“Nay, nay,” her father said at once. “’Tis fine. I just—”
“We can no’ marry like this,” Claray interrupted him to say.
Conall’s eyebrows rose, but he asked patiently, “Why?”
Claray stared at him blankly, and then babbled, “I was supposed to give me confession to Father Cameron first. And weddings always take place at the steps o’ the chapel, no’ in front o’ the curtain wall, and me sisters are no’ here, and I smell! I ha’e no’ bathed properly in more than a week other than a dip in the river. Me hair is most like a mess. I’m wearin’ a borrowed great kilt, me feet are bare and—”
Her protests died in her throat as Conall suddenly covered her mouth with his in a searing kiss that made her forget the long list of reasons that were lining up in her head for why they shouldn’t marry here and now. That wasn’t all she forgot either. She forgot that her father stood beside her, that hundreds of soldiers surrounded them and, worst of all, that Father Cameron stood just feet away, witness to her horrible, sinning ways when she melted against Conall, wrapped her arms around his neck and sighed and moaned as he devoured her mouth.
When Conall’s hands slid down her back, pressing her body firmly against his and then curved under her bottom and lifted her off the ground, Claray instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips, then gasped into his mouth as he began to walk, his body rubbing against her core with each step.
When he finally broke the kiss, she opened her eyes on a murmur of protest and flexed her thighs, trying to raise herself up enough to meet his lips again. Claray had even almost managed the feat when a loud throat clearing made her stiffen and glance around. Horror quickly replaced her passion as she found herself almost nose to nose with Father Cameron.
A squeak of alarm slipping from her lips, she unhooked her legs and arms at once. Fortunately, Conall was grasping her waist now so she didn’t plummet to the ground like a stone. Instead, he set her down gently on her feet, and even kissed her forehead before whispering by her ear, “All will be well.”
Swallowing, Claray took a moment to brush down her wrinkled and borrowed great kilt and shirt, then patted at her no doubt greasy and flyaway hair as if that might straighten it. Once she’d done all she could to look more presentable, she clasped her hands loosely and turned to the priest, her eyes demurely downcast.
A moment of silence passed where Claray was afraid that Father Cameron would address her wanton behavior, but after what was probably only minutes, but felt like hours, he cleared his throat again and began to speak.
Were she asked what the holy man said, the passages he read or what vows she’d made, Claray couldn’t have answered. She didn’t hear a lick of the droning ceremony and only repeated what she was told to when she was told to. Really, her mind wasn’t there at the ceremony at all. It was now recalling all the reasons this marriage shouldn’t happen at this specific time to this particular man. She was fretting over her soon-to-be-lost soul . . . or perhaps it was already lost. Claray didn’t know, but thought it was terribly sad one way or the other.
Conall’s clasping her chin and lifting her face drew her from her thoughts and then he was kissing her again. This time it was just the briefest brushing of his lips over hers though. Even so, it caused a roaring in her ears. At least that’s what she thought, until he ended the kiss and the roaring continued.
Peering around with confusion, Claray realized that the sound she was hearing was actually the soldiers surrounding them, shouting their approval of the kiss. A little overwhelmed and unsure how she should be reacting, Claray found herself sidling closer to Conall. When he clasped her hand and gave her a reassuring squeeze, she looked swiftly up and managed a grateful smile.
Conall squeezed her fingers gently again in response, and then turned to raise his free hand and gestured for the crowd to be quiet. Once the silence was so complete you could have heard a pin drop, rather than speak, Conall glanced to his uncle.
Ross MacKay immediately moved up between him and Claray, took their clasped hands in his and raised them into the air as he announced, “I give ye me new niece, Lady Claray MacDonald, and her husband, me nephew, Bryson Conall MacDonald, son o’ Beatham and Giorsal MacDonald and long-lost laird o’ the MacDonald clan. May his rule bring peace and prosperity to his people, and return Castle Deagh Fhortan to the happy home it once was.”
If Claray had thought the shouting when they kissed loud, she learned differently. This time the response was deafening with joy, relief and celebration as the soldiers understood the message that their long years of battling were over and they would be returning home to be a clan once more.
Chapter 11
“I can no’ believe ye never told us Bryson was still alive and that he was Conall, Mother. He’s our cousin. We should ha’e been told.”
“We were trying to keep Bryson safe, dearling. No one was told,” Annabel MacKay said soothingly. The older woman’s speech still retained a good deal of her English accent despite living in Scotland since her marriage to Ross MacKay some twenty-eight years ago, Claray noted as she listened to the woman and her daughter, who were following her up the steps to the keep doors.
After his uncle’s announcement, Conall’s warriors had roared with approval and then had crowded forward to offer congratulations and pledge their fealty to him as laird now that he had been officially acknowledged as Bryson MacDonald. There were so many of them trying to get close to him to do that that Claray had found herself stepping further and further back to keep out of the way. And then Lady MacKay had approached and suggested they make their way back to the keep and await the men there. Recalled to her duties as hostess, Claray had led them to where the horses waited and they’d ridden back across the drawbridge, and through the bailey to the keep stairs.
“You kenned,” Kenna pointed out grimly. “So did Father, and Claray and her father, and—”
“I did no’ ken,” Claray interrupted as she stopped to open the door to usher them inside the keep.
“Ye did no’ ken either?” Kenna asked with surprise, stopping before her, and when Claray shook her head, she protested, “But he was yer betrothed.”
“Aye,” Claray agreed, but thought, And now he’s me husband. She considered that silently as Lady MacKay urged her daughter to start moving again and ushered her into MacFarlane’s great hall. Following the women in and toward the trestle tables, Claray pondered that. She was a married lady now. Shouldn’t she feel . . . different somehow? She’d expected to. She’d thought if she ever married she’d feel more a woman and less a child. But she felt the same now as she always had.
“Oh, m’lady.”
Claray paused as she reached the trestle tables, a smile coming to her face at the sight of Mavis bustling toward them with a tray holding a pitcher and three mugs. The older woman had been the head of the chambermaids for as long as Claray could remember. She was short, round and rosy-cheeked with a smile that could soothe you and warm your heart all at the same time, and she had been a great support and comfort to Claray since her mother’s death and even before.
“Cook said to tell ye he’s puttin’ together a light repast to celebrate the wedding,” Mavis announced as she set down the tray and picked up the pitcher to start pouring drinks. “Nothin’ huge, mind, it being so late, but somethin’ nice. And there’s water on the fire, warmin’ fer yer bath. It should no’ be long at all.”