Chapter Two #3
Immediately he had grown aroused, his body refusing to behave despite the fact that she was a nun.
If she gets offended seeing my desire, then she has only herself to blame, Conan had thought.
What drove a woman like her to the church anyway?
With her beauty, she could have any man she wanted.
Even he would accept her attentions—if only for a while.
That in itself was quite remarkable as he had been abstaining from female company the past several months, having decided they were not worth the eventual headache.
Long-term commitment to a woman had proven impossible, and marriage was a preposterous state meant for men like his brothers.
Conan’s future was that of a rustic, nomadic life that while appealed to him, made women cringe.
In a few months, he would at last be seeking his dreams, never to be in one place long enough to create roots.
However, Conan was not averse to the idea of scratching an itch. And while some in the clergy fully adhered to the concept of abstinence, Conan knew that many did not. Maybe this pretty little nun fell in the latter category.
Instinctively, Conan had tightened his grip on the reins and had grinned down at her.
He was quite aware that his dimples had some magical power over the opposite sex.
In his youth, he had wondered why, but when one of his brother’s elite guards, Hamish, who also had dimples, had pointed out that he should spend less time wondering why they worked and more time using them, Conan had realized his energies had been ill-placed.
For a second, Conan had thought she was going to smile back.
But instead, her expression had remained unaffected.
In fact, she had looked almost apathetic.
It had been as if men like himself rode up to her doorstep daily and he was just one among many.
Then, she had broken into a wide, sincere smile that had made her look even more beautiful and run to see the priest. Conan had grimaced.
What women thought of him was typically a nonfactor in his life.
Once he was done with a woman, he really had no interest in her opinion of him—whether it was good or bad.
But this little nun had dismissed him before he had given her a good reason.
That never happened. Women always took at least a second, and usually much longer, to look at him.
It was so common that he did not even think about it anymore .
. . until today. Unfortunately, the obvious snub had happened in front of his observant brother.
Conor had not wasted the opportunity to jibe him either. “You’re losing your touch, Conan,” he had mumbled, not even trying to conceal his mirth. “Usually you have to at least talk to a woman before she decides to ignore you.”
It was at that moment Conan had jumped down from his horse to head inside the cottage, uncaring that he had not been invited. He did not need his brother’s nonsense and he certainly did not need to be snubbed by a nun who had summoned him for help.
In the cottage, Mhàiri took a step closer. This Conan was either being intentionally rude or daydreaming about something. “Did you hear me?”
Aye, I hear you, Conan answered but not out loud.
He held his breath, prepping himself for the memory of what she looked like in hopes of keeping his body from once again reacting in a way he could not control.
“Nuns should look like nuns, not women—especially if they are beautiful,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Excuse me?”
Conan gave up and forced his eyes to open.
He put down the document he was holding and then picked up the next one.
Almost immediately, he put it down and looked at the next in the stack.
“That one you can leave behind,” he said, pointing at the scroll he had discarded.
“It is fortunate that I didn’t send someone else to help you and Father Lanaghly.
They wouldn’t have been able to help decide what here is worth taking and what can remain behind. ”
Mhàiri felt her jaw go slack. She had been subjected to the idea that men knew more than women most of her life just because so few females were educated, but it had been a while since she had been around a man so rudely open with his belittling opinions. “You are a presumptuous one.”
“Most women simply call me arrogant,” Conan murmured, still refusing to look at her. He would never admit it, but he was afraid to do so.
“Then they were wrong.”
That made Conan pause, but only momentarily. “How so?” He finished scanning the scroll and then put it down. “It does accurately denote self-assurance.” He picked up the next item and inspected its spine.
“Let me clarify then. In your case, I think that arrogant is far too limiting. You are so much more.”
Mhàiri readied herself for an angry response or at least a scathing but defensive comment, but the Highlander surprised her. He instead glanced over his shoulder and grinned at her before returning his gaze back to the items on the table.
