Chapter Eight
Seamus slowly opened the door to Conan’s chambers and peeked in. Conan was inside, pacing in the work area of his chambers. Seamus hesitated and then thought better of it. He had been outside for over a half hour getting reamed by Maegan, who seemed to think everything that was happening was his fault as it had been his idea for Conan to deceive Mhàiri.
At first, he had been so shocked by Maegan’s tirade that he had not responded well at all. Seamus had felt his honor was being attacked and had immediately gone on both the defensive and offensive, making it clear that she was the one who should be ashamed of her actions, not him. That it was one thing for a child to eavesdrop on a private conversation, but for an adult woman to take what she had overheard and use it to embarrass and belittle a man whose family had taken her in when she had no one was inexcusable.
Almost as soon as the words had left his mouth, Seamus had wished he could take them back, but it was too late. At least then he had done the smart thing and stuck with apologies and explanations, which Maegan had ignored while peppering him with more words on the delicacy of the human heart. In the end, he wondered if Maegan was going to ever talk to him again and felt his heart break when she walked away with a good-bye that felt all too final.
Knowing sleep was not possible, Seamus had sought the one other man he knew was as miserable as he was. Conan. But by the looks of things, Conan was not miserable at all. He was furious. And it was going to take a lot longer than an hour to cool the anger visibly writhing through his friend.
There was minimal room for walking, so Conan could only take a handful of steps before being forced to turn, and then a couple of seconds later he was turning once more. It was making Seamus dizzy, but asking Conan to sit or slow his pacing was not an option at the moment.
“Damn woman,” Conan growled with significant bite upon seeing Seamus, continuing his fast back-and-forth walk.
“Which one?” Seamus asked, hoping that a little levity might at least get Conan to stop and sit down. Seamus could only recall being as furious as Conan was right now a couple of times, and both of them had been over a woman. The first time it had happened, his response had been to pace as well, which had only fueled his ire, not helped it. With every step, he had repeated the words that had driven him to a fury, which eventually resulted in him punching a wooden door and nearly breaking his hand. Seamus could still remember the pain and the weeks it had taken before he could properly grip a sword with any authority again. Conan was on that same path.
“Laurel,” Conan answered. “And Mhàiri. And Maegan.” He took a few steps and stopped to glare at Seamus. “Damn them all.” He began to pace again.
“Might want to damn me as well,” Seamus said, leaning against one of the bookcases. “I encouraged you to try that bad idea to charm Mhàiri.”
“Ha! According to Laurel, I was trying to seduce Mhàiri, as if I could. Men should be warned about her. How dare she accuse me of using someone emotionally when every day she is teasing another man, toying with him, kissing him, making him believe she feels more than she does. I wish Loman the best of luck getting anything real from that woman.”
Seamus shifted his stance and began to wonder how deep Conan’s feelings were for Mhàiri. The man had refused to admit that he even liked her, but based on what Seamus was seeing and hearing, Conan did a lot more than like the woman. For his normal reaction to an angry woman was complete indifference.
“I don’t think Loman is interested in Mhàiri, nor she him.”
Conan snorted. “Then I wonder who will be next. Sean seemed eager enough when I saw him the other day.”
“Do you know what your real problem is?” Seamus posed. “You like Mhàiri. In fact, I would say you’re fascinated by her. Just admit it. You’ve never met anyone like her, and that’s why what she did has you so upset.”
Conan turned his back on Seamus and stared into the dark courtyard below. He could see shadows moving, but the world had quieted.
“It’s understandable,” Seamus continued. “Mhàiri is beautiful and smart and sweet. It’s impossible not to like her.”
Conan continued to stare down into the inky darkness. “Mhàiri is not sweet in the least. She is calculating and, as I discovered tonight, quite devious.”
“Aye, that was surprising, to learn she had overheard us plotting.”
Conan stopped short. “You think Laurel was right? That I was trying to swindle Mhàiri out of her things?”
Seamus shook his head and kept his expression neutral. “I don’t think so, but I can see how Mhàiri might see it that way.”
