Chapter Two
Mhàiri squeezed the knife she held in her hand behind her back as she watched the lone rider slowly come closer. He was not yet close enough for her to see identifying features, but even at a distance, she could see that he was not Father Lanaghly.
Unlike her older sister—who would shock all her fellow nuns if they knew how much Shinae enjoyed wielding a blade—Mhàiri hated to use weapons. Her father had known of her dislike and had not cared. Their nomadic lifestyle had involved a constant, though usually minimal, level of danger; therefore, he had insisted both his daughters learn how to protect themselves. As a result, they had become exceptionally good at being able to handle a dirk. A skill Mhàiri had re-sharpened over the last two weeks while hunting for food. So, if the stranger approaching meant her harm, she could do enough damage to make him regret it.
He was close enough now to make out some details, and Mhàiri was certain she had never before seen the rider. Whoever he was, the man was huge, even for a Highlander—that much Mhàiri could tell. The black beast he rode was similarly massive and would have dwarfed practically every man she had met since she had come to this region, but not him.
He had dark hair and rode with not just confidence but an air of authority. It cloaked him like a second skin. Mhàiri had seen such men when she had lived with her father. They used their stature to intimidate those they encountered, and any show of nervousness signaled either vulnerability or that one had something of value. In her case, both were true. She was very vulnerable, and she possessed something of enormous value. While many may not recognize the worth of the items inside her small home, it was incalculable to her.
Hoping to give the impression that she neither desired company nor was frightened by his unwanted arrival, Mhàiri took a deep breath and slowly crossed her arms, careful to keep the dirk hidden. The change in stance did nothing to change the stranger’s expression, which she could now see was not menacing, or any of the other myriad things she expected to see with such an imposing figure. He looked . . . oddly bored.
The large Highlander tightened the reins and pulled his horse to a stop. Smoke-gray eyes stared down at her for several seconds. The man was much older than her, at least twenty years her senior. Small wrinkles formed across his forehead and under his eyes, and gray hair was slightly visible at his temples, but neither took away from his masculine appeal. Compared to most of the rough-hewn farmers she had encountered in the past couple of years, this man was exceptionally good looking. And refreshingly, he looked to be completely uninterested in her. Too often, her unusual combination of dark hair and pale green eyes pulled to the dark, lustful side of men—especially in this rural part of Scotland. Even married men had a hard time concealing their lust. The large Highlander, however, was definitely not one of them.
“You Mhàiri?” he inquired.
Mhàiri blinked and was about to return his question with one of her own when she saw another rider coming into view. He was approaching more quickly and possibly related to the large Highlander. A much younger, and—if possible—better-looking relation. They were of similar height and build, and both possessed the same shade of dark brown hair as well as chiseled features.
The younger man pulled his horse next to the first man and stared down at her . . . and smiled. Instead of gray eyes, his were a brilliant shade of blue and his smile accentuated deep dimples that should have been appeared feminine, but instead, made him even better looking.
Mentally Mhàiri checked herself and was relieved to know that her jaw had not inadvertently fallen open. Unlike his older friend, the younger Highlander was far from disinterested and was blatantly ogling her as if she were a piece of prized meat.
Mhàiri almost gave him her most withering scowl, but she decided that would be too expected—though she doubted many women had ever spurned this man’s advances. She instead opted to assume the look of his older relative and pasted on the most bored look she could muster, coupled with a sigh that only hinted her disgust.
His blue eyes widened with shock. Maybe she had been the first to be unappreciative of his admiration. Mhàiri started to smile triumphantly at the idea, which would have totally ruined the point she had made. Thankfully, at that very moment, she spied the white-haired priest for whom she had been waiting for nearly a week as he rolled into view driving a large cart. She let the grin take over her face and rushed out to greet the one person who had understood her need and vowed to bring back help.
Mhàiri had known Father Lanaghly was a good man the first time she had met him, but when the church had given her no option to continue living with her sister without taking vows, he had become her savior.
No one else had understood or appreciated her predicament. Worse, the leaders of the church had been apathetic that her whole life and plans for the future had been unexpectedly uprooted when the fire burned the small priory to the ground. Her sister, Shinae, had understood but had been powerless to help as she was being ordered to an abbey down south. Mhàiri, who was just shy of twenty years, could have joined them but only if she agreed to take the same vows Shinae was taking. The structured, stifling life of a Catholic nun might have been acceptable for her sister, but not her. Even the offensive idea of marriage would be preferable to a life dictated by the church. Wife and nun were two titles Mhàiri never intended to have.
If marriage had been an option, Mhàiri could have had her choice of local farmers as husbands. Some had been both moderately attractive and quite prosperous, with large stretches of land. But to their shock, she had remained adamant with her refusals. The reason Mhàiri had no desire for a husband was the same reason she had not capitulated to the church’s demands to take vows.
Accepting either would mean a loss of the one thing she valued most. Freedom.
One wanted her on her knees praying and doing someone’s bidding. The other wanted her on her feet cooking and cleaning until it was time to do her husband’s bidding. Both had no appeal, and Mhàiri found it strange that anyone ever intentionally sought out either circumstance.
Before the fire, Mhàiri had been on the verge of regaining the freedom she had relished but had been too naïve to appreciate as a child. The only thing that kept her from losing what little semblance of sanity she retained was that the priory’s tiny cottage, which held all her most precious belongings, had been upwind of the flames, escaping the priory’s sad destiny.
The priory had been one of the few remaining places in Scotland whose members followed a monastic way of life that focused on helping the local community, not the church. But the Culdees’ way of life was disappearing and unless something changed, it would soon all be brought under canonical rule. But it was not other Culdees who had come and emptied the priory.
Priests associated with the Premonstratensian order of the Catholic church had arrived almost a week after the fire. They had been traveling north visiting the Fearn Abbey when they heard about the devastation and came to see if they could offer help. The austere order followed the Rule of St. Augustine as well as several additional statutes that made their life serving God one of great austerity. The life they offered was very different than the one enjoyed by the Culdees at the priory. And it was they who, upon Mhàiri’s refusal to join them, had abandoned her to the lonely consequences of her decision.
A decision she might have not been able to make if not for Father Lanaghly.
He had arrived as those of the church were about to leave. He had heard her story, agreed that vows should never be entered into under pressure, and gave her hope. Father Lanaghly promised to send word to the chief of the clan he supported and ask if he would not only keep her things safe, but offer Mhàiri a place to stay until she could get word to the man who could ensure her life of freedom. Her own papa.
That had been nearly two weeks ago.
When Father Lanaghly had left to retrieve a cart and seek out additional help for the journey, Mhàiri had expected him to return within days. She had known deep down that the priest had not forgotten his promise, but she had begun to wonder if the laird Father Lanaghly had sworn would help her was as agreeable to the idea as he had believed. Seeing the kind old priest driving an empty cart immediately restored all the hope he had given her a fortnight ago.
“Father Lanaghly!” Mhàiri cried out and ran out to welcome the priest as he pulled the cart to a halt.
Father Lanaghly smiled down at Mhàiri, glad to see she was in high spirits and still looking healthy after an extended period of being alone. With long, raven-colored hair, an oval face, high cheekbones, and pale green eyes framed by dark lashes, she gave an incorrect impression of being delicate and fragile. Being in the company of five McTiernay wives for the last decade, he had known almost immediately that she was neither. One had only to look into her eyes to see that Mhàiri may be beautiful, but she was not a stranger to challenges. And like some McTiernays he knew, she thrived on them.
