Conan took one more look at the dead man and wished he had asked for the name of the one who actually sent him and his friend. He wondered just why they were so interested in the man who supposedly regularly visited this remote area. While the loch was nestled on the far eastern edge of his brother Cole’s territory, he had not seen signs of someone living this far out. It was cold, rocky, and impossible to farm, and had practically nothing for cattle to graze on.
Most clansmen lived closer to Fàire Creachann, Cole’s home. The castle was set on a stretch of land that extended out into the blue waters of Loch Torridon, where one could glimpse the An Cuan Sgìth, the strait of sea separating the homeland from its islands. With only one access point, it was protected by the sea with enormous cliffs on almost all sides and therefore nearly impenetrable to attackers. Living close to the fortress gave clansmen protection.
This loch was so far from Fàire Creachann, it was highly unlikely his attackers were looking for an actual McTiernay. Whoever swam in these waters was probably a squatter, a nomad, or even a thief. He could have just found a McTiernay tartan and been using it as his own, thinking the appearance of being aligned with a powerful clan beneficial.
Conan put his hand on his knee and pushed himself back up to his feet. Speculating was a waste of time. Cole was his best chance of learning who had attacked him and why. As the third brother and McTiernay laird for this region of the Torridon Hills, Cole knew the tartans of all the larger clans in the area, and hopefully a majority of the smaller ones.
Conan went to the shore and quickly washed the blood off his arms and stomach. He then walked over to the boulder where his clothes lay drying and yanked on his leine. He grabbed his tartan and belt and was about to put them on when he spied the dead body near the shoreline. The man reeked. Everything about him was dirty, and Conan did not relish hauling his corpse up onto his horse.
One puffy hand floated in the water, and Conan considered rolling the mass into the water and rinsing it off in an effort to help reduce the stench. “Damn you, Laurel,” Conan hissed and pulled off his leine so that he was naked once more. The idea of the man’s dirt and grime on his skin was enough to turn his stomach, but unlike his clothes, his body was easy to wash and quickly dried.
Grabbing his sword, he went off to find the man’s horse. Minutes later, he returned, glad that it had been easy to locate with reins wrapped around the tree. It also served as further proof that the dead man’s companion had been an idiot since he had not freed the animal when he was making his own getaway.
Using rope, ingenuity, and a lot of energy and strength, Conan managed to get the large dead bulk lying across the saddle. After tying the body down so that it would not slide off, Conan once again headed toward the loch’s shore and dived into the icy waters, thinking of ways he might take revenge on his sister-in-law without it costing him his own life.
Nestled high within the Torridon Hills, Loch Coire Fionnaraich’s waters were always cold, but right now, its cool temperature felt soothing after the exhausting hour he had spent in the abnormally hot sun. Scotland’s fall weather could be unpredictable, bringing in cold winds or even seemingly ceaseless rains, but for the past few days, it had felt more like August than October. It had been perfect for trekking and plotting out the mountains that lay between the McTiernay and MacCoinnich borders.
Conan broke the water’s surface and took a deep breath, feeling slightly better. He did not really want to overly antagonize Laurel. He, in fact, begrudgingly liked his eldest brother’s wife when she was not annoying him. But lately, she had been more than irritating, she had been unusually demanding, and he was not the only one to think so. Laurel had been taking her frustrations out on everyone.
Her pleasant, mischievous demeanor rarely made an appearance lately. Instead, she was so moody that it was impossible to tell whether her over-the-top threats should be taken seriously. Her latest tirade had been the worst. And the one thing that kept his own anger from growing anew was knowing how furious Laurel would be to learn that he had gone against her wishes to take the shortest route to Cole’s and instead had selected a more circuitous path. And she would have only herself to blame for her anger. Laurel knew what happened when someone demanded anything of him. She knew it from personal experience.
When word had come that the McTiernay priest needed help—specifically his help—and Conan had not immediately jumped on a horse and taken off, Laurel had leaped to the correct conclusion that he never intended to go. But just because he was not inclined to make the journey himself did not mean he did not plan on dispatching someone to help the priest. But would Laurel listen to reason? No.
She knew he was very busy prepping hides so they could be turned into vellum. Halting the painstaking and time-consuming process midway to go north to help Father Lanaghly had cost him to lose three much-needed vellums for his trip this spring. But Laurel had not cared. To her, his trip was months away and therefore three vellums were a negligible loss. Father Lanaghly’s need, however, was important. Monumentally important. Conan disagreed. It was upsetting to learn that a small priory had caught fire and was no longer habitable, and even more disheartening to know that two people had died. But the church was already in the process of relocating the nuns and the undamaged artifacts to a larger, more established abbey in the Lowlands.
Conan cared nothing about some uninteresting religious scrolls that had miraculously survived a fire. It annoyed him greatly that, because he was highly intelligent and kept a lot of written scrolls and books, people assumed he wanted to read just anything. Maybe in his youth that had been true, but never had he aspired to be a scholar who consumed any type of knowledge whenever he had the chance.
