Claray’s father was one of a handful of people who knew who he really was and that he’d survived the murder attempt that had taken his parents’ lives and nearly taken his own. The other people who knew included his uncle, the king, Artair Sinclair and Artair’s son Campbell, as well as Roderick and Payton.
Conall suspected that many of his warriors had surmised who he was too, but not one of them had questioned him openly, and he’d never announced it to them. He wouldn’t dare do that until he claimed MacDonald and his title as clan chief. Conall had had it drummed into his head at a young age that it was dangerous to reveal his true name to anyone. The people who were aware of his real identity only knew because they had to.
Artair and his son Campbell Sinclair knew because Conall’s uncle, Ross MacKay, had sent him to live at Sinclair the night his parents died. It had been a desperate bid to keep his parents’ murderer from knowing they had failed to kill him. His uncle had feared that if they knew he yet lived, they might try to finish what they’d started. Because of that worry, he hadn’t dared to take Bryson into his home and raise him as he wanted. Instead, he had sent him to live and train at Sinclair under the name Conall. His uncle had hoped that changing his name would help hide his survival from the rest of the world. He’d told him that he’d chosen that name because it meant “strong as a wolf” and that he feared that was what he would have to be now to survive the loss of his parents and most of his clan as well as everything else life might throw at him in the future.
As for Payton, he knew not just because he was Ross MacKay’s son, and Conall’s cousin, or even because he was old enough to remember him where Payton’s younger sisters weren’t and thought they were without close family other than their female cousin, Joan. Payton knew because he had trained with Conall at Sinclair, along with Roderick. His uncle had thought it would be best for the other two boys to know so that they could watch Conall’s back, and help guard against any attack should the murderer discover his existence. It was a job they had been given as boys, but willingly continued with as men.
The king knew because he had to be told to avoid the risk of his granting MacDonald to some other laird before Conall was able to claim it. And Gannon MacFarlane knew his true identity because his daughter was betrothed to Conall, and his uncle Ross hadn’t wanted to risk the man arranging another betrothal for her thinking the one with his parents was null and void due to his apparent death.
Of course, MacFarlane had wanted to tell his daughter Claray the truth. That she was yet betrothed, but Conall had argued against it. He hadn’t wanted her hopes to be raised only to come crashing down if something happened to him. Aside from the threat of the unknown murderer, there was the life he had lived since earning his spurs that had convinced him that was for the best. Being a mercenary was dangerous work. Conall had spent years neck-deep in bloody battle, a hairsbreadth away from his own death. He’d thought it would be kinder to keep the fact that he was alive a secret from Claray until he had made the coin he needed and could quit the deadly business. Just in case he didn’t survive to come to claim her. He still believed that. This way, if he survived to collect and marry Claray, it would be a nice surprise. He hoped. If he didn’t survive . . . Well, at least she wouldn’t be disappointed or left grieving, since she already thought him dead.
“Ye can no’ leave the lass untethered like this forever,” Roderick said solemnly. “If nothing else, her father’ll no’ allow it. I suspect do ye no’ claim her soon, Laird MacFarlane will go to the king to have the betrothal canceled.”
Conall stiffened at those words, his heart skipping a beat. Mostly because he knew them to be true. In fact, he’d half expected MacFarlane to do just that for a couple of years now. The possibility had never bothered him before this. But then he hadn’t met Claray yet. Now he had, and the idea of losing her was surprisingly alarming of a sudden.
Swallowing, he peered down at where she nestled against his chest, the swaddled fox pup in her arms. It was easy to imagine that it was a bairn in that swaddling rather than a baby fox. Their bairn. But even as he thought that, his last memory of his parents rose up in his mind. The two of them sitting at table. His father leaning to the side to kiss his mother. Then they pulled back to smile at each other . . . until confusion suddenly replaced his mother’s smile. Her hand moved to her stomach and fisted as she cried out in pain. He remembered his father’s concern when she’d suddenly slid to the floor. How he’d dropped to his knees to try to help her, and then he’d stiffened, pain filling his own face. In the next moment they’d both been convulsing on the floor . . . along with every other clan member at table that night.
Watching his parents die had been the absolute worst thing Conall had experienced in his life. He would never forget it. And he couldn’t forget that the murderer had never been found. That they were still out there somewhere, and that it was just a matter of chance that he hadn’t died with his parents. He’d been meant to. His dinner had been poisoned as well, but he hadn’t eaten it. What if whoever had killed his parents all those years ago and tried to kill him still wanted him dead? How many would they kill this time to see their chore finished?
Much as he didn’t want to lose Claray to her father canceling the betrothal, it would be better than watching her die as his parents had. In fact, perhaps it would be best if he told her father to go ahead and break the betrothal and find her another husband. Someone no one had tried to kill and might try to kill again. Someone she could be safe with.
He’d barely had the thought when a drop of cold water landed on his nose. Stiffening in the saddle, Conall lifted his gaze skyward, surprised to see that while he’d been distracted with his thoughts, clouds had moved in overhead—dark clouds heavy with rain that blocked the moonlight. Even as he made that discovery, the heavens opened up and began to pour water down on them.
Cursing, Conall lowered his head just in time to see Squeak scramble down his chest to Claray and rush back into the safety of her gown. Envying the little kit, Conall glanced toward Hamish. Before he could request the spare plaid he’d covered her with after her choking incident, the man had retrieved it and was handing it over.
Muttering a thank-you, Conall quickly shook it out and then swung it around his shoulders before drawing it around in front to cover both him and Claray. Once he was sure she was protected from the rain, he tugged the plaid up over his head so that only his eyes were left uncovered, and settled in for a miserable night.
“Oh, dear.” Claray lifted her skirts a bit to get a look at her feet. She’d woken up a few moments ago to a beautiful sunny morning, a bunch of grumpy men and a terrible need to relieve herself. The Wolf had not been pleased at the need to stop. He’d not said so, but his grim expression as she’d passed him the fox pup and bunny sling before slipping from his mount, along with the sharp order he’d given her to “make it quick” as she’d rushed off into the woods, had made that clear.
Claray had been so overset by his abrupt attitude she’d been in something of a state and hadn’t really paid attention to her surroundings. She’d simply rushed deep enough into the woods that she was sure she couldn’t be seen by the men, taken care of business and then hurried back the way she’d come.