Chapter Four
“Mhàiri, it looks like you will be with us for more than a few weeks,” Conor announced at dinner three weeks later. “I received word today from my brother Colin who lives in the Lowlands. He asked those nearby about your father and it seems many know him and he is well liked. Unfortunately, Colin also learned that your father has already left for Spain and is not expected back in Scotland until early spring. Even if somehow your message did reach him and he immediately returned, winter would have set in, making it impossible for him to travel north except by foot or horse.”
Mhàiri shook her head. “Papa would never leave his wagon behind. It’s his life. It holds everything he owns.”
“And nor should he,” Laurel added and reached over to give Mhàiri’s hand a squeeze. “We love having you here with us. Our children adore you, and you and Maegan are becoming good friends. Please say this is not completely unwelcome news.”
“I am sorry that Papa could not come sooner, but I would be dishonest if I said that I was not enjoying being here.” In truth, Mhàiri had initially worried about staying in a castle where she knew no one, but after just a few short weeks, she doubted there was a better place in the world to spend a winter. “Thank you very much for the invitation. I know my presence was unexpected, and I promise to leave as soon as Papa arrives in the spring.”
“Everyone is leaving in the spring.” Brenna pouted. “No one will be left. Why can’t we go too?”
Maegan leaned over and tickled her until she squealed. “I will still be here, as will Seamus, Aileen, Gideon, and all your friends. Besides, spring is a long way off. Before then, there will be Christmastide and all the holiday festivities.”
“I didn’t think of that!” Brenna exclaimed. “Wait until you experience Twelfth Night at our castle, Mhàiri. It is the best!”
Mhàiri returned the little girl’s infectious smile. “Sounds exciting. We moved around so much when I was young, I never really got to participate in big feasts and celebrations. This will be a first for me.”
“You’ve never experienced Christmastide and all the feasts that come after?” Laurel asked in astonishment. “Why, I will have to ensure this is the best Epiphany celebration ever had at McTiernay Castle. Tomorrow, I’ll send word to Raelynd and Meriel that we will be hosting this year and a shìorraidh! It’s almost December. We might have to start planning tonight, Aileen,” she said to her friend, who bobbed her head in agreement.
“You are not going to start planning anything tonight, or tomorrow, or even this week,” Conor grumbled. “Christmastide is more than a month from now, and Fallon has other things to think about in prepping for winter.”
“Fine, fine,” Laurel said in mock agreement. “For the next couple of weeks, whatever planning we do will not affect you or our busy steward. Nor will I subject you to listening to me ramble about it. But I will begin preparations, so it would be best to accept that now.”
Conor brushed his hand over his face, knowing that arguing would be pointless. “Are you settled in enough for an extended stay?” he asked, turning his attention back to Mhàiri.
Mhàiri loved her chambers and knew that staying in the large space until her father was able to come and get her was not going to be an issue. The room was open and had plenty of light, nothing like the dark, confining cottage she had been living in for years.
The only issue regarding a long-term stay was her books. Despite what Conan thought, she did read them and was actively studying some of the journals her sister had somehow gotten her hands on the past year. Mhàiri wanted them accessible, not locked away in heavy trunks. Mentioning her need, however, was not an option, for she knew what the answer would be—put them in Conan’s room, which was littered with shelves specifically made for such items. Or even worse, Conor would ask Conan to build shelves for her room. Neither solution was acceptable. Anything involving Conan was completely and in all ways intolerable.
The last couple of weeks, the man had made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with her, and Mhàiri was not going to do anything that forced him even to look in her direction.
He had been ignoring her since the morning after they arrived. At first, she had thought she was imagining things, but then Brenna had let it escape that she had overheard him talking with Seamus. She had been right. Conan had been intentionally avoiding situations, places, even meals, just to keep from being in her company.
It hurt to learn she had been so wrong about him. She had thought that their budding relationship special and that she was one of the few women who had been able to break through his brusque demeanor to see the man beneath. She had been a fool. Thankfully, she had never shared her mistaken beliefs with anyone and had been able to convincingly act as if Conan’s disregard were not at all troubling. Instead, Mhàiri had decided that indifference was an excellent idea and pointedly began to ignore him as well.
Most mealtimes, Conan was elsewhere, but on nights when they ate in the lower hall with the soldiers on castle duty, or on nights like this one when Laurel invited her close friends, Conan was forced to join. And each time, Mhàiri acted as if he were not there. She carried on conversations, laughed, and smiled with those who sat on either side of him, but to Conan himself? She never glanced his way. Not once. Which is probably why it had been so noticeable.