Conan narrowed his gaze and took a couple of threatening steps toward Seamus. “She got to you, didn’t she?” he asked rhetorically before waving a hand and resuming his pacing. “Maegan. I should have known she would blame you and make you feel guilty for something you didn’t even do! Murt! You like her so much you can’t even have an opinion that she won’t approve of anymore.”
Seamus pushed himself off the bookcase and was about to remind Conan with his fists that, while he could ignore most of Conan’s barbs, his tolerance did not extend to insulting Maegan. But before he could take a step, the door opened again.
Bonny entered, waved at him as she moved by, and then plopped down in the chair she always sat on when she came to visit her uncle.
Bonny sat and looked at Seamus and Uncle Conan, who were both staring at her. She wondered if she had made a mistake about joining Conan versus listening in on him like Brenna had wanted. The problem with eavesdropping was that while it was an effective way to learn what was going on, it never allowed for asking questions. And Bonny had several. She decided to start with what she thought was the easiest.
“Why are you so mad, Uncle Conan?”
“Because,” he sputtered, “your friend Mhàiri wanted to make me look like a fool.”
Bonny was still confused and pursed her lips together and nodded. “Girls don’t like it when you try to take their stuff. Maybe you should apologize,” she suggested.
“I apologize?” he repeated. “I should apologize?” he said once more, this time to Seamus, who gave a half-hearted shrug in agreement.
“What about Mhàiri?” Conan asked. “What about her listening in on my conversation? Even you,” he said, pointing to Bonny in the chair, “have more honesty about you coming in here and not hiding behind some door misinterpreting everything you hear.”
Bonny crossed her arms and thought for a second. “But it was her room she was listening to. I don’t think she would do that anywhere else.” Conan’s jaw dropped. “I mean, if she was in here with Maegan, wouldn’t you have wanted to know what was going on?”
“Were you with them, Bonny?”
She shook her head. “Only Brenna, Mhàiri, and Maegan were there. I thought you were building shelves, not trying to take all her books.”
Conan threw his hands up into the air. “I wasn’t trying to take all her books! Murt! I was really hoping for some pages or maybe, by some miracle, one book if her father brought some new ones to sell when he arrived. I know what those books mean to Mhàiri, and she should know that!” he shouted angrily.
Bonny was surprised to hear her uncle shout. It was very unlike him. Unlike the rest of the family, when he was annoyed, he did not yell. He just grumbled—a lot. Which was good, Bonny thought, because he was annoyed a lot. And yet, hearing her uncle shout right now did not bother her. In fact, she thought Brenna would think it a good thing because whenever their parents fought, it always ended up with them together.
“I don’t think Mhàiri knows that,” Bonny said. “If you told me that you weren’t really trying to take my stuff, it would make me feel better.”
“I should not have to. Mhàiri knows I plan on using vellum. Paper may be lighter and so I could carry more of it and capture more information, but eventually it would not matter. The vellum I’m preparing is much larger and, more importantly, easier to stitch together into a single large map.”
Bonny rolled her eyes upward and thought for a minute. “I think she might have forgotten that. I still think maybe,” she said, tapping her chin like her mama did when she was thinking, “you should tell her. Mhàiri cried when she thought you wanted all her stuff. Brenna says that girls only get mad at boys when they like them, and Mhàiri was really mad at you. She said that she thought you were different, but that she was wrong and you were like all the rest. I’m not sure what that means. Do you?”
Conan stared at Bonny for several long seconds before answering. “I do. It means that I need to talk to Mhàiri right now.” And then he was gone.
Bonny blinked. She was not sure that going to see Mhàiri while she was still so angry was such a good idea. Bonny had been thinking that Conan would seek Mhàiri out in the morning or tell her he was sorry over the morning meal. Regardless, Brenna was going to be very excited about this.
