Chapter Two #2
Father Lanaghly smiled down at Mhàiri, glad to see she was in high spirits and still looking healthy after an extended period of being alone.
With long, raven-colored hair, an oval face, high cheekbones, and pale green eyes framed by dark lashes, she gave an incorrect impression of being delicate and fragile.
Being in the company of five McTiernay wives for the last decade, he had known almost immediately that she was neither.
One had only to look into her eyes to see that Mhàiri may be beautiful, but she was not a stranger to challenges.
And like some McTiernays he knew, she thrived on them.
“How are you, Mhàiri lass? I was afraid we might find you starving after being gone for so long.”
“I told you that I could manage.” Mhàiri grinned at him, unable to hide how truly happy she was to see him. She may not like handling weapons, but her accuracy at throwing dirks ensured that she never went without food when game was nearby.
“Indeed,” Father Lanaghly responded with a nod. “I assume you are ready to leave? Or should I tell the laird to prepare to camp here tonight?”
“We can leave almost immediately. I only need to pack a few things that I use daily, but it will not take me long. Unless the laird needs to rest?” She looked at Conor with a hint of challenge, intentionally ignoring the younger man at his side.
Conor cracked a smile. “Hope you travel well, for I’ll be wanting to make some distance today while there is sunlight and good weather.”
Mhàiri arched a brow. “I happen to travel exceptionally well.”
Father Lanaghly coughed. He gestured at the large empty bed of the wagon he had driven. “Will this suffice?”
Mhàiri enthusiastically bobbed her head up and down.
She had feared that she would have to make choices and leave some items behind, but that was no longer a concern.
“It should be enough if we also use the small cart that my sister left behind for my use.” She pointed to the burned abbey.
Peeking out behind some darkened stones was a two-pronged handle that could be attached to a horse’s saddle.
Father Lanaghly produced a smile that hinted at mischievous merriment. “’Tis a good thing that I brought assistance then.”
The gleam in the larger man’s eyes suddenly changed from boredom to one that held mild humor. “Good luck convincing Conan, for that”—Conor pointed to the small, mostly hidden cart—“is not going to be attached to my saddle at any point.”
Father Lanaghly just laughed at the threat. “Come and let me introduce you to Laird Conor McTiernay.”
Mhàiri noticed out the corner of her eye the younger man had dismounted his horse, but kept her focus on the older Highlander, who remained in his saddle.
She wondered if the man was aware he used such intimidation techniques or if it was unintentional.
Undaunted, she shaded her eyes from the late morning sun and looked up.
“Father Lanaghly, when you promised to bring help, I had no idea that you meant to enlist a laird to help carry my things.”
For the first time, the large man smiled.
It changed his whole countenance to one that was suspiciously welcoming.
Mhàiri felt like a fly being lured into a web.
Even more so when he spoke and she heard the rich timbre of his voice.
“I respect the father, but no man drags me anywhere I do not want to be. The priest and I just happened to leave at the same time, and I’m not here to help you with your things.
” Using his thumb, he gestured to the cottage door. “I’m here to help you with Conan.”
Mhàiri crinkled her brow in confusion and then suddenly realized that the younger Highlander was no longer in sight.
Based on where the laird was pointing, the one called Conan was inside her home.
She issued a scathing glare at Conor as if he was partly to blame for the invasion and then rushed to the small cottage.
Unperturbed by her hostile glance, Conor threw his leg over his horse’s rear end and planted his feet on the ground. Father Lanaghly came to stand beside him and joined his gaze at the cottage’s entrance.
Conor crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “At least we no longer need to wonder when or how Conan will provoke her to anger.” He chuckled. “This time, my brother didn’t even have to open his mouth.” He glanced at the priest. “I have a feeling things are about to get interesting.”
Father Lanaghly returned the smile. “More than you think. She—” The priest paused to point at the woman who came to an abrupt halt at the cottage doorway. “Is the female version of your brother Conan.”
