Conan rolled his eyes. It was a surprisingly well-stated insult, if a little wordy. Most women could only muster simple one-word slurs. Nonetheless, she was still a woman, and being a nun did not change a female’s natural disposition toward drama. “I doubt there has ever been a female who can humbly accept honesty, but I’ll admit that you do seem unusually clever for a bean rialta feargach. Maybe you will be the first.”
Now the oaf was not only calling her a nun, but an angry nun? It was laughable. Almost as much as the idea that she was bothered by honesty. “Honesty is always appreciated from someone worthy of my respect. Something I doubt you’ll ever earn.”
“I’ll earn it, mo bean rialta go leor beag, of that I have no doubt.”
Mhàiri almost laughed. “Pretty little nun? I guess that is better than being an angry one.” The man exuded a level of self-confidence that could not be measured, and yet unlike most overly self-important men, this Highlander believed every word he said. There was a lot of bravado to his words, but none of them, in his mind, were false.
“I can’t keep calling you that. Too hard. My name is Conan. What is yours?”
Conan. That was what Laird McTiernay called him, Mhàiri thought as she rolled the name around in her head. She liked the sound of it. It fit him. Conan was both elegant and untamed, much like the massive Highlander looked. “Mhàiri.”
Conan looked at her then, not a quick glance like he had been giving her, but a long look, as if he was studying her. A version of the name Mhàiri was found in practically every culture and while her pronunciation of it was definitely Gaelic, it gave him no insight as to her origins. She spoke and acted as if she was a Scot, but this nun did not look like any woman born and raised in the Highlands. A very fine and delicate beauty, she looked as if she belonged to another land far away from the harsh one he had always known. Mhàiri was becoming more and more of an enigma. One he did not need to figure out. Thank God she was a nun.
Mhàiri arched a brow, reminding him that he was staring. Guilt briefly swept his features. His blue eyes had studied her so intently, she had felt as if she were being stripped of her clothing . . . and by a man who would tempt even the most devout of nuns. And the last thing she was, was a nun. Everything about this Highlander exuded masculinity. Whoever Conan McTiernay was, he was intensely, if not overwhelmingly, male.
“Now it is you who are staring.”
Mhàiri squeezed her eyes shut, hating that he was right. “I’m hoping you are not just another brutish soldier who lacks appreciation of anything that cannot be used in battle.”
Conan ignored her fiery retort and pointed to the smaller of two stacks on the table. “Mhàiri,” he said calmly and with a tone he hoped would elicit compliance, “this pile we should bring. I still need to look at the rest and decide what else should be kept.”
Mhàiri looked at the stack a little better and realized that Conan had not been simply looking and putting down the various things he had been going through, but organizing them. “Meaning those other items are going to be just left behind?”
“Aye. We only brought one cart. Either some of these remain behind,” Conan said, pointing to the crate, the things on the table, and the bag of rolled documents, “or your personal things remain behind.” He then gestured toward the large chests, and Mhàiri realized he had no idea that those too were full of bound books. The most precious ones she owned. If the church had known they had existed, they would have stolen them from her two weeks ago.
“My chests are definitely coming with me,” she clarified and, upon seeing him smile, added, “as well as everything else.”
Patience gone, Conan picked up one of the thinner documents from the discard pile. “The written word is a wonderful thing but not at the expense of a dead horse trying to haul it for three days across mountains. This is puerile, and it remains.”
Mhàiri’s father had tried to use the same firm tone when she was a child and it had never worked. “Conan”—this time it was she who used a calm and patient voice—“I think you don’t realize why Father Lanaghly asked you to come and help. It was not for this,” she smugly replied, jabbing a finger toward his head, “but for these.” She pointed to his seriously impressive biceps. “I don’t need your opinions. I need only your brute strength. And it is a good thing too, based on these senseless piles you created.”