But rather than being upset by their silent feud, Laurel had verbally applauded Mhàiri’s strength of character. She had said that only a few women could see beyond Conan’s charm and dimples to the self-serving man underneath without getting hurt first. Mhàiri had felt like a fraud. She was no different from those other women. Worse, she was jealous of them. At least they had gotten to experience what it was like to kiss Conan before mutual disregard took place.
“I think Mhàiri needs shelves, Papa, for her books.”
Mhàiri’s brows shot up, and she stared at Bonny, who was sitting across from her.
Laurel looked at her daughter and then Mhàiri. “I never thought about that. You are right, Bonny. Mhàiri must have a place to put her things if she is going to be here for several months.”
“And,” Bonny added, this time with a sly, knowing smile, “Uncle Conan is the best one to make them since he was the one who made the shelves in his room.”
Conor waved his fork at his daughter. “Great idea, BonBon. What do you think, Mhàiri? Do you need shelves?”
Mhàiri gave Bonny a strong look, but the little girl refused to feel shame. Instead, Bonny winked back, leaving no doubt that she had intentionally created a situation that would force Mhàiri and Conan to interact.
Bonny’s older twin siblings could be very amusing, and Brenna was indeed a consummate eavesdropper, but more and more Mhàiri was seeing that Bonny was the most astute of the two, despite being the youngest. Her ability to perceive the truth behind a look or an action was astounding, a skill that would only grow more accurate with age. And she watched anything or anyone associated with Conan.
Mhàiri had little doubt that her and Conan’s obvious efforts to ignore each other had led Bonny to believe that there was something far more than disinterest fueling their odd behavior. It certainly did not help that Bonny had overheard Mhàiri admit to wanting to kiss her uncle, and despite her best efforts, Mhàiri had not convinced Brenna or Bonny that she had only been teasing.
Mhàiri turned to Conan and was surprised to find him not just looking directly at her, but smiling. Not his normal, charming smile that he used to woo women, but a smug one. His blue eyes twinkled as if he knew that Mhàiri would never accept.
A slow smile curved Mhàiri’s soft mouth. Conan’s twinkle faded and was replaced with discomfort. She raised a single brow and debated about accepting his challenge. Conan held her gaze until she turned to Conor and said, “Thank you for the offer, and I think I will accept. For you are right, Bonny,” she said, glancing back to the grinning seven-year-old, “there is no one better to build my shelves than your uncle. Especially as I will be very particular about their strength, size, and placement.”
Bonny elbowed Brenna, whispering loudly enough for the whole table to hear, “See? I told you it would work.”
Brenna then leaned over and cupped her hand over Bonny’s ear. “Not yet, but it will.”
* * *
“Which one are you looking at now?” Mhàiri asked Brenna, who was lying across her bed flipping through one of her bound books.
“A really interesting one,” the ten-year-old replied. “Bonny never said these things had pictures. I always thought they were just full of boring words.”
That captured Mhàiri’s attention, and she put down the newest gown Maegan had left for her so that she could see exactly what Brenna had picked up. Medical texts had been around for more than a thousand years. Most described plants and their healing qualities, but she had a couple books that went far beyond herbs.
Mhàiri plucked the book out of Brenna’s grasp, ignoring her squeal of protest. It was what she had feared. The Compendium Medicinae by Gilbertus Anglicus. It had been written by an English physician who had documented a great deal on the practice of medicine, including surgery, with some eye-catching illustrations. She knew because it had caught her eye as a thirteen-year-old. If her father had known exactly what she had convinced him to get for her, he would have exploded. Just as Conor would do if he discovered Mhàiri had allowed his daughter to stare at drawings of naked men—even if most were just of their bones or muscles. “I think not.”
“Mama says books expand your mind,” Brenna said as she blinked her eyes innocently, but not convincingly.
“Aye, they do, but yours does not need to be expanded in that direction.” Mhàiri pointed to some of her favorite manuscripts that contained poems. “Try those.”
Brenna shook her head and wrinkled her nose. “Those have no pictures.”
“If you want pictures, you should draw some.”
Brenna scoffed and flipped over to her back. “Mine wouldn’t be nearly so interesting.”