“How are you, Mhàiri lass? I was afraid we might find you starving after being gone for so long.”
“I told you that I could manage.” Mhàiri grinned at him, unable to hide how truly happy she was to see him. She may not like handling weapons, but her accuracy at throwing dirks ensured that she never went without food when game was nearby.
“Indeed,” Father Lanaghly responded with a nod. “I assume you are ready to leave? Or should I tell the laird to prepare to camp here tonight?”
“We can leave almost immediately. I only need to pack a few things that I use daily, but it will not take me long. Unless the laird needs to rest?” She looked at Conor with a hint of challenge, intentionally ignoring the younger man at his side.
Conor cracked a smile. “Hope you travel well, for I’ll be wanting to make some distance today while there is sunlight and good weather.”
Mhàiri arched a brow. “I happen to travel exceptionally well.”
Father Lanaghly coughed. He gestured at the large empty bed of the wagon he had driven. “Will this suffice?”
Mhàiri enthusiastically bobbed her head up and down. She had feared that she would have to make choices and leave some items behind, but that was no longer a concern. “It should be enough if we also use the small cart that my sister left behind for my use.” She pointed to the burned abbey. Peeking out behind some darkened stones was a two-pronged handle that could be attached to a horse’s saddle.
Father Lanaghly produced a smile that hinted at mischievous merriment. “’Tis a good thing that I brought assistance then.”
The gleam in the larger man’s eyes suddenly changed from boredom to one that held mild humor. “Good luck convincing Conan, for that”—Conor pointed to the small, mostly hidden cart—“is not going to be attached to my saddle at any point.”
Father Lanaghly just laughed at the threat. “Come and let me introduce you to Laird Conor McTiernay.”
Mhàiri noticed out the corner of her eye the younger man had dismounted his horse, but kept her focus on the older Highlander, who remained in his saddle. She wondered if the man was aware he used such intimidation techniques or if it was unintentional. Undaunted, she shaded her eyes from the late morning sun and looked up. “Father Lanaghly, when you promised to bring help, I had no idea that you meant to enlist a laird to help carry my things.”
For the first time, the large man smiled. It changed his whole countenance to one that was suspiciously welcoming. Mhàiri felt like a fly being lured into a web. Even more so when he spoke and she heard the rich timbre of his voice. “I respect the father, but no man drags me anywhere I do not want to be. The priest and I just happened to leave at the same time, and I’m not here to help you with your things.” Using his thumb, he gestured to the cottage door. “I’m here to help you with Conan.”
Mhàiri crinkled her brow in confusion and then suddenly realized that the younger Highlander was no longer in sight. Based on where the laird was pointing, the one called Conan was inside her home. She issued a scathing glare at Conor as if he was partly to blame for the invasion and then rushed to the small cottage.
Unperturbed by her hostile glance, Conor threw his leg over his horse’s rear end and planted his feet on the ground. Father Lanaghly came to stand beside him and joined his gaze at the cottage’s entrance.
Conor crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “At least we no longer need to wonder when or how Conan will provoke her to anger.” He chuckled. “This time, my brother didn’t even have to open his mouth.” He glanced at the priest. “I have a feeling things are about to get interesting.”
Father Lanaghly returned the smile. “More than you think. She—” The priest paused to point at the woman who came to an abrupt halt at the cottage doorway. “Is the female version of your brother Conan.”
Seeing Father Lanaghly was being earnest, Conor raised his brows and took another look at the thin, dark-haired woman. Maybe the slow journey home was not going to be as painful as he had thought. “If you’re right, then things are about to get very interesting.”
* * *
Conan picked one of the scrolls out of a bag and carefully started to unfurl it, hoping that it was some type of map despite the unlikelihood any would be kept at a priory. At first glance, it looked to be only an inconsequential sketch of some mountains and he almost put it back. But when he realized what it was, Conan rolled it out completely on the small table to study. It was not just mountains, but a detailed drawing of this region of Scotland and how the land stretched out to the sea from the viewpoint if one were on top of one of the peaks. Scribed on the bottom was Beinn Eighe. Conan had never seen anything like it. Drawings were rarely detailed and never accurate. Flat pieces of art, they showed detail, but never any depth. As a result, drawings were symbolic in nature, not very informative. But this . . . this was an actual depiction of nearby lands.
Conan pulled out another scroll. It, too, was a drawing, but this one was of Loch Torridon and it even captured Cole’s castle, Fàire Creachann, though minutely. Nothing he had ever seen compared to what he was looking at. Artists just did not draw like this.
He wondered how many scrolls held such beauty and eagerly pulled a third scroll out. With a sigh of relief, he found it was what he had originally expected. A common document he had seen in one of any number of abbeys, churches, or places of learning. He put it aside. That was something that could easily be left behind.
The one-room cottage was small, but it was full. Three large chests plus a smaller one that looked as if it had seen better days were in one corner. On a table were several bound documents, and next to them was a crate filled with what looked to be even more bound books. There was also a bag with even more scrolls peeking out. In total, it was too much even for the large cart they had brought. Some things would have to remain. Just because the church had left all this behind did not make it his responsibility. If they wanted what he determined was unimportant, they could come back and retrieve it themselves.
Hearing the rapid patter of light footsteps, Conan kept his eyes on the paper but said out loud, “I’m glad to see not everything here is a religious relic. Some of this might actually be useful beyond an abbey’s walls.”
Mhàiri immediately had dashed up to the door, afraid of what she might find. While she had been ready for days for the priest’s return, she still had a few things that she had been waiting until the last minute to pack. She had feared the large oaf was throwing them into one of the empty crates or, God forbid, a sack. If he had been, she probably would have exploded, potentially saying something that would cause the priest and his laird to decide she was a harpy and not worth the hassle. Instead, the good-looking beast was studying her prized possessions, and while not mishandling them, he was judging them, finding some to be of no value. The idea of being left alone once again was suddenly very appealing.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be touching things you know nothing about.”
Conan easily ignored the barb, having been on the receiving end of a female’s insults for most of his life. However, the lilting quality of her voice caught him off guard. Rather than high-pitched, it was unusually low and therefore compelling. He had not been prepared for it, just like he had not been prepared for what he had seen when he had ridden up to the priory.
When Conan had first spied her, he could tell that she was slender and, while she was much shorter than him, she would be considered almost tall for a woman. However, it was not until he was much closer that he had realized Father Lanaghly’s nun was not the old woman he’d assumed she would be. She was young and absolutely not nun-like.
Nuns, even pretty ones, looked severe in their wimples, habits, and overall austere attire. While the garb hinted at their figures, only their eyebrows indicated the color of their hidden hair. But Conan knew this little nun’s to be several shades darker than his own, for it had been left free, falling in loose waves down to the middle of her back. Her gown was also not that of a habit, but a simple golden bliaut that was cut rather narrowly around her abdomen with lacing along the sides to create tension. It fit her buxom body perfectly.
When he had ridden up and his blue eyes had locked with hers, Conan had forgotten about where he was, why he was there, and whom he was with. He had seen many beautiful women in his years and charmed a number of them to his bed, but the woman before him was beauty in its purest form.
