“Wet,” Braeden replied, laughing, thinking his answer funny. He immediately realized his father was not amused. “Mama, uh, was taking another bath. She told me to tell you that she would be out directly and to, um . . . uh . . . stop all your shouting. That you are scaring everyone, including some visitor.”
Mhàiri bit her lip to keep from smiling. The boy was definitely a McTiernay.
“Your mother is well?” Conor pressed.
Braeden’s brows shot up, as he was clearly baffled by the question. “I . . . think so. She yelled at Gideon and me earlier and we didn’t do anything wrong, so she’s not in a good mood. Is that what you mean?”
“No.” Conor took a deep breath and exhaled. “What visitor? Who is staying here without my knowledge?”
Braeden pulled his head back, and his puzzled look became one of pure confusion. He looked over to the stables and pointed.
Mhàiri’s eyes grew wide seeing the finger was pointed in her direction. She felt as if she were being accused of something. “You look scared.” Conan chuckled under his breath.
“Why would I be scared?” Mhàiri murmured back, hoping she looked calmer than she felt.
“Don’t know. I don’t have access to your thoughts, though I suspect if I did, I’d still be confused as to why you look scared.”
“He’s still pointing at me,” Mhàiri hissed.
“That’s just Braeden. He’s probably doing it because he sees that it unnerves you,” Conan explained blithely. “He thinks because he is tall for a ten-year-old that he is practically a man.”
Conor was about to head toward the tall tower when the sounds of chittering women caught everyone’s attention.
“Finally,” Conan mumbled. “That one is Laurel, Conor’s wife,” he said, pointing to the beautiful woman with pale blond hair. “And in tow are her two best friends. Aileen is the fairly pretty one with the light brown hair. She is Gideon’s mother.” He gestured to the boy who was standing next to Braeden. “And Finn’s wife.” He then angled his thumb to a large man who, along with similarly large soldiers, had mysteriously arrived next to Fallon when Mhàiri had not been looking. “He’s the commander of Conor’s elite guard and someone you really should stay clear of. The man never smiles. And I mean never.” Mhàiri stole a quick peek at him and confirmed Finn’s face completely lacked expression. “I’m serious. The man’s lips have never curled in their life.”
Mhàiri swallowed. The commander was another person she needed to remain in good graces with or else she might find herself suddenly with nowhere to stay.
She glanced around. With the arrival of Laurel, faces of those who worked around the castle were starting to appear once more. In a few minutes, the courtyard would be bustling once again.
“And who is she?” Mhàiri asked when another woman came from the tower and started waddling out to the group. She was built like a cauldron, round in the middle and made of iron. No effort had been made to tame her wild, slightly graying flame-colored hair. She wore a man’s leine underneath her plaid arisaid, which was tied off with a large leather strap. Her expression was a strange combination of a scowl and a smile—something Mhàiri had never seen before and found quite intimidating.
“Is that . . . Fiona?” Mhàiri asked, remembering what Conan had said about the old cook.
“Fiona?” Conan snorted. “At this time of day, she’s in the kitchen. Not even the fight that’s about to happen could drag her out here.”
“You are expecting someone to fight?”
Conan nodded. “Seeing Hagatha here? Absolutely.” He crossed his arms again. “Hagatha’s the midwife, and for some inexplicable reason, the old bat is fond of Laurel and she of her. But the eyesore normally lives north of here—Ow!” He yelped in midsentence when Mhàiri’s elbow collided with his ribs. He rubbed them and frowned. Mhàiri gave him an unapologetic look. Conan rolled his eyes. Maybe “eyesore” had been a little rude, but it was the truth.
“So if Hagatha is around,” he continued, “it almost confirms that things are not as well as Laurel would like them to appear. Conor knows this and will be demanding an explanation. Just wait.”
Mhàiri rolled her eyes, but instead of debating the prediction, she turned to watch the couple and see if Conan was right.
Upon seeing Laurel, Conor pulled her into his arms and gave her the kind of kiss that inspired people to write songs and ballads about love. “A shìorraidh!” Mhàiri said under her breath. She was shocked and just a little bit jealous.