Before Mhàiri could respond, there was a knock on her bedroom door. She called out for the person to enter, and Maegan peeked in wearing a large smile. She came in, closed the door, and leaned against it. “Oh, good, you are looking at the dress. It is too long for me, and gold is not my color, but it is so pretty and when Laurel said she prefers her other gold gowns to this one, I just couldn’t let it sit in a dusty trunk never being appreciated. With your dark hair and green eyes, it would look ravishing on you. More importantly, I happen to know a certain soldier who would definitely appreciate it.”
Brenna abruptly sat up. “Who?”
Maegan blinked and scanned the room. “Where is Bonny?”
Brenna shrugged. “Where else? With Uncle Conan.”
“And why aren’t you spying on them?” Maegan asked suspiciously as she went over and poured some water in a mug.
Brenna fell back onto the bed with a bounce. “Bonny will tell me anything interesting later. And Mhàiri needs me.”
Mhàiri swiveled her head and narrowed her gaze. Brenna’s tone was too playful to be ignored. When Conan had warned Mhàiri about Laurel and her meddlesome matchmaking habits, he had forgotten to mention that her daughters were not only like her—but worse. “And how is it that I need you?”
“I’ve known Uncle Conan longer than you so I can help you figure out what you can do to thank him for the shelves.”
Maegan sputtered and she began to cough. Mhàiri came over to thump her back. When Maegan caught her breath again, she muttered, “Sorry about that. I thought for a moment Brenna said something about thanking Conan.”
Brenna looked over and nodded, her expression an earnest one. Maegan turned to Mhàiri. “You aren’t, are you? I mean that is just begging for . . . well, I don’t know what. But it’s begging for it all the same.”
Mhàiri bit her bottom lip. “I . . . I probably should thank him.” Then, upon seeing Brenna sit up with an enthusiastic gleam in her eye, she hastily added, “But to do something to show my appreciation? I mean, I have no idea what that could be.”
Maegan threw up her hands. “Don’t look at me! I’ve never heard of anyone thanking Conan for anything before. That’s probably because I’ve never heard of him doing anything for anyone before that was not because of some family obligation. Even then, he complains.”
“That’s why you will need to thank him,” Brenna said with a large smile. “And Bonny and I can help you figure out how.”
Maegan arched her brows and collapsed into one of the hearth chairs. “Beware, you are about to be manipulated.”
Mhàiri pursed her lips and then let go a large sigh. “Without a doubt, and yet Brenna does have a point. Maybe I can give him something to show my appreciation.”
Brenna nodded, bouncing on her knees. “Your paper! Uncle Conan needs a bunch for his maps when he leaves this spring. And you have plenty!”
“I do not have plenty,” Mhàiri refuted. Although to some it might look like it. She did have several books of blank hemp pages, but there was a reason she had them after so many years. She rationed their use. “It might look like a lot, Brenna, but my father bought that paper for me some time ago. The only reason I have any left now is that I have been very careful to make it last.”
“Oh,” Brenna said, disappointed, for she knew how much her uncle would have really liked having some hemp. She had heard him telling Seamus about it. “How long have you had those books?”
“Two years,” Mhàiri quickly answered, glad the young girl seemed to understand how hard it had been to make them last this long. But suddenly Brenna jumped to her feet, excited once anew.
“I thought you said your father was going to be here in the spring.”
“He is,” Mhàiri confirmed apprehensively.
Brenna began to pace. “And he is coming from Spain and that is where Uncle Conan said the hemp paper was made. So if all this,” she said with great exaggeration, waving her hand at the three large chests, all of which were open, “lasted two years, then you must have enough to share some. Especially if you are going to get more in a few months.”
Maegan stood up and went over to grab the dizzying Brenna by the shoulders. Using her most authoritarian tone, she asked, “Did Conan tell you to ask for Mhàiri’s paper? Or even hint?”
Brenna looked disgusted and pulled free. “If Uncle Conan told me to do that, then how would it be a surprise when Mhàiri gives him the paper?”
Maegan turned around and looked at Mhàiri. She shrugged and went to sit back down. “Well, then what should Mhàiri give Seamus? He is also going to help build them so shouldn’t he get something?”
Brenna giggled. “The only thing he wants is . . .” She wiggled her finger in Maegan’s direction.
“We are just good friends.”
“Then you must be really good friends from the amount of time you spend together,” Brenna chortled and fell back on the bed once again.
