Conan apprehensively stole another glance. Seeing that Mhàiri was interested in what he was saying, he continued. “But mostly I want to make maps for the clans. The constant skirmishes about land and resources need to end. Also, while the major clans are known, there are many out there of which King Robert is unaware. Some are growing and some no longer exist. He needs to know who to seek out if we once again need to fight for our freedom.”
“I . . . I, too, was going to embark on my dreams in the spring. And then the priory burnt down.” Mhàiri prayed her father would agree to take her with him now that her plans were no more. If he refused to let her come with him, it would not be from lack of love, but too much of it.
“And what were your dreams, Mhàiri?” Conan said her name, and it sent a shiver through her. He sounded as if he truly wanted to know. Maybe the priest was right. She needed to let Conan see more of who she was so that he could understand her better.
“I have an older sister, Shinae. She is incredibly beautiful. Men used to say that her smile could rob them of breath.”
Conan chuckled. “We men will say anything if we think it might get us the attention of a pretty woman.”
Mhàiri shook her head. “But with Shinae, it’s true. She is open and friendly, and has a smile for everyone. When my mother died, she was only fourteen. My father feared that, her being so beautiful, she would attract attention. Knowing he could not always protect her, he sent her to live with his sister, who was a member of the priory’s Culdees. When I turned fourteen, he sent me to join them.”
“You love your sister.”
“I do. Very much. Everyone does,” Mhàiri said with a sigh.
“You sound like everyone does not feel similarly about you.”
Mhàiri shook her head. “Shinae is outgoing. Friendly. I am not. I’m more comfortable with books or drawing.”
“And is she a nun?”
Mhàiri nodded. “Shinae loved the Culdees’ way of life, but she knew that I did not. For years, various members of the priory would set up introductions with dozens of men looking for a wife. They were not subtle with their strong hints that I should settle down.”
Conan’s mouth formed a thin line. He had known last night his comment about understanding why she wasn’t married a false one, but the idea that dozens of men had been courting Mhàiri did not sit well with him. “So why didn’t you . . . um, settle down?” he asked, using her term rather than the word marry.
Mhàiri shrugged her shoulders. “No one ever interested me. Oh, most were nice. A few were surprisingly very good looking,” she added with a chuckle that sent another shiver down Conan’s spine. “And I have no doubt that they would have given me a comfortable life—if I desired a home and children. But I can think of nothing worse than the idea of waking every day to the same chores that would only expand as the household grew.” Mhàiri shuddered.
Conan felt his shoulders relax and adjusted how he was sitting. There was no man who would be seeking her out. “That’s why you don’t know how to cook.”
Mhàiri faked a grimace but could not hold it and smiled at him. “Probably. Anyway, Shinae knew that I could never be persuaded to settle down and marry—whether it be to the church or a man—and be stuck in one place for the rest of my life.”
“So, in the spring, you and your sister were just going to leave the priory and travel?”
Mhàiri could hear the dubious tone of Conan’s voice. The concept had appeal, but was also unrealistic. “No. Shinae loved being with the Culdees and working in the community, helping the locals whether it be during sickness or in their gardens.”
Conan shifted in his seat again. “Then what was to happen this spring?”
Mhàiri raked her eyes over Conan. He was having trouble sitting still, but he gave her a look that conveyed he earnestly wanted her to continue. “The Culdees’ way of life is disappearing. The Catholic church is taking over and slowly displacing them, just like what happened at the priory. So a handful from the priory, including my sister, had decided to leave and travel to various places to start new missions. I was to go with them. But then the priory caught fire and two of the main people who were to come with us died in the flames.”
That night had been awful. The community had lost so much. She and her sister had lost their home and dear friends. Shinae had been forced to accept a new way of life, and now Mhàiri had to recreate her own future. At one time, it had looked so promising. Now, it was not bleak—it was blank. She felt suddenly subject to the decisions of others and no longer had a say in her life.
