conall quietly unsheathed his sword and stepped into the hole that had once been a doorway.

Hamish had been standing with his side to the doorway when Conall had started around the building. He’d expected him to be there still, but instead he’d moved. Hamish was standing behind Claray, who was tied to a chair. He was leaning over her and peering down the top of her gown even as he pressed his sgian dubh to her throat.

“Ye might want to rethink that, lass,” he growled.

“Why?” Claray asked with a complete lack of fear. “Because ye’ll kill me? I’d rather be dead than ha’e ye fer a husband, Hamish. Call me a sinner all ye like, but I love me husband’s lovin’, just as I love him. Ye’re nothin’ to me but a hedge-born cumberworld.”

“Why ye dirty puterelle,” Hamish snarled, grabbing her by the hair and yanking her head back, the knife digging into her throat so that blood began to drip over the edge and run down her neck. “I’ll—”

“Ye’ll release me wife,” Conall growled, stepping further into the room.

Hamish’s head came up, and Claray tried to raise her head too, to look at him, but stopped as the knife sank deeper into her flesh.

“Well, if ’tisn’t Bryson MacDonald,” Hamish said bitterly, releasing Claray’s hair to switch the sgian dubh from his right hand to his left, but keeping it at her throat. He then withdrew his own sword. Now armed with two weapons, he said, “Drop yer sword or I’ll slice her throat open right now.”