Maegan raised her chin defensively. “We are. We have a lot in common, including your uncle Clyde, whom I love very much. And guess who else we have in common?” Maegan quickly asked Mhàiri, hoping to change the direction of the conversation. “Loman,” she answered and unsuccessfully bit back a smile. “He’s the reason I came to see you. Seamus says that he introduced you to him and that Loman has spoken about little else since.”
Mhàiri bit the inside of her lip. Loman had light-colored hair and brown eyes and, like all McTiernay elite soldiers, he was incredibly well built. And unlike some of the soldiers, who chose to wear the same austere face as their commander, Finn, Loman was good-humored and easy to talk to. “He did? What did he say?”
Behind her, Brenna gave a soft snort and scooted off the bed. She crossed her arms and her eyes flickered between Maegan and Mhàiri. Something was suddenly bothering her, and she was doing nothing to hide the fact.
“Is something wrong?” Mhàiri finally asked.
Brenna stood staring for several seconds before she shook her head. “I need to find Bonny,” she announced, then left without further explanation.
Mhàiri’s jaw dropped. “What did I do?”
“Who knows?” Maegan replied, completely unconcerned at the sudden change in the youth’s attitude. “But I’ve seen that look enough to know that, whatever it is, you are part of her plans. So be careful.”
Mhàiri swallowed. She wanted to ignore the warning, and told herself that Brenna was only ten years old. A child. But another inner voice reminded her that Brenna was no ordinary little girl.
Mhàiri suspected the havoc Brenna could create was more than most could imagine.
* * *
Mhàiri lifted her hand, curled her fingers in preparation to knock, and then paused for the second time. Did she really want to do this? See Conan? Offer him some paper in a show of thanks for making her some shelves? The answer was both yes and no.
She did want to thank him, and offering him some sheets of hemp paper was not really a hardship on her and would be greatly appreciated by him. She knew that. But it was the fact that she wanted to see him and talk to him, and was actually excited about having a reason to do so that made Mhàiri think this was not such a good idea.
“Murt! Either knock on the damn door and come in or leave. The sound of heavy breathing is not endearing me to be agreeable to whatever brings you here.” The curt order came from the other side of the door.
For a second, Mhàiri was mortified, but the feeling was quickly displaced with irritation. She knew she had not been breathing loud enough for him to hear. He must have heard her approach. Without waiting for an invitation, she opened the door. “Rumors have it that you happen to like a woman when she is breathing heavily.”
Conan’s head jerked up as he jumped to his feet. His blue eyes were large as saucers, and suddenly Mhàiri felt a lot better. He had known that somebody had been outside his door, but not that it had been her.
Conan’s shocked expression quickly morphed into an improper one. “Aye. I do like it, but in my ear.”
Mhàiri chuckled, not insulted in the least. “Who did you think I was?”
“Seamus,” Conan readily answered. “The man is a menace.”
Mhàiri knew he was not serious. From what she had seen since her arrival, Seamus was one of the few Conan tolerated. Even more of a miracle, Seamus seemed indifferent to Conan’s surly attitude.
Since Conan had not yelled for her to get out, Mhàiri took another tentative step, followed by another. She was eager to see what Conan’s chambers looked like. Her head swiveled around, her soft green eyes growing larger the more she saw. Mhàiri had assumed that the area would be something like hers, large with most of the space dedicated as bedchambers, perhaps an area for reading and another a cluttered section full of books, manuscripts, and whatnot. She could not have been more wrong.
First, the room was enormous. Unlike other rooms on the lower floors of the North Tower, or even those in the Warden’s Tower she was in, Conan’s chamber took up the entire floor. It was separated into three areas, and they were not partitioned off by walls, but by functionality.
Unlike her room, it was not the library portion that was a mess, but the section that functioned as his bedchambers. The rushes were in dire need of replacement. The wood pile next to the hearth—which looked in desperate need of cleaning—had toppled over. His rumpled bed was large, but did not seem so in such a spacious area. Next to it was a massive dark, ornately carved chest with what looked to be a mixture of both clean and dirty clothes draped over it.
Mhàiri looked at him, pointed to the chest, and was surprised to see Conan actually looking a little sheepish.
“Chambermaids,” he said with a sigh. “They clean, but they also disrupt. I find the latter more of an issue than wrinkled blankets and sheets.”
Mhàiri flashed a coquettish smile. “My guess is that chambermaids only venture here when Laurel forces them and even then you hound their every move.”