It was not often Conan was taken aback by a woman. And he did not like it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mhàiri rolled her eyes and stepped around him, gathering the items on the table and putting them back into a single stack. “Do not take offense, for you are very attractive, Conan, and I’m sure your looks are enough for most women to ignore your nonsensical comments, but you have to know on some level that you are an idiot.”
Conan’s jaw dropped. Not because Mhàiri had insulted him, but because she really thought him to be unintelligent. That was a first, and it rendered him speechless.
“You can go ahead and place those on the large cart while I finish prepping these for travel.”
Conan could only think of one thing. He had to prove that he was not the idiot—she was for assuming so!
He went to one of the open crates, bent down, and started pulling items out. Conan flashed a small bound volume over his shoulder. “This? This is what you absolutely must take with you? Just what does a nun need with the partial recreations of rather lewd French romance poems on the Vulgate Cycle?”
Mhàiri grabbed the book and clutched it to her chest, momentarily mortified that he had recognized what it was. Then she remembered she was not the nun he’d assumed her to be. “So you are not illiterate, just ignorant.”
“Do not worry. Most nuns would never admit to it, but I happen to know that several enjoy a good raunchy story and it hurts no one,” Conan stated, misunderstanding what she had meant. “Though I must admit they are usually hiding tales about the quest for the Holy Grail or the romance of Lancelot and Guinevere.”
Conan pulled out another book and studied it. “Interesting.”
Mhàiri tried to grab it, but again Conan moved it out of reach. “What is so interesting?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“That so many of these are not religious-based, but informational.” He stood up and flipped through the pages of the medicinal book that would have been a treasure for barber doctors. It was filled with stuff on herbs, plants, and their medicinal effects, as well as sketches of the human anatomy.
He glanced up. Seeing her outstretched hand, he placed the book in it. “That is far from typical reading, especially for a woman, and even more so for a nun. Do you know what that book is about, or were you just charged with its care?”
“My father purchased it before I came to the priory. It was written by an English physician who was concerned about unskilled barbers performing phle-botomies and scarifications.” Knowing that he had no idea what she was saying, Mhàiri could not help but add, “And what is your opinion on barber surgeons?”
Conan grimaced and scratched his chin before pointing at the book she now held. “I’ve heard of Bruno di Longoburgo and recognize some of his sketches, but medicine has never been a keen interest of mine. So I guess I do not know enough about the subject to have an opinion. Not like this,” he said, picking up one of her more prized volumes, “if it is what I think it is. Otia Imperialia?”
Mhàiri swallowed and nodded. It was the best-known work of Gervase of Tilbury and called the “Book of Marvels” as it focused on three fields—history, geography, and physics.
She had been calling him ignorant for assuming her a nun, but she had made some hugely incorrect assumptions herself. This man was not just literate, or even just educated. He was smart. How smart, she was not sure, but she suspected extremely so. She had spent time around some very bright men in her youth, the most intelligent of which had been her father. But Conan had not only recognized the documents he had pulled out, he had been able to read them . . . and they were each in
a different language.
Only old men who spent their lives engrossed in books had such broad knowledge. And Conan was young. Moreover, he did not look like he spent his time indoors. Muscles like the ones he had came about from hours of physical labor. For him to have such knowledge at his age meant that he absorbed material like she did. Rapidly. Considerably faster than most scholars.
“What is your favorite field?” Conan asked, the sincerity of his question unmistakable.
“Um . . . geography,” Mhàiri answered. “Though I find some of Gervase’s accounts unbelievable.”
Conan shrugged and put it down. “Of course they are. It is a hundred years old and created to entertain King Henry II’s son. But how does a priory, let alone one of this small size set in the middle of the western Highlands, possess such a copy?”
Mhàiri’s back straightened. “The priory possessed very little. The Culdees were focused on helping those in the area, not improving their minds.”
She was not sure that Conan heard her because he was kneeling down again and looking at what else she had in the crate. He gasped and looked back at her. “Guido delle Colonne? How did you get the works of an Italian writer?”