Immediately he had grown aroused, his body refusing to behave despite the fact that she was a nun. If she gets offended seeing my desire, then she has only herself to blame, Conan had thought. What drove a woman like her to the church anyway? With her beauty, she could have any man she wanted. Even he would accept her attentions—if only for a while. That in itself was quite remarkable as he had been abstaining from female company the past several months, having decided they were not worth the eventual headache.
Long-term commitment to a woman had proven impossible, and marriage was a preposterous state meant for men like his brothers. Conan’s future was that of a rustic, nomadic life that while appealed to him, made women cringe. In a few months, he would at last be seeking his dreams, never to be in one place long enough to create roots.
However, Conan was not averse to the idea of scratching an itch. And while some in the clergy fully adhered to the concept of abstinence, Conan knew that many did not. Maybe this pretty little nun fell in the latter category.
Instinctively, Conan had tightened his grip on the reins and had grinned down at her. He was quite aware that his dimples had some magical power over the opposite sex. In his youth, he had wondered why, but when one of his brother’s elite guards, Hamish, who also had dimples, had pointed out that he should spend less time wondering why they worked and more time using them, Conan had realized his energies had been ill-placed.
For a second, Conan had thought she was going to smile back. But instead, her expression had remained unaffected. In fact, she had looked almost apathetic. It had been as if men like himself rode up to her doorstep daily and he was just one among many. Then, she had broken into a wide, sincere smile that had made her look even more beautiful and run to see the priest. Conan had grimaced.
What women thought of him was typically a nonfactor in his life. Once he was done with a woman, he really had no interest in her opinion of him—whether it was good or bad. But this little nun had dismissed him before he had given her a good reason. That never happened. Women always took at least a second, and usually much longer, to look at him. It was so common that he did not even think about it anymore . . . until today. Unfortunately, the obvious snub had happened in front of his observant brother.
Conor had not wasted the opportunity to jibe him either. “You’re losing your touch, Conan,” he had mumbled, not even trying to conceal his mirth. “Usually you have to at least talk to a woman before she decides to ignore you.”
It was at that moment Conan had jumped down from his horse to head inside the cottage, uncaring that he had not been invited. He did not need his brother’s nonsense and he certainly did not need to be snubbed by a nun who had summoned him for help.
In the cottage, Mhàiri took a step closer. This Conan was either being intentionally rude or daydreaming about something. “Did you hear me?”
Aye, I hear you, Conan answered but not out loud. He held his breath, prepping himself for the memory of what she looked like in hopes of keeping his body from once again reacting in a way he could not control. “Nuns should look like nuns, not women—especially if they are beautiful,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Excuse me?”
Conan gave up and forced his eyes to open. He put down the document he was holding and then picked up the next one. Almost immediately, he put it down and looked at the next in the stack. “That one you can leave behind,” he said, pointing at the scroll he had discarded. “It is fortunate that I didn’t send someone else to help you and Father Lanaghly. They wouldn’t have been able to help decide what here is worth taking and what can remain behind.”
Mhàiri felt her jaw go slack. She had been subjected to the idea that men knew more than women most of her life just because so few females were educated, but it had been a while since she had been around a man so rudely open with his belittling opinions. “You are a presumptuous one.”
“Most women simply call me arrogant,” Conan murmured, still refusing to look at her. He would never admit it, but he was afraid to do so.
“Then they were wrong.”
That made Conan pause, but only momentarily. “How so?” He finished scanning the scroll and then put it down. “It does accurately denote self-assurance.” He picked up the next item and inspected its spine.
“Let me clarify then. In your case, I think that arrogant is far too limiting. You are so much more.”
Mhàiri readied herself for an angry response or at least a scathing but defensive comment, but the Highlander surprised her. He instead glanced over his shoulder and grinned at her before returning his gaze back to the items on the table.
“I must say I am surprised that a woman, let alone a nun, has some of these volumes. Does your abbess know these are in your possession?” He wiggled the small volume that was in his right hand.
Nun? Mhàiri was momentarily stunned and glad that the beast of a man was facing away from her. Did he actually think she was a nun? It was both amusing and idiotic at the same time. The last thing she looked like—or talked like—was a nun. “Bhreithneachail asal,” Mhàiri muttered, echoing aloud her own thoughts about him.
Conan turned around abruptly at the insult. It was not the first time someone had called him a judgmental ass, but it was the first time a nun had called him one. “My sister-in-law calls me that from time to time, and while I don’t deny being a little judgmental, it’s a hard habit to break since I’m right practically all of the time.” He paused, looked her in the eye, and then pointed to the items on the table. “Just as I’m right about only some of this stuff being worth the effort of trekking across the Torridon Mountains.”
She reached out to grab the volume only for it to be pulled out of her reach. Mhàiri scowled. “It must be nice to be around obviously abundantly patient and tolerant family members who let you live in some fictitious world where they pretend to admire and respect you for your intellect, but I’m not your family. I’m not inclined to indulge your delusions. And though no doubt remarkable to you, I neither need nor want your opinion.”
Conan rolled his eyes. It was a surprisingly well-stated insult, if a little wordy. Most women could only muster simple one-word slurs. Nonetheless, she was still a woman, and being a nun did not change a female’s natural disposition toward drama. “I doubt there has ever been a female who can humbly accept honesty, but I’ll admit that you do seem unusually clever for a bean rialta feargach. Maybe you will be the first.”
Now the oaf was not only calling her a nun, but an angry nun? It was laughable. Almost as much as the idea that she was bothered by honesty. “Honesty is always appreciated from someone worthy of my respect. Something I doubt you’ll ever earn.”
“I’ll earn it, mo bean rialta go leor beag, of that I have no doubt.”
Mhàiri almost laughed. “Pretty little nun? I guess that is better than being an angry one.” The man exuded a level of self-confidence that could not be measured, and yet unlike most overly self-important men, this Highlander believed every word he said. There was a lot of bravado to his words, but none of them, in his mind, were false.
“I can’t keep calling you that. Too hard. My name is Conan. What is yours?”
Conan. That was what Laird McTiernay called him, Mhàiri thought as she rolled the name around in her head. She liked the sound of it. It fit him. Conan was both elegant and untamed, much like the massive Highlander looked. “Mhàiri.”
Conan looked at her then, not a quick glance like he had been giving her, but a long look, as if he was studying her. A version of the name Mhàiri was found in practically every culture and while her pronunciation of it was definitely Gaelic, it gave him no insight as to her origins. She spoke and acted as if she was a Scot, but this nun did not look like any woman born and raised in the Highlands. A very fine and delicate beauty, she looked as if she belonged to another land far away from the harsh one he had always known. Mhàiri was becoming more and more of an enigma. One he did not need to figure out. Thank God she was a nun.
Mhàiri arched a brow, reminding him that he was staring. Guilt briefly swept his features. His blue eyes had studied her so intently, she had felt as if she were being stripped of her clothing . . . and by a man who would tempt even the most devout of nuns. And the last thing she was, was a nun. Everything about this Highlander exuded masculinity. Whoever Conan McTiernay was, he was intensely, if not overwhelmingly, male.
“Now it is you who are staring.”
Mhàiri squeezed her eyes shut, hating that he was right. “I’m hoping you are not just another brutish soldier who lacks appreciation of anything that cannot be used in battle.”
Conan ignored her fiery retort and pointed to the smaller of two stacks on the table. “Mhàiri,” he said calmly and with a tone he hoped would elicit compliance, “this pile we should bring. I still need to look at the rest and decide what else should be kept.”
