Chapter Two #4
Mhàiri looked at the stack a little better and realized that Conan had not been simply looking and putting down the various things he had been going through, but organizing them. “Meaning those other items are going to be just left behind?”
“Aye. We only brought one cart. Either some of these remain behind,” Conan said, pointing to the crate, the things on the table, and the bag of rolled documents, “or your personal things remain behind.” He then gestured toward the large chests, and Mhàiri realized he had no idea that those too were full of bound books.
The most precious ones she owned. If the church had known they had existed, they would have stolen them from her two weeks ago.
“My chests are definitely coming with me,” she clarified and, upon seeing him smile, added, “as well as everything else.”
Patience gone, Conan picked up one of the thinner documents from the discard pile. “The written word is a wonderful thing but not at the expense of a dead horse trying to haul it for three days across mountains. This is puerile, and it remains.”
Mhàiri’s father had tried to use the same firm tone when she was a child and it had never worked.
“Conan”—this time it was she who used a calm and patient voice—“I think you don’t realize why Father Lanaghly asked you to come and help.
It was not for this,” she smugly replied, jabbing a finger toward his head, “but for these.” She pointed to his seriously impressive biceps.
“I don’t need your opinions. I need only your brute strength.
And it is a good thing too, based on these senseless piles you created. ”
It was not often Conan was taken aback by a woman. And he did not like it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Mhàiri rolled her eyes and stepped around him, gathering the items on the table and putting them back into a single stack.
“Do not take offense, for you are very attractive, Conan, and I’m sure your looks are enough for most women to ignore your nonsensical comments, but you have to know on some level that you are an idiot. ”
Conan’s jaw dropped. Not because Mhàiri had insulted him, but because she really thought him to be unintelligent. That was a first, and it rendered him speechless.
“You can go ahead and place those on the large cart while I finish prepping these for travel.”
Conan could only think of one thing. He had to prove that he was not the idiot—she was for assuming so!
He went to one of the open crates, bent down, and started pulling items out. Conan flashed a small bound volume over his shoulder. “This? This is what you absolutely must take with you? Just what does a nun need with the partial recreations of rather lewd French romance poems on the Vulgate Cycle?”
Mhàiri grabbed the book and clutched it to her chest, momentarily mortified that he had recognized what it was. Then she remembered she was not the nun he’d assumed her to be. “So you are not illiterate, just ignorant.”
“Do not worry. Most nuns would never admit to it, but I happen to know that several enjoy a good raunchy story and it hurts no one,” Conan stated, misunderstanding what she had meant.
“Though I must admit they are usually hiding tales about the quest for the Holy Grail or the romance of Lancelot and Guinevere.”
Conan pulled out another book and studied it. “Interesting.”
Mhàiri tried to grab it, but again Conan moved it out of reach. “What is so interesting?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“That so many of these are not religious-based, but informational.” He stood up and flipped through the pages of the medicinal book that would have been a treasure for barber doctors. It was filled with stuff on herbs, plants, and their medicinal effects, as well as sketches of the human anatomy.
He glanced up. Seeing her outstretched hand, he placed the book in it. “That is far from typical reading, especially for a woman, and even more so for a nun. Do you know what that book is about, or were you just charged with its care?”
“My father purchased it before I came to the priory. It was written by an English physician who was concerned about unskilled barbers performing phle-botomies and scarifications.” Knowing that he had no idea what she was saying, Mhàiri could not help but add, “And what is your opinion on barber surgeons?”
Conan grimaced and scratched his chin before pointing at the book she now held.
“I’ve heard of Bruno di Longoburgo and recognize some of his sketches, but medicine has never been a keen interest of mine.
So I guess I do not know enough about the subject to have an opinion.
Not like this,” he said, picking up one of her more prized volumes, “if it is what I think it is. Otia Imperialia?”
Mhàiri swallowed and nodded. It was the best-known work of Gervase of Tilbury and called the “Book of Marvels” as it focused on three fields—history, geography, and physics.
She had been calling him ignorant for assuming her a nun, but she had made some hugely incorrect assumptions herself.
This man was not just literate, or even just educated.
He was smart. How smart, she was not sure, but she suspected extremely so.
She had spent time around some very bright men in her youth, the most intelligent of which had been her father.
But Conan had not only recognized the documents he had pulled out, he had been able to read them .
. . and they were each in a different language.
Only old men who spent their lives engrossed in books had such broad knowledge.
And Conan was young. Moreover, he did not look like he spent his time indoors.
Muscles like the ones he had came about from hours of physical labor.
For him to have such knowledge at his age meant that he absorbed material like she did.
Rapidly. Considerably faster than most scholars.
“What is your favorite field?” Conan asked, the sincerity of his question unmistakable.
“Um . . . geography,” Mhàiri answered. “Though I find some of Gervase’s accounts unbelievable.”
Conan shrugged and put it down. “Of course they are. It is a hundred years old and created to entertain King Henry II’s son. But how does a priory, let alone one of this small size set in the middle of the western Highlands, possess such a copy?”
Mhàiri’s back straightened. “The priory possessed very little. The Culdees were focused on helping those in the area, not improving their minds.”
She was not sure that Conan heard her because he was kneeling down again and looking at what else she had in the crate. He gasped and looked back at her. “Guido delle Colonne? How did you get the works of an Italian writer?”
Mhàiri blinked. “You can also read Italian?”
He nodded and stood back up. “My brother Cole’s wife can read and speak French, Italian, and Latin.
She taught me the basics of Latin and from there, the others came quickly.
The more I read, the more I understood and could pick up from context.
I wouldn’t say I could speak it, but I no longer have difficulties reading most things. ”
Mhàiri took a step forward and placed her hand on his forearm, suddenly feeling as if she had found a kindred spirit. “I also have a mind for languages. My father said it was a gift and that very few find them easy to digest and learn.”
Conan looked down at the slender hand on his arm.
Need suddenly racked his body, and it was suddenly critical to get some distance between them—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
From his experience, the best way to get a woman to go away was to make her angry.
“So, since you understand what these are, you can help decide what the church is going to have to come back for and what remains behind. But accept the fact that not all of this is coming with us.”
Mhàiri’s gaze narrowed and she ripped her hand from his arm. “These are my things, not the church’s. And because they are mine, every book, scroll, and document you see will be coming with me. Nothing will be left behind, and when we arrive at the end of our journey, everything will remain mine.”
Conan stood up and waved his hand. “Just where do you plan on putting all your things? For we are headed to my home, where there is only one place where all written material is stored. My chambers.”
“Then I guess they will become my chambers during my stay because, as I said, my things are staying with me!”
“You think you can order a McTiernay out of his castle chambers? Even Conor would say you were mad.”
Mhàiri’s pale green eyes grew large as she realized what he meant.
Conan was not a cousin, nephew, or distant relation to Laird McTiernay.
He was his brother. And he lived at the very place where the priest had said she and her things would be safe until her father could come get her.
Father Lanaghly had told her she would be welcomed by the laird and that all but one of the brothers was married and lived away.
All but the one standing right in front of her.
The old priest had further promised that Lady McTiernay was educated and appreciated knowledge and that the castle boasted of one of the largest libraries of information outside of an abbey. Never had Father Lanaghly mentioned that her things would fall into the hands of the unmarried brother.
A loud cough made Mhàiri jump. She turned around and saw Laird McTiernay at her doorway. He had gray eyes and some gray hair, but otherwise their facial features, their build, their air of confidence—they were all almost identical. Mhàiri felt as if she had been physically punched.
The man was indeed Conan’s older brother.
Laird McTiernay had just heard her spoiled declaration to kick Conan out of his chambers during her stay.