Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(9)

A moment of silence passed as they all considered that and then Roderick asked, “Did yer cousin say if the messages mentioned how MacNaughton planned to kill everyone?”

“Poison.”

The word was almost a whisper, but it cut through Conall’s soul like a knife, sharp and breathtakingly painful.

“MacNaughton thought ’twould be fittin’ since ’tis how me betrothed was murdered some twenty-two years ago,” Claray said quietly. “Then everyone in me life would have been taken from me the same way.”

“Yer betrothed?” Payton asked sharply, his gaze shooting to Conall.

Claray nodded, her voice sad when she admitted, “Me betrothed, Bryson MacDonald, his parents, Bean and Giorsal MacDonald, and most o’ their clan were all murdered by poison when I was but a couple o’ months old. It was just the day after me parents left from a visit with them where they arranged and signed our betrothal.” Sighing, she shook her head. “Apparently, me parents were only a day into their journey home to MacFarlane when a messenger caught them up with the news. They turned back and rode straight to MacKay.” Breaking off from her story, she explained, “Ross MacKay was Giorsal’s brother, Bryson’s uncle, Bean’s best friend and their nearest neighbor. The messenger had come from him.”

“Why return?” Conall asked. He knew the real reason, but wondered what she’d been told.

“Me parents were friends with Giorsal and Bean as well as the MacKays. ’Tis why the betrothal was contracted. So, o’ course, me father wished to help bury the bodies and find out who had murdered them. But they never did manage to sort it out.” She sank back against his chest as if suddenly exhausted. “I ken me father still frets o’er it to this day and tries to sort out in his mind who may ha’e done it. He says Bean and Giorsal were wonderful people and deserve justice. Even now, all these years later, he can no’ seem to let it go.” She fell silent for a minute, and then added in a sad, husky voice, “I think ’tis why he’s never arranged another betrothal for me. It would mean admittin’ they are dead, and I think ’twould break his heart to do that.”

Conall knew that Payton was glaring at him. His cousin, Payton MacKay, wanted him to tell her that he was Bryson MacDonald, son of Bean and Giorsal MacDonald, nephew of Ross and Annabel MacKay, and her betrothed. But he wasn’t going to do that. Few knew his true identity and she was not among that few for a reason. A reason that hadn’t changed. Besides, she’d done enough talking. Her voice had grown husky and rough as she spoke. She needed rest and appeared to be doing that now, he noted as she shifted against his chest with a small sigh. The lass was sleeping and the realization made him smile. He liked that she trusted him so much. He also liked the way she cuddled into him as she did. He liked the heat of her body against his own too. And he liked her smell. Every time her hair whipped into his face, he got a whiff of wildflowers and spring rain. It made him want to duck his head and inhale her scent more fully, and when she sighed and shifted against him again, Conall did.

He lowered his head until his nose brushed against her hair, inhaled deeply and closed his eyes as her aroma overwhelmed him, sweet and fresh despite the hours of travel. He wanted to run his hands through her glorious hair and bury his face in the soft tresses while continually inhaling. However, the presence of the other men made that impossible and he reluctantly lifted his head and turned his gaze and attention to the path ahead as he tried to ignore the soft, sighing woman in his lap.



Claray didn’t remember falling asleep, but it was her stomach that woke her up. Moaning at the ache in her belly, she opened weary eyes and blinked, then turned her face into the bed linens to hide from the sunlight assaulting her. Only it wasn’t bed linens, she realized as what she’d thought was a bed bounced against her cheek and a chuckle struck her ears.

“Ye’ve done little but sleep since leavin’ Kerr, yet do no’ appear to much like the morning, lass,” the Wolf said with gentle amusement.

Claray scowled at his teasing and pushed herself upright to glower at the man. Her voice husky, she assured him, “Actually, I do like the mornin’ as a rule, but I did no’ sleep or eat the entire time I was at Kerr. Apparently, it makes me tired and cranky.”

Her words brought an immediate frown of concern to the man’s face. “Ye’ve no’ eaten fer four days?”

“Is that all it’s been?” she asked wearily, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her throat was sore and dry and speaking actually hurt.

“Nay, I guess this may be the start o’ the fifth day,” he muttered, suddenly lifting his head to look around.

Claray grimaced at the claim, and then admitted, “Mairin managed to sneak me a small crust o’ bread and a bit o’ cheese while she was helping prepare me for the wedding the last mornin’, so I have no’ been completely without fer that long.”

The words made her glance down at the dress she wore. It had actually been quite pretty when they’d presented it to her and made her put it on, but now it was wrinkled and dust covered from their journey. She supposed she shouldn’t really care. After all, this was the dress she’d been meant to marry MacNaughton in. As such, she should probably wish to remove it and burn it at the first opportunity. But it seemed unfair to blame the dress for MacNaughton’s intentions, she thought, and then shifted away from the Wolf with irritation when he began to dig about in his bag.