Chapter Four #3
Since Conan had not yelled for her to get out, Mhàiri took another tentative step, followed by another.
She was eager to see what Conan’s chambers looked like.
Her head swiveled around, her soft green eyes growing larger the more she saw.
Mhàiri had assumed that the area would be something like hers, large with most of the space dedicated as bedchambers, perhaps an area for reading and another a cluttered section full of books, manuscripts, and whatnot. She could not have been more wrong.
First, the room was enormous. Unlike other rooms on the lower floors of the North Tower, or even those in the Warden’s Tower she was in, Conan’s chamber took up the entire floor. It was separated into three areas, and they were not partitioned off by walls, but by functionality.
Unlike her room, it was not the library portion that was a mess, but the section that functioned as his bedchambers.
The rushes were in dire need of replacement.
The wood pile next to the hearth—which looked in desperate need of cleaning—had toppled over.
His rumpled bed was large, but did not seem so in such a spacious area.
Next to it was a massive dark, ornately carved chest with what looked to be a mixture of both clean and dirty clothes draped over it.
Mhàiri looked at him, pointed to the chest, and was surprised to see Conan actually looking a little sheepish.
“Chambermaids,” he said with a sigh. “They clean, but they also disrupt. I find the latter more of an issue than wrinkled blankets and sheets.”
Mhàiri flashed a coquettish smile. “My guess is that chambermaids only venture here when Laurel forces them and even then you hound their every move.”
Conan grinned back, a perfect male smirk. “Lucky guess.”
Mhàiri laughed. “You mean accurate guess.”
She started toward the library section of the room.
It was rare that Conan let anyone near his collection of written work.
He sometimes allowed Bonny, but only when he was there with her.
So that he was letting Mhàiri do so, he really could not explain.
But the closer she got, the more her face grew in awe, and knowing that she appreciated what she was seeing made him eager for her to continue.
Unlike his bedroom area, the rest of Conan’s room was very orderly—and very crowded.
“I should have come up here much sooner,” Mhàiri whispered, her eyes darting everywhere.
“Then I never would have had any reason to doubt your assurances that you have no interest in my things. You barely have room for what you have.” Then she pointed to one of the romance books that he had teased her for owning.
“And you seem to have your own version already.”
Conan nodded and sank back down on the stool he had nearly toppled over upon hearing her voice. “People assume I like any type of manuscript or written word, and while that might have been true at one time, I have had to become a lot more selective in what I keep.”
Mhàiri ran her fingers lightly over the wood shelves.
They were not simple slats of wood that had been wedged and nailed together, but they had the look and feel of those that would be found in the large abbeys.
Four rows of wide open shelves enabled one to access books from either side.
Along the far wall, between the two large windows that let in a surprising amount of light, were multiple shelves, specifically built to store scrolls so they could be accessible and yet not rolling about.
The whole place was crowded, and yet there was an innate sense of organization to it.
Mhàiri was impressed. “Your room reminds me of a library I once saw when I was young and traveling with my father.”
“Remember which one?”
She nodded, still looking, caressing the etchings as she went. “It was one at the Cambuskenneth Abbey. Have you heard of it?”
Conan’s jaw twitched. While his room was nothing remotely close to as impressive as the abbey, he had modeled his shelving and his room’s layout based on his visit to Cambuskenneth.
Even Ellenor, who had taught him languages, had not recognized the beauty he had tried to incorporate into his chambers.
Mhàiri had. It once again stirred something in him, heating his already hot blood.
He had spent the past month trying to dismiss Mhàiri from his thoughts.
It had been a losing battle as odd tidbits of information about her were relayed to him by Seamus, Bonny, and too often Conor.
Her recognizing the library he had patterned his own after was going to be one more thing that would haunt him tonight when he tried to sleep.
Mhàiri scared him.
He had never physically craved a woman like he did her. He had wanted women, sometimes enough to chase them a bit, but never had desire interfered with his ability to concentrate during the day. And what he felt for Mhàiri was not mere desire, but something far stronger—and far more painful.
