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 com
pletely 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 ad
mit 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.”
The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland Page 4