Conan grinned back, a perfect male smirk. “Lucky guess.”
Mhàiri laughed. “You mean accurate guess.”
She started toward the library section of the room. It was rare that Conan let anyone near his collection of written work. He sometimes allowed Bonny, but only when he was there with her. So that he was letting Mhàiri do so, he really could not explain. But the closer she got, the more her face grew in awe, and knowing that she appreciated what she was seeing made him eager for her to continue.
Unlike his bedroom area, the rest of Conan’s room was very orderly—and very crowded. “I should have come up here much sooner,” Mhàiri whispered, her eyes darting everywhere. “Then I never would have had any reason to doubt your assurances that you have no interest in my things. You barely have room for what you have.” Then she pointed to one of the romance books that he had teased her for owning. “And you seem to have your own version already.”
Conan nodded and sank back down on the stool he had nearly toppled over upon hearing her voice. “People assume I like any type of manuscript or written word, and while that might have been true at one time, I have had to become a lot more selective in what I keep.”
Mhàiri ran her fingers lightly over the wood shelves. They were not simple slats of wood that had been wedged and nailed together, but they had the look and feel of those that would be found in the large abbeys. Four rows of wide open shelves enabled one to access books from either side. Along the far wall, between the two large windows that let in a surprising amount of light, were multiple shelves, specifically built to store scrolls so they could be accessible and yet not rolling about. The whole place was crowded, and yet there was an innate sense of organization to it.
Mhàiri was impressed. “Your room reminds me of a library I once saw when I was young and traveling with my father.”
“Remember which one?”
She nodded, still looking, caressing the etchings as she went. “It was one at the Cambuskenneth Abbey. Have you heard of it?”
Conan’s jaw twitched. While his room was nothing remotely close to as impressive as the abbey, he had modeled his shelving and his room’s layout based on his visit to Cambuskenneth. Even Ellenor, who had taught him languages, had not recognized the beauty he had tried to incorporate into his chambers.
Mhàiri had. It once again stirred something in him, heating his already hot blood.
He had spent the past month trying to dismiss Mhàiri from his thoughts. It had been a losing battle as odd tidbits of information about her were relayed to him by Seamus, Bonny, and too often Conor. Her recognizing the library he had patterned his own after was going to be one more thing that would haunt him tonight when he tried to sleep.
Mhàiri scared him.
He had never physically craved a woman like he did her. He had wanted women, sometimes enough to chase them a bit, but never had desire interfered with his ability to concentrate during the day. And what he felt for Mhàiri was not mere desire, but something far stronger—and far more painful.
The moment she had opened the door, the scent of wild flowers had filled the room and turned his insides out. Like she did on most days, Mhàiri had twisted the sides of her hair into loose braids, leaving the rest of her dark tresses to flow down her back. This morning had been windy, causing several strands to become free and frame her face in a way that begged a man to reach out and know their softness.
He was not a man who normally paid attention to what a woman wore, but Mhàiri made that impossible. Maegan and Laurel had been giving her their used clothes, but he did not remember ever seeing either of them in the gowns. Mhàiri was slender, but not wafer thin like Maegan, which must make a large difference, because no man could forget the way Mhàiri was filling out the lavender dress she was currently wearing.
Physically Mhàiri was his dream woman. That was daunting in itself, but what really scared Conan was much greater than that. Mhàiri understood him. Every time they spoke, she confirmed it in another unexpected way. And today only compounded his fears. Mhàiri had entered his sanctuary, had seen his untidy bed, and while she commented on it, she did not chide him or tell him to get it cleaned. She had done something far worse.
She had accepted him.
Conan had more than simply believed there was not a woman for him—he had known it. His personality did not mind being alone. He had never craved “his other half” like his older brothers had. For him to love a woman like they did their wives would end all his dreams, and eventually, it would eat at him until there was nothing left of him or his love.
Then he had met Mhàiri.
If he was ever going to fall for a woman, it would be her. He was not going to, of course. Not just for his sake, but hers.
Mhàiri wanted nothing of love either. Home, children, roots—these were things she did not want almost as much as he did not want them. And while they both longed to see the world, their plans and ways for doing so could not be more different. The life of a traveling merchant was that of constant change, but that change was predictable, consistent . . . expected. He, on the other hand, was venturing into the unknown, where conditions would oftentimes be harsh and uncomfortable.