Conan tried to focus on what Mhàiri was saying, but it was difficult being in the middle of both ecstasy and physical agony. When Father Lanaghly had first proposed that they ride together, Conan had almost refused. Riding in the cart was miserable on the body, but he had wanted to talk to Mhàiri.
Last night, he had marched off not realizing that he still had her drawing in his hand. He had stayed up and studied it until exhaustion had taken over. His last thoughts had been that he had to somehow convince Mhàiri to teach him how to draw like she did. If he could learn her technique, even poorly, it would aid him enormously in what he wanted to achieve with his maps. But he had been unable to approach her. Now, he was speaking to her as he had hoped, but sitting next to her was creating a lot of pain in his lower region.
Each bump caused their arms to touch, bringing her even closer. Plus, her hair was driving him to distraction. It kept blowing against him, and the smell of flowers constantly drifted his way. At first, talking had been a welcome distraction. Unfortunately, it was no longer working.
“So what clan do you belong to, Mhàiri?”
“My father’s people are the Mayboills. They’re in the Lowlands, but it has been many years since he called their land his home.”
“He went to your mother’s clan then?”
“Nay. She was Romani and felt most at home when free, with no ties to a particular homeland, let alone a clan. She met my father when he was young and went abroad to bring back to Scottish people the treasures of the world. She used to say that my father and she were kindred spirits, always enjoying the place they were at but also just as eager to see what lay ahead.”
“And you are like your mother.”
Mhàiri sighed softly. “In many ways. But I’m also like my father. I love this wild, harsh but wondrous land, and seeing its beauty has always given me peace.”
“You mentioned that your father was a merchant.”
“Aye,” she answered simply. Then, seeing Conan’s frustrated look, Mhàiri realized he wanted her to continue talking. It puzzled her, but she obliged. “He mostly sells goods in the Lowlands and northern England, but he tries to get to Spain at least once a year for hemp paper. He befriended the owner of the paper mill one time and they are now good friends. He always keeps a few blank books ready for Papa.”
Conan nodded. That explained a lot. “Your father must have done him a really big favor to have access to hemp.” Laurel would be proud. They had been riding for a couple of hours and not a single argument. He had inquired about her family and listened to what Mhàiri had to say. Who knew? Maybe, he was finally learning how to act like a gentleman. “Since you are not a nun, what are your plans?”
“Father Lanaghly said that your brother would send word that would reach my father, letting him know to come and get me.”
“Conor will, but I’d be careful, otherwise there is a good chance you’ll be married before your father ever arrives.”
Mhàiri huffed. “I thought I had just made it clear that I absolutely do not want to be married.”
Conan put his hand out in retreat. “First, you are not against marriage, for I suspect you would find it unacceptable for your father and mother to live together, am I right?”
“Aye, but—”
“And,” Conan continued, “I was only trying to warn you about Laurel. Lady McTiernay is very nice and is indeed all the wonderful things you will hear, bu
t she is also incredibly meddlesome. The woman thinks she sees love all around her and enjoys nothing more than putting people together. She has got involved in all of my older brothers’ lives and, each time, the result was marriage.” Conan decided not to mention that they were happily married and none of them would change a thing about their lives. “I’m the only lucky one. Laurel vows never to help any woman tie herself to the likes of me. So with all my brothers being gone, she is going to see you and get all excited. Just be prepared.”
A look of horror overcame Mhàiri’s face, and Conan had to bite back a smile. Ha, Laurel! This is for all the grief you’ve given me over the years, he thought to himself as he imagined Laurel failing to persuade Mhàiri into the state of matrimony.
“Lady McTiernay can try, but she will be wasting her time,” Mhàiri stated through gritted teeth.
“So you say,” Conan returned. “I’m only glad she understands that I have no desire or room in my life for a wife.”
