Maegan turned around and looked at Mhàiri. She shrugged and went to sit back down. “Well, then what should Mhàiri give Seamus? He is also going to help build them so shouldn’t he get something?”
Brenna giggled. “The only thing he wants is . . .” She wiggled her finger in Maegan’s direction.
“We are just good friends.”
“Then you must be really good friends from the amount of time you spend together,” Brenna chortled and fell back on the bed once again.
Maegan raised her chin defensively. “We are. We have a lot in common, including your uncle Clyde, whom I love very much. And guess who else we have in common?” Maegan quickly asked Mhàiri, hoping to change the direction of the conversation. “Loman,” she answered and unsuccessfully bit back a smile. “He’s the reason I came to see you. Seamus says that he introduced you to him and that Loman has spoken about little else since.”
Mhàiri bit the inside of her lip. Loman had light-colored hair and brown eyes and, like all McTiernay elite soldiers, he was incredibly well built. And unlike some of the soldiers, who chose to wear the same austere face as their commander, Finn, Loman was good-humored and easy to talk to. “He did? What did he say?”
Behind her, Brenna gave a soft snort and scooted off the bed. She crossed her arms and her eyes flickered between Maegan and Mhàiri. Something was suddenly bothering her, and she was doing nothing to hide the fact.
“Is something wrong?” Mhàiri finally asked.
Brenna stood staring for several seconds before she shook her head. “I need to find Bonny,” she announced, then left without further explanation.
Mhàiri’s jaw dropped. “What did I do?”
“Who knows?” Maegan replied, completely unconcerned at the sudden change in the youth’s attitude. “But I’ve seen that look enough to know that, whatever it is, you are part of her plans. So be careful.”
Mhàiri swallowed. She wanted to ignore the warning, and told herself that Brenna was only ten years old. A child. But another inner voice reminded her that Brenna was no ordinary little girl.
Mhàiri suspected the havoc Brenna could create was more than most could imagine.
* * *
Mhàiri lifted her hand, curled her fingers in preparation to knock, and then paused for the second time. Did she really want to do this? See Conan? Offer him some paper in a show of thanks for making her some shelves? The answer was both yes and no.
She did want to thank him, and offering him some sheets of hemp paper was not really a hardship on her and would be greatly appreciated by him. She knew that. But it was the fact that she wanted to see him and talk to him, and was actually excited about having a reason to do so that made Mhàiri think this was not such a good idea.
“Murt! Either knock on the damn door and come in or leave. The sound of heavy breathing is not endearing me to be agreeable to whatever brings you here.” The curt order came from the other side of the door.
For a second, Mhàiri was mortified, but the feeling was quickly displaced with irritation. She knew she had not been breathing loud enough for him to hear. He must have heard her approach. Without waiting for an invitation, she opened the door. “Rumors have it that you happen to like a woman when she is breathing heavily.”
Conan’s head jerked up as he jumped to his feet. His blue eyes were large as saucers, and suddenly Mhàiri felt a lot better. He had known that somebody had been outside his door, but not that it had been her.
Conan’s shocked expression quickly morphed into an improper one. “Aye. I do like it, but in my ear.”
Mhàiri chuckled, not insulted in the least. “Who did you think I was?”
“Seamus,” Conan readily answered. “The man is a menace.”
Mhàiri knew he was not serious. From what she had seen since her arrival, Seamus was one of the few Conan tolerated. Even more of a miracle, Seamus seemed indifferent to Conan’s surly attitude.
Since Conan had not yelled for her to get out, Mhàiri took another tentative step, followed by another. She was eager to see what Conan’s chambers looked like. Her head swiveled around, her soft green eyes growing larger the more she saw. Mhàiri had assumed that the area would be something like hers, large with most of the space dedicated as bedchambers, perhaps an area for reading and another a cluttered section full of books, manuscripts, and whatnot. She could not have been more wrong.