Out of all his brothers, he might be the one who valued written knowledge the most; however, that did not mean he was the only one able to protect some religious documents. Anyone could put them in a crate, a trunk, or a bag. How hard was that? Even Conor could manage such a feat, and he was already up north visiting Cole. Then again, why did Father Lanaghly need send for help at all? He was as capable as anyone of carting some scrolls and keeping them safe from poor weather.
Instead of seeing the logic of his rather straightforward arguments, Laurel had become highly emotional and issued him a fiery command—ride north to Cole’s immediately and help Father Lanaghly or deal with not just her wrath, but that of Conor’s, when he returned.
His eldest brother, Conor, would indeed have been furious. Not because Conan had done anything wrong, but, because like many around the McTiernay Castle, his brother’s concern was mounting about his wife and her increasingly fragile emotional state. Conor had almost not even made the journey to Cole’s, and he had made it clear when he left that he was entrusting certain people to see to her happiness. That included Conan, especially if the clan was to provide him any precious vellums for his upcoming journey.
Happiness. A completely outrageous concept to demand. But that was what love did to a man. It made him unreasonable and caused him to issue crazy orders that no sane, cogent person could follow, even if they wanted to. And yet, in part to keep Laurel happy, Conan had left as she had demanded.
But not as she had intended.
Conan had proclaimed his departure was driven by his need to get away from her nagging voice, but in truth, once he had decided to take a longer route, he had been almost eager to leave, for he had wanted to come to this area of the Highlands for awhile. He had always taken the most direct route to Fàire Creachann, but this time Conan had journeyed along the eastern border of his brother Cole’s lands. He had never mapped this part of the Torridon Mountains and after trekking the area for hours he had been pleased to find a small loch nestled in the peaks. The surrounding large boulders were easy to climb and gave him a better perspective when it came to mapping the area.
That was his passion. Maps. The idea of converting information to a useful picture inspired how he saw all that was around him. Unfortunately, very few maps depict
ed such information, and he was not sure any existed that did of Scotland.
Oh, maps were plentiful, but none were accurate, nor were they intended to be. At best, their purpose was to illustrate those with power, and whatever the creator deemed most important was placed in the middle. Since most scribes were associated with the church, Jerusalem somehow became the center of most countries’ maps—something any intelligent being knew could not be true.
Conan intended to create an actual visual depiction of Scotland. Come this spring, nothing was going to stop him from leaving his McTiernay home to spend his life creating maps of real value. They would be accurate. They would show the best routes to travel. His maps would depict probable flashpoints along clan borders and various paths the English might use to re-invade Scotland.
He had already completed several small illustrations of McTiernay lands and those of their ally—the Schelldens. And while he had much of Cole’s lands and the majority of the Torridon peninsula sketched out, the eastern region lacked important details, such as the markers the MacCoinnich clan used to denote the border of their land.
Throughout the summer, skirmishes between MacCoinnich and their neighbors had been growing in both number and violence. As of yet, none had involved McTiernays. Both Cole and Conor wanted to keep it this way. It was the reason his brother had gone north despite Laurel’s erratic behavior. Conor had called a meeting to discuss the potential reasons behind the increase in activity and whether there was any reason for the McTiernay clan to be concerned. The answer would determine if Conor moved additional soldiers north to support Cole’s army. Such a move would not go unnoticed and, in itself, might create tensions where they could still be avoided. So caution was key.
Conan saw the importance of such talks, but he knew he would be no help with them. The best way he could support his brother was not with his sword and certainly not in negotiation, but with information. This surprised some, as he was oftentimes quite vocal with his opinions. Most women of his acquaintance had issue with this character trait, but in his mind, that was their problem. Conan liked who he was and was certainly not going to change just to make a woman feel at ease.
Conan was also well aware that he was not the smartest person alive. Not even close. Nor did he have some driving need to be the smartest person. The notion was almost as irritating as it was ludicrous.
He had met many monks who were far cleverer and more knowledgeable than he. He welcomed intelligence from anyone—which included women. Anyone who could offer witty and challenging conversations was preferable to someone inane. Unfortunately, his experience had taught him that those women were extremely rare and was why he valued Laurel and Conor’s youngest child, Bonny. Despite being only seven years old, she often caused him to pause and think about what she was saying when arguing a point. Bonny’s knowledge was only hampered by her limited life experience, but he would not be surprised if his niece grew up to outsmart every living soul she encountered. Conan dreaded saying good-bye to her in the spring and knew he would miss her enormously in the years to come.
Many did not understand the special bond between him and Bonny. Conan knew her parents blamed him for some of her blunt and seemingly offensive comments. Laurel often made it clear that she did not want her youngest child growing up to be like him—rude, mean, unsympathetic, and egocentric. Conan disagreed.
He was an ideal model for his niece.
First, he was not rude. He was honest. Why should Bonny learn to hold her opinion simply because some people were incapable of hearing the truth? And just because they could not accept the truth, that did not make her mean for stating it. Rarely was there malicious intent behind his words and so calling the straightforward delivery of his honest opinions brutal was not only misleading, but incorrect. And aye, sympathy was a quality to be admired, but there were always countless women around more than willing to provide a sympathetic ear.