Thinking about her sister reminded Bonny that Brenna was actively eavesdropping on Mhàiri and would soon be listening to Conan as well. It was one thing for Brenna to tell her about what Mhàiri was saying to Maegan, but Bonny did not want to learn what Conan said to Mhàiri secondhand. It was she who had sent him there so it should be she who got to listen to how it went.
Bonny looked at Seamus, who was staring where Conan had been standing, still looking a little befuddled. “I have to go,” she announced, and then she, too, disappeared out the door. Bonny took the shortcut, glad she knew where Brenna liked to hide in the Warden’s Tower when it was only her.
* * *
Mhàiri took a deep breath when she heard the sharp knock on the door. She wanted to shout at her friend that she had meant what she had said, that she was done talking for the evening and wanted to hear no more advice.
When Maegan had joined her earlier, Mhàiri had been happy to see her nearly as angry as she was. She had been even happier to hear that Maegan had ambushed Seamus, telling him how disgusted she was with his part in all that had happened. Then Maegan had done the unthinkable and begun to defend the man. It was as if Conan were there himself, trying to minimize what he had done.
Maybe they had jumped to the wrong conclusions about what Seamus and Conan were trying to do.
Maybe it was not really as bad as they’d first thought.
Maybe they should believe Seamus and Conan, for they had looked truly shocked and betrayed by their accusations.
Maybe they should have thought things through before wanting revenge.
Maybe it was somewhat underhanded to entrap someone with only one goal—to humiliate them.
Mhàiri had finally had enough and practically shoved Maegan out her door, proclaiming she needed time to think. Unfortunately, the ceaseless knock on her door proved Maegan was not so easily gotten rid of.
Mhàiri was almost resolved to let her friend knock all night when it occurred to her that Maegan might be trying to apologize.
Ready to listen to an apology or, once again, send her friend away as politely but firmly as possible, Mhàiri opened the door. The moment she saw who was on the other side, her jaw literally dropped.
She was still in shock when Conan moved around her and entered her room without even asking. Her wits were just returning, and she was about to order him to leave when he pressed one index finger against her lips and one against his own. Then he tiptoed over to the large tapestry that hung from ceiling to floor next to the hearth. With a grand gesture, he pulled back the heavy drape and then rammed his foot on the half-sized wooden door it hid. The planks gave way and the semi-door creaked open to reveal a dark, narrow passageway.
Mhàiri realized she was looking at the very place she, Maegan, and Brenna had sat huddled together, listening to Conan as he planned to persuade her to give him all her hemp paper.
Conan closed the door and let the tapestry fall back into place. “Good,” he announced. “We are alone. Now we can talk.”
Mhàiri crossed her arms and tilted her chin up. “I have nothing to say.”
Conan’s gaze burned into Mhàiri’s. “Aye. You do. You are going to answer my questions,” he said without equivocation.
His directness shook her, but Mhàiri did not want Conan to know he affected her at all, so she shrugged her shoulders in mock resignation. “I will never lie to you,” she said, echoing what he had told her.
“I only want to know if you really thought that I would try and take your things away from you.”
Mhàiri blinked her peridot-like eyes. She was going to declare that she did, but seeing Conan, with his blue eyes smoldering with indignation, she wondered if she had been wrong. “But I heard you,” she finally said, for it was true.
“Then let me ask you this. Before overhearing Seamus and my conversation yesterday, would you have ever thought that I would try and take your things away from you?”
Mhàiri swallowed with difficulty, but after a couple of seconds, she found her voice and once again answered honestly. “I would have thought the opposite, probably even come to your defense if somebody had accused you of such an act. But then I heard what you said,” she finished, emphasizing that it was not a simple misunderstanding, and that Conan had damned himself with his own words.
Fury began to build within Conan once again. “So all the hours we spent together, talking, sharing, and getting to know one another were just what—a lie? A waste of time?”
Mhàiri’s brow furrowed. “Of course not.”
“They must be! Because if you truly believe that I would stoop so low to steal paper, you must believe everything else we shared was a falsehood. I cannot be both your friend who would do serious bodily injury to anyone who did what you accused me of and your enemy at the same time.”