First, the room was enormous. Unlike other rooms on the lower floors of the North Tower, or even those in the Warden’s Tower she was in, Conan’s chamber took up the entire floor. It was separated into three areas, and they were not partitioned off by walls, but by functionality.
Unlike her room, it was not the library portion that was a mess, but the section that functioned as his bedchambers. The rushes were in dire need of replacement. The wood pile next to the hearth—which looked in desperate need of cleaning—had toppled over. His rumpled bed was large, but did not seem so in such a spacious area. Next to it was a massive dark, ornately carved chest with what looked to be a mixture of both clean and dirty clothes draped over it.
Mhàiri looked at him, pointed to the chest, and was surprised to see Conan actually looking a little sheepish.
“Chambermaids,” he said with a sigh. “They clean, but they also disrupt. I find the latter more of an issue than wrinkled blankets and sheets.”
Mhàiri flashed a coquettish smile. “My guess is that chambermaids only venture here when Laurel forces them and even then you hound their every move.”
Conan grinned back, a perfect male smirk. “Lucky guess.”
Mhàiri laughed. “You mean accurate guess.”
She started toward the library section of the room. It was rare that Conan let anyone near his collection of written work. He sometimes allowed Bonny, but only when he was there with her. So that he was letting Mhàiri do so, he really could not explain. But the closer she got, the more her face grew in awe, and knowing that she appreciated what she was seeing made him eager for her to continue.
Unlike his bedroom area, the rest of Conan’s room was very orderly—and very crowded. “I should have come up here much sooner,” Mhàiri whispered, her eyes darting everywhere. “Then I never would have had any reason to doubt your assurances that you have no interest in my things. You barely have room for what you have.” Then she pointed to one of the romance books that he had teased her for owning. “And you seem to have your own version already.”
Conan nodded and sank back down on the stool he had nearly toppled over upon hearing her voice. “People assume I like any type of manuscript or written word, and while that might have been true at one time, I have had to become a lot more selective in what I keep.”
Mhàiri ran her fingers lightly over the wood shelves. They were not simple slats of wood that had been wedged and nailed together, but they had the look and feel of those that would be found in the large abbeys. Four rows of wide open shelves enabled one to access books from either side. Along the far wall, between the two large windows that let in a surprising amount of light, were multiple shelves, specifically built to store scrolls so they could be accessible and yet not rolling about. The whole place was crowded, and yet there was an innate sense of organization to it.
Mhàiri was impressed. “Your room reminds me of a library I once saw when I was young and traveling with my father.”
“Remember which one?”
She nodded, still looking, caressing the etchings as she went. “It was one at the Cambuskenneth Abbey. Have you heard of it?”
Conan’s jaw twitched. While his room was nothing remotely close to as impressive as the abbey, he had modeled his shelving and his room’s layout based on his visit to Cambuskenneth. Even Ellenor, who had taught him languages, had not recognized the beauty he had tried to incorporate into his chambers.
Mhàiri had. It once again stirred something in him, heating his already hot blood.
He had spent the past month trying to dismiss Mhàiri from his thoughts.
It had been a losing battle as odd tidbits of information about her were relayed to him by Seamus, Bonny, and too often Conor. Her recognizing the library he had patterned his own after was going to be one more thing that would haunt him tonight when he tried to sleep.
Mhàiri scared him.
He had never physically craved a woman like he did her. He had wanted women, sometimes enough to chase them a bit, but never had desire interfered with his ability to concentrate during the day. And what he felt for Mhàiri was not mere desire, but something far stronger—and far more painful.
The moment she had opened the door, the scent of wild flowers had filled the room and turned his insides out. Like she did on most days, Mhàiri had twisted the sides of her hair into loose braids, leaving the rest of her dark tresses to flow down her back. This morning had been windy, causing several strands to become free and frame her face in a way that begged a man to reach out and know their softness.