Mhàiri looked at the stack a little better and realized that Conan had not been simply looking and putting down the various things he had been going through, but organizing them. “Meaning those other items are going to be just left behind?”
“Aye. We only brought one cart. Either some of these remain behind,” Conan said, pointing to the crate, the things on the table, and the bag of rolled documents, “or your personal things remain behind.” He then gestured toward the large chests, and Mhàiri realized he had no idea that those too were full of bound books. The most precious ones she owned. If the church had known they had existed, they would have stolen them from her two weeks ago.
“My chests are definitely coming with me,” she clarified and, upon seeing him smile, added, “as well as everything else.”
Patience gone, Conan picked up one of the thinner documents from the discard pile. “The written word is a wonderful thing but not at the expense of a dead horse trying to haul it for three days across mountains. This is puerile, and it remains.”
Mhàiri’s father had tried to use the same firm tone when she was a child and it had never worked. “Conan”—this time it was she who used a calm and patient voice—“I think you don’t realize why Father Lanaghly asked you to come and help. It was not for this,” she smugly replied, jabbing a finger toward his head, “but for these.” She pointed to his seriously impressive biceps. “I don’t need your opinions. I need only your brute strength. And it is a good thing too, based on these senseless piles you created.”
It was not often Conan was taken aback by a woman. And he did not like it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mhàiri rolled her eyes and stepped around him, gathering the items on the table and putting them back into a single stack. “Do not take offense, for you are very attractive, Conan, and I’m sure your looks are enough for most women to ignore your nonsensical comments, but you have to know on some level that you are an idiot.”
Conan’s jaw dropped. Not because Mhàiri had insulted him, but because she really thought him to be unintelligent. That was a first, and it rendered him speechless.
“You can go ahead and place those on the large cart while I finish prepping these for travel.”
Conan could only think of one thing. He had to prove that he was not the idiot—she was for assuming so!
He went to one of the open crates, bent down, and started pulling items out. Conan flashed a small bound volume over his shoulder. “This? This is what you absolutely must take with you? Just what does a nun need with the partial recreations of rather lewd French romance poems on the Vulgate Cycle?”
Mhàiri grabbed the book and clutched it to her chest, momentarily mortified that he had recognized what it was. Then she remembered she was not the nun he’d assumed her to be. “So you are not illiterate, just ignorant.”
“Do not worry. Most nuns would never admit to it, but I happen to know that several enjoy a good raunchy story and it hurts no one,” Conan stated, misunderstanding what she had meant. “Though I must admit they are usually hiding tales about the quest for the Holy Grail or the romance of Lancelot and Guinevere.”
Conan pulled out another book and studied it. “Interesting.”
Mhàiri tried to grab it, but again Conan moved it out of reach. “What is so interesting?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“That so many of these are not religious-based, but informational.” He stood up and flipped through the pages of the medicinal book that would have been a treasure for barber doctors. It was filled with stuff on herbs, plants, and their medicinal effects, as well as sketches of the human anatomy.
He glanced up. Seeing her outstretched hand, he placed the book in it. “That is far from typical reading, especially for a woman, and even more so for a nun. Do you know what that book is about, or were you just charged with its care?”
“My father purchased it before I came to the priory. It was written by an English physician who was concerned about unskilled barbers performing phle-botomies and scarifications.” Knowing that he had no idea what she was saying, Mhàiri could not help but add, “And what is your opinion on barber surgeons?”
Conan grimaced and scratched his chin before pointing at the book she now held. “I’ve heard of Bruno di Longoburgo and recognize some of his sketches, but medicine has never been a keen interest of mine. So I guess I do not know enough about the subject to have an opinion. Not like this,” he said, picking up one of her more prized volumes, “if it is what I think it is. Otia Imperialia?”
Mhàiri swallowed and nodded. It was the best-known work of Gervase of Tilbury and called the “Book of Marvels” as it focused on three fields—history, geography, and physics.
She had been calling him ignorant for assuming her a nun, but she had made some hugely incorrect assumptions herself. This man was not just literate, or even just educated. He was smart. How smart, she was not sure, but she suspected extremely so. She had spent time around some very bright men in her youth, the most intelligent of which had been her father. But Conan had not only recognized the documents he had pulled out, he had been able to read them . . . and they were each in a different language.
Only old men who spent their lives engrossed in books had such broad knowledge. And Conan was young. Moreover, he did not look like he spent his time indoors. Muscles like the ones he had came about from hours of physical labor. For him to have such knowledge at his age meant that he absorbed material like she did. Rapidly. Considerably faster than most scholars.
“What is your favorite field?” Conan asked, the sincerity of his question unmistakable.
“Um . . . geography,” Mhàiri answered. “Though I find some of Gervase’s accounts unbelievable.”
Conan shrugged and put it down. “Of course they are. It is a hundred years old and created to entertain King Henry II’s son. But how does a priory, let alone one of this small size set in the middle of the western Highlands, possess such a copy?”
Mhàiri’s back straightened. “The priory possessed very little. The Culdees were focused on helping those in the area, not improving their minds.”
She was not sure that Conan heard her because he was kneeling down again and looking at what else she had in the crate. He gasped and looked back at her. “Guido delle Colonne? How did you get the works of an Italian writer?”
Mhàiri blinked. “You can also read Italian?”
He nodded and stood back up. “My brother Cole’s wife can read and speak French, Italian, and Latin. She taught me the basics of Latin and from there, the others came quickly. The more I read, the more I understood and could pick up from context. I wouldn’t say I could speak it, but I no longer have difficulties reading most things.”
Mhàiri took a step forward and placed her hand on his forearm, suddenly feeling as if she had found a kindred spirit. “I also have a mind for languages. My father said it was a gift and that very few find them easy to digest and learn.”
Conan looked down at the slender hand on his arm. Need suddenly racked his body, and it was suddenly critical to get some distance between them—physically, mentally, and emotionally. From his experience, the best way to get a woman to go away was to make her angry. “So, since you understand what these are, you can help decide what the church is going to have to come back for and what remains behind. But accept the fact that not all of this is coming with us.”
Mhàiri’s gaze narrowed and she ripped her hand from his arm. “These are my things, not the church’s. And because they are mine, every book, scroll, and document you see will be coming with me. Nothing will be left behind, and when we arrive at the end of our journey, everything will remain mine.”
Conan stood up and waved his hand. “Just where do you plan on putting all your things? For we are headed to my home, where there is only one place where all written material is stored. My chambers.”
“Then I guess they will become my chambers during my stay because, as I said, my things are staying with me!”
“You think you can order a McTiernay out of his castle chambers? Even Conor would say you were mad.”
Mhàiri’s pale green eyes grew large as she realized what he meant. Conan was not a cousin, nephew, or distant relation to Laird McTiernay. He was his brother. And he lived at the very place where the priest had said she and her things would be safe until her father could come get her. Father Lanaghly had told her she would be welcomed by the laird and that all but one of the brothers was married and lived away. All but the one standing right in front of her.
The old priest had further promised that Lady McTiernay was educated and appreciated knowledge and that the castle boasted of one of the largest libraries of information outside of an abbey. Never had Father Lanaghly mentioned that her things would fall into the hands of the unmarried brother.
A loud cough made Mhàiri jump. She turned around and saw Laird McTiernay at her doorway. He had gray eyes and some gray hair, but otherwise their facial features, their build, their air of confidence—they were all almost identical. Mhàiri felt as if she had been physically punched.
