Chapter Two #6
Mhàiri quirked a brow. “What about lovemaking?” Immediately, her jaw dropped and she clamped a hand around her mouth, mortified.
Conan just chuckled, glad Mhàiri had not jumped to her feet to run away. But after her so easily ignoring him when they first met, then their heated debate in the cottage, knowing sex was also on her mind was quite comforting. “Of course I’ve tried it.”
And he had. Multiple times and in multiple ways.
Not only did it not work, it almost always resulted in less enjoyable consequences.
Invariably, within weeks—or days—the woman would seek more than Conan wanted to give, get upset that she was not the “one” who could convince him to give up his bachelor ways, and then cause a scene when she realized she had not changed him in the least. He was still the same opinionated, brutally honest man that everyone had warned her about.
“I can’t believe I just asked that!”
“I can,” Conan replied. Seeing sparks in her eyes, he added, “What? God did not create the desire for physical intimacy only in men. I happen to know that women enjoy the act just as much.”
“I bet you do,” she scoffed.
Conan squeezed his eyes shut and mentally chastised himself. If he did not want Mhàiri to order him away, he was certainly talking as if he did. “Now I’m the one shocked by saying my thoughts aloud.”
Mhàiri looked at him and shook her head with a small smile. “Aye, but I think that’s very rare. God was unfair when he made you, Conan McTiernay. You are far too good looking a man. You snatch a woman’s thoughts right out of her head, making her atypically vulnerable to your charms.”
Conan had been ready for a caustic comment, but Mhàiri had surprised him. Once again, she had proved to be an enigma he wanted to understand better. “Your own beauty can also be quite disarming.”
Mhàiri gave a small, feminine snort. “I doubt the most beautiful woman in the world could ‘disarm’ you.”
Conan turned to look at her directly in the eye. “You underestimate your beauty, Mhàiri, but I must admit that it is your keen wit and disturbingly accurate insight that intrigue me the most.”
“So you are not angry anymore with me?”
Conan shrugged. “Conor was right. It’s not often I’m wrong, and I hate it when my brother is around when it happens.
That it happened repeatedly within the span of an hour was bad enough.
But it was Conor who kept reminding me about it that made me ill company.
Then, again it’s rare anyone considers me decent company even when I’m not riled.
Supposedly I’m rude even when I try hard not to be. ”
A soft smile played on Mhàiri’s lips. “It takes more than simple rudeness to upset me.”
Conan could tell she truly meant the unusual claim. “Then what does?”
Mhàiri leaned back on her hands and looked upward, thinking.
“Oh, the things that would anger most anyone. Deceit. Being unreliable. Excessive whininess or exaggeration. And oh, when I am made to feel like a fool.” Seeing him smile, she said, “And condescension. That one really can be very annoying.”
“I think I might have touched that last one when we met.”
“Maybe a little, but I guess it is understandable you thought I was only the keeper of the books and not their owner. While I hate that it is true, I know that most women have not received the education my father gave me.”
“Nor are they blessed with the intelligence you have.” His smile got wider, enhancing his dimples.
Mhàiri looked away, thinking that men should not have dimples.
It was unfair. “Perhaps. But I would advise you to stop assuming most women have an inherent lack of understanding of anything beyond tending a home. One does not need to be literate and well-read to be sensible and capable of conversation.”
“I agree with you on principle, but my experience says otherwise. I’ve met very few who can hold my interest during a discussion.”
Mhàiri nudged his shoulder with her own. “It’s your dimples. They get in the way of us females being coherent, let alone witty.”
“I was always told it was my eyes.” Conan laughed, finding this odd conversation surprisingly enjoyable.
“Oh, they are very nice indeed. So blue a woman could drown in them by staring long enough. But it’s your dimples that are the conversation killers. So, in the future, when you want to have a rational conversation with a woman, you know what to do. Simply don’t smile.”
Conan’s grin grew only larger.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” Mhàiri teased. “But you should know that I’m no longer dazzled by them. Their effect is surprisingly short-lived.”
This time Conan laughed out loud. “That explains it! I never could figure out why my track record with women was so astoundingly short.”
