The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland

by Michele Sinclair

  Conan reached out and gripped her arms tightly. “First, I never wanted all your paper but only what you were willing to give me. I was hoping for some pages and, in my dreams, perhaps a book. But I realized not even an hour later that your father was coming and I could probably buy as much paper as I wanted from him. But as for why I said all those things, haven’t you mused something aloud? Some fantasy that if someone overheard they could misconstrue into thinking you actually believed what you were saying?”

  Tears began to roll down Mhàiri’s cheeks as she finally understood. “I didn’t want to believe what I heard. I’m sorry. I just was so hurt.”

  Conan pulled her into his arms and held her close. “Shhhh,” he whispered into her hair. “I wished you had come to me. Confronted me directly. Why didn’t you?”

  Mhàiri clung to Conan, reveling the feeling of being in his arms. For the past twenty-four hours, she had felt alone and bereft, and now all she felt was safe. A part of her wanted to stay there forever. Another part wanted to run and protect her heart. She batted the painful thought away into a recess of her mind and, instead, pressed even closer to his warmth. There was something about his physical presence—Mhàiri never wanted him to stop holding her, plain and simple.

  The feel of his hand on her face caused her lashes to flutter open and look up in the bluest of eyes. She had no idea how he could channel so much intensity through them, but the look he was giving her made her heart race.

  Conan pushed Mhàiri’s soft, thick hair off her shoulders, wishing he could hear what she was thinking. He knew he should step away. His control was already on a knife’s edge, inflamed by her anger, her tears, and now the desire shimmering beneath the apprehension in her green eyes. But he couldn’t. Mhàiri was the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Everything from her satin skin and silky tresses to her tempting lips and unusual green eyes fringed with long lashes called to him on a primal level. Not a detail escaped him.

  Mhàiri’s breath caught in her throat. Conan’s fingers traced the planes of her face with a feather-light touch, tipped with heat. She felt herself melt under his scrutiny, aching for him to speak, to touch her, to do something other than stare into her eyes.

  Conan lightly caressed her cheek. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered in a thick, gruff voice that sent an ache racing through her. He bent his dark head and his warm breath sent a shiver of heat through the pit of her stomach. “Kiss me, Mhàiri,” he demanded hoarsely.

  Needing no more coaxing, Mhàiri met his lips and opened her mouth, allowing Conan to make slow love to her with his tongue.

  Mhàiri closed her eyes and let herself fall into the embrace, sinking into his strong arms. Unlike their previous kiss, which had been powerful, claiming, and aggressive, Conan was kissing her slowly, lingeringly, and with deep, tender possessiveness. Her heart slammed in her chest as Conan was creating an irresistible desire to become his, and only his, in every way.

  Conan captured her sigh and deepened their embrace, kissing her over and over again. Her mouth was warm and welcoming, exactly like he had remembered.

  He cradled her face in his hands and drank hungrily from her lips, delighting in the feel of her wild pulse underneath his thumb telling him that she desired him just as much. Soon, need would overtake them both. Conan was about to pull away when he felt Mhàiri’s hands press against his back. The soft, hesitant caress caused him to growl and delve once again into the sweetness of her mouth.

  Her fingers traveled up his back and plunged into his hair. The impassioned touch sent a new heat curling through his blood. Mhàiri’s mouth responded to each stroke of his tongue, hot, wet, and clinging. Her body moved against his, each touch innocent, and erotic.

  God, she was soft, inviting. Conan knew he would never get enough of her. No caress, no kiss, no touch would ever be enough. He wanted to consume the essence of her vibrant spirit.

  Mhàiri felt herself quivering. Conan’s sheer masculinity was overpowering. With each kiss, she wanted more, but he refused to give in and it was making her senseless with a growing need she did not understand. His kisses were soft but consuming, filled with so much tenderness it felt as if her heart was swelling in her chest, nearly choking her. But the longer his lips caressed her, the less will she had.