Mhàiri blinked. “You can also read Italian?”
He nodded and stood back up. “My brother Cole’s wife can read and speak French, Italian, and Latin. She taught me the basics of Latin and from there, the others came quickly. The more I read, the more I understood and could pick up from context. I wouldn’t say I could speak it, but I no longer have difficulties reading most things.”
Mhàiri took a step forward and placed her hand on his forearm, suddenly feeling as if she had found a kindred spirit. “I also have a mind for languages. My father said it was a gift and that very few find them easy to digest and learn.”
Conan looked down at the slender hand on his arm. Need suddenly racked his body, and it was suddenly critical to get some distance between them—physically, mentally, and emotionally. From his experience, the best way to get a woman to go away was to make her angry. “So, since you understand what these are, you can help decide what the church is going to have to come back for and what remains behind. But accept the fact that not all of this is coming with us.”
Mhàiri’s gaze narrowed and she ripped her hand from his arm. “These are my things, not the church’s. And because they are mine, every book, scroll, and document you see will be coming with me. Nothing will be left behind, and when we arrive at the end of our journey, everything will remain mine.”
Conan stood up and waved his hand. “Just where do you plan on putting all your things? For we are headed to my home, where there is only one place where all written material is stored. My chambers.”
“Then I guess they will become my chambers during my stay because, as I said, my things are staying with me!”
“You think you can order a McTiernay out of his castle chambers? Even Conor would say you were mad.”
Mhàiri’s pale green eyes grew large as she realized what he meant. Conan was not a cousin, nephew, or distant relation to Laird McTiernay. He was his brother. And he lived at the very place where the priest had said she and her things would be safe until her father could come get her. Father Lanaghly had told her she would be welcomed by the laird and that all but one of the brothers was married and lived away. All but the one standing right in front of her.
The old priest had further promised that Lady McTiernay was educated and appreciated knowledge and that the castle boasted of one of the largest libraries of information outside of an abbey. Never had Father Lanaghly mentioned that her things would fall into the hands of the unmarried brother.
A loud cough made Mhàiri jump. She turned around and saw Laird McTiernay at her doorway. He had gray eyes and some gray hair, but otherwise their facial features, their build, their air of confidence—they were all almost identical. Mhàiri felt as if she had been physically punched.
The man was indeed Conan’s older brother.
Laird McTiernay had just heard her spoiled declaration to kick Conan out of his chambers during her stay.
Mhàiri wished she could rewind the day and start all over, beginning with welcoming him and thanking him for helping her. The laird was probably rethinking taking her with him at all, let alone hauling her things and giving her a temporary home until her father was found.
Mhàiri was about to apologize and say as much when she saw two gray eyes sparkling at her. In their smoky depths, she saw not anger, but mirth. “I think Laurel will be delighted at the idea of you taking over the North Tower.”
“Over my dead body,” came an angry growl behind her. Only four words, but they held much venom. Mhàiri knew that Conan was serious.
“Laurel just might oblige,” Conor replied with a chuckle, completely unaffected by his younger brother’s threat. “But until then, let’s start taking all this out of here. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“It can’t all fit in one cart,” Conan countered.
The smug tone in his voice rankled Mhàiri once again. “Then it is a good thing that I have another one.”
“Aye,” Conor confirmed. “Father Lanaghly and I just finished hooking it up to your horse,” he said, grinning at Conan so widely Mhàiri thought the laird’s face would split. “Only need to load it up so we can go.”
Conan glowered first at Conor and then at Mhàiri before stomping outside. “Murt,” he muttered to himself, seeing that his horse really was hooked up to a second cart. It was smaller, but between the two, there would be enough room to allow Mhàiri to take all her belongings.
Conan marched back in and grabbed a box. Before he exited, he leveled a gaze on Mhàiri. “You may be a nun, but you’ve got two arms. Use them and help carry your things.”