Nervously, Mhàiri bit her lip. She hated to admit it, but Conan had a point. “Then why?” she whispered, the pain she felt coming through.“Why would you say all those things about me being susceptible to your kisses? And that I should give a gift in return for these shelves? Or that it should be all my idea to give you all my paper?”
Conan reached out and gripped her arms tightly. “First, I never wanted all your paper but only what you were willing to give me. I was hoping for some pages and, in my dreams, perhaps a book. But I realized not even an hour later that your father was coming and I could probably buy as much paper as I wanted from him. But as for why I said all those things, haven’t you mused something aloud? Some fantasy that if someone overheard they could misconstrue into thinking you actually believed what you were saying?”
Tears began to roll down Mhàiri’s cheeks as she finally understood. “I didn’t want to believe what I heard. I’m sorry. I just was so hurt.”
Conan pulled her into his arms and held her close. “Shhhh,” he whispered into her hair. “I wished you had come to me. Confronted me directly. Why didn’t you?”
Mhàiri clung to Conan, reveling the feeling of being in his arms. For the past twenty-four hours, she had felt alone and bereft, and now all she felt was safe. A part of her wanted to stay there forever. Another part wanted to run and protect her heart. She batted the painful thought away into a recess of her mind and, instead, pressed even closer to his warmth. There was something about his physical presence—Mhàiri never wanted him to stop holding her, plain and simple.
The feel of his hand on her face caused her lashes to flutter open and look up in the bluest of eyes. She had no idea how he could channel so much intensity through them, but the look he was giving her made her heart race.
Conan pushed Mhàiri’s soft, thick hair off her shoulders, wishing he could hear what she was thinking. He knew he should step away. His control was already on a knife’s edge, inflamed by her anger, her tears, and now the desire shimmering beneath the apprehension in her green eyes. But he couldn’t. Mhàiri was the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Everything from her satin skin and silky tresses to her tempting lips and unusual green eyes fringed with long lashes called to him on a primal level. Not a detail escaped him.
Mhàiri’s breath caught in her throat. Conan’s fingers traced the planes of her face with a feather-light touch, tipped with heat. She felt herself melt under his scrutiny, aching for him to speak, to touch her, to do something other than stare into her eyes.
Conan lightly caressed her cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered in a thick, gruff voice that sent an ache racing through her. He bent his dark head and his warm breath sent a shiver of heat through the pit of her stomach. “Kiss me, Mhàiri,” he demanded hoarsely.
Needing no more coaxing, Mhàiri met his lips and opened her mouth, allowing Conan to make slow love to her with his tongue.
Mhàiri closed her eyes and let herself fall into the embrace, sinking into his strong arms. Unlike their previous kiss, which had been powerful, claiming, and aggressive, Conan was kissing her slowly, lingeringly, and with deep, tender possessiveness. Her heart slammed in her chest as Conan was creating an irresistible desire to become his, and only his, in every way.
Conan captured her sigh and deepened their embrace, kissing her over and over again. Her mouth was warm and welcoming, exactly like he had remembered.
He cradled her face in his hands and drank hungrily from her lips, delighting in the feel of her wild pulse underneath his thumb telling him that she desired him just as much. Soon, need would overtake them both. Conan was about to pull away when he felt Mhàiri’s hands press against his back. The soft, hesitant caress caused him to growl and delve once again into the sweetness of her mouth.
Her fingers traveled up his back and plunged into his hair. The impassioned touch sent a new heat curling through his blood. Mhàiri’s mouth responded to each stroke of his tongue, hot, wet, and clinging. Her body moved against his, each touch innocent, and erotic.
God, she was soft, inviting. Conan knew he would never get enough of her. No caress, no kiss, no touch would ever be enough. He wanted to consume the essence of her vibrant spirit.
Mhàiri felt herself quivering. Conan’s sheer masculinity was overpowering. With each kiss, she wanted more, but he refused to give in and it was making her senseless with a growing need she did not understand. His kisses were soft but consuming, filled with so much tenderness it felt as if her heart was swelling in her chest, nearly choking her. But the longer his lips caressed her, the less will she had.