  From deep within him, she heard the rumblings of a satisfied groan. Mhàiri twisted her fingers in his hair and held on for dear life. Nothing had prepared her for what she was feeling. She could feel the warmth of his hands splayed over her back through the material of her gown. A strange heat burned low in her stomach as a rush of shivers ran from the top of her neck down her spine, his kiss feeding both of those glorious feelings at once. Soon, hot ripples of pleasure slid down her thighs, and a moan of despair and desire, escaped her throat. Mhàiri was not sure what she was asking for, but it was flooding her with an aching demand.

  Mhàiri’s earnest and open response to each caress shocked Conan. His pulse raced as she surged against him. His lips left hers and found the soft, sensitive spot beneath her ear, then slid down her neck. “God, you’re everything a man could want,” he whispered against her skin. “Smart, fiery, and uncommonly sensuous.”

  Conan’s mouth was soft and wet and firm, and the feel of his lips roaming her skin made her dizzy. When he nibbled at her earlobe, Mhàiri forgot to breathe. Her knees suddenly gave out, and if Conan’s arms hadn’t been around her, she would have dissolved into a little puddle of desire at his feet.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Mhàiri heard herself mumble, surprised she could talk at all, for every fiber of her being was on fire, aroused into a bright burning flame. But still she wanted more.

  Mhàiri’s soft confession was enough to remind Conan that he needed to regain his diminishing control. They were in her bedchambers, alone, and moments away from doing something that would change their lives forever. Self-perseverance forced him to release her lips.

  He kept his arms circled about her, breathing in her scent. “Can you speak?” he murmured.

  His face was buried in the side of Mhàiri’s neck as he struggled for control over his rampant, covetous emotions. He wasn’t sure what would have happened if Mhàiri had asked him to stay with her. A whole night with Mhàiri in his arms? He feared he would be lost . . . addicted. And that he might never be able to let her go.

  “You robbed me of words.” Her voice was muffled, her face buried against his chest as she inhaled his musky scent.

  With all the women before, he had easily kept himself detached, using them for what he needed and then leaving soon after. He had become careful to bed only those who would not cling or ask for more, because he knew he would never commit himself to a woman. With Mhàiri, that still did not change.

  Yet, a slowly growing voice deep inside him disagreed.

  Conan lifted his hand, moving one of the dark wisps of hair from her forehead. With only the tips of his fingers, he tenderly traced every hollow, every curve of her face he so longed to kiss and know more intimately, but knew he never would. He stared down into her passion-filled eyes. “I think I like the idea of being able to make you speechless.”

  Mhàiri smiled. “I think I like that idea as well.” Then she placed her cheek back on his chest, basking in his warmth. “Good thing it is your turn to do all the talking.”

  Conan lightly kissed the top of her head, unwilling to let her go just yet. “How so?”

  Mhàiri giggled. “Well, I apologized. Now, it is your turn.”

  Conan stiffened. “Apologize for what?”

  Mhàiri leaned back to look up at him. Her brows arched in surprise. “Why, for all those things that you said.”

  Conan was sorry. He had even planned on apologizing for them . . . at some time . . . in his own way. But demanding contrition was too reminiscent of how his brothers’ wives acted after a fight. Conan had always thought it manipulative and conniving, but had been even more disgusted that his brothers had always so easily fallen for the tra
p. Now he understood, for he had almost become that very person.

  Conan’s jaw tightened. He took a step back and let his gaze sweep over Mhàiri, taking her in from head to toe in one swift, heated glance. “Do not turn a simple kiss into some imaginative love story where you suddenly feel emboldened with power to compel me to do your bidding just to make you happy.”

  If Conan had reached out and slapped her, Mhàiri could not have been more shocked or hurt, but it did not matter, for that pain began to morph into white-hot anger.

  “How dare you!” she hissed, pushing him away. “The whole world knows no one compels the great Conan McTiernay to do anyone’s bidding but his own. I was not demanding an apology, but assuming you felt some regret for your role in what happened. And while I will not deny being attracted to you, it is not like I am alone. Any sane woman would find you physically tempting. But enjoying a simple kiss is a far cry from a love story. My heart could only be stolen by someone who is honorable, honest, kind and . . . and heroic.”