As far as his self-absorptive personality, well, he knew that to be pure myth. The women he had been with enjoyed his charms while he was willing to give them. It was only when he was bored and needed to refocus his efforts to his future and his freedom that they suddenly claimed to be wounded by his callousness. So what Laurel viewed as egocentrism, he would call determination. And in the spring, all that focused attention was finally going to allow him to travel the world and never, ever be manipulated by Laurel McTiernay again.
* * *
As soon as Conan finished loosening the last knot in the rope, the dead body dropped to the ground. A loud crunching sound indicated that several bones had broken despite the short fall. Conan nudged the large mass with his foot so the man lay face up. It had taken almost two days to get from the small loch to Fàire Creachann, and in that time, the body had gone from limp to rigid and back to limp again. In a couple more days, he would no longer be recognizable, but for right now, he looked much like he had upon his death, aside from the yellow, somewhat greenish tint his skin was turning.
“You recognize him?” Conan asked, looking up at his brother.
“Nay,” Cole replied and waved his hand in front of his face. In the past several hours, the odor had gone from severely unpleasant to outright nauseating. “A shaoghail! It’s like smelling rotten cheese made from feces. Thank God you stayed outside of the castle walls. Elle would skin me if she had even a whiff. The stench is going to linger for days.”
“You ever see a young man with really bright red hair and matching beard. Tall, skinny?”
Again, Cole shook his head. “There are a few redheads in the village, but none match that description.”
Conan looked down at the dead man and then, with the tip of his sword, adjusted the man’s filthy tartan so that he could see it better. “I don’t recognize it. Do you?”
Cole’s forehead furrowed as he bent over to take a better look. “Nay, but there are so many small clans just south of here.” He looked over to Dugan, his commander and second in charge of clan affairs. “You know more of them than I as you regularly ride out to our borders. You recognize either him or the plaid?”
Dugan bent over and studied the face of the man for several seconds while holding his breath. Satisfied he had never seen him before, he took several steps back and exhaled. “I don’t know him, and based on his size, our people would have mentioned something if they saw someone matching his description during my visits.”
Conan grimaced. He had really thought that Cole would have at least some insight into who the man was. “What about the plaid?”
Dugan shook his head. “While there are several small clans along the coast, most have aligned themselves with us, the MacLeoid, or MacCoinnich. And you know both their colors. He’s not from around here.”
Conan nodded. The McTiernay colors of dark greens and blues accented with bright colors of gold, red, and burgundy were well known throughout the Highlands, but so were MacLeoid and MacCoinnich tartans. All three had similar backgrounds, but MacCoinnich had no gold or burgundy lines. Instead, the plaid had a prominent white line outlining each plaid square. MacLeoid lines were bright red and yellow.
The man before them wore a tartan with mostly mustard and brown colors. Few clans strayed beyond green, blue, and red, and he could not recall in all his travels seeing one of this color. Who are you? Conan thought to himself.
“Might be Irish,” Dugan murmured with a shrug.
Cole nodded in agreement. “Definitely a sword for hire.”
Conan crossed his arms. “He recognized both mine and the McTiernay names. However, he was surprised to find that the man he was looking for to be me. I might just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Cole scratched his chin. “We have not had any trouble near Loch Coire Fionnaraich in recent memory, and no one goes there. It’s hard to reach, and the waters are uncomfortably cold even in the summer. I can’t imagine who he was looking for.”
Dugan’s head shot up at the mention of the small loch. It had been some time since he
had been in that area, but he used to visit it often for personal reasons. He had not returned after discovering he was being betrayed by a certain woman. Had she sent someone to look for him and this was simply an unfortunate case of mistaken identity? Maybe, but Conan and he looked nothing alike and the timing was wrong. That was months ago, so why would she send someone to look for him now? And why mercenaries? Conan had said that they had been hired by a man, not a woman. Dugan did not like coincidences, but there was too much to doubt that it was anything but one. It had to be just a random, isolated incident.
“I’ve smelt enough of this ablach,” Cole said. “If his friend comes looking for him, we’ll question him and then teach him what it means to hold a sword on a McTiernay.”
Conan shook his head and crossed his arms. “The man’s a coward. He won’t show his face.”
Dugan grimaced. “I’ll go to the loch in the morning. If he shows up again, he won’t get away. I’ll also ask around and see if our people know or have heard of anything.”
Cole nodded and then slapped Conan on the back with a grin. “Let’s eat. I’m sure Elle is pacing the floors by now, getting angrier at our delay with each step she takes.”
Conan grabbed the reins of his horse and followed Dugan and Cole through what most thought was the sole entrance into the castle. Only known to a few, the second access to Fàire Creachann had been created by Cole from a rocky cove into which a small boat could be brought on the northern side of the cliffs. From there, a steep path wound toward a well-fortified postern gate accessible strictly from the main tower.
The small group walked along the steep path that led up to the gatehouse. Once they were past its gates, the inside of Fàire Creachann could be seen and appreciated not just for its security, but for its dramatic beauty.
The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland Page 2