“Well?” Claray prompted. “Bryson or Conall?”
Conall stared at her for a moment, wondering how she could bear to even look at him after what he’d put her through, let alone smile as sweetly as she was. Claray had nearly died because of him, but when he’d admitted this was all his fault and apologized while helping her in the bath, she’d waved his words away and assured him she didn’t hold him responsible. In fact, she’d taken on some of the responsibility herself, saying she could have protested the men leaving, but hadn’t because she’d missed his kisses and touch too and had hoped for what had happened to occur. Claray had blushed while she admitted it . . . everywhere. Her naked body had gone pink in the bathwater, and he’d wanted her all over again. It was only the fact that she was so weak and in obvious pain that had kept him from dragging her from the tub and making love to her again. It was an urge he was still fighting. They were finally alone in their own chamber, something he’d been looking forward to and imagining for that whole week and a half before she’d got shot with the arrow, and he still couldn’t love her as he’d fantasized . . . and it was all his own damned fault.
“Well, husband?” Claray prompted.
Conall shook his self-recriminations away and cleared his throat. But rather than answer, he asked, “Which do you like better?”
“I have trouble thinkin’ o’ ye as Bryson,” she admitted apologetically. “Ye seem more a Conall to me.”
“Why?” he asked with interest as he moved a pawn on the board.
“Weeell.” She drew out the word and then pointed out, “Conall means strong wolf.”
“And ye like wolves,” he teased.
Claray glanced to where Lovey was asleep on the bed next to them with Squeak curled up on his back, and smiled faintly. “Aye. I do.” Turning back to him, she admitted, “But ye also do seem strong to me. And as a mercenary ye were known as the Wolf. So, it just seems to suit.”
Conall nodded. “And what does Bryson mean?”
“Just son o’ Bryce, I think,” she said slowly, and then added, “And Bryce means freckled if I recall correctly.” Eyeing him solemnly, she pointed out, “Ye do no’ have freckles, husband.”
Conall chuckled at the words. “Nay, I do no’ have freckles.”
He watched her make her move, and then considered what his own next move should be as he asked, “How do ye ken so much about names?”
“Allissaid.”
“Yer sister?” he asked, glancing up with surprise.
Claray nodded. “She’s always blurting out names she’s considering giving to the bairns she plans to have with her betrothed when they marry. She then tells me what they mean. Allissaid has a tendency to fret over a lot o’ things, and fretting over giving her bairns the right name is one of them. She fears the meaning might influence the bairn’s personality. For instance, she’d never name a son Anwir because it means liar or deceit.”
“Anwir,” Conall murmured. “I knew a Welsh mercenary named Anwir.”
Claray pursed her lips at this comment. “I thought she said ’twas an English name, but mayhap I’m wrong.”
“Or mayhap she was the one who was wrong and only thought it was English because all English are liars,” he suggested.
Claray grinned at the insult to their enemies to the south, and then smiled at him crookedly. “Ye’ve changed since we came to Deagh Fhortan.”
Conall felt his eyebrows raise at that, and asked, “Changed how?”
Claray shrugged slightly, and then winced as the move aggravated her wound. Conall watched her carefully as she closed her eyes and waited for the pain to pass. A moment later, it apparently had, because she let her breath out on a sigh and answered his question.
“When I first met ye, when ye dragged me off from Kerr—”
“When I rescued ye from Kerr,” he corrected.
“Aye, that,” Claray agreed with a small smile. “Anyway, ye were no’ very talkative. Ye mostly grunted or barked orders and I do no’ think I saw ye smile once.”
Conall wasn’t certain how to feel about that description, and he was pretty sure he’d talked more than she was suggesting. Although some of the words that had run through his head may have stayed in his head. He seemed to recall having a lot of them there every time she’d decided to rescue a new beastie. But then she would smile at him sweetly and he’d lose the thread of what he wanted to say. The lass had a powerful smile; it turned her from a pretty gel to a true beauty.
“But ye smile more and laugh now,” Claray said, drawing him from his thoughts so that he saw the twinkle in her eye as she added, “And goodness, ye even talk to me.”
The corners of Conall’s mouth curved up in a reluctant smile at her teasing, but it quickly faded and he ducked his head to peer at the chessboard to avoid her gaze. Mostly because he knew she was right. For the last twenty-two years he’d been a hard shell of a man. The result of losing his parents, his clan and his home, he supposed. Or perhaps a result of all the years he’d spent fighting, first out of anger at the overwhelming losses, and then to earn the coin needed to return his inheritance to its former glory.
But now he was here, and every passing day saw the castle looking more like his childhood home, and the more it did, the more memories it awakened in him.
While the only thing he’d seemed to be able to remember when away from Deagh Fhortan was the tragedy that had forced him to leave, now he was remembering the happy life he’d enjoyed here. Running through the castle laughing with his wolfhound, Aymer, chasing after him. Fishing in the pond with his da, and sometimes even his mother. Playing in the bailey with other clan children. Eating pasties by the fire and telling his mother about his day while she did her mending.
It was softening him. Conall knew that, and he knew it was the worst possible time for him to give in to his feelings. People wanted him dead, both MacNaughton and the faceless, nameless and heartless bastard who had murdered his parents. This was no time to lose the hard shell that had saved his life so many times in battle. A man needed a clear mind to fight his foe, not one distracted with thoughts of whether the fishpond might please his wife. Or who found himself mooning about how she was a hard worker, and so kind-hearted. Or thinking on how her laugh was high and full of joy and made him want to smile. Or daydreaming on how sweet her kisses were, and how good it felt to bury his cock in her warm body. Or wondering whether she might care for him as he’d come to realize he cared for her.
Conall swallowed and reached out to make another move on the chessboard as the memory of her pinned to the post with an arrow through her shoulder filled his head, along with the memory of the horror and fear that had clutched at him then. He’d been desperate to get her to his aunt so she could heal her, and terrified that she wouldn’t be able to. That fear had barely begun to ease when Claray had gone feverish on them, and then Conall had suffered the agonies of hell, worrying that she would yet die on him.
Conall had refused to leave her side for the three days and nights she’d battled for her life. He’d bathed her forehead with cool cloths, dribbled liquids down her throat and even submerged her in the tub filled with cool water, and the whole time he’d sent silent prayer after prayer to the heavens, begging God to let him keep her.