Taking deep breaths to try to clear the fog starting to descend on her thoughts, Claray concentrated on placing her feet one before the other and little else until her husband suddenly called out next to her, his shout startling her.
Lifting her head, Claray saw that they had come out of the woods and were walking along the edge of the moat. It was the warriors on the wall her husband had called out to. Now men were shouting back and there was a lot of rushing about on the wall. Riders would be sent out to get them she knew, and murmured, “Thank goodness,” before losing consciousness.
Claray woke with a pounding headache. Grimacing, she opened her eyes and then closed them again when the pounding immediately increased. They’d been open long enough, though, for her to see the fur spread over her and recognize that she was in the bedchamber she shared with her husband. Safe, tucked up in bed. That was enough to know for now.
“Here, love. Drink.”
Claray recognized Conall’s voice and opened her eyes again as his arm snaked under her shoulders so that he could lift her up and press a drink to her lips. She drank dutifully, finding that once she’d started, she didn’t want to stop. She was terribly thirsty. But Conall only let her sip a bit of the cool water, before pulling the drink away.
“Let it settle fer a minute, love, and we’ll try some more,” he said before she could protest, and when Claray relaxed, asked, “How are yer head and yer throat?”
“Me head’s pounding, and me throat’s a little tender,” she admitted in a whisper.
“Aye. Allistair said as that was probably how ’twould be. Between yer head wound and yer throat, ye lost a lot o’ blood. It looked like there was more on yer gown than could be left in yer body.”
Claray grimaced at the claim, and then gulped down more water when he tipped the mug to her lips again. But this time when he took it away, she swallowed and asked, “Allistair tended me?”
“Aye. Ye and both yer wolf and Stubborn Bastard too,” Conall told her, and the words had her eyes widening with remembered alarm.
“Are they—?”
“Both are fine. Stubborn Bastard is recovering nicely in his stall, and yer wolf is right beside ye,” he pointed out with amusement.
Claray glanced to her other side to see Lovey tucked up under the furs next to her. She blinked at the sight, and then narrowed her eyes when Lovey opened one of his and eyed her briefly before closing it again. Her gaze slid to Squeak, curled up asleep on the pillow next to her, and then she looked to her husband. He’d let the wolf lay on top of the furs on the bed a time or two while she was recovering from the arrow wound, but once she’d started feeling better, he’d insisted the beast sleep on a rush mat next to the bed. Now apparently, he was not only allowed on it, but in it.
“He saved us both and took a ferocious wound doing so,” Conall said quietly. “Allistair was afraid we’d lose him. But once he’d pulled through the night, he decided he’d be all right. He deserves the bed.”
The words made her beam at him, and Claray blurted, “I love ye, husband.”
The words just slipped out. She hadn’t planned on saying them, but they were true for all that, and much to her relief, Conall pressed a kiss to her forehead and then pulled back to meet her gaze and said, “I love ye too, wife.”
Claray was just relaxing, her smile widening, when he added, “But do ye ever taunt a madman with a knife to yer throat again, I swear I’ll take ye over me knee and paddle ye till ye can no’ sit fer a week.”
Scowling, Claray tried to turn her head away, but he caught her face and added grimly, “I thought I’d die when he was sawin’ at yer throat. I could no’ bear it again.”
Claray felt guilty then, but told him, “I did no’ realize he’d cut so deep. It did no’ hurt.”
“Yer blood was up,” he said with understanding. “I’ve suffered many a wound in battle that did no’ hurt right away. But that just means ye ha’e to be even more cautious.”
Claray nodded, but—reminded of Hamish and his mother—now asked, “Did ye send the men to collect them? Were they still there?”
“Aye,” he said on a sigh, and then shook his head. “I did no’ recognize her as me nursemaid.”
“It has been twenty-two years,” she pointed out gently. “She was only fourteen when ye last saw her, barely more than a child.”
“A child who killed more people in one sitting than I ha’e in all me years in battle,” he said bitterly, and then asked, “Did she say how she poisoned them?”
“It was in the wine and ale as yer uncle suspected,” Claray admitted.
Conall nodded. “And she thought she was carrying out God’s will, ye said?”
Claray hesitated, and then sighed and explained, “She was very confused. The church says we should no’ enjoy the beddin’, that only sinners do. Yet her husband, much like yerself, apparently troubled himself to be sure she did enjoy it. I fear it plagued her and made her fear fer her soul. And then, I gather she witnessed yer parents . . . er . . . enjoyin’ themselves by the pond,” she said delicately, and then rushed on, “And others around the keep as well, and felt sure the only way to redeem herself fer her own enjoyment o’ it, was to . . .”
“Kill ’em all,” Conall said dryly when she paused to search for a way to say it.
“Aye,” she breathed regretfully.
Conall was silent for a minute, and then asked, “Are you troubled by me making ye enjoy it?”
Claray flushed, but admitted honestly, “I was at first. But I’ve resigned meself to it.”
“Resigned yerself?” he asked with concern. “Should I stop—?”
“Nay!” Claray interrupted quickly, and then scowled. “Do no’ you dare stop. I love the pleasure ye give me, and if ’tis wrong, then I’ll happily serve me time in hell fer it.”
“Ye will, will ye?” he asked with a faint smile.
Claray nodded, and then added, “But I do no’ think the church is right about this. I love ye, and the loving is an expression of that. ’Tis beautiful and precious.” Pausing, she smiled slightly, and added, “Besides, ye ordered me to enjoy it, and Father Cameron did make me vow to obey ye. I can hardly be punished fer keeping vows the church made me make.”
The concern easing from his face, Conall chuckled and hugged her close. “I do love ye, Claray. Yer beautiful, and clever, and sure to drive me mad and scare me witless at times. But I’d have it no other way.”
“Neither would I, husband,” Claray murmured, hugging him back. “Neither would I.”
About the Author
LYNSAY SANDS is the nationally bestselling author of the Argeneau/Rogue Hunter vampire series, as well as numerous historicals and anthologies. She’s been writing since grade school and considers herself incredibly lucky to be able to make a career out of it. Her hope is that readers can get away from their everyday stress through her stories, and if there are occasional uncontrollable fits of laughter, that’s just a big bonus.
lynsaysands.net
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.