The man was indeed Conan’s older brother.
Laird McTiernay had just heard her spoiled declaration to kick Conan out of his chambers during her stay.
Mhàiri wished she could rewind the day and start all over, beginning with welcoming him and thanking him for helping her. The laird was probably rethinking taking her with him at all, let alone hauling her things and giving her a temporary home until her father was found.
Mhàiri was about to apologize and say as much when she saw two gray eyes sparkling at her. In their smoky depths, she saw not anger, but mirth. “I think Laurel will be delighted at the idea of you taking over the North Tower.”
“Over my dead body,” came an angry growl behind her. Only four words, but they held much venom. Mhàiri knew that Conan was serious.
“Laurel just might oblige,” Conor replied with a chuckle, completely unaffected by his younger brother’s threat. “But until then, let’s start taking all this out of here. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“It can’t all fit in one cart,” Conan countered.
The smug tone in his voice rankled Mhàiri once again. “Then it is a good thing that I have another one.”
“Aye,” Conor confirmed. “Father Lanaghly and I just finished hooking it up to your horse,” he said, grinning at Conan so widely Mhàiri thought the laird’s face would split. “Only need to load it up so we can go.”
Conan glowered first at Conor and then at Mhàiri before stomping outside. “Murt,” he muttered to himself, seeing that his horse really was hooked up to a second cart. It was smaller, but between the two, there would be enough room to allow Mhàiri to take all her belongings.
Conan marched back in and grabbed a box. Before he exited, he leveled a gaze on Mhàiri. “You may be a nun, but you’ve got two arms. Use them and help carry your things.”
Conan walked out and put the box on the smaller cart. He started to go back and get another load when he heard a truly disconcerting sound. That of a priest in the middle of guffaws. “Mhàiri is no more a nun than you are a monk,” Father Lanaghly managed to get out between gasps for breath. “Anyone could tell by looking at her she never took any vows.”
“You thought Mhàiri was a nun?” he heard Conor ask as he came out with a large stuffed bag of scrolls. “Wait till Laurel hears this. She always said you were not as intelligent as I thought.”
Conan was furious. He wanted to say something, anything, to end his humiliation. For a moment, he thought his brother understood and was going to back off, but he should have known that Conor would enjoy this moment for as long as possible.
“I can see you are mad, but even you have to admit that you’ve never been wrong about so much in such a short period of time.”
* * *
Mhàiri stared at the night sky and studied the nuances of landscape, trying to decide how to best capture its likeness. It was very late and the mountains’ shadows hid most of the details, but the moon was bright, giving her enough light to produce a basic sketch. Normally drawing was the best remedy to a bad day, but tonight, she did not expect it to bring her any measurable level of comfort. How quickly those feelings of smug satisfaction at her cottage had shifted to frustration, regret, and finally complete embarrassment. Thank goodness they were to arrive at McTiernay Castle tomorrow.
They had left her cottage much later in the day than anticipated, mostly because while she had had everything packed, it had not been organized in a way that made efficient use of space. Once they had finally departed, no one had spoken to her except the priest, who had been focused on being hungry and how he had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to travel driving a cart. The next day had been more of the same, although Laird McTiernay had periodically offered her a few words of acknowledgement. The third time the laird had come back, Father Lanaghly had laughed, followed by murmurings that Lady McTiernay would be pleased with her husband’s diplomatic efforts, leaving Mhàiri with no doubts that Conor was only talking with her to be nice.
Then there was today. Conan and his brother had ridden way ahead most of the time, leaving her with solely the priest as company. Mhàiri did not mind being alone and could have tolerated silence, but it seemed that Father Lanaghly enjoyed company. He had spoken about anything and everything. So when Conan had mumbled that they were stopping to make camp for the night, Mhàiri had been relieved. She had also decided that she was going to apologize to Conan and hopefully induce him into conversation. She was surprised to find that, looking back at her and Conan’s altercation, she had enjoyed it. The last person she had had a worthy debate with was her father—and that had been years ago.
She had barely stepped down off the cart when a dead bird and two small rabbits were laid at her feet. After two nights of doing both the hunting and the cooking, the men had seemed to think she should offer to do the latter.
She had survived for two weeks on her own, so it was not that Mhàiri could not cook; it was that she could not cook well. Several times, her father, her sister, or other members of the priory had tried to get her to learn, but Mhàiri had soundly refused. Such a skill set was a big step toward a future and life she refused to accept. Standing in a kitchen all day preparing food, only to have to clean up after everyone ate before seeing to her husband’s “other” needs, was how she defined hell.
After seeing the looks on all three men’s faces as they had bitten into the barely edible piece of charred meat, she had regretted being so stubborn about learning nothing. Laird McTiernay had looked ill and the priest’s expression had conveyed pity, but Conan’s had been one of utter disgust. It was as if he had somehow known that while she had not intended to ruin the meal, she had intentionally never learned to cook, which meant someone had served her meals for her entire life.
Mhàiri felt blessed to have been born from such wonderful parents whose lifestyle meant continual adventures and seeing new sights. But that did not mean she did not also know of heartbreak. Her mother had died when she had been only ten, and by the age of fourteen, Mhàiri had been sent to join her older sister at the priory, where her father thought she would be safe. Aye, Mhàiri had been fortunate in many ways, but she had never considered herself spoiled. Not until tonight. And worse, she knew Conan had not been wrong.
“What are you doing?”
Mhàiri jumped at the sound of his voice. Conan was surprised. His approach had been loud so she must have been deep in thought. Then again, she might have just been surprised he was even talking to her. He had certainly not enjoyed being humiliated by his many foolish assumptions, but his anger with her had been short-lived. His brother, however, refused to let the matter drop. Conan had had no choice but to stay away lest he encourage another set of witticisms.
Mhàiri turned to look at him. Even in the dim light, her pale green eyes seemed to see through him. “I, um, uh, nothing really. Just sketching the loch and some of the mountains.” She then looked around him to see if anyone else was approaching.
“Conor left to visit a nearby farm since we are on the outskirts of McTiernay land.”
“I suspect the need for something to eat drove him to that decision,” Mhàiri whispered, feeling guilty once again.
“Probably so. My brother does love good food. It’s the only reason he and anyone else put up with Fiona.”
“Who’s Fiona?”
“She runs the kitchens at McTiernay Castle. And when I say Fiona runs the kitchens, that is exactly what I mean. Laurel won’t admit it, but even she is careful when dealing with the surly beast.” Mhàiri furrowed her brows at the slur. Conan waggled his finger at her. “See if that description is not completely accurate after you’ve met her. And what’s more, you won’t complain because Fiona’s food is that good.”
Mhàiri looked around to see who else might hear them. “Where is Father Lanaghly?”
Conan looked behind him and pointed to somewhere in the blackness. “He said it was too warm by the fire and is snoring somewhere way over there.” Turning back around, he looked out and said, “It is a pretty view.”
He moved to sit down beside her. Mhàiri’s eyes grew large with shock, but she scooted to make room. “Can’t sleep?” she finally asked after almost two minutes of silence between them.
Conan shook his head, but offered no explanations.
“My father was sometimes restless at night. Said his brain refused to be quiet. That it was hard to get his thoughts to calm.”
Conan stared at her for a second. Was it possible that she understood? That sleeping throughout the night was something he often struggled with and had for his whole life? He picked up a stick and started poking the ground with it. “Then your father and I must be of similar minds.”
