High up as she was, Claray wasn’t concerned that anyone in the bailey might see her, but that creeping feeling running down the back of her neck still had her on edge, and she looked around the room again as she undid her lacings. Still, there was nothing and no one to see, so she quickly shrugged out of her gown, and reached for the other one even as the first dropped to the floor. In her rush to don it, Claray got a bit tangled in the cloth when she pulled it over her head, and at first stuck her arm out through the neck opening.
Muttering under the gobs of smothering material gathered around her head and face, she tugged the cloth up and her arm down to fix her mistake and then poked around until she found an armhole instead. Claray then did the same with her other hand and shimmied a little to get the cloth to drop down into place, allowing her head to pop out of the neckline. She then tugged the material of the skirt down and scowled when she saw that she’d got the damned thing turned around and had pulled it on backward.
Sighing with exasperation, Claray started to tug on the sleeve of one arm, intending to pull her arms out and turn the gown without having to pull it off altogether. But before she could, pain exploded in her head, followed quickly by unconsciousness.
Chapter 24
“They’ll be done with the wall soon.”
Conall grunted in agreement as he watched the men work. Three or four of his men had worked as stonemasons for a while before joining him in mercenary work. They were directing the others.
In truth, many of his men had started in different professions before joining his forces. Aside from the stonemasons, he had men who used to be blacksmiths, millers, armorers, plowmen, metalsmiths, carpenters, a baker, a chandler, a cooper and a brewer. One had even been a gongfarmer. Conall hadn’t chosen them for what they did; he’d merely approached any man he encountered, or heard of, over the years who was a MacDonald, and had made an offer to them. Join his mercenaries and he would train them in battle, pay them more than they could make at their present jobs, and someday they would reclaim Deagh Fhortan and become a clan again.
Conall had never told any of them that he was Bryson MacDonald, but wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d suspected. Few he’d approached had refused, although that may have been because so many MacDonald cousins and such already worked for him. Whatever the case, doing that had been something of a pain in the arse. He’d spent a good deal of time training nearly every man in his ranks in battle. It would have been easier to merely hire on warriors who were already fully trained, but Conall had been working toward a goal, gathering as many of the lost and displaced MacDonald clan members as he could.
While it had meant more work for him over the years to train these men, it had paid off well. He now not only had skilled warriors, but he had skilled warriors with other talents and abilities. The stonemasons were overseeing the other soldiers and were ensuring that the curtain wall and inner buildings were repaired properly. The carpenters had overseen the repairs of the roof, building the second floor of the keep and the building of furniture that was needed. The blacksmith had found the old forge and started making the specialized tools needed by the stonemasons and the carpenters, as well as repairing and sharpening weapons.
It had all worked out very well in the end. In fact, while Conall hadn’t thought of it when he was taking on these men, doing so had actually saved them money when it came to repairing Deagh Fhortan. He hadn’t had to spend the coin on hiring tradesmen to perform the tasks. And that left more money to feed and clothe his people until the fields started to produce, which made the extra hours he’d spent training between mercenary jobs worth it, he decided and then glanced past Roderick when he heard someone shouting. His gaze narrowed when he saw Allistair running toward him from the stables.
“He seems upset,” Roderick commented mildly.
“Aye,” Conall agreed, and moved forward to meet the man.
“Oh, m’laird,” the stable master panted the words as he reached him, then paused to catch his breath before adding unhappily, “’Tis Stubborn Bastard.”
Conall felt alarm course through him at the mention of his wife’s horse. She loved the great beast, and the man’s upset could not be good.
“Tell me,” he growled, urging Allistair back toward the stables, aware that Roderick and Payton were following.
It was her own moan of pain that woke Claray. She pushed her eyes open, wincing as the small action increased the agony shattering her skull, but kept them open anyway as she took in her surroundings. Confusion coursed through her as she realized she was in some sort of small, stone building. Or what used to be a small stone building, she supposed, since the thatched roof had mostly caved in to cover the floor around her, and the top three feet of the wall opposite her had crumbled in as well. It was more like a stone pen now with an opening where the door used to be.
Bewildered as to where she was and how she’d got there, Claray turned her head slowly from side to side trying to see everything. She couldn’t see behind her, and there wasn’t much to see in front and to the sides. Although bits of old roof and wall weren’t all that littered the floor. She saw what she thought was an old rusted cooking pot under some of the debris, and the remains of what might have been a bed at one time. The only other identifiable object was the chair she was slumped on, or actually tied to, she realized when she tried to move and found her arms were strapped to the back sides of the chair and her ankles bound to its legs.
That was when her puzzlement turned to alarm. Panicking a little, she jerked at her arms and tried to tug her legs loose, but she was firmly fixed to the chair and wasn’t going anywhere without help.
“Oh, yer awake. Good.”
Claray jerked her head up and stared at the woman who stepped through the hole where a door had once been.
“Mhairi?” she said with confusion as the woman approached.
“Aye.” The servant offered her a serene smile as she stopped before her and looked her over. Then she asked, “Does yer head hurt? It looks like it should. There was an awful lot o’ blood from the blow ye took, but I think the bleedin’ is finally stoppin’.”
Claray blinked at the words, suddenly aware of something warm and sticky along the side of her head and down her neck. A glance down at what she could see of her shoulder revealed the edge of a large stain of blood spreading out from her neck. It made her recall that she’d been dressing when her head had seemed to explode with pain. She also saw that her gown was still on backward, but was oddly relieved by that knowledge.
Turning her gaze back to Mhairi, she asked, “Where are we?”
“One o’ the old cottages outside the walls,” the woman answered easily. “We’re less likely to be interrupted here.”
“I see,” Claray murmured, but she didn’t really, so asked, “Why are we here?”
Mhairi heaved out a sigh at the question, and shook her head with a look of mild disgust. “Because I bungled the job o’ eradicatin’ the MacDonalds from this earth twenty-two years ago, and ha’e to finish it.”
“Twenty-two,” Claray whispered slowly, her eyes widening. “Ye’re who poisoned Conall’s parents and most o’ the rest o’ the clan all those years ago?”