  Mhàiri marched to her bedchamber door and swung it open, gesturing for him to leave. “And you most certainly are none of those things.”

  * * *

  Bonny and Brenna listened in misery as Mhàiri and Conan broke away followed by the clunk of her bedroom door. Knowing there was nothing left to hear, Brenna tugged on Bonny’s sleeve, indicating that she was leaving.

  Bonny followed Brenna all the way back to their chambers in silence, waiting until they were inside and alone before she spoke. “I think Conan just lost for good this time.”

  Brenna used her toes to pull off her slippers and then slumped into one of the two chairs that were by the fireplace in their room. It was nothing as nice and grand as the great hall chairs everyone liked to steal for their rooms, but they were padded and comfortable and no one ever got mad when she sat in her preferred position of sideways. “I wonder what made Uncle Conan say that?”

  Bonny flopped into the chair next to Brenna. “Probably fear. I heard Mama say that about Uncle Craig once. Or maybe it was Uncle Crevan,” she mused. “She said he was afraid of love and that was why he pushed it away.”

  Brenna swung her legs back and forth over the chair’s sidearm. “You’re right. Uncle Conan loves Mhàiri, but I’m not sure she loves him anymore.”

  “Why?” Bonny asked. “Uncle Conan is all those things she said.”

  Brenna grimaced. “Well, he’s honest, but I’m not sure about kind. And did you notice how he refused to apologize?” She took a deep breath and sighed as she dropped her head back to let her blond hair swing over the other sidearm. “Boys are so silly. Why is ‘I’m sorry’ so hard to say?”

  Bonny shrugged. “I don’t know. We say it all the time.”

  Brenna nodded upside down. “I think it’s because we’re girls. Braeden and Gideon won’t apologize, not even to each other.”

  Bonny nodded. “But Uncle Conan is honorable. Papa says that’s when someone is honest, trustworthy, and loyal, and keeps his word. So Uncle Conan definitely is honorable.”

  “Maybe,” Brenna acknowledged. “But what about kind?”

  “Uncle Conan is when he wants to be,” Bonny refuted, stretching to pick up the brush on the table next to her where she had left it in her mad rush earlier. “He’s always nice to me.”

  “True,” Brenna said, drawing out the word as she thought over all the qualifications Mhàiri had listed for the person with whom she could fall in love. Honorable, honest, kind and . . . and heroic. She lifted her head and looked at her younger sister. “So let’s say we were able to show Mhàiri that Uncle Conan’s honorable, honest, and kind. What about the last one? How are we going to prove he’s a hero?”

  Bonny began to toss her brush in the air and catch it. “That is the easiest one. Uncle Conan is a hero practically every day.”

  Brenna snorted and let her head flop back down. “I don’t think anyone but you thinks so.”

  “What about making those shelves?”

  “That’s not heroic.”

  “Would be to me. And Mhàiri thinks so as well. Did you see her touching the design he carved in them?” Bonny threw the brush up, but this time missed catching it.

  Brenna sat up and retrieved the brush. “A hero is someone who saves someone. Like when Papa saved Mama from the ice storm,” she asserted, using the brush to gesture and emphasize her point. “Or when Uncle Cole saved Aunt Ellenor from the bad men.”

  Bonny snatched her brush back. “You think Uncle Conan needs to save Mhàiri?”

  Brenna pursed her lips together and arched her brows. “If he is going to win, he will.”

  Bonny studied her sister, trying to see if she was being serious. “Do you still think he can?”

  Brenna nodded. “He just needs help.”

  Bonny’s eyes widened. “Mama won’t help, and I don’t think Maegan will because she is Mhàiri’s friend.”

  “Uncle Conan needs someone who wants him to win.” A large smile grew across Brenna’s face. “He needs us.”

  Chapter Nine

  Mhàiri smiled sweetly as she took the small cloth being handed to her. The large piece of bread nestled inside was still warm. She held on to it and waited as each person in the large circle was served their morsel and their beverage.

