“They do no’ have to,” Conall assured him, and then pointed out, “Hemlock can and has been mistaken for fennel a time or two. His man could just switch out the dry fennel in the kitchens with dry hemlock. Cook would unsuspectingly rub it on a roast boar or such and—” He shrugged. “No doubt all or most would eat it and Claray would soon be standin’ alone in a castle full o’ dead kin, being forced to marry MacNaughton.”
When Gannon MacFarlane blanched at the suggestion, or perhaps at the realization that something of the like would probably work, Conall pointed out, “’Tis safer fer Claray, and every other member o’ yer family, if we are married and quickly away. If nothing else, MacNaughton will have to come up with another plan. It’ll give ye time to figure out how to deal with him.” He shook his head. “I’ll no’ risk Claray endin’ up in that man’s hands by delayin’ by even a day.”
Gannon MacFarlane nodded on a sigh, and then turned away. “I’ll wake up Father Cameron meself.”
Chapter 10
“I do no’ think Cook was pleased,” Alick murmured near her ear as he followed Claray out of the kitchens.
“Aye,” she agreed dryly. “But I can no’ blame him. Ye did wake him and everyone else in the kitchens when ye stepped on the sleepin’ spit-boy’s hand and set him screaming.”
“It was an accident,” Alick assured her for the fourth time since he’d done it. “The fire was burnin’ low and I did no’ see the boy lyin’ there. ’Sides, I told one and all just to go back to sleep and we would fetch some food ourselves. Cook is the one who insisted he would tend it and shuffled us out o’ the kitchens.”
“Cook does no’ like anyone fussin’ about in his kitchens. Once awake there was no chance he would let us handle things.”
“Oh, well,” Alick said with a shrug. “’Tis his choice. And this way we’ll surely get something more substantial than the bruised old apples from last fall and stale bread ye were collectin’.”
“Oh, I’ll most like still get bruised old apples and stale bread,” she assured him. “But he’ll most like serve you and the others burnt stew and ale he’s spit in. ’Twill be his thank-ye fer yer wakin’ him.”
“Nay! He would no’. Would he?” Alick asked with horror.
Claray bit back the smile that wanted to claim her lips at his reaction to her teasing. Cook would never do something like that. No matter how annoyed he was. He prided himself on being a fine cook and would never serve anything less than quality food. Before she could say as much though, her attention was drawn by the opening of the keep doors.
“Ah, Claray!” her father said with relief as he spotted her across the great hall. “I was just comin’ to look fer ye, but ye’ve saved me the trouble. Now come here. Quickly, lass. Everyone is waitin’.”
“Who is everyone? And waitin’ fer . . . ?” Claray began as her father turned and hustled back out of the keep. As the door closed behind him, she finished weakly, “What?’
She glanced to Alick then, hoping he might have some idea what was happening, but he merely shrugged.
“I’ve no idea what’s about. Best we go find out though,” he suggested when she just stood there.
“Oh. Aye.” Giving herself a shake, she started quickly across the great hall. “Ye do no’ think MacNaughton has caught up to us and approaches the castle, do ye?”
“He’d have to be an idiot to approach with all the soldiers here at the moment,” Alick assured her, and reached over her head to push one of the keep doors open for her as they arrived at them.
Claray was frowning over that when she slid under her cousin’s arm and walked outside. She paused then, confusion running rife through her as she saw that her father was waiting at the bottom of the steps with both her mount and his own. Aulay was already on his own horse and holding the reins of another.
“Hurry, you two. Come mount up. Ye’re holdin’ everyone up,” her father called impatiently, and then turned and mounted his own horse.
“What in heaven’s name,” Claray breathed, but tripped quickly down the stairs. Alick lifted her into the saddle the moment she reached her mount, then hurried to mount the horse Aulay was holding for him as Claray asked, “Where are we goin’?”
When her father didn’t answer, but started his horse moving, pulling her mount behind him, Claray shifted to hook her leg over the pommel of the saddle to keep her balance. She was not at all used to riding sidesaddle, especially on a normal saddle. But she wasn’t wearing braies under the plaid and wouldn’t ride astride without them. Hoping they weren’t riding far, she glanced over her shoulder. Alick and Aulay were following a little behind, her younger cousin leaning toward his older brother and obviously asking him what was happening. When she saw Aulay’s lips begin to move, she wished they were closer so she could hear the explanation. She had no idea what was going on.
“I’m sorry, lass.”
Claray turned to see that her father had slowed to ride beside her and was frowning almost guiltily. Eyebrows rising, she asked, “For what?”
“For ne’er tellin’ ye yer betrothed yet lived,” he said solemnly. “I wanted to. But . . . at first ye were too young to trust with the secret.”
“Why was it a secret?” she asked when he paused.
“Well, ye ken the boy’s parents were murdered,” he said, and when she nodded, he continued. “It seems the lad was meant to die too. ’Tis only luck he didn’t eat the poisoned food. Ross MacKay, his uncle,” he explained, “arranged it so that everyone thought young Bryson had died with his parents and everyone else at dinner that night. He was tryin’ to protect him, ye see, make the murderer think he’d succeeded. So he changed his name to Conall and sent him to train at Sinclair to keep him safe while we tried to catch the murderer.”
Gannon MacFarlane sighed unhappily. “In our arrogance, we thought we’d solve it right quick, bring the murderer to justice, and the lad’s survival could be revealed. He would have then been returned to his uncle’s home and raised amongst family as Bryson MacDonald again. But that did no’ happen,” he pointed out grimly.
“Still, we ne’er gave up,” he assured her. “But the years passed without any results in our hunt fer the killer.”
Claray nodded solemnly. She already knew that; as she’d told Conall and the other men, her father had seemed to her to be obsessed with the chore. Now she asked, “But why did ye and Mother never tell me that he still lived? Do ye no’ think I should have kenned?”
Her father grimaced. “At the time o’ the murders ye were but a bairn, and then later as a child we all agreed it was better no’ to tell ye fer fear ye might let it slip that young MacDonald still lived without ever meanin’ to. Such a slip could ha’e cost the lad his life. His parents’ murderer might ha’e got word he yet lived and hunted him down and killed him.”
Claray nodded again in understanding when he glanced her way. She supposed it would have been risky telling a young girl something like that. But she hadn’t been a young girl for a very long while. Before she could say that, her father continued.