From deep within him, she heard the rumblings of a satisfied groan. Mhàiri twisted her fingers in his hair and held on for dear life. Nothing had prepared her for what she was feeling. She could feel the warmth of his hands splayed over her back through the material of her gown. A strange heat burned low in her stomach as a rush of shivers ran from the top of her neck down her spine, his kiss feeding both of those glorious feelings at once. Soon, hot ripples of pleasure slid down her thighs, and a moan of despair and desire, escaped her throat. Mhàiri was not sure what she was asking for, but it was flooding her with an aching demand.
Mhàiri’s earnest and open response to each caress shocked Conan. His pulse raced as she surged against him. His lips left hers and found the soft, sensitive spot beneath her ear, then slid down her neck. “God, you’re everything a man could want,” he whispered against her skin. “Smart, fiery, and uncommonly sensuous.”
Conan’s mouth was soft and wet and firm, and the feel of his lips roaming her skin made her dizzy. When he nibbled at her earlobe, Mhàiri forgot to breathe. Her knees suddenly gave out, and if Conan’s arms hadn’t been around her, she would have dissolved into a little puddle of desire at his feet.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Mhàiri heard herself mumble, surprised she could talk at all, for every fiber of her being was on fire, aroused into a bright burning flame. But still she wanted more.
Mhàiri’s soft confession was enough to remind Conan that he needed to regain his diminishing control. They were in her bedchambers, alone, and moments away from doing something that would change their lives forever. Self-perseverance forced him to release her lips.
He kept his arms circled about her, breathing in her scent. “Can you speak?” he murmured.
His face was buried in the side of Mhàiri’s neck as he struggled for control over his rampant, covetous emotions. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if Mhàiri had asked him to stay with her. A whole night with Mhàiri in his arms? He feared he would be lost . . . addicted. And that he might never be able to let her go.
“You robbed me of words.” Her voice was muffled, her face buried against his chest as she inhaled his musky scent.
With all the women before, he had easily kept himself detached, using them for what he needed and then leaving soon after. He had become careful to bed only those who would not cling or ask for more, because he knew he would never commit himself to a woman. With Mhàiri, that still did not change.
Yet, a slowly growing voice deep inside him disagreed.
Conan lifted his hand, moving one of the dark wisps of hair from her forehead. With only the tips of his fingers, he tenderly traced every hollow, every curve of her face he so longed to kiss and know more intimately, but knew he never would. He stared down into her passion-filled eyes. “I think I like the idea of being able to make you speechless.”
Mhàiri smiled. “I think I like that idea as well.” Then she placed her cheek back on his chest, basking in his warmth. “Good thing it is your turn to do all the talking.”
Conan lightly kissed the top of her head, unwilling to let her go just yet. “How so?”
Mhàiri giggled. “Well, I apologized. Now, it is your turn.”
Conan stiffened. “Apologize for what?”
Mhàiri leaned back to look up at him. Her brows arched in surprise. “Why, for all those things that you said.”
Conan was sorry. He had even planned on apologizing for them . . . at some time . . . in his own way. But demanding contrition was too reminiscent of how his brothers’ wives acted after a fight. Conan had always thought it manipulative and conniving, but had been even more disgusted that his brothers had always so easily fallen for the trap. Now he understood, for he had almost become that very person.
Conan’s jaw tightened. He took a step back and let his gaze sweep over Mhàiri, taking her in from head to toe in one swift, heated glance. “Do not turn a simple kiss into some imaginative love story where you suddenly feel emboldened with power to compel me to do your bidding just to make you happy.”
If Conan had reached out and slapped her, Mhàiri could not have been more shocked or hurt, but it did not matter, for that pain began to morph into white-hot anger.