He had known this all after just a couple of days in her company. So he had made a plan. It was a simple one—ignore Mhàiri. Act as much as possible as if she did not exist until her father came to get her. But that had been when he had thought her father would arrive in a few weeks . . . not months. After weeks of trying to ignore her and the maddening effect of her pretending to ignore him, Conan knew that his simple-but-tormenting plan would not be viable much longer. Certainly not until spring.
Conan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Maybe he just needed to get her out of his system. His brothers may think he had been with a lot of women, but it was not really true. Conan had kissed a lot of women, but when he needed a physical release, he was far more selective. It was rare he ventured outside of those for whom he knew there would be no unexpected claims or children. Laurel would undoubtedly kill him if he pursued Mhàiri to his bed, but what harm would there be in a kiss? He had the benefit of Mhàiri being already interested in him. Normally, her notice would be enough to dampen his desires. Overly eager women were never attractive. However, Mhàiri’s interest was less eager and more . . . curious, which was not unappealing.
He smiled at the realization. Perhaps the secret to getting Mhàiri out of his system really was to kiss her. A few poorly executed kisses would definitely solve his problem.
Conan wiggled his brows and pasted on his most charming smile. After a few minutes of sitting there, grinning like a fool, his frustration got to him and he began to scowl. Not once had she even glanced his way.
With a sigh, he crossed his arms and leaned back. “Let me guess. You are here about the shelves.”
Mhàiri nodded, still keeping her focus on the various volumes Conan owned. Never had she seen a private library so extensive. She had never even heard of one. “What are you going to do with all your things when you leave? You cannot possibly bring all this with you.”
Conan coughed at the thought. “Ah, no. I don’t really plan on taking hardly any of it. Some maps of course and as much blank vellum as I can carry, but the rest will stay here, in this room, just like it is. Bonny, I’m sure you have come to realize, is very bright—”
“She’s brilliant,” Mhàiri corrected, her eyes still reading the spines. “I suspect she is smarter than either you or I, and putting humility aside, I don’t say that lightly.”
Conan’s brows arched. He thought similarly. Like him, Bonny was quick to learn languages. Though she was only seven, her mother had already started teaching her how to read both English and Gaelic, and he had focused on making sure she understood the basics of Latin. Her aunt Ellenor could instruct her on Italian and French after he left, whenever she was ready, and he knew someday, Bonny would not only learn to read these other languages, but speak them, mastering them in a way he had never been able to. But Bonny was not only an academic. She had a natural instinct when it came to people. Her sister, Brenna, had it as well, only it manifested itself differently. Bonny was not as obvious with her understanding, which made her, in a way, more dangerous. A good example had been last night and the mention of Mhàiri needing somewhere to put her own manuscripts and books. He still suspected there was far more to Bonny’s suggestion than just kindness.
“The shelves?” Conan put forth again.
Mhàiri turned to look at him this time. “Um, oh, the shelves,” she stuttered, having forgotten why she had come to visit. “I, uh, first wanted to thank you. I know that Conor put you in an awkward position.”
“Conor didn’t. I believe we can blame BonBon for that. She and Brenna have unusual influence over their father.”
Mhàiri clicked her tongue. “Over everyone. I’m coming to realize that more and more,” she said softly without expanding on what she meant. “But I do need them. The shelves, I mean. Nothing fancy like you have. Anything solid would work. And while probably a carpenter could do it . . .”
“You want someone who understands what it will be used for.”
Mhàiri nodded, her green eyes looking relieved. “I don’t have nearly as much as you, but it still, well, is a lot. You saw the bags and the crates, but all three of the large chests are also full of bound books.”
Conan leaned forward in shock. “All three of the large chests?” Mhàiri nodded. “What about that small chest?”
“That contained my personal things. I know it seems like I have more, but I could not imagine traveling with the number of dresses Maegan has loaned me. I would need a cart just for clothes alone!”
Conan had thought the small chest probably had some of the more precious manuscripts that she had wanted to ensure would not be harmed during their journey. But instead, that was what held all her female garb and stuff. It was difficult to fathom. Every time Crevan’s wife, Raelynd, had shown up at McTiernay Castle for an extended stay she had brought mountains of frilly things with her. Craig’s wife, Meriel, was not much better.
Conan rocked back, rethinking about the amount of work the project was going to take, for it was much bigger than one small bookcase with two or three shelves. Thank goodness the room Laurel had put her in had the space. Bookshelves the size Mhàiri needed would not fit in one of his brother’s old rooms here in the North Tower.