He was not a man who normally paid attention to what a woman wore, but Mhàiri made that impossible. Maegan and Laurel had been giving her their used clothes, but he did not remember ever seeing either of them in the gowns. Mhàiri was slender, but not wafer thin like Maegan, which must make a large difference, because no man could forget the way Mhàiri was filling out the lavender dress she was currently wearing.
Physically Mhàiri was his dream woman. That was daunting in itself, but what really scared Conan was much greater than that. Mhàiri understood him. Every time they spoke, she confirmed it in another unexpected way. And today only compounded his fears. Mhàiri had entered his sanctuary, had seen his untidy bed, and while she commented on it, she did not chide him or tell him to get it cleaned. She had done something far worse.
She had accepted him.
Conan had more than simply believed there was not a woman for him—he had known it. His personality did not mind being alone. He had never craved “his other half” like his older brothers had. For him to love a woman like they did their wives would end all his dreams, and eventually, it would eat at him until there was nothing left of him or his love.
Then he had met Mhàiri.
If he was ever going to fall for a woman, it would be her. He was not going to, of course. Not just for his sake, but hers.
Mhàiri wanted nothing of love either. Home, children, roots—these were things she did not want almost as much as he did not want them. And while they both longed to see the world, their plans and ways for doing so could not be more different. The life of a traveling merchant was that of constant change, but that change was predictable, consistent . . . expected. He, on the other hand, was venturing into the unknown, where conditions would oftentimes be harsh and uncomfortable.
He had known this all after just a couple of days in her company. So he had made a plan. It was a simple one—ignore Mhàiri. Act as much as possible as if she did not exist until her father came to get her. But that had been when he had thought her father would arrive in a few weeks . . . not months. After weeks of trying to ignore her and the maddening effect of her pretending to ignore him, Conan knew that his simple-but-tormenting plan would not be viable much longer. Certainly not until spring.
Conan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Maybe he just needed to get her out of his system. His brothers may think he had been with a lot of women, but it was not really true. Conan had kissed a lot of women, but when he needed a physical release, he was far more selective. It was rare he ventured outside of those for whom he knew there would be no unexpected claims or children. Laurel would undoubtedly kill him if he pursued Mhàiri to his bed, but what harm would there be in a kiss? He had the benefit of Mhàiri being already interested in him. Normally, her notice would be enough to dampen his desires. Overly eager women were never attractive. However, Mhàiri’s interest was less eager and more . . . curious, which was not unappealing.
He smiled at the realization. Perhaps the secret to getting Mhàiri out of his system really was to kiss her. A few poorly executed kisses would definitely solve his problem.
Conan wiggled his brows and pasted on his most charming smile. After a few minutes of sitting there, grinning like a fool, his frustration got to him and he began to scowl. Not once had she even glanced his way.
With a sigh, he crossed his arms and leaned back. “Let me guess. You are here about the shelves.”
Mhàiri nodded, still keeping her focus on the various volumes Conan owned. Never had she seen a private library so extensive. She had never even heard of one. “What are you going to do with all your things when you leave? You cannot possibly bring all this with you.”
Conan coughed at the thought. “Ah, no. I don’t really plan on taking hardly any of it. Some maps of course and as much blank vellum as I can carry, but the rest will stay here, in this room, just like it is. Bonny, I’m sure you have come to realize, is very bright—”
“She’s brilliant,” Mhàiri corrected, her eyes still reading the spines. “I suspect she is smarter than either you or I, and putting humility aside, I don’t say that lightly.”
Conan’s brows arched. He thought similarly. Like him, Bonny was quick to learn languages. Though she was only seven, her mother had already started teaching her how to read both English and Gaelic, and he had focused on making sure she understood the basics of Latin. Her aunt Ellenor could instruct her on Italian and French after he left, whenever she was ready, and he knew someday, Bonny would not only learn to read these other languages, but speak them, mastering them in a way he had never been able to. But Bonny was not only an academic. She had a natural instinct when it came to people. Her sister, Brenna, had it as well, only it manifested itself differently. Bonny was not as obvious with her understanding, which made her, in a way, more dangerous. A good example had been last night and the mention of Mhàiri needing somewhere to put her own manuscripts and books. He still suspected there was far more to Bonny’s suggestion than just kindness.