Conan walked out and put the box on the smaller cart. He started to go back and get another load when he heard a truly disconcerting sound. That of a priest in the middle of guffaws. “Mhàiri is no more a nun than you are a monk,” Father Lanaghly managed to get out between gasps for breath. “Anyone could tell by looking at her she never took any vows.”
“You thought Mhàiri was a nun?” he heard Conor ask as he came out with a large stuffed bag of scrolls. “Wait till Laurel hears this. She always said you were not as intelligent as I thought.”
Conan was furious. He wanted to say something, anything, to end his humiliation. For a moment, he thought his brother understood and was going to back off, but he should have known that Conor would enjoy this moment for as long as possible.
“I can see you are mad, but even you have to admit that you’ve never been wrong about so much in such a short period of time.”
* * *
Mhàiri stared at the night sky and studied the nuances of landscape, trying to decide how to best capture its likeness. It was very late and the mountains’ shadows hid most of the details, but the moon was bright, giving her enough light to produce a basic sketch. Normally drawing was the best remedy to a bad day, but tonight, she did not expect it to bring her any measurable level of comfort. How quickly those feelings of smug satisfaction at her cottage had shifted to frustration, regret, and finally complete embarrassment. Thank goodness they were to arrive at McTiernay Castle tomorrow.
They had left her cottage much later in the day than anticipated, mostly because while she had had everything packed, it had not been organized in a way that made efficient use of space. Once they had finally departed, no one had spoken to her except the priest, who had been focused on being hungry and how he had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to travel driving a cart. The next day had been more of the same, although Laird McTiernay had periodically offered her a few words of acknowledgement. The third time the laird had come back, Father Lanaghly had laughed, followed by murmurings that Lady McTiernay would be pleased with her husband’s diplomatic efforts, leaving Mhàiri with no doubts that Conor was only talking with her to be nice.
Then there was today. Conan and his brother had rid
den way ahead most of the time, leaving her with solely the priest as company. Mhàiri did not mind being alone and could have tolerated silence, but it seemed that Father Lanaghly enjoyed company. He had spoken about anything and everything. So when Conan had mumbled that they were stopping to make camp for the night, Mhàiri had been relieved. She had also decided that she was going to apologize to Conan and hopefully induce him into conversation. She was surprised to find that, looking back at her and Conan’s altercation, she had enjoyed it. The last person she had had a worthy debate with was her father—and that had been years ago.
She had barely stepped down off the cart when a dead bird and two small rabbits were laid at her feet. After two nights of doing both the hunting and the cooking, the men had seemed to think she should offer to do the latter.
She had survived for two weeks on her own, so it was not that Mhàiri could not cook; it was that she could not cook well. Several times, her father, her sister, or other members of the priory had tried to get her to learn, but Mhàiri had soundly refused. Such a skill set was a big step toward a future and life she refused to accept. Standing in a kitchen all day preparing food, only to have to clean up after everyone ate before seeing to her husband’s “other” needs, was how she defined hell.
After seeing the looks on all three men’s faces as they had bitten into the barely edible piece of charred meat, she had regretted being so stubborn about learning nothing. Laird McTiernay had looked ill and the priest’s expression had conveyed pity, but Conan’s had been one of utter disgust. It was as if he had somehow known that while she had not intended to ruin the meal, she had intentionally never learned to cook, which meant someone had served her meals for her entire life.
Mhàiri felt blessed to have been born from such wonderful parents whose lifestyle meant continual adventures and seeing new sights. But that did not mean she did not also know of heartbreak. Her mother had died when she had been only ten, and by the age of fourteen, Mhàiri had been sent to join her older sister at the priory, where her father thought she would be safe. Aye, Mhàiri had been fortunate in many ways, but she had never considered herself spoiled. Not until tonight. And worse, she knew Conan had not been wrong.
The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland Page 5