“I must say I am surprised that a woman, let alone a nun, has some of these volumes. Does your abbess know these are in your possession?” He wiggled the small volume that was in his right hand.
Nun? Mhàiri was momentarily stunned and glad that the beast of a man was facing away from her.
Did he actually think she was a nun? It was both amusing and idiotic at the same time.
The last thing she looked like—or talked like—was a nun.
“Bhreithneachail asal,” Mhàiri muttered, echoing aloud her own thoughts about him.
Conan turned around abruptly at the insult.
It was not the first time someone had called him a judgmental ass, but it was the first time a nun had called him one.
“My sister-in-law calls me that from time to time, and while I don’t deny being a little judgmental, it’s a hard habit to break since I’m right practically all of the time.
” He paused, looked her in the eye, and then pointed to the items on the table.
“Just as I’m right about only some of this stuff being worth the effort of trekking across the Torridon Mountains. ”
She reached out to grab the volume only for it to be pulled out of her reach.
Mhàiri scowled. “It must be nice to be around obviously abundantly patient and tolerant family members who let you live in some fictitious world where they pretend to admire and respect you for your intellect, but I’m not your family.
I’m not inclined to indulge your delusions.
And though no doubt remarkable to you, I neither need nor want your opinion. ”
Conan rolled his eyes. It was a surprisingly well-stated insult, if a little wordy.
Most women could only muster simple one-word slurs.
Nonetheless, she was still a woman, and being a nun did not change a female’s natural disposition toward drama.
“I doubt there has ever been a female who can humbly accept honesty, but I’ll admit that you do seem unusually clever for a bean rialta feargach. Maybe you will be the first.”
Now the oaf was not only calling her a nun, but an angry nun? It was laughable. Almost as much as the idea that she was bothered by honesty. “Honesty is always appreciated from someone worthy of my respect. Something I doubt you’ll ever earn.”
“I’ll earn it, mo bean rialta go leor beag, of that I have no doubt.”
Mhàiri almost laughed. “Pretty little nun? I guess that is better than being an angry one.” The man exuded a level of self-confidence that could not be measured, and yet unlike most overly self-important men, this Highlander believed every word he said.
There was a lot of bravado to his words, but none of them, in his mind, were false.
“I can’t keep calling you that. Too hard. My name is Conan. What is yours?”
Conan. That was what Laird McTiernay called him, Mhàiri thought as she rolled the name around in her head. She liked the sound of it. It fit him. Conan was both elegant and untamed, much like the massive Highlander looked. “Mhàiri.”
Conan looked at her then, not a quick glance like he had been giving her, but a long look, as if he was studying her.
A version of the name Mhàiri was found in practically every culture and while her pronunciation of it was definitely Gaelic, it gave him no insight as to her origins.
She spoke and acted as if she was a Scot, but this nun did not look like any woman born and raised in the Highlands.
A very fine and delicate beauty, she looked as if she belonged to another land far away from the harsh one he had always known.
Mhàiri was becoming more and more of an enigma.
One he did not need to figure out. Thank God she was a nun.
Mhàiri arched a brow, reminding him that he was staring.
Guilt briefly swept his features. His blue eyes had studied her so intently, she had felt as if she were being stripped of her clothing .
. . and by a man who would tempt even the most devout of nuns.
And the last thing she was, was a nun. Everything about this Highlander exuded masculinity.
Whoever Conan McTiernay was, he was intensely, if not overwhelmingly, male.
“Now it is you who are staring.”
Mhàiri squeezed her eyes shut, hating that he was right. “I’m hoping you are not just another brutish soldier who lacks appreciation of anything that cannot be used in battle.”
Conan ignored her fiery retort and pointed to the smaller of two stacks on the table. “Mhàiri,” he said calmly and with a tone he hoped would elicit compliance, “this pile we should bring. I still need to look at the rest and decide what else should be kept.”