“How dare you!” she hissed, pushing him away. “The whole world knows no one compels the great Conan McTiernay to do anyone’s bidding but his own. I was not demanding an apology, but assuming you felt some regret for your role in what happened. And while I will not deny being attracted to you, it is not like I am alone. Any sane woman would find you physically tempting. But enjoying a simple kiss is a far cry from a love story. My heart could only be stolen by someone who is honorable, honest, kind and . . . and heroic.”
Mhàiri marched to her bedchamber door and swung it open, gesturing for him to leave. “And you most certainly are none of those things.”
* * *
Bonny and Brenna listened in misery as Mhàiri and Conan broke away followed by the clunk of her bedroom door. Knowing there was nothing left to hear, Brenna tugged on Bonny’s sleeve, indicating that she was leaving.
Bonny followed Brenna all the way back to their chambers in silence, waiting until they were inside and alone before she spoke. “I think Conan just lost for good this time.”
Brenna used her toes to pull off her slippers and then slumped into one of the two chairs that were by the fireplace in their room. It was nothing as nice and grand as the great hall chairs everyone liked to steal for their rooms, but they were padded and comfortable and no one ever got mad when she sat in her preferred position of sideways. “I wonder what made Uncle Conan say that?”
Bonny flopped into the chair next to Brenna. “Probably fear. I heard Mama say that about Uncle Craig once. Or maybe it was Uncle Crevan,” she mused. “She said he was afraid of love and that was why he pushed it away.”
Brenna swung her legs back and forth over the chair’s sidearm. “You’re right. Uncle Conan loves Mhàiri, but I’m not sure she loves him anymore.”
“Why?” Bonny asked. “Uncle Conan is all those things she said.”
Brenna grimaced. “Well, he’s honest, but I’m not sure about kind. And did you notice how he refused to apologize?” She took a deep breath and sighed as she dropped her head back to let her blond hair swing over the other sidearm. “Boys are so silly. Why is ‘I’m sorry’ so hard to say?”
Bonny shrugged. “I don’t know. We say it all the time.”
Brenna nodded upside down. “I think it’s because we’re girls. Braeden and Gideon won’t apologize, not even to each other.”
Bonny nodded. “But Uncle Conan is honorable. Papa says that’s when someone is honest, trustworthy, and loyal, and keeps his word. So Uncle Conan definitely is honorable.”
“Maybe,” Brenna acknowledged. “But what about kind?”
“Uncle Conan is when he wants to be,” Bonny refuted, stretching to pick up the brush on the table next to her where she had left it in her mad rush earlier. “He’s always nice to me.”
“True,” Brenna said, drawing out the word as she thought over all the qualifications Mhàiri had listed for the person with whom she could fall in love. Honorable, honest, kind and . . . and heroic. She lifted her head and looked at her younger sister. “So let’s say we were able to show Mhàiri that Uncle Conan’s honorable, honest, and kind. What about the last one? How are we going to prove he’s a hero?”
Bonny began to toss her brush in the air and catch it. “That is the easiest one. Uncle Conan is a hero practically every day.”
Brenna snorted and let her head flop back down. “I don’t think anyone but you thinks so.”
“What about making those shelves?”
“That’s not heroic.”
“Would be to me. And Mhàiri thinks so as well. Did you see her touching the design he carved in them?” Bonny threw the brush up, but this time missed catching it.
Brenna sat up and retrieved the brush. “A hero is someone who saves someone. Like when Papa saved Mama from the ice storm,” she asserted, using the brush to gesture and emphasize her point. “Or when Uncle Cole saved Aunt Ellenor from the bad men.”
Bonny snatched her brush back. “You think Uncle Conan needs to save Mhàiri?”
Brenna pursed her lips together and arched her brows. “If he is going to win, he will.”
Bonny studied her sister, trying to see if she was being serious. “Do you still think he can?”
Brenna nodded. “He just needs help.”
Bonny’s eyes widened. “Mama won’t help, and I don’t think Maegan will because she is Mhàiri’s friend.”
“Uncle Conan needs someone who wants him to win.” A large smile grew across Brenna’s face. “He needs us.”