Chapter Three #2
She glanced around. With the arrival of Laurel, faces of those who worked around the castle were starting to appear once more. In a few minutes, the courtyard would be bustling once again.
“And who is she?” Mhàiri asked when another woman came from the tower and started waddling out to the group.
She was built like a cauldron, round in the middle and made of iron.
No effort had been made to tame her wild, slightly graying flame-colored hair.
She wore a man’s leine underneath her plaid arisaid, which was tied off with a large leather strap.
Her expression was a strange combination of a scowl and a smile—something Mhàiri had never seen before and found quite intimidating.
“Is that . . . Fiona?” Mhàiri asked, remembering what Conan had said about the old cook.
“Fiona?” Conan snorted. “At this time of day, she’s in the kitchen. Not even the fight that’s about to happen could drag her out here.”
“You are expecting someone to fight?”
Conan nodded. “Seeing Hagatha here? Absolutely.” He crossed his arms again.
“Hagatha’s the midwife, and for some inexplicable reason, the old bat is fond of Laurel and she of her.
But the eyesore normally lives north of here—Ow!
” He yelped in midsentence when Mhàiri’s elbow collided with his ribs.
He rubbed them and frowned. Mhàiri gave him an unapologetic look.
Conan rolled his eyes. Maybe “eyesore” had been a little rude, but it was the truth.
“So if Hagatha is around,” he continued, “it almost confirms that things are not as well as Laurel would like them to appear. Conor knows this and will be demanding an explanation. Just wait.”
Mhàiri rolled her eyes, but instead of debating the prediction, she turned to watch the couple and see if Conan was right.
Upon seeing Laurel, Conor pulled her into his arms and gave her the kind of kiss that inspired people to write songs and ballads about love. “A shìorraidh!” Mhàiri said under her breath. She was shocked and just a little bit jealous.
“Aye.” Conan sighed. “Best get used to it. They kiss a lot.”
Mhàiri nudged his arm with her shoulder and, with a triumphant smile, said, “They’re not fighting.”
“Kiss first. Then comes the fight. Then they’ll probably kiss again. It’s a pattern they follow regularly. Sometimes I think they argue just to have a reason to make up.”
Conor and Laurel finally ended their heated embrace and Mhàiri had a good view of Laurel.
Beautiful was such a shallow word for the woman.
She had long, wavy pale gold hair and fair skin, and her height only made her look ethereal and delicate.
She was, in many ways, Mhàiri’s opposite.
Where Mhàiri was dark, Laurel was fair. Where Laurel had dark eyes like that of a storm, Mhàiri’s were light green.
Conor framed Laurel’s face in his large hands.
“I see circles under your eyes and you are thinner. But what is most disturbing is your presence, Hagatha.” He looked up and stared at the frizzy redhead who was not in the least unsettled by his severe look.
“I knew something was wrong when I left,” he said, once again looking at Laurel. “What is it? What don’t I know?”
Laurel just went on her tiptoes and gave him a peck on his cheek. She then popped out of his embrace and scanned the crowd. Her eyes stopped when they hit the carts near the stables. “You must be Mhàiri!” she exclaimed and moved with the aim of giving Mhàiri a warm welcome.
However, Laurel got no more than two steps before Conor stopped her. “Answer my question, woman.”
Mhàiri watched as Laurel stopped and her blue eyes turned a stormy color before facing Conor. “Woman?” Her voice was sharp and the words were clipped. “I’m going to let that go because you have been on the road and are tired, but you know that never ends in success.”
“Answer the question, Laurel.”
She smoothed her bliaut down in an effort to calm her obviously spiked emotions.
“There is nothing wrong. I would tell you if there was, but that is not the case so there is nothing to say.” They locked heated gazes for several seconds before she pivoted again toward Mhàiri, her angry face transforming into a welcoming smile.
“Laurel!” Conor shouted so loudly that Mhàiri jumped slightly.
Mhàiri glanced around to see who had noticed, and that was when she saw that people had indeed emerged and were resuming their duties.
No one else was flustered or upset by what was transpiring between the laird and his wife.
Most were doing their work as if nothing of interest were occurring in the middle of the courtyard.
Even the four children were not paying attention.
They were playing tag, totally unfazed by their yelling parents.
A strange wave of nostalgia came over Mhàiri.
“Welcome, Mhàiri,” Laurel said cheerfully, grasping her hands while ignoring the glares coming from her husband. “We are so glad to have you with us. I love visitors, and we do not have nearly enough of them.”