“I get the feeling that the brevity of your relationships does not really bother you.”
Conan shook his head. “Not in the least, though my sister-in-law thinks it should.”
“Lady McTiernay?”
“Aye. You will meet Laurel tomorrow.” Seeing a look of apprehension invade Mhàiri’s eyes, he quickly added, “Don’t worry. Not only will she love that you are not vulnerable to either my eyes or dimples, Laurel simply likes everyone. Well, everyone except me.”
“I doubt that.”
Conan shrugged and looked down at what was in Mhàiri’s lap.
He had known she was drawing something, but he had assumed she was etching on parchment—something he often did before finalizing them in ink.
It was a way to enjoy the activity of drawing without incurring the high costs. However, once again, he had been wrong.
Conan could not believe what he was looking at and, without thought, reached over and plucked the drawing off her legs. The feel of it proved the dim light had not confused him. Mhàiri was indeed drawing on hemp.
Hemp paper was much lighter than vellum, was easier to write on and required far less ink.
He had only seen it used in the larger abbeys and even then, only in small quantities.
The only hemp paper mill he knew of was in Spain, erected a few decades ago, but its product was sought by many.
If he had access, he would be one of those many customers.
Such a writing medium would radically change his approach to traveling this spring. Vellum in the quantities he intended to bring was cumbersome. Though the leather was very thin, in large amounts, it was also very heavy. If he ever had a chance to shift to using hemp paper, he would not hesitate.
Conan fingered the material for several seconds and was about to hand it back to Mhàiri when the drawing itself caught his attention.
He tilted it toward the moonlight and took a longer look.
The unique style was similar to that of the drawings he had found in Mhàiri’s cottage.
He froze. That unusual artwork had been hers.
“This is incredible,” he said in a whisper.
“I, uh, thank you.”
“No, I am being quite serious,” he said more strongly and looked up at her. “Pictures always denote things, but never have I seen something drawn that actually looked like it does in reality. I feel as though I can dip my hand through this and touch what you are drawing.”
Mhàiri’s face erupted into the largest smile. Conan could not have paid her a higher compliment.
“This almost looks like where we are sitting right . . .” Conan stopped talking and started looking at the paper and then at the landscape. Both were difficult to see in only the moonlight, but Conan could make out differences. Minor to some, but to him, they were significant.
A frisson of anger surged through him. Conan got to his feet and turned to her, doing nothing to disguise his temper.
He shook her drawing at her. “This is clearly a drawing of this land, but when I look out I see a river. A river, I might add, that clearly denotes just where McTiernay land begins. And yet, in your drawing you changed it to a loch.”
Mhàiri blinked. “Is that why you are suddenly so angry? Because I like to draw lochs more than rivers?” She jumped up and attempted to snatch her drawing out of his grasp but failed.
“No. I’m angry because God gave you a gift. You have the power to put onto paper exactly how the world looks but instead you mock him by changing it.”
“I do not mock God,” Mhàiri hissed.
“You do when you misuse your gifts. I don’t know how, but you have hemp—something incredibly precious—and what are you using if for?
Yourself!” he snarled, shaking the paper in his hand.
“Your drawings could have infinite value. You could create not merely the most beautiful maps, but the most accurate ones the world has ever seen. But you draw to amuse only yourself. And worse, what you draw is so close to reality that many will actually mistake it for just that.”
Conan leaned down so that their noses were a few inches apart. “I would give anything for a gift like yours, but I’d rather not have it at all than misuse it like you do.”
Mhàiri stood completely still.
Conan knew he was scaring her and deep down, he also knew he was overreacting, but he had never seen anyone capture the world as it actually looked.
Art showed nothing about a country’s size, shape, or features.
Mhàiri had the ability to capture information that could win wars .
. . maybe even stop them. She could save lives by marking safe passageways that even a completely illiterate man could follow. Instead, she drew only for herself.
“My drawing has value to me. I draw the world how I wish it to be. I only wish I could do the same for you. For I would capture everything about you just as you are with one exception. Your judgmental soul. For that is what needs to be fixed. That is why women never want to be with you for very long. It is not your mannerisms or your honesty as you would like to think.”