“My mother called it kindred spirits. My father said talking to her helped,” Mhàiri said, hinting that she would be open to him talking to her.
Conan flashed her one of his best smiles. “Talking worked for him, huh? Then, maybe we’re not kindred spirits.” When Mhàiri whipped her head back to face forward, Conan knew that his smile had affected her. It affected most women to some degree, and while he was not above using it as a tool to achieve a goal, that had not been his intention just now. The last thing he wanted was for Mhàiri to get nervous and leave. “Some nights, questions or answers to questions start to spin through my head, making it impossible to fall back asleep. I’ve tried everything from sitting calmly to being outside, to taking a long ride. Even tried sparring.”
Mhàiri quirked a brow. “What about lovemaking?” Immediately, her jaw dropped and she clamped a hand around her mouth, mortified.
Conan just chuckled, glad Mhàiri had not jumped to her feet to run away. But after her so easily ignoring him when they first met, then their heated debate in the cottage, knowing sex was also on her mind was quite comforting. “Of course I’ve tried it.”
And he had. Multiple times and in multiple ways. Not only did it not work, it almost always resulted in less enjoyable consequences. Invariably, within weeks—or days—the woman would seek more than Conan wanted to give, get upset that she was not the “one” who could convince him to give up his bachelor ways, and then cause a scene when she realized she had not changed him in the least. He was still the same opinionated, brutally honest man that everyone had warned her about.
“I can’t believe I just asked that!”
“I can,” Conan replied. Seeing sparks in her eyes, he added, “What? God did not create the desire for physical intimacy only in men. I happen to know that women enjoy the act just as much.”
“I bet you do,” she scoffed.
Conan squeezed his eyes shut and mentally chastised himself. If he did not want Mhàiri to order him away, he was certainly talking as if he did. “Now I’m the one shocked by saying my thoughts aloud.”
Mhàiri looked at him and shook her head with a small smile. “Aye, but I think that’s very rare. God was unfair when he made you, Conan McTiernay. You are far too good looking a man. You snatch a woman’s thoughts right out of her head, making her atypically vulnerable to your charms.”
Conan had been ready for a caustic comment, but Mhàiri had surprised him. Once again, she had proved to be an enigma he wanted to understand better. “Your own beauty can also be quite disarming.”
Mhàiri gave a small, feminine snort. “I doubt the most beautiful woman in the world could ‘disarm’ you.”
Conan turned to look at her directly in the eye. “You underestimate your beauty, Mhàiri, but I must admit that it is your keen wit and disturbingly accurate insight that intrigue me the most.”
“So you are not angry anymore with me?”
Conan shrugged. “Conor was right. It’s not often I’m wrong, and I hate it when my brother is around when it happens. That it happened repeatedly within the span of an hour was bad enough. But it was Conor who kept reminding me about it that made me ill company. Then, again it’s rare anyone considers me decent company even when I’m not riled. Supposedly I’m rude even when I try hard not to be.”
A soft smile played on Mhàiri’s lips. “It takes more than simple rudeness to upset me.”
Conan could tell she truly meant the unusual claim. “Then what does?”
Mhàiri leaned back on her hands and looked upward, thinking. “Oh, the things that would anger most anyone. Deceit. Being unreliable. Excessive whininess or exaggeration. And oh, when I am made to feel like a fool.” Seeing him smile, she said, “And condescension. That one really can be very annoying.”
“I think I might have touched that last one when we met.”
“Maybe a little, but I guess it is understandable you thought I was only the keeper of the books and not their owner. While I hate that it is true, I know that most women have not received the education my father gave me.”
“Nor are they blessed with the intelligence you have.” His smile got wider, enhancing his dimples.
Mhàiri looked away, thinking that men should not have dimples. It was unfair. “Perhaps. But I would advise you to stop assuming most women have an inherent lack of understanding of anything beyond tending a home. One does not need to be literate and well-read to be sensible and capable of conversation.”
“I agree with you on principle, but my experience says otherwise. I’ve met very few who can hold my interest during a discussion.”
Mhàiri nudged his shoulder with her own. “It’s your dimples. They get in the way of us females being coherent, let alone witty.”
“I was always told it was my eyes.” Conan laughed, finding this odd conversation surprisingly enjoyable.
“Oh, they are very nice indeed. So blue a woman could drown in them by staring long enough. But it’s your dimples that are the conversation killers. So, in the future, when you want to have a rational conversation with a woman, you know what to do. Simply don’t smile.”
Conan’s grin grew only larger.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” Mhàiri teased. “But you should know that I’m no longer dazzled by them. Their effect is surprisingly short-lived.”
This time Conan laughed out loud. “That explains it! I never could figure out why my track record with women was so astoundingly short.”
“I get the feeling that the brevity of your relationships does not really bother you.”
Conan shook his head. “Not in the least, though my sister-in-law thinks it should.”
“Lady McTiernay?”
“Aye. You will meet Laurel tomorrow.” Seeing a look of apprehension invade Mhàiri’s eyes, he quickly added, “Don’t worry. Not only will she love that you are not vulnerable to either my eyes or dimples, Laurel simply likes everyone. Well, everyone except me.”
“I doubt that.”
Conan shrugged and looked down at what was in Mhàiri’s lap. He had known she was drawing something, but he had assumed she was etching on parchment—something he often did before finalizing them in ink. It was a way to enjoy the activity of drawing without incurring the high costs. However, once again, he had been wrong.
Conan could not believe what he was looking at and, without thought, reached over and plucked the drawing off her legs. The feel of it proved the dim light had not confused him. Mhàiri was indeed drawing on hemp.
Hemp paper was much lighter than vellum, was easier to write on and required far less ink. He had only seen it used in the larger abbeys and even then, only in small quantities. The only hemp paper mill he knew of was in Spain, erected a few decades ago, but its product was sought by many. If he had access, he would be one of those many customers.
Such a writing medium would radically change his approach to traveling this spring. Vellum in the quantities he intended to bring was cumbersome. Though the leather was very thin, in large amounts, it was also very heavy. If he ever had a chance to shift to using hemp paper, he would not hesitate.
Conan fingered the material for several seconds and was about to hand it back to Mhàiri when the drawing itself caught his attention. He tilted it toward the moonlight and took a longer look. The unique style was similar to that of the drawings he had found in Mhàiri’s cottage. He froze. That unusual artwork had been hers.
“This is incredible,” he said in a whisper.
“I, uh, thank you.”
“No, I am being quite serious,” he said more strongly and looked up at her. “Pictures always denote things, but never have I seen something drawn that actually looked like it does in reality. I feel as though I can dip my hand through this and touch what you are drawing.”
Mhàiri’s face erupted into the largest smile. Conan could not have paid her a higher compliment.
“This almost looks like where we are sitting right . . .” Conan stopped talking and started looking at the paper and then at the landscape. Both were difficult to see in only the moonlight, but Conan could make out differences. Minor to some, but to him, they were significant.
A frisson of anger surged through him. Conan got to his feet and turned to her, doing nothing to disguise his temper. He shook her drawing at her. “This is clearly a drawing of this land, but when I look out I see a river. A river, I might add, that clearly denotes just where McTiernay land begins. And yet, in your drawing you changed it to a loch.”
Mhàiri blinked. “Is that why you are suddenly so angry? Because I like to draw lochs more than rivers?” She jumped up and attempted to snatch her drawing out of his grasp but failed.