  She stole a quick glance at Conan, who sat across from her, as he swallowed the contents from the cup, learning that it was not ale, not even mead, but water. She had to admit that she was impressed. His only sign of dissatisfaction was the brief moment of realization. Then he crinkled his eyes and pasted on a smile that almost looked sincere.

  It had been four days since their fight, and Mhàiri would have never dreamed that this setting would be their first encounter. She was still not even sure how she had been hoodwinked into coming. This was Maegan’s weekly thing, enduring the widows’ social circle.

  Maegan was not a widow, but her grandmother had been a faithful member of the circle since before Maegan had been born. And after Maegan’s parents had died and she had come to live with her grandmother, Maegan had dutifully joined her each week to listen to the older clanswomen talk as they sewed. She loved it and had continued to come after her grandmother had passed. Until this week, Mhàiri had always found a way to escape, but yesterday, she had finally succumbed to the pressure of her friend. And then Maegan had the nerve to not even show up.

  Conan lifted his bread as a sign of acknowledgement, his empty smile frozen in place. Mhàiri curled her lips into a similar expression.

  “We are so glad you two joined us this week,” the lady on her left said, her voice warm and kind.

  “Aye,” came a rickety voice from someone on her right.

  “We normally just sew, but today, as we have special guests, we decided to have a treat first,” said another woman a couple of chairs down. She had gray hair that was pulled back into a single plait. Her face was wrinkled, but Mhàiri could tell it was due to excessive smiling. The woman pointed to her bread. “Try it,” she said with a nod. “It’s Almeda’s. No one’s bread is more delicious.”

  Mhàiri took a bite and had to agree it was very good.

  The woman beaming with pride, who must have been Almeda, sat next to Conan on his left. She was large set with round cheeks and small, bright blue eyes that, despite her years, still looked young and bright.

  Mhàiri’s gaze landed on Conan and narrowed. What was he doing here? She could not imagine he did this sort of thing often. She had never heard Maegan mention his attendance at the circle, and it was just not in his nature to sit patiently and listen as old women prattled about things in which he had no interest.

  Seeing her inquisitive look, Conan arched a brow and then took a large bite. A second later, he turned and said, “Excellent, Almeda. Even Fiona would be envious of your skill.” This brought on giggles by several of the women.

  “Please excuse us, Mhàiri, dear,” came from the woman on her left, “but we are so excited to have Conan with us.” And as if she knew Mh
àiri needed further explanation, she added, “We have been asking him to come for years, but until today he has refused.”

  Conan took a drink of water. “Seems my little niece thought it time I came as well, Gavina.”

  Mhàiri pulled off a small piece of bread and popped it into her mouth, glad to have something to help mask her shocked expression. She wondered how Bonny had convinced him to come today. She could ask, but for a seven-year-old, Bonny was incredibly smart and evasive when she wanted to be. She would be more successful asking Maegan, which she planned on doing right after she finished scolding her for leaving her alone with a bunch of strangers.

  “We are so sad to hear you will be leaving us in the spring. Whatever will we do?” The question came from a thin woman who looked incredibly frail. Mhàiri feared a good wind would knock her over and wondered how the old woman was able to survive the cold winters.

  “Now, Leane, you do not have to worry,” Conan answered. “I will make sure someone from Conor’s guard steps forward and continues when I leave.”

  The woman sitting to her left leaned closer and said in a loud whisper, “A few years ago, us widows started finding meat at our door. Nothing very big, usually a bird or a rabbit, but the perfect size for us to prepare and eat without leaving anything to spoil. For months, we tried to figure out who it was, but it was not until Conan here”—a long finger pointed to him—“left several times over the course of a summer to visit some abbeys with Father Lanaghly that we discovered his secret. You see, each time he left, the meat ceased to appear.” Realizing that Conan was listening to her, as was everyone else, she spoke louder. “And that is when we knew who our angel was.”

  Mhàiri’s jaw had been dropping farther and farther as the story had been told. When it was finished, she raised her astonished gaze to Conan, but he was looking elsewhere.