Chapter Three
Mhàiri cringed from her seat on the cart. Conor had ridden with them most of the way, but once they had neared the gatehouse, he had urged his horse ahead. As they were still making their way to the gates, Mhàiri could hear him bellow out Laurel’s name, demanding to be told where she was.
Father Lanaghly, who had returned to his cart seat when Conor had rejoined their group, mumbled how it was odd that Laurel was not in the courtyard waiting.
“After a lengthy time apart, Lady McTiernay has never not greeted the laird upon his return home. As soon as he is spotted by the watchers on the towers, she goes to the bailey or, if the weather is poor, inside the great hall until he arrives. That she still has not welcomed him home only confirms that something is indeed wrong with her ladyship.”
Mhàiri’s eyes widened, hearing the priest’s concern.
She had discerned from the various comments that something was bothering Lady McTiernay.
Until now, she had refrained from putting much credence into the supposition that it was serious.
When they spoke of her, everything indicated that her ladyship had seemed healthy, but maybe that, too, had been an incorrect assumption.
Mhàiri hoped Lady McTiernay was fine, not just because her own temporary well-being and quarters were based on Laurel’s generosity, but because she knew, after spending three days with his lairdship, that if something were seriously wrong with his wife, he would be crushed—physically, mentally, and emotionally.
Her father had loved her mother that way and when she had died, he had been lost for a long time.
As they entered the courtyard, the doors of what looked to be the great hall were flung open and again, Mhàiri heard Conor roar for his wife as he exited into the courtyard headed to what looked like a smaller hall.
Mhàiri looked at Conan, who merely shrugged, showing no concern. “Conor really loves his wife,” he said with ease. “Don’t ask me why. She’s pretty to look at, but she’s also mean.”
Mhàiri could not help herself and laughed. “That’s not what Father Lanaghly says.”
“He’s a priest. He has to lie.”
Father Lanaghly narrowed his eyes briefly on Conan and pulled the cart to a stop next to the stables. Conan halted next to him, jumped down, and then helped Mhàiri off the uncomfortable seat.
Mhàiri stretched her limbs, feeling circulation return to them. “So what makes her so mean?” she asked in a hushed but playful tone.
Conan crossed his arms and leaned against the larger cart. “I told you. She is a meddlesome creature who truly enjoys torturing me.”
Mhàiri laughed again. Conan was being earnest, and yet she could tell his comments were also coming from a place of love. He thought of Laurel as Shinae was to her—an older sister. “And you think to convince me that none of this supposed torture is deserved?”
Conan scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You haven’t even met Laurel and yet you take her side.” He raised his brows and pointed to his elder brother, who was exiting the lower hall.
“If someone does not tell me where my wife is in the next five seconds, lives are going to be lost!” Conor roared, and for the first time, the people of the courtyard jumped.
If they did not think he had meant it before, they did now.
For suddenly they were moving, most of them heading somewhere that would take them out of the laird’s sight.
When Mhàiri entered the courtyard, she had expected to see people bustling around, fawning over their laird and attempting to see to his needs, but aside from the stable boy taking his horse, people seemed unfazed by Conor’s presence and his bellowing.
They smiled and greeted him as if he had just been out for a ride and acted as if he was cheerful and in a good mood.
Now, however, they seemed to realize that their laird was truly not happy and his anger was going to shift to them.
Suddenly, a burly man with red and gray hair and matching frizzy beard ran by them from the direction of the gatehouse they had just entered.
He was not very tall, but his large chest and biceps hinted at enormous strength.
Conor spied him right after Mhàiri had. “Fallon! Where have you been? Where is Laurel?”
Conan leaned down and whispered in Mhàiri’s ear, “Fallon is Conor’s steward.” Mhàiri’s eyes grew wide and she nodded.
“Calm yourself, Laird McTiernay,” Fallon huffed, trying to catch his breath. He did not look to be out of shape so Mhàiri guessed he had been running some distance to get there. “Lady McTiernay is here and well, and no doubt will be out very soon.”
“Something is wrong,” Conor stated, his voice cold.
Gone was the reserved but pleasant laird who had traveled with them.
In his stead was a dangerous man. He was not one to be managed or calmed.
He wanted one thing, and Mhàiri prayed Fallon realized that because he looked as if he was about to argue with Conor rather than producing his wife.