“I know the amount of work is significant and Conor did not know what he was asking of you.” Conan’s lips twitched. She was right about that. “And if you no longer want to help, I’ll understand and work with a carpenter, but if you were willing to build them, maybe I could offer you something in return for your help.”
Conan’s brows shot up. Something she could offer him. It was as if the good Lord actually wanted him to kiss her. “I can think of something,” Conan said huskily.
The change in his voice was unmistakable. Mhàiri scrunched her brows in confusion. “You think I mean to . . . that I was offering to . . . kiss you?”
Conan ran his tongue on the inside of his cheek and took in a deep breath. Mhàiri was acting as if she were not interested in him, when he knew that was not the case. “Why not?” he posed. “I know you have longed for a kiss, and I can think of no better way to show thanks.”
Mhàiri’s mouth opened and closed so many times she felt as if she were a fish out of water. “You know I long for a kiss?” she repeated. “Why would you . . . ?” Her eyes grew as large as saucers before rolling into the back of her head. “Bonny,” she muttered, throwing her hands in the air. The twinkle in Conan’s bright blue eyes confirmed her deduction. Mhàiri wagged a finger at him. “I’ll admit that I did want to kiss you at one time, but that feeling passed rather quickly the first time you intentionally snubbed me.”
Conan flushed at the accusation. “I never snubbed you,” he denied, shaking his head as if that made it true.
Mhàiri cocked a single brow. “Really? You are denying that you have been intentionally ignoring me?” Conan stopped moving his head. “As Bonny no doubt disclosed that entire conversation, you also know that I have never been kissed before. So it is less me wanting to kiss you, and more like me wanting to kiss someone who won’t see the act as a commitment or a profession of undying love. And now that you know all this, I can’t kiss you. It would only place me even deeper in your debt.”
Conan feared Mhàiri might actually mean what she had just said. “I promise you that I would not take it that way.”
“But I would. Besides, it is no longer necessary. Maegan has introduced me to several of Seamus’s friends, and so I am certain my ignorance in that area will not last for much longer.”
Conan had the sudden urge to find Seamus and punch him in the jaw. It had never occurred to him before, but Conor allowed an inordinate amount of single men around the castle. No wonder Seamus was constantly fussing about Maegan and all the men around her.
Conan wanted to go to each and every McTiernay clansman and warn him that Mhàiri was his. His alone. That no one was ever to learn what it would be like to touch her soft, warm lips but him. But Conan knew if he did anything like that—even hinted to anyone that those were his feelings—he would be opening Pandora’s box, just like the Greek myth from Hesiod’s Works and Days, which was on one of the shelves in this very room.
Also, there was Laurel’s reaction to think about. There was no telling what his sister-in-law would do if he showed signs of possessiveness toward Mhàiri. Laurel might do everything in her power to foster a connection, making him the sixth McTiernay brother subject to her matchmaking schemes. Or—more likely—she would make good on her promise and do everything she could to interfere, ensuring Mhàiri was swept off her feet by someone else.
Unaware of the warring thoughts Conan was having, Mhàiri wandered closer to where he sat on a stool. Nearby was a chair that looked as if it had been stolen from the great hall. She pointed to it. “That is the most surprising thing in this whole room. The great hall hearth chairs are very comfortable and by having one here, you are practically inviting guests to come in and sit and stay for a good . . . long . . . while.”
Conan returned her playful smile. “Which is why I discourage visitors. That”—he gestured toward the chair with his thumb—“is a result of my sister-in-law Ellenor, who stayed here at the castle before she married my brother Cole. She is impertinent and stubborn, but also gifted in languages I did not know. She helped me translate some maps and insisted on having a comfortable place to sit while we worked. If I got rid of it now, Bonny would think I didn’t love her anymore.”
Conan was in the workplace portion of his study, sitting in the middle of an L-shaped table. Multiple papers were all over one half, and on the other, he had one of his more favorite maps uncurled and blocked out. Next to it was the drawing Mhàiri had been working on during their journey from the priory.
“Using Bonny as an excuse is . . .” Her breath caught as she recognized her handiwork. “What is that?”
Conan looked to where her eyes were locked and saw her partially completed landscape. “That is your drawing,” he answered, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “You knew I had it.”