“We have plenty. Our castle is practically the beacon for strays,” Conor mumbled.
“Ignore him. He loves them as well for it keeps me occupied and less inclined to meddle in things he is interested in.”
Conor’s eyes rolled and he tilted his head back and forth, indicating that he somewhat agreed with his wife’s statement.
Mhàiri could not help herself. She returned Laurel’s smile with a large one of her own. She had forgotten how her parents used to bicker in a similar manner. It was surprising to realize how much she missed this strange dance of love. Many might not understand it, but she did.
“Thank you both for the invitation.”
Conor looked Mhàiri straight in the eye. “You are welcome to stay as long as you need.” He then swung his gaze to the woman about her age who had walked out with the children. “Maegan, how often have you been needed to look after the twins and Bonny?”
Maegan blinked. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, and though she said nothing, they both knew it was too late to deny what he was implying.
Maegan stuck her chin out, walked over to the cart, hooked her arm with Mhàiri’s as if they were lifelong friends, and stated, “Mhàiri and I refuse to be drawn into your argument.”
Mhàiri looked down at their hooked elbows and then up and into the prettiest pale blue eyes she had ever seen. Deep set, they were framed with long lashes several shades darker than her umber-colored hair, which was pulled back into simple, but very attractive, plaits.
Seeing Mhàiri’s shock, Maegan patted her arm. “Trust me. Being a visitor—even a newly arrived one—won’t protect you from getting caught in the fray. But I will.” She leaned close, but kept her eyes on Laurel, who was staring at Conor as she approached him. “I’m Maegan by the way,” she whispered.
Mhàiri was about to inquire what Maegan had meant by fray when the cold tone of Conor’s voice rang out across the ever-quietening courtyard.
“I will not be diverted, Laurel. You were out of sorts when I left. Then I return and you are not here to greet me. Next, I find out from my son that you are taking another bath as if you’ve been requesting them daily, and when you finally do leave the tower, Hagatha is in tow. Now, what is wrong?”
Laurel pursed her lips together and Mhàiri could have sworn she also stomped her foot.
“Hagatha is my friend. And when I say that I am fine, that is became I am. Aye, I might have been feeling poorly, but I am not any longer. You and I can discuss it later, but right now I want to see to our guest’s needs. Mhàiri—”
“Can wait,” Conor clipped. “I cannot believe you were sick and did not tell me! Or send word! I would have come home immediately!”
Laurel rolled her eyes and turned back to Mhàiri.
“I had a room prepared for you in the Warden’s Tower,” she said, pointing to the large stone tower to Mhàiri’s right.
“There are several rooms in the North Tower, and that is where most of our guests stay, but when Father Lanaghly requested assistance, he also mentioned that you had a great deal of books and scrolls. He made it sound as if you had enough to rival Conan’s collection. ”
Conan scoffed. Laurel leveled a stare at him. “So, to ensure that Conan never accidentally mistakes your room for his, I decided a completely different tower was more appropriate.”
Conan bent down and whispered in Mhàiri’s ear, “That was not the reason.”
“Hagatha!” Conor shouted and Mhàiri realized just what Maegan had meant about being pulled into the argument.
She clutched Maegan’s elbow tightly against her side, comforted to know Maegan was doing the same.
“I want to know exactly what was wrong with my wife, for how long, and if she is in any danger!”
The voice was loud and angry, but, more than anything, Mhàiri heard terror. She guessed Laurel had finally heard it as well. “Conor,” she said squeezing his arm to gain his attention. “You are ruining my plans for later,” she hissed through tight lips.
“Why later?” Conor pressed. “Why not now?”
“I said I would tell you later! In private!” This time, it was Laurel who was shouting, and Mhàiri absolutely saw her stomp her foot this time.
“Why? Most of our arguments end up in the courtyard with the world listening to them. Why can’t this one?”
“Because this was not supposed to be an argument! It was supposed to be special!” Laurel wailed back at him. “It was supposed to be romantic!”
“How is being sick supposed to—”
“A baby, Conor!” Laurel shouted, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’m going to have a baby! And God help me, you are going to be its father.”
Conor took a step back as if someone had punched him in the gut.
Conan took the opportunity to get a little revenge for the ribbing he had been taking the past few days. “Seems someone else has been wrong about more than his share of things as well, huh, brother?”