Fallon shook his head while waving his hands back and forth. Before he could say anything shouts of “Athair!” rang through the air.
Mhàiri swiveled her head to see who was shouting for their father when she spied five people emerging from the massive seven-story tower located on the far side of the courtyard.
The first to emerge was a tall, very thin woman with thick, umber-colored hair who looked to be near or about Mhàiri’s age.
She was holding the hands of two girls, one with pale tresses and the other with deep brown locks.
Both girls were eagerly dragging her toward Conor, who was obviously their father from their shouts to him.
Behind them were two lanky boys who were not small, but had several years before they would be men.
One of them Mhàiri absolutely knew was Conor’s son by his looks and mannerisms.
Conor had spun around at their shouts. When he knelt down, the two young girls let the woman’s hands go and flew across the courtyard into Conor’s outstretched arms.
“Where is your mother?” he asked each of them.
“We missed you!”
“Brenna got in trouble every day, Papa,” the littlest said.
“You got in trouble too!”
“Not every day,” came the quick and huffy retort, her brown curls flouncing.
“Where is your mother?” Conor asked each of them again, this time a little more strongly.
The eldest gave him another big hug. “She’s coming.”
Mhàiri saw Conor look at the sky as he stood back up. She suspected he was praying. Conor then looked down at the two boys, who had ambled up, refusing to look as eager to say hello as the girls. Their dancing eyes, however, made it clear that they were just as glad to see him.
“Welcome home, Laird,” the tawny-haired boy stated.
“Athair,” said the slightly taller lad with dark brown hair and unusually blue eyes. They were not the bright blue of Conan’s, but that of the sea during a storm.
“Son,” Conor said gruffly and engulfed him in a bear hug the boy readily returned. The amount of affection between Conor and his children was a reminder of how much Mhàiri missed her own father.
“Braeden, where is your mother?” Conor asked, his tone striving to remain patient, but Mhàiri suspected he had very little left.
“Wet,” Braeden replied, laughing, thinking his answer funny.
He immediately realized his father was not amused.
“Mama, uh, was taking another bath. She told me to tell you that she would be out directly and to, um . . . uh . . . stop all your shouting. That you are scaring everyone, including some visitor.”
Mhàiri bit her lip to keep from smiling. The boy was definitely a McTiernay.
“Your mother is well?” Conor pressed.
Braeden’s brows shot up, as he was clearly baffled by the question. “I . . . think so. She yelled at Gideon and me earlier and we didn’t do anything wrong, so she’s not in a good mood. Is that what you mean?”
“No.” Conor took a deep breath and exhaled. “What visitor? Who is staying here without my knowledge?”
Braeden pulled his head back, and his puzzled look became one of pure confusion. He looked over to the stables and pointed.
Mhàiri’s eyes grew wide seeing the finger was pointed in her direction. She felt as if she were being accused of something. “You look scared.” Conan chuckled under his breath.
“Why would I be scared?” Mhàiri murmured back, hoping she looked calmer than she felt.
“Don’t know. I don’t have access to your thoughts, though I suspect if I did, I’d still be confused as to why you look scared.”
“He’s still pointing at me,” Mhàiri hissed.
“That’s just Braeden. He’s probably doing it because he sees that it unnerves you,” Conan explained blithely. “He thinks because he is tall for a ten-year-old that he is practically a man.”
Conor was about to head toward the tall tower when the sounds of chittering women caught everyone’s attention.
“Finally,” Conan mumbled. “That one is Laurel, Conor’s wife,” he said, pointing to the beautiful woman with pale blond hair.
“And in tow are her two best friends. Aileen is the fairly pretty one with the light brown hair. She is Gideon’s mother.
” He gestured to the boy who was standing next to Braeden.
“And Finn’s wife.” He then angled his thumb to a large man who, along with similarly large soldiers, had mysteriously arrived next to Fallon when Mhàiri had not been looking.
“He’s the commander of Conor’s elite guard and someone you really should stay clear of.
The man never smiles. And I mean never.” Mhàiri stole a quick peek at him and confirmed Finn’s face completely lacked expression.
“I’m serious. The man’s lips have never curled in their life. ”
Mhàiri swallowed. The commander was another person she needed to remain in good graces with or else she might find herself suddenly with nowhere to stay.