Chapter Two #5
Mhàiri wished she could rewind the day and start all over, beginning with welcoming him and thanking him for helping her. The laird was probably rethinking taking her with him at all, let alone hauling her things and giving her a temporary home until her father was found.
Mhàiri was about to apologize and say as much when she saw two gray eyes sparkling at her. In their smoky depths, she saw not anger, but mirth. “I think Laurel will be delighted at the idea of you taking over the North Tower.”
“Over my dead body,” came an angry growl behind her. Only four words, but they held much venom. Mhàiri knew that Conan was serious.
“Laurel just might oblige,” Conor replied with a chuckle, completely unaffected by his younger brother’s threat. “But until then, let’s start taking all this out of here. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“It can’t all fit in one cart,” Conan countered.
The smug tone in his voice rankled Mhàiri once again. “Then it is a good thing that I have another one.”
“Aye,” Conor confirmed. “Father Lanaghly and I just finished hooking it up to your horse,” he said, grinning at Conan so widely Mhàiri thought the laird’s face would split. “Only need to load it up so we can go.”
Conan glowered first at Conor and then at Mhàiri before stomping outside. “Murt,” he muttered to himself, seeing that his horse really was hooked up to a second cart. It was smaller, but between the two, there would be enough room to allow Mhàiri to take all her belongings.
Conan marched back in and grabbed a box. Before he exited, he leveled a gaze on Mhàiri. “You may be a nun, but you’ve got two arms. Use them and help carry your things.”
Conan walked out and put the box on the smaller cart.
He started to go back and get another load when he heard a truly disconcerting sound.
That of a priest in the middle of guffaws.
“Mhàiri is no more a nun than you are a monk,” Father Lanaghly managed to get out between gasps for breath.
“Anyone could tell by looking at her she never took any vows.”
“You thought Mhàiri was a nun?” he heard Conor ask as he came out with a large stuffed bag of scrolls. “Wait till Laurel hears this. She always said you were not as intelligent as I thought.”
Conan was furious. He wanted to say something, anything, to end his humiliation. For a moment, he thought his brother understood and was going to back off, but he should have known that Conor would enjoy this moment for as long as possible.
“I can see you are mad, but even you have to admit that you’ve never been wrong about so much in such a short period of time.”
* * *
Mhàiri stared at the night sky and studied the nuances of landscape, trying to decide how to best capture its likeness.
It was very late and the mountains’ shadows hid most of the details, but the moon was bright, giving her enough light to produce a basic sketch.
Normally drawing was the best remedy to a bad day, but tonight, she did not expect it to bring her any measurable level of comfort.
How quickly those feelings of smug satisfaction at her cottage had shifted to frustration, regret, and finally complete embarrassment.
Thank goodness they were to arrive at McTiernay Castle tomorrow.
They had left her cottage much later in the day than anticipated, mostly because while she had had everything packed, it had not been organized in a way that made efficient use of space.
Once they had finally departed, no one had spoken to her except the priest, who had been focused on being hungry and how he had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to travel driving a cart.
The next day had been more of the same, although Laird McTiernay had periodically offered her a few words of acknowledgement.
The third time the laird had come back, Father Lanaghly had laughed, followed by murmurings that Lady McTiernay would be pleased with her husband’s diplomatic efforts, leaving Mhàiri with no doubts that Conor was only talking with her to be nice.
Then there was today. Conan and his brother had ridden way ahead most of the time, leaving her with solely the priest as company.
Mhàiri did not mind being alone and could have tolerated silence, but it seemed that Father Lanaghly enjoyed company.
He had spoken about anything and everything.
So when Conan had mumbled that they were stopping to make camp for the night, Mhàiri had been relieved.
She had also decided that she was going to apologize to Conan and hopefully induce him into conversation.
She was surprised to find that, looking back at her and Conan’s altercation, she had enjoyed it.
The last person she had had a worthy debate with was her father—and that had been years ago.
She had barely stepped down off the cart when a dead bird and two small rabbits were laid at her feet. After two nights of doing both the hunting and the cooking, the men had seemed to think she should offer to do the latter.