“No. I’m angry because God gave you a gift. You have the power to put onto paper exactly how the world looks but instead you mock him by changing it.”
“I do not mock God,” Mhàiri hissed.
“You do when you misuse your gifts. I don’t know how, but you have hemp—something incredibly precious—and what are you using if for? Yourself!” he snarled, shaking the paper in his hand. “Your drawings could have infinite value. You could create not merely the most beautiful maps, but the most accurate ones the world has ever seen. But you draw to amuse only yourself. And worse, what you draw is so close to reality that many will actually mistake it for just that.”
Conan leaned down so that their noses were a few inches apart. “I would give anything for a gift like yours, but I’d rather not have it at all than misuse it like you do.”
Mhàiri stood completely still.
Conan knew he was scaring her and deep down, he also knew he was overreacting, but he had never seen anyone capture the world as it actually looked. Art showed nothing about a country’s size, shape, or features. Mhàiri had the ability to capture information that could win wars . . . maybe even stop them. She could save lives by marking safe passageways that even a completely illiterate man could follow. Instead, she drew only for herself.
“My drawing has value to me. I draw the world how I wish it to be. I only wish I could do the same for you. For I would capture everything about you just as you are with one exception. Your judgmental soul. For that is what needs to be fixed. That is why women never want to be with you for very long. It is not your mannerisms or your honesty as you would like to think.”
“And it is just as clear to me why you are not married.” Conan marched away before he could hear another word. He hated quarreling with women. It was impossible to reason with someone who countered anything logical with nonsense. But arguing with smart women? They were the absolute worst. They could twist anything to something that sounded logical to them.
Draw someone’s soul. Laurel was going to love her.
Spring could not come fast enough.
* * *
The next morning, Mhàiri stood staring at the same view that had created such a mixture of strong emotions in her. Hearing someone approach, she glanced to see who it was, relieved to learn that it was Father Lanaghly.
“Good morning, Mhàiri lass. Conan is hitching up the horses now. Conor never returned so he probably rode ahead on his own.”
“Thank you.” Mhàiri knew her voice was still sorrowful, even though she had tried to mask it.
“I knew after a few minutes of our first meeting that you were special. I knew because I have been fortunate to personally know two others who perceive things like you do—Conan and his niece, Bonny. All three of you see the world differently from anyone else.”
“Conan thinks that my seeing the world differently is a crime.”
Father Lanaghly chuckled. “Conan is a man who rarely encounters his intellectual equal. Being different has forced him apart from others. Even when he is surrounded by people—including family—he is alone. So do not let Conan or his abrupt ways bother you.”
“I grew up with gruff manners and direct words. My father is very smart and has an incredibly direct and forthright personality. It aggravates some, but it is also what made him very successful as a merchant. So while I might have wished Conan stated his comments very nicely and sweetly, it would not have mattered.”
“Some people—usually women—have issues with Conan’s approach to things,” Father Lanaghly remarked cautiously.
“Not surprising,” Mhàiri said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Most would rather have someone lie to them.”
Father Lanaghly tipped his head to one side but did not argue. “Even when Conan is completely wrong, he earnestly believes otherwise. I don’t think he knows how often he is wrong when it comes to people.”
“Not this time,” Mhàiri said with a sigh. Father Lanaghly did not know what it was like to see things the way she and Conan did. To observe more in a few seconds than what others did after studying something for an hour. To be able to think through facts and rapidly come to conclusions, which were more often than not correct. Her father used to tell her that someday she would learn to put all that aside and just see the person. To stop viewing people as she did a scene, looking for ways to draw them, but actually get to know them. “Truth is, Conan was telling me things I did not want to hear.”
“Well, remember, Mhàiri lass, Conan may have been accurate about one thing, but it was only one of many pieces that make up the whole of you.” Seeing that Mhàiri was digesting what he had said, he added, “And keep in mind that you have only seen a limited view of who Conan is well. He, too, is very complex and it takes time to truly understand him—even for the unusually gifted.” He winked. “What I do know is that the more I understand Conan, the more I appreciate him for who he is.”
* * *
Mhàiri sat in the cart staring straight ahead. Next to her, holding the reins, was Conan, who was just as silent as she was. Shortly after their conversation, Father Lanaghly had decided that he needed some alone time with God. While he had been very nice with his suggestion to exchange carts with Conan, it had also been clear that the request was not so much of a request as a statement. As a result, Mhàiri was now forced to rub shoulders with Conan for the rest of the trip.
It was one thing for Conan to be riding up ahead, but being so silent next to her was going to rob Mhàiri of her sanity. Apologizing, however, was out of the question. He had snatched her work and judged it and her. He should be the one to say “I’m sorry.” And yet, that was not what was bothering her or what had kept her up the rest of the night.
“Do you really think my drawings could be of value? I mean, to other people?” she blurted out.
Conan’s head slightly jerked upright, and then he slowly turned to look at her. “Not as they are, but aye. I have never seen anyone who could do what you can. It is a skill I need to possess, but don’t.”
“Why?” she asked, truly curious. She tilted her head to one side, causing her hair to fall over one shoulder. “Why would anyone need to draw?”
Conan watched as she slid her hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face. Her tongue then touched her lips, moistening the satin finish. Conan felt something twisting deep in his gut. He turned his eyes to the heavens and prayed for help. “This spring, I leave to make maps of Scotland and its clans,” he finally answered. “King Robert needs to be able to know all the routes England could use to strike Scotland again and where there is most benefit to fortify against Longshanks’s son.”
Conan apprehensively stole another glance. Seeing that Mhàiri was interested in what he was saying, he continued. “But mostly I want to make maps for the clans. The constant skirmishes about land and resources need to end. Also, while the major clans are known, there are many out there of which King Robert is unaware. Some are growing and some no longer exist. He needs to know who to seek out if we once again need to fight for our freedom.”
“I . . . I, too, was going to embark on my dreams in the spring. And then the priory burnt down.” Mhàiri prayed her father would agree to take her with him now that her plans were no more. If he refused to let her come with him, it would not be from lack of love, but too much of it.
“And what were your dreams, Mhàiri?” Conan said her name, and it sent a shiver through her. He sounded as if he truly wanted to know. Maybe the priest was right. She needed to let Conan see more of who she was so that he could understand her better.
“I have an older sister, Shinae. She is incredibly beautiful. Men used to say that her smile could rob them of breath.”
Conan chuckled. “We men will say anything if we think it might get us the attention of a pretty woman.”
Mhàiri shook her head. “But with Shinae, it’s true. She is open and friendly, and has a smile for everyone. When my mother died, she was only fourteen. My father feared that, her being so beautiful, she would attract attention. Knowing he could not always protect her, he sent her to live with his sister, who was a member of the priory’s Culdees. When I turned fourteen, he sent me to join them.”
“You love your sister.”
“I do. Very much. Everyone does,” Mhàiri said with a sigh.
“You sound like everyone does not feel similarly about you.”
Mhàiri shook her head. “Shinae is outgoing. Friendly. I am not. I’m more comfortable with books or drawing.”
“And is she a nun?”
Mhàiri nodded. “Shinae loved the Culdees’ way of life, but she knew that I did not. For years, various members of the priory would set up introductions with dozens of men looking for a wife. They were not subtle with their strong hints that I should settle down.”