Seeing Father Lanaghly was being earnest, Conor raised his brows and took another look at the thin, dark-haired woman. Maybe the slow journey home was not going to be as painful as he had thought. “If you’re right, then things are about to get very interesting.”
* * *
Conan picked one of the scrolls out of a bag and carefully started to unfurl it, hoping that it was some type of map despite the unlikelihood any would be kept at a priory.
At first glance, it looked to be only an inconsequential sketch of some mountains and he almost put it back.
But when he realized what it was, Conan rolled it out completely on the small table to study.
It was not just mountains, but a detailed drawing of this region of Scotland and how the land stretched out to the sea from the viewpoint if one were on top of one of the peaks.
Scribed on the bottom was Beinn Eighe. Conan had never seen anything like it.
Drawings were rarely detailed and never accurate.
Flat pieces of art, they showed detail, but never any depth.
As a result, drawings were symbolic in nature, not very informative.
But this . . . this was an actual depiction of nearby lands.
Conan pulled out another scroll. It, too, was a drawing, but this one was of Loch Torridon and it even captured Cole’s castle, Fàire Creachann, though minutely. Nothing he had ever seen compared to what he was looking at. Artists just did not draw like this.
He wondered how many scrolls held such beauty and eagerly pulled a third scroll out.
With a sigh of relief, he found it was what he had originally expected.
A common document he had seen in one of any number of abbeys, churches, or places of learning.
He put it aside. That was something that could easily be left behind.
The one-room cottage was small, but it was full.
Three large chests plus a smaller one that looked as if it had seen better days were in one corner.
On a table were several bound documents, and next to them was a crate filled with what looked to be even more bound books.
There was also a bag with even more scrolls peeking out.
In total, it was too much even for the large cart they had brought.
Some things would have to remain. Just because the church had left all this behind did not make it his responsibility.
If they wanted what he determined was unimportant, they could come back and retrieve it themselves.
Hearing the rapid patter of light footsteps, Conan kept his eyes on the paper but said out loud, “I’m glad to see not everything here is a religious relic. Some of this might actually be useful beyond an abbey’s walls.”
Mhàiri immediately had dashed up to the door, afraid of what she might find.
While she had been ready for days for the priest’s return, she still had a few things that she had been waiting until the last minute to pack.
She had feared the large oaf was throwing them into one of the empty crates or, God forbid, a sack.
If he had been, she probably would have exploded, potentially saying something that would cause the priest and his laird to decide she was a harpy and not worth the hassle.
Instead, the good-looking beast was studying her prized possessions, and while not mishandling them, he was judging them, finding some to be of no value.
The idea of being left alone once again was suddenly very appealing.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be touching things you know nothing about.”
Conan easily ignored the barb, having been on the receiving end of a female’s insults for most of his life.
However, the lilting quality of her voice caught him off guard.
Rather than high-pitched, it was unusually low and therefore compelling.
He had not been prepared for it, just like he had not been prepared for what he had seen when he had ridden up to the priory.
When Conan had first spied her, he could tell that she was slender and, while she was much shorter than him, she would be considered almost tall for a woman.
However, it was not until he was much closer that he had realized Father Lanaghly’s nun was not the old woman he’d assumed she would be.
She was young and absolutely not nun-like.
Nuns, even pretty ones, looked severe in their wimples, habits, and overall austere attire.
While the garb hinted at their figures, only their eyebrows indicated the color of their hidden hair.
But Conan knew this little nun’s to be several shades darker than his own, for it had been left free, falling in loose waves down to the middle of her back.
Her gown was also not that of a habit, but a simple golden bliaut that was cut rather narrowly around her abdomen with lacing along the sides to create tension. It fit her buxom body perfectly.
When he had ridden up and his blue eyes had locked with hers, Conan had forgotten about where he was, why he was there, and whom he was with. He had seen many beautiful women in his years and charmed a number of them to his bed, but the woman before him was beauty in its purest form.