Highland Wolf (Highland Brides, #10)(91)

Claray’s gaze slid over the wolf and woman as her husband began to cut her free of the chair. Mhairi was alive, but not for long judging by the gurgling sound that was emitting from her every time she breathed. Lovey had torn her throat open, and blood was pouring from the wound, she noted, but her only concern was Lovey. The wolf was lying on his side, panting shallowly, the plaid around his chest already darkening with blood.

Conall cut the last of the ropes away from her and tried to examine her neck, but she pushed his hands away and lunged out of the chair to go to Lovey. But there was nothing she could do there without her medicinals.

“We need to get him back to the keep,” Claray said anxiously, running a soothing hand down the wolf’s back.

“I need to bind yer neck first, love,” Conall said grimly.

“When we get back,” Claray said impatiently, and tried to scoop up the wolf into her arms.

Cursing, Conall pressed a second strip of plaid into her hands that he’d apparently cut from his great kilt and then urged her out of the way. Bending to pick up up Lovey, he ordered, “Bind yer neck. Yer losin’ a lot of blood.”

Claray peered down, surprised to see that there was a great deal of blood soaking into the top of her pale-yellow gown. She hadn’t realized that Hamish had cut her so deeply. Frowning, she quickly wrapped the plaid around her throat and tied it off as tightly as she could without choking herself, and then followed when Conall started out of the hovel. But she glanced back nervously at the door.

“Mayhap we should make sure Mhairi is dead first,” she muttered, hesitating to leave.

Conall paused and turned back, his gaze sliding to the unmoving woman. “Why was she here? What had she to do with this?”

“She’s Hamish’s mother,” Claray breathed, feeling suddenly weary. “She’s the one who poisoned yer parents and the rest o’ the clan when ye were a boy. She was mad and thought she was carrying out God’s will.”

Claray turned back to her husband to see myriad emotions cross his face before it settled into a cold mask. He shifted and for a minute she thought he might go back and finish the woman, but then his gaze dropped to the plaid around her throat, and he turned away. “I’ll send men out fer them when we get back. We need to get ye to the keep so I can tend yer wound.”

Claray followed him out of the cottage without protest. She would have felt better making sure the woman was dead, but Lovey needed tending. She wouldn’t risk his dying because she’d delayed. Besides, she was beginning to feel a bit woozy. Blood loss, she knew. She didn’t think her neck was bleeding badly enough to cause it. But it wasn’t the first wound she’d taken that day and her head wound had bled freely.

Taking deep breaths to try to clear the fog starting to descend on her thoughts, Claray concentrated on placing her feet one before the other and little else until her husband suddenly called out next to her, his shout startling her.

Lifting her head, Claray saw that they had come out of the woods and were walking along the edge of the moat. It was the warriors on the wall her husband had called out to. Now men were shouting back and there was a lot of rushing about on the wall. Riders would be sent out to get them she knew, and murmured, “Thank goodness,” before losing consciousness.



Claray woke with a pounding headache. Grimacing, she opened her eyes and then closed them again when the pounding immediately increased. They’d been open long enough, though, for her to see the fur spread over her and recognize that she was in the bedchamber she shared with her husband. Safe, tucked up in bed. That was enough to know for now.

“Here, love. Drink.”

Claray recognized Conall’s voice and opened her eyes again as his arm snaked under her shoulders so that he could lift her up and press a drink to her lips. She drank dutifully, finding that once she’d started, she didn’t want to stop. She was terribly thirsty. But Conall only let her sip a bit of the cool water, before pulling the drink away.

“Let it settle fer a minute, love, and we’ll try some more,” he said before she could protest, and when Claray relaxed, asked, “How are yer head and yer throat?”

“Me head’s pounding, and me throat’s a little tender,” she admitted in a whisper.

“Aye. Allistair said as that was probably how ’twould be. Between yer head wound and yer throat, ye lost a lot o’ blood. It looked like there was more on yer gown than could be left in yer body.”

Claray grimaced at the claim, and then gulped down more water when he tipped the mug to her lips again. But this time when he took it away, she swallowed and asked, “Allistair tended me?”

“Aye. Ye and both yer wolf and Stubborn Bastard too,” Conall told her, and the words had her eyes widening with remembered alarm.

“Are they—?”

“Both are fine. Stubborn Bastard is recovering nicely in his stall, and yer wolf is right beside ye,” he pointed out with amusement.

Claray glanced to her other side to see Lovey tucked up under the furs next to her. She blinked at the sight, and then narrowed her eyes when Lovey opened one of his and eyed her briefly before closing it again. Her gaze slid to Squeak, curled up asleep on the pillow next to her, and then she looked to her husband. He’d let the wolf lay on top of the furs on the bed a time or two while she was recovering from the arrow wound, but once she’d started feeling better, he’d insisted the beast sleep on a rush mat next to the bed. Now apparently, he was not only allowed on it, but in it.