“Now? Or never?” Mhàiri inquired, suddenly a little sad to think that Conan would be out traveling all alone making maps. She wanted to travel, but with her sister, the Culdees, or her father. Alone with no one to share your thoughts or your discoveries? That sounded as awful as marriage.
Conan opened his mouth to answer and then said, “Let’s change the topic. What is the most unusual book you have in these chests?”
He was glad when Mhàiri decided to let the topic go and answered his question, which led to another, and soon he found himself enjoying another heated debate with her. Their conversation rolled easily from one subject to another until a rider leading a horse came into view. At once, all conversation ceased.
The rider was far away, but Conan knew that it was his brother. He called out to Father Lanaghly, who quickly saw Conor and stopped alongside Conan. Both men jumped down off their carts to wait.
When Conor came close, he signaled his horse to a stop and then tossed Conan the reins to the horse he had tethered to his saddle. “I thought, with me gone, that you could use a fresh horse for the cart.”
Conan nodded. “I assumed you would be back home with Laurel by now.”
Conor frowned. “That was my plan, but someone attacked the homestead I was visiting last night.”
That stopped Conan short. “Someone attacked you?”
Conor shook his head. “I don’t even think they knew it was me. They hit Wills on the back of the head. He cried out and I came running. They dashed off before they got anything. Wills was out cold for hours, and I needed to make sure he was going to recover before I left him with his wife and two younglings.”
“You don’t think that it was the same people . . .” Conan’s voice trailed off.
“Probably not. Most likely just a normal border skirmish aimed to steal, not maim, but I’m not assuming anything,” Conor answered. “I want to get back. Hitch the horse and let’s get going. I want to be home while the afternoon sun is still in the sky.”
Chapter Three
Mhàiri cringed from her seat on the cart. Conor had ridden with them most of the way, but once they had neared the gatehouse, he had urged his horse ahead. As they were still making their way to the gates, Mhàiri could hear him bellow out Laurel’s name, demanding to be told where she was.
Father Lanaghly, who had returned to his cart seat when Conor had rejoined their group, mumbled how it was odd that Laurel was not in the courtyard waiting. “After a lengthy time apart, Lady McTiernay has never not greeted the laird upon his return home. As soon as he is spotted by the watchers on the towers, she goes to the bailey or, if the weather is poor, inside the great hall until he arrives. That she still has not welcomed him home only confirms that something is indeed wrong with her ladyship.”
Mhàiri’s eyes widened, hearing the priest’s concern. She had discerned from the various comments that something was bothering Lady McTiernay. Until now, she had refrained from putting much credence into the supposition that it was serious. When they spoke of her, everything indicated that her ladyship had seemed healthy, but maybe that, too, had been an incorrect assumption. Mhàiri hoped Lady McTiernay was fine, not just because her own temporary well-being and quarters were based on Laurel’s generosity, but because she knew, after spending three days with his lairdship, that if something were seriously wrong with his wife, he would be crushed—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Her father had loved her mother that way and when she had died, he had been lost for a long time.
As they entered the courtyard, the doors of what looked to be the great hall were flung open and again, Mhàiri heard Conor roar for his wife as he exited into the courtyard headed to what looked like a smaller hall.
Mhàiri looked at Conan, who merely shrugged, showing no concern. “Conor really loves his wife,” he said with ease. “Don’t ask me why. She’s pretty to look at, but she’s also mean.”
Mhàiri could not help herself and laughed. “That’s not what Father Lanaghly says.”
“He’s a priest. He has to lie.”
Father Lanaghly narrowed his eyes briefly on Conan and pulled the cart to a stop next to the stables. Conan halted next to him, jumped down, and then helped Mhàiri off the uncomfortable seat.
Mhàiri stretched her limbs, feeling circulation return to them. “So what makes her so mean?” she asked in a hushed but playful tone.
Conan crossed his arms and leaned against the larger cart. “I told you. She is a meddlesome creature who truly enjoys torturing me.”