The moment she had opened the door, the scent of wild flowers had filled the room and turned his insides out.
Like she did on most days, Mhàiri had twisted the sides of her hair into loose braids, leaving the rest of her dark tresses to flow down her back.
This morning had been windy, causing several strands to become free and frame her face in a way that begged a man to reach out and know their softness.
He was not a man who normally paid attention to what a woman wore, but Mhàiri made that impossible.
Maegan and Laurel had been giving her their used clothes, but he did not remember ever seeing either of them in the gowns.
Mhàiri was slender, but not wafer thin like Maegan, which must make a large difference, because no man could forget the way Mhàiri was filling out the lavender dress she was currently wearing.
Physically Mhàiri was his dream woman. That was daunting in itself, but what really scared Conan was much greater than that.
Mhàiri understood him. Every time they spoke, she confirmed it in another unexpected way.
And today only compounded his fears. Mhàiri had entered his sanctuary, had seen his untidy bed, and while she commented on it, she did not chide him or tell him to get it cleaned. She had done something far worse.
She had accepted him.
Conan had more than simply believed there was not a woman for him—he had known it.
His personality did not mind being alone.
He had never craved “his other half” like his older brothers had.
For him to love a woman like they did their wives would end all his dreams, and eventually, it would eat at him until there was nothing left of him or his love.
Then he had met Mhàiri.
If he was ever going to fall for a woman, it would be her. He was not going to, of course. Not just for his sake, but hers.
Mhàiri wanted nothing of love either. Home, children, roots—these were things she did not want almost as much as he did not want them.
And while they both longed to see the world, their plans and ways for doing so could not be more different.
The life of a traveling merchant was that of constant change, but that change was predictable, consistent .
. . expected. He, on the other hand, was venturing into the unknown, where conditions would oftentimes be harsh and uncomfortable.
He had known this all after just a couple of days in her company.
So he had made a plan. It was a simple one—ignore Mhàiri.
Act as much as possible as if she did not exist until her father came to get her.
But that had been when he had thought her father would arrive in a few weeks .
. . not months. After weeks of trying to ignore her and the maddening effect of her pretending to ignore him, Conan knew that his simple-but-tormenting plan would not be viable much longer. Certainly not until spring.
Conan shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Maybe he just needed to get her out of his system.
His brothers may think he had been with a lot of women, but it was not really true.
Conan had kissed a lot of women, but when he needed a physical release, he was far more selective.
It was rare he ventured outside of those for whom he knew there would be no unexpected claims or children.
Laurel would undoubtedly kill him if he pursued Mhàiri to his bed, but what harm would there be in a kiss?
He had the benefit of Mhàiri being already interested in him.
Normally, her notice would be enough to dampen his desires.
Overly eager women were never attractive.
However, Mhàiri’s interest was less eager and more . . . curious, which was not unappealing.
He smiled at the realization. Perhaps the secret to getting Mhàiri out of his system really was to kiss her. A few poorly executed kisses would definitely solve his problem.
Conan wiggled his brows and pasted on his most charming smile. After a few minutes of sitting there, grinning like a fool, his frustration got to him and he began to scowl. Not once had she even glanced his way.
With a sigh, he crossed his arms and leaned back. “Let me guess. You are here about the shelves.”
Mhàiri nodded, still keeping her focus on the various volumes Conan owned. Never had she seen a private library so extensive. She had never even heard of one. “What are you going to do with all your things when you leave? You cannot possibly bring all this with you.”
Conan coughed at the thought. “Ah, no. I don’t really plan on taking hardly any of it. Some maps of course and as much blank vellum as I can carry, but the rest will stay here, in this room, just like it is. Bonny, I’m sure you have come to realize, is very bright—”
“She’s brilliant,” Mhàiri corrected, her eyes still reading the spines. “I suspect she is smarter than either you or I, and putting humility aside, I don’t say that lightly.”