“The shelves?” Conan put forth again.
Mhàiri turned to look at him this time. “Um, oh, the shelves,” she stuttered, having forgotten why she had come to visit. “I, uh, first wanted to thank you. I know that Conor put you in an awkward position.”
“Conor didn’t. I believe we can blame BonBon for that. She and Brenna have unusual influence over their father.”
Mhàiri clicked her tongue. “Over everyone. I’m coming to realize that more and more,” she said softly without expanding on what she meant. “But I do need them. The shelves, I mean. Nothing fancy like you have. Anything solid would work. And while probably a carpenter could do it . . .”
“You want someone who understands what it will be used for.”
Mhàiri nodded, her green eyes looking relieved. “I don’t have nearly as much as you, but it still, well, is a lot. You saw the bags and the crates, but all three of the large chests are also full of bound books.”
Conan leaned forward in shock. “All three of the large chests?” Mhàiri nodded. “What about that small chest?”
“That contained my personal things. I know it seems like I have more, but I could not imagine traveling with the number of dresses Maegan has loaned me. I would need a cart just for clothes alone!”
Conan had thought the small chest probably had some of the more precious manuscripts that she had wanted to ensure would not be harmed during their journey. But instead, that was what held all her female garb and stuff. It was difficult to fathom. Every time Crevan’s wife, Raelynd, had shown up at McTiernay Castle for an extended stay she had brought mountains of frilly things with her. Craig’s wife, Meriel, was not much better.
Conan rocked back, rethinking about the amount of work the project was going to take, for it was much bigger than one small bookcase with two or three shelves. Thank goodness the room Laurel had put her in had the space. Bookshelves the size Mhàiri needed would not fit in one of his brother’s old rooms here in the North Tower.
“I know the amount of work is significant and Conor did not know
what he was asking of you.” Conan’s lips twitched. She was right about that. “And if you no longer want to help, I’ll understand and work with a carpenter, but if you were willing to build them, maybe I could offer you something in return for your help.”
Conan’s brows shot up. Something she could offer him. It was as if the good Lord actually wanted him to kiss her. “I can think of something,” Conan said huskily.
The change in his voice was unmistakable. Mhàiri scrunched her brows in confusion. “You think I mean to . . . that I was offering to . . . kiss you?”
Conan ran his tongue on the inside of his cheek and took in a deep breath. Mhàiri was acting as if she were not interested in him, when he knew that was not the case. “Why not?” he posed. “I know you have longed for a kiss, and I can think of no better way to show thanks.”
Mhàiri’s mouth opened and closed so many times she felt as if she were a fish out of water. “You know I long for a kiss?” she repeated. “Why would you . . . ?” Her eyes grew as large as saucers before rolling into the back of her head. “Bonny,” she muttered, throwing her hands in the air. The twinkle in Conan’s bright blue eyes confirmed her deduction. Mhàiri wagged a finger at him. “I’ll admit that I did want to kiss you at one time, but that feeling passed rather quickly the first time you intentionally snubbed me.”
Conan flushed at the accusation. “I never snubbed you,” he denied, shaking his head as if that made it true.
Mhàiri cocked a single brow. “Really? You are denying that you have been intentionally ignoring me?” Conan stopped moving his head. “As Bonny no doubt disclosed that entire conversation, you also know that I have never been kissed before. So it is less me wanting to kiss you, and more like me wanting to kiss someone who won’t see the act as a commitment or a profession of undying love. And now that you know all this, I can’t kiss you. It would only place me even deeper in your debt.”
Conan feared Mhàiri might actually mean what she had just said. “I promise you that I would not take it that way.”
The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland Page 11