“Aye.” Conan sighed. “Best get used to it. They kiss a lot.”
Mhàiri nudged his arm with her shoulder and, with a triumphant smile, said, “They’re not fighting.”
“Kiss first. Then comes the fight. Then they’ll probably kiss again. It’s a pattern they follow regularly. Sometimes I think they argue just to have a reason to make up.”
Conor and Laurel finally ended their heated embrace and Mhàiri had a good view of Laurel. Beautiful was such a shallow word for the woman. She had long, wavy pale gold hair and fair skin, and her height only made her look ethereal and delicate. She was, in many ways, Mhàiri’s opposite. Where Mhàiri was dark, Laurel was fair. Where Laurel had dark eyes like that of a storm, Mhàiri’s were light green.
Conor framed Laurel’s face in his large hands. “I see circles under your eyes and you are thinner. But what is most disturbing is your presence, Hagatha.” He looked up and stared at the frizzy redhead who was not in the least unsettled by his severe look. “I knew something was wrong when I left,” he said, once again looking at Laurel. “What is it? What don’t I know?”
Laurel just went on her tiptoes and gave him a peck on his cheek. She then popped out of his embrace and scanned the crowd. Her eyes stopped when they hit the carts near the stables. “You must be Mhàiri!” she exclaimed and moved with the aim of giving Mhàiri a warm welcome.
However, Laurel got no more than two steps before Conor stopped her. “Answer my question, woman.”
Mhàiri watched as Laurel stopped and her blue eyes turned a stormy color before facing Conor. “Woman?” Her voice was sharp and the words were clipped. “I’m going to let that go because you have been on the road and are tired, but you know that never ends in success.”
“Answer the question, Laurel.”
She smoothed her bliaut down in an effort to calm her obviously spiked emotions. “There is nothing wrong. I would tell you if there was, but that is not the case so there is nothing to say.” They locked heated gazes for several seconds before she pivoted again toward Mhàiri, her angry face transforming into a welcoming smile.
“Laurel!” Conor shouted so loudly that Mhàiri jumped slightly.
Mhàiri glanced around to see who had noticed, and that was when she saw that people had indeed emerged and were resuming their duties. No one else was flustered or upset by what was transpiring between the laird and his wife. Most were doing their work as if nothing of interest were occurring in the middle of the courtyard. Even the four children were not paying attention. They were playing tag, totally unfazed by their yelling parents. A strange wave of nostalgia came over Mhàiri.
“Welcome, Mhàiri,” Laurel said cheerfully, grasping her hands while ignoring the glares coming from her husband. “We are so glad to have you with us. I love visitors, and we do not have nearly enough of them.”
“We have plenty. Our castle is practically the beacon for strays,” Conor mumbled.
“Ignore him. He loves them as well for it keeps me occupied and less inclined to meddle in things he is interested in.”
Conor’s eyes rolled and he tilted his head back and forth, indicating that he somewhat agreed with his wife’s statement.
Mhàiri could not help herself. She returned Laurel’s smile with a large one of her own. She had forgotten how her parents used to bicker in a similar manner. It was surprising to realize how much she missed this strange dance of love. Many might not understand it, but she did.
“Thank you
both for the invitation.”
Conor looked Mhàiri straight in the eye. “You are welcome to stay as long as you need.” He then swung his gaze to the woman about her age who had walked out with the children. “Maegan, how often have you been needed to look after the twins and Bonny?”
Maegan blinked. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and though she said nothing, they both knew it was too late to deny what he was implying.
Maegan stuck her chin out, walked over to the cart, hooked her arm with Mhàiri’s as if they were lifelong friends, and stated, “Mhàiri and I refuse to be drawn into your argument.”
Mhàiri looked down at their hooked elbows and then up and into the prettiest pale blue eyes she had ever seen. Deep set, they were framed with long lashes several shades darker than her umber-colored hair, which was pulled back into simple, but very attractive, plaits.