Conan’s mouth formed a thin line. He had known last night his comment about understanding why she wasn’t married a false one, but the idea that dozens of men had been courting Mhàiri did not sit well with him. “So why didn’t you . . . um, settle down?” he asked, using her term rather than the word marry.
Mhàiri shrugged her shoulders. “No one ever interested me. Oh, most were nice. A few were surprisingly very good looking,” she added with a chuckle that sent another shiver down Conan’s spine. “And I have no doubt that they would have given me a comfortable life—if I desired a home and children. But I can think of nothing worse than the idea of waking every day to the same chores that would only expand as the household grew.” Mhàiri shuddered.
Conan felt his shoulders relax and adjusted how he was sitting. There was no man who would be seeking her out. “That’s why you don’t know how to cook.”
Mhàiri faked a grimace but could not hold it and smiled at him. “Probably. Anyway, Shinae knew that I could never be persuaded to settle down and marry—whether it be to the church or a man—and be stuck in one place for the rest of my life.”
“So, in the spring, you and your sister were just going to leave the priory and travel?”
Mhàiri could hear the dubious tone of Conan’s voice. The concept had appeal, but was also unrealistic. “No. Shinae loved being with the Culdees and working in the community, helping the locals whether it be during sickness or in their gardens.”
Conan shifted in his seat again. “Then what was to happen this spring?”
Mhàiri raked her eyes over Conan. He was having trouble sitting still, but he gave her a look that conveyed he earnestly wanted her to continue. “The Culdees’ way of life is disappearing. The Catholic church is taking over and slowly displacing them, just like what happened at the priory. So a handful from the priory, including my sister, had decided to leave and travel to various places to start new missions. I was to go with them. But then the priory caught fire and two of the main people who were to come with us died in the flames.”
That night had been awful. The community had lost so much. She and her sister had lost their home and dear friends. Shinae had been forced to accept a new way of life, and now Mhàiri had to recreate her own future. At one time, it had looked so promising. Now, it was not bleak—it was blank. She felt suddenly subject to the decisions of others and no longer had a say in her life.
Conan tried to focus on what Mhàiri was saying, but it was difficult being in the middle of both ecstasy and physical agony. When Father Lanaghly had first proposed that they ride together, Conan had almost refused. Riding in the cart was miserable on the body, but he had wanted to talk to Mhàiri.
Last night, he had marched off not realizing that he still had her drawing in his hand. He had stayed up and studied it until exhaustion had taken over. His last thoughts had been that he had to somehow convince Mhàiri to teach him how to draw like she did. If he could learn her technique, even poorly, it would aid him enormously in what he wanted to achieve with his maps. But he had been unable to approach her. Now, he was speaking to her as he had hoped, but sitting next to her was creating a lot of pain in his lower region.
Each bump caused their arms to touch, bringing her even closer. Plus, her hair was driving him to distraction. It kept blowing against him, and the smell of flowers constantly drifted his way. At first, talking had been a welcome distraction. Unfortunately, it was no longer working.
“So what clan do you belong to, Mhàiri?”
“My father’s people are the Mayboills. They’re in the Lowlands, but it has been many years since he called their land his home.”
“He went to your mother’s clan then?”
“Nay. She was Romani and felt most at home when free, with no ties to a particular homeland, let alone a clan. She met my father when he was young and went abroad to bring back to Scottish people the treasures of the world. She used to say that my father and she were kindred spirits, always enjoying the place they were at but also just as eager to see what lay ahead.”
“And you are like your mother.”
Mhàiri sighed softly. “In many ways. But I’m also like my father. I love this wild, harsh but wondrous land, and seeing its beauty has always given me peace.”
“You mentioned that your father was a merchant.”
“Aye,” she answered simply. Then, seeing Conan’s frustrated look, Mhàiri realized he wanted her to continue talking. It puzzled her, but she obliged. “He mostly sells goods in the Lowlands and northern England, but he tries to get to Spain at least once a year for hemp paper. He befriended the owner of the paper mill one time and they are now good friends. He always keeps a few blank books ready for Papa.”
Conan nodded. That explained a lot. “Your father must have done him a really big favor to have access to hemp.” Laurel would be proud. They had been riding for a couple of hours and not a single argument. He had inquired about her family and listened to what Mhàiri had to say. Who knew? Maybe, he was finally learning how to act like a gentleman. “Since you are not a nun, what are your plans?”
“Father Lanaghly said that your brother would send word that would reach my father, letting him know to come and get me.”
“Conor will, but I’d be careful, otherwise there is a good chance you’ll be married before your father ever arrives.”
Mhàiri huffed. “I thought I had just made it clear that I absolutely do not want to be married.”
Conan put his hand out in retreat. “First, you are not against marriage, for I suspect you would find it unacceptable for your father and mother to live together, am I right?”
“Aye, but—”
“And,” Conan continued, “I was only trying to warn you about Laurel. Lady McTiernay is very nice and is indeed all the wonderful things you will hear, but she is also incredibly meddlesome. The woman thinks she sees love all around her and enjoys nothing more than putting people together. She has got involved in all of my older brothers’ lives and, each time, the result was marriage.” Conan decided not to mention that they were happily married and none of them would change a thing about their lives. “I’m the only lucky one. Laurel vows never to help any woman tie herself to the likes of me. So with all my brothers being gone, she is going to see you and get all excited. Just be prepared.”
A look of horror overcame Mhàiri’s face, and Conan had to bite back a smile. Ha, Laurel! This is for all the grief you’ve given me over the years, he thought to himself as he imagined Laurel failing to persuade Mhàiri into the state of matrimony.
“Lady McTiernay can try, but she will be wasting her time,” Mhàiri stated through gritted teeth.
“So you say,” Conan returned. “I’m only glad she understands that I have no desire or room in my life for a wife.”
“Now? Or never?” Mhàiri inquired, suddenly a little sad to think that Conan would be out traveling all alone making maps. She wanted to travel, but with her sister, the Culdees, or her father. Alone with no one to share your thoughts or your discoveries? That sounded as awful as marriage.
Conan opened his mouth to answer and then said, “Let’s change the topic. What is the most unusual book you have in these chests?”
He was glad when Mhàiri decided to let the topic go and answered his question, which led to another, and soon he found himself enjoying another heated debate with her. Their conversation rolled easily from one subject to another until a rider leading a horse came into view. At once, all conversation ceased.
The rider was far away, but Conan knew that it was his brother. He called out to Father Lanaghly, who quickly saw Conor and stopped alongside Conan. Both men jumped down off their carts to wait.
When Conor came close, he signaled his horse to a stop and then tossed Conan the reins to the horse he had tethered to his saddle. “I thought, with me gone, that you could use a fresh horse for the cart.”
Conan nodded. “I assumed you would be back home with Laurel by now.”
Conor frowned. “That was my plan, but someone attacked the homestead I was visiting last night.”
That stopped Conan short. “Someone attacked you?”
Conor shook his head. “I don’t even think they knew it was me. They hit Wills on the back of the head. He cried out and I came running. They dashed off before they got anything. Wills was out cold for hours, and I needed to make sure he was going to recover before I left him with his wife and two younglings.”
“You don’t think that it was the same people . . .” Conan’s voice trailed off.
“Probably not. Most likely just a normal border skirmish aimed to steal, not maim, but I’m not assuming anything,” Conor answered. “I want to get back. Hitch the horse and let’s get going. I want to be home while the afternoon sun is still in the sky.”