She had survived for two weeks on her own, so it was not that Mhàiri could not cook; it was that she could not cook well.
Several times, her father, her sister, or other members of the priory had tried to get her to learn, but Mhàiri had soundly refused.
Such a skill set was a big step toward a future and life she refused to accept.
Standing in a kitchen all day preparing food, only to have to clean up after everyone ate before seeing to her husband’s “other” needs, was how she defined hell.
After seeing the looks on all three men’s faces as they had bitten into the barely edible piece of charred meat, she had regretted being so stubborn about learning nothing.
Laird McTiernay had looked ill and the priest’s expression had conveyed pity, but Conan’s had been one of utter disgust. It was as if he had somehow known that while she had not intended to ruin the meal, she had intentionally never learned to cook, which meant someone had served her meals for her entire life.
Mhàiri felt blessed to have been born from such wonderful parents whose lifestyle meant continual adventures and seeing new sights.
But that did not mean she did not also know of heartbreak.
Her mother had died when she had been only ten, and by the age of fourteen, Mhàiri had been sent to join her older sister at the priory, where her father thought she would be safe.
Aye, Mhàiri had been fortunate in many ways, but she had never considered herself spoiled.
Not until tonight. And worse, she knew Conan had not been wrong.
“What are you doing?”
Mhàiri jumped at the sound of his voice.
Conan was surprised. His approach had been loud so she must have been deep in thought.
Then again, she might have just been surprised he was even talking to her.
He had certainly not enjoyed being humiliated by his many foolish assumptions, but his anger with her had been short-lived.
His brother, however, refused to let the matter drop.
Conan had had no choice but to stay away lest he encourage another set of witticisms.
Mhàiri turned to look at him. Even in the dim light, her pale green eyes seemed to see through him. “I, um, uh, nothing really. Just sketching the loch and some of the mountains.” She then looked around him to see if anyone else was approaching.
“Conor left to visit a nearby farm since we are on the outskirts of McTiernay land.”
“I suspect the need for something to eat drove him to that decision,” Mhàiri whispered, feeling guilty once again.
“Probably so. My brother does love good food. It’s the only reason he and anyone else put up with Fiona.”
“Who’s Fiona?”
“She runs the kitchens at McTiernay Castle. And when I say Fiona runs the kitchens, that is exactly what I mean. Laurel won’t admit it, but even she is careful when dealing with the surly beast.” Mhàiri furrowed her brows at the slur.
Conan waggled his finger at her. “See if that description is not completely accurate after you’ve met her.
And what’s more, you won’t complain because Fiona’s food is that good. ”
Mhàiri looked around to see who else might hear them. “Where is Father Lanaghly?”
Conan looked behind him and pointed to somewhere in the blackness. “He said it was too warm by the fire and is snoring somewhere way over there.” Turning back around, he looked out and said, “It is a pretty view.”
He moved to sit down beside her. Mhàiri’s eyes grew large with shock, but she scooted to make room. “Can’t sleep?” she finally asked after almost two minutes of silence between them.
Conan shook his head, but offered no explanations.
“My father was sometimes restless at night. Said his brain refused to be quiet. That it was hard to get his thoughts to calm.”
Conan stared at her for a second. Was it possible that she understood? That sleeping throughout the night was something he often struggled with and had for his whole life? He picked up a stick and started poking the ground with it. “Then your father and I must be of similar minds.”
“My mother called it kindred spirits. My father said talking to her helped,” Mhàiri said, hinting that she would be open to him talking to her.
Conan flashed her one of his best smiles.
“Talking worked for him, huh? Then, maybe we’re not kindred spirits.
” When Mhàiri whipped her head back to face forward, Conan knew that his smile had affected her.
It affected most women to some degree, and while he was not above using it as a tool to achieve a goal, that had not been his intention just now.
The last thing he wanted was for Mhàiri to get nervous and leave.
“Some nights, questions or answers to questions start to spin through my head, making it impossible to fall back asleep. I’ve tried everything from sitting calmly to being outside, to taking a long ride. Even tried sparring.”