Seeing Mhàiri’s shock, Maegan patted her arm. “Trust me. Being a visitor—even a newly arrived one—won’t protect you from getting caught in the fray. But I will.” She leaned close, but kept her eyes on Laurel, who was staring at Conor as she approached him. “I’m Maegan by the way,” she whispered.
Mhàiri was about to inquire what Maegan had meant by fray when the cold tone of Conor’s voice rang out across the ever-quietening courtyard. “I will not be diverted, Laurel. You were out of sorts when I left. Then I return and you are not here to greet me. Next, I find out from my son that you are taking another bath as if you’ve been requesting them daily, and when you finally do leave the tower, Hagatha is in tow. Now, what is wrong?”
Laurel pursed her lips together and Mhàiri could have sworn she also stomped her foot. “Hagatha is my friend. And when I say that I am fine, that is became I am. Aye, I might have been feeling poorly, but I am not any longer. You and I can discuss it later, but right now I want to see to our guest’s needs. Mhàiri—”
“Can wait,” Conor clipped. “I cannot believe you were sick and did not tell me! Or send word! I would have come home immediately!”
Laurel rolled her eyes and turned back to Mhàiri. “I had a room prepared for you in the Warden’s Tower,” she said, pointing to the large stone tower to Mhàiri’s right. “There are several rooms in the North Tower, and that is where most of our guests stay, but when Father Lanaghly requested assistance, he also mentioned that you had a great deal of books and scrolls. He made it sound as if you had enough to rival Conan’s collection.”
Conan scoffed. Laurel leveled a stare at him. “So, to ensure that Conan never accidentally mistakes your room for his, I decided a completely different tower was more appropriate.”
Conan bent down and whispered in Mhàiri’s ear, “That was not the reason.”
“Hagatha!” Conor shouted and Mhàiri realized just what Maegan had meant about being pulled into the argument. She clutched Maegan’s elbow tightly against her side, comforted to know Maegan was doing the same. “I want to know exactly what was wrong with my wife, for how long, and if she is in any danger!”
The voice was loud and angry, but, more than anything, Mhàiri heard terror. She guessed Laurel had finally heard it as well. “Conor,” she said squeezing his arm to gain his attention. “You are ruining my plans for later,” she hissed through tight lips.
“Why later?” Conor pressed. “Why not now?”
“I said I would tell you later! In private!” This time, it was Laurel who was shouting, and Mhàiri absolutely saw her stomp her foot this time.
“Why? Most of our arguments end up in the courtyard with the world listening to them. Why can’t this one?”
“Because this was not supposed to be an argument! It was supposed to be special!” Laurel wailed back at him. “It was supposed to be romantic!”
“How is being sick supposed to—”
“A baby, Conor!” Laurel shouted, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’m going to have a baby! And God help me, you are going to be its father.”
Conor took a step back as if someone had punched him in the gut.
Conan took the opportunity to get a little revenge for the ribbing he had been taking the past few days. “Seems someone else has been wrong about more than his share of things as well, huh, brother?”
Laurel shot a finger at him and then pointed at the Warden’s Tower. “Take Mhàiri’s things to her room, and I better not learn that a single thing from either of those carts ended up in your chambers. In fact, you, Seamus,” she said to a large guard who exuded masculinity and had snuck in with the commander, “keep Conan from losing his way.”
Seamus grimaced and came to stand by Maegan. He had dark blond hair that was a fraction too light to be called brown. His forehead was prominent and tan, his chin was marked with a distinctive cleft, and his hazel eyes were mostly green with chips of gold. Maegan smiled up at him. Then, to Mhàiri, she said, “Seamus, here, is one of the laird’s elite guards and one of Scotland’s deadliest soldiers. So have no fear. Your things are safe.”
“Don’t tease,” Seamus grumbled, but there was no bite to his words. He twisted his perfectly sculpted lips. “It’s bad enough I have to deal with Conan. The least you could do is feel sorry for me.”
Maegan just continued smiling before shifting her focus back to Laurel and Conor. “They did not think they could have more children,” she explained to Mhàiri.
The youngest girl, who had curly dark brown hair and perceptive gray eyes, came running up to Maegan, bubbling with excitement. “Did you hear? Mama is going to have a baby! Do you know what that means?”