Mhàiri laughed again. Conan was being earnest, and yet she could tell his comments were also coming from a place of love. He thought of Laurel as Shinae was to her—an older sister. “And you think to convince me that none of this supposed torture is deserved?”
Conan scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You haven’t even met Laurel and yet you take her side.” He raised his brows and pointed to his elder brother, who was exiting the lower hall.
“If someone does not tell me where my wife is in the next five seconds, lives are going to be lost!” Conor roared, and for the first time, the people of the courtyard jumped. If they did not think he had meant it before, they did now. For suddenly they were moving, most of them heading somewhere that would take them out of the laird’s sight.
When Mhàiri entered the courtyard, she had expected to see people bustling around, fawning over their laird and attempting to see to his needs, but aside from the stable boy taking his horse, people seemed unfazed by Conor’s presence and his bellowing. They smiled and greeted him as if he had just been out for a ride and acted as if he was cheerful and in a good mood. Now, however, they seemed to realize that their laird was truly not happy and his anger was going to shift to them.
Suddenly, a burly man with red and gray hair and matching frizzy beard ran by them from the direction of the gatehouse they had just entered. He was not very tall, but his large chest and biceps hinted at enormous strength. Conor spied him right after Mhàiri had. “Fallon! Where have you been? Where is Laurel?”
Conan leaned down and whispered in Mhàiri’s ear, “Fallon is Conor’s steward.” Mhàiri’s eyes grew wide and she nodded.
“Calm yourself, Laird McTiernay,” Fallon huffed, trying to catch his breath. He did not look to be out of shape so Mhàiri guessed he had been running some distance to get there. “Lady McTiernay is here and well, and no doubt will be out very soon.”
“Something is wrong,” Conor stated, his voice cold. Gone was the reserved but pleasant laird who had traveled with them. In his stead was a dangerous man. He was not one to be managed or calmed. He wanted one thing, and Mhàiri prayed Fallon realized that because he looked as if he was about to argue with Conor rather than producing his wife.
Fallon shook his head while waving his hands back and forth. Before he could say anything shouts of “Athair!” rang through the air.
Mhàiri swiveled her head to see who was shouting for their father when she spied five people emerging from the massive seven-story tower located on
the far side of the courtyard. The first to emerge was a tall, very thin woman with thick, umber-colored hair who looked to be near or about Mhàiri’s age. She was holding the hands of two girls, one with pale tresses and the other with deep brown locks. Both girls were eagerly dragging her toward Conor, who was obviously their father from their shouts to him. Behind them were two lanky boys who were not small, but had several years before they would be men. One of them Mhàiri absolutely knew was Conor’s son by his looks and mannerisms.
Conor had spun around at their shouts. When he knelt down, the two young girls let the woman’s hands go and flew across the courtyard into Conor’s outstretched arms.
“Where is your mother?” he asked each of them.
“We missed you!”
“Brenna got in trouble every day, Papa,” the littlest said.
“You got in trouble too!”
“Not every day,” came the quick and huffy retort, her brown curls flouncing.
“Where is your mother?” Conor asked each of them again, this time a little more strongly.
The eldest gave him another big hug. “She’s coming.”
Mhàiri saw Conor look at the sky as he stood back up. She suspected he was praying. Conor then looked down at the two boys, who had ambled up, refusing to look as eager to say hello as the girls. Their dancing eyes, however, made it clear that they were just as glad to see him.
“Welcome home, Laird,” the tawny-haired boy stated.
“Athair,” said the slightly taller lad with dark brown hair and unusually blue eyes. They were not the bright blue of Conan’s, but that of the sea during a storm.
“Son,” Conor said gruffly and engulfed him in a bear hug the boy readily returned. The amount of affection between Conor and his children was a reminder of how much Mhàiri missed her own father.
“Braeden, where is your mother?” Conor asked, his tone striving to remain patient, but Mhàiri suspected he had very little left.
The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland Page 7