Actually, she had forgotten about it. “Because you wouldn’t give it back to me,” she countered. Her eyes darted to his, and their pale green depths were no longer warm and soft, but cold and aloof. “What are you doing with it?”
Conan was not really sure why Mhàiri was suddenly so angry. In his mind, his keeping the drawing was actually the highest form of flattery. “I was trying to figure out how you did it. How you made things look so real, but so far all I’ve done is wasted a sheet of vellum trying.” He handed the picture back to her. “You have a gift I have no hope of ever being able to replicate.”
Mhàiri snatched the paper from his hand. “You told me that it was wrong. That this was of no value. That I was wasting my time. That I had no appreciation of what I could do. And yet, you want to replicate it.”
Mhàiri turned and walked to the door. She needed to leave. All the memories from that night were crashing back on her. She had felt so angry, so guilty, so lost. For a fleeting moment, she had even considered giving him some of her precious hemp paper. Mhàiri’s hand was on the door when she remembered. Hemp paper. Murt! That was the reason she was here. To offer Conan some for helping her with the shelves.
Slowly she opened the door and then turned around. Conan was staring at her, clearly searching for something to say but fearing it might make things worse.
“In exchange for the shelves,” she said stonily, “I will teach you how to draw like I do.”
Mhàiri turned around to exit. Just before she closed the door, she said, “Lessons begin tomorrow after the noon meal on the hill near the large tree.”
* * *
“I told you that you should have given the drawing back to Mhàiri,” Bonny chided as she emerged from her hiding place.
Conan was at the window staring down into the bailey. “Not now, Bonny.”
“Girls don’t like it when you take their things without their permission.”
Conan watched as Mhàiri entered the courtyard and marched toward the Warden’s Tower. “I said not now, Bonny.” His words were a lot more clipped, and he hoped his niece would take the hint.
“Well, she can’t have been all that mad at you. She did offer to teach you how to draw,” he heard another voice say.
Conan turned around and narrowed his gaze on Bonny, who just shrugged. He had suspected Bonny was nearby hiding, for she had been visiting him when he had heard someone come up the stairs. They had both thought it had been Seamus, and he had sent Bonny into the secret passageway for her to exit the room and the tower. He was not surprised to learn that she had lingered once she had heard Mhàiri’s voice. Brenna, however, was a complete surprise.
Bonny walked over to his desk and pulled out the vellum that he had used to try and recreate Mhàiri’s landscape. “I don’t think drawing is something you learn how to do by looking at it.”
Brenna clasped her hands behind her back and swayed up on her toes and then back down. “That’s why Mhàiri is going to give him lessons,” she said with a smile. “Can we come with you?”
Conan took in a deep breath and strode to his door. He swung it open and pointed to the outside corridor that led to the stairwell. “Out!”
Bonny grabbed her sister’s arm and pulled her toward the exit. Just as they went through, she said, “When you go tomorrow, remember you’re the one who doesn’t know anything about drawing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he barked.
Bonny looked up and stared him directly in the eye. “It’s just that you like telling people what to do, even when you don’t know what you are talking about.” Then she turned and left to find her sister, who had gone down without her, leaving Conan’s mouth agape.
Bonny did not have to go far. A couple of flights down, Brenna sat on one of the narrow winding steps, waiting for her. “Can you believe it?” Brenna giggled and shook with pure joy. “Things are working out perfectly. Just you wait, Bonny. With a little bit of help, Mhàiri and Conan will fall in love and get married. Then, Uncle Conan won’t leave and Mhàiri will stay here forever!”
Bonny stared down at her feet. She liked Mhàiri—a lot. She was smart and funny. She was also honest and direct, everything Bonny liked in a person. And she did think that Mhàiri was good for her uncle Conan and that they could fall in love. However, she was not sure that Brenna was correct about any of the rest.
While she wanted Uncle Conan to stay and never leave their home, she did not think it was going to happen. Since she could remember, he had been planning to leave and see the world. He wanted it more than anything, and Bonny feared that if he did not get to leave, her uncle would end up very unhappy . . . and being in love was not going to change that. She did not know Mhàiri as well, but from what she had learned, Mhàiri also did not want to stay, even if she did like it here.
The only way for Brenna’s plan to truly work was if they somehow convinced Conan and Mhàiri they needed to leave together.
That, however, seemed way beyond the ability of a ten-year-old, even a smart one, to mastermind.
At some point, they were going to need their mother.