Maegan shook her head. “What, Bonny?”
Bonny sighed as if she thought the answer obvious. “Uncle Conan understands.”
Conan bobbed his head up and down. “That I do. I loved the day my brother Clyde was born and I was no longer the baby.” Conan reached down and swung the little girl in his arms. It was evident to anyone looking at them that they both adored each other. The warmth in Conan’s expression softened all his features and, if possible, made him even more appealing. For a brief second, Mhàiri wondered what it would be like to have him look at her in such a way.
Bonny nodded. “People will finally believe I know something. Before, it was only Conan . . . and Mama, but that was only sometimes. I will be so glad not to be the baby.” She then assessed Mhàiri. “I’m Bonny.”
“Um, I’m Mhàiri.”
“I know. I know lots of things.” Bonny looked at the carts. “Did you read all of those?”
Mhàiri nodded, but before she could say anything, the word “How?” echoed in the courtyard.
Conor’s question recaptured Mhàiri’s attention, and she swung back to see what was happening between Laird McTiernay and his wife.
Conan snorted. “After three children, you should know by now.” Mhàiri glanced over her shoulder and gave him a cold look and mouthed for him to be quiet. Conan shrugged his shoulders, but seeing her continued glare, he gestured that he would try.
Thank goodness Conor did not appear to have even heard his younger brother. “But I thought . . . we tried for years and nothing . . . never . . . not once. You said that we couldn’t have any more.”
Laurel nodded. Tears starting to emerge. “I thought so too. I thought I would never conceive again. That my childbearing years were over. Then, during the party when Craig and Meriel were visiting, I got so sick. I was not able to keep anything down.”
“That was two months ago!” Conor roared. “You’ve been keeping our baby a secret this whole time!”
“Aye!” Laurel shouted back, getting so close that they were nearly touching. “And it was far from easy, but I’d do it again! Guess why? For you! That’s why!”
That brought several chuckles from the crowd, and unfortunately for Conan and Seamus, theirs were the loudest. “Seamus! Conan!” Laurel barked. Both immediately stopped laughing, but only Seamus had the good sense to look contrite. “I am glad to see that you are in such good moods as you are now also going to help Mhàiri unpack all her thi
ngs.”
“You kept silent for me?” Conor asked. “But why?”
Laurel took a deep breath and sighed. “Remember what happened after that party? You had to visit the Schelldens about which soldiers of his you were going to train during the winter months. That took longer than expected. You were gone nearly three weeks. Then, the very night you came home, word came that things were happening with Cole that demanded your immediate attention. You had to go, but I knew that if you thought for a moment that I was sick—especially pregnant and sick—you would refuse to go, even though there was nothing you could do here except drive me crazy with your concern!”
Conor’s jaw tightened. Mhàiri did not know either of them, but after watching Conor the past few days and hearing his anger and concern during their fight, she had no doubt that Laurel was right. Conor would not have left no matter how important it was that he meet with his brother.
“I might remind you that I almost lost you twice and both times were when you were pregnant.”
Hearing that, Mhàiri’s eyes widened.
“What I’m experiencing is common for many women. We get sick! Hagatha says that sometimes it lasts until the baby is born. Thankfully, for me, it is getting better. The last couple of days I have felt only tired. Not ill in the least.”
Conor softly clutched Laurel’s upper arms. “So you really are fine.”
“Aye. I am well. Crabby due to lack of food, but other than that, I am very well.” Laurel’s voice went soft as her arms slid around Conor’s stomach.
“Truly?”
“Completely fine.”
Conor grinned. “Not feeling ill at all?”
Laurel’s blue eyes twinkled. “Aside from arguing with you, I’m feeling perfectly well.”
“Good.” Then, with a big grin, Conor swept her into his arms and headed straight for the massive tower across the courtyard. “And remind me to tell you later about when Conan and Mhàiri met.”
Laurel’s face lit up with anticipation. Then she looked over her husband’s shoulder and shouted, “Maegan! You’re responsible for Bonny and the twins!”
The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland Page 8