Desiring The Highlander

by Michele Sinclair

  “Meeting you is going to make it all the more difficult to leave this place.”

  “Leave?” Ellenor sputtered, sitting straight up and looking her new friend in the eye. “What do you mean? Why would you be leaving your home?”

  “A few years ago, Donald and Cole fought together and have been close ever since. The McTiernays are a well-known clan in the Highlands and also a very large one. The laird’s army is substantial, but in the past few years, several men, including Donald, have chosen to follow Cole. As a result, Cole feels responsible for the families and wives of his men.”

  “Wives like you.”

  Brighid nodded. “And children, sometimes parents and brothers, and such. Cole has not yet erected himself a permanent home, but if Donald’s right and Cole becomes a chieftain…have you heard about that?”

  “I have and he will.”

  The solemnity of Ellenor’s answer caused Brighid to momentarily pause and reassess her new friend before continuing. “Uh, well, then many families will be relocating. Part of me is thankful to see my husband more often than pockets of time, but it does mean leaving all that I have known…and new friends,” she added, stretching out her hand.

  Ellenor reached out, clasped Brighid’s fingers, and was about to echo her sadness, when the Hall’s doors swung open and a serious stout man Ellenor recognized as the steward entered. He took two steps before stopping to fiddle with his gray and red beard and stare at her with scrutiny. Ellenor felt as if she were a semiplump pheasant being visually plucked and found to be unsatisfactory.

  Instinct took over. She let Brighid’s hand go, rose smoothly to a standing position, and clasped her hands together in a relaxed, but authoritative way. Behind her, Brighid whistled softly, “Good Lord, it’s like watching Laurel.”

  Fallon renewed his march. He stopped directly in front of her, gave a curt nod, and then said “Milady” as if it created an ill taste in his mouth.

  Ellenor arched a single brow and said, “What can I do for you, steward?”

  Fallon blinked twice. The woman spoke Gaelic and she knew who he was. He had not been prepared for either. He had also not been prepared for her reaction to his assertive entrance. He had witnessed the woman’s unmannered arrival this afternoon, and seeing her jump off a horse and run into her ladyship’s embrace, he had assumed her unknowledgeable about decorum and proper behavior.

  For the past hour, he had been avoiding the newcomer, waiting for Laurel to awaken and make some last-minute decisions about the night’s event. He had planned to retire before ever having to say a word of false welcome. But when he finally had met with Laurel, she had refused to answer his questions. Instead, she had directed them all to this woman. He didn’t like dealing with outsiders, and after four years of working with a Lady of the Castle who understood her role and performed it superbly, he absolutely dreaded going to a haughty, inexperienced Englishwoman for anything.

  Fallon licked his lips and said, “I was directed by her ladyship to seek your counsel on tonight’s meal.”

  Ellenor heard Brighid suck in her breath and fought the urge to turn around and tell her to hush. Knowing that Brighid would not be able to curtail any further gasps, Ellenor pointed to the doors and proceeded toward them, indicating Fallon to join her. “I think it might be better if we spoke outside.”

  Fallon nodded almost imperceptibly, and before turning to follow Ellenor out, he gave Brighid a long hard stare that only caused her to erupt in a fit of giggles. “Milady,” Fallon began as soon as they were outdoors, “Lady Laurel instructed all questions concerning keep activities be directed to you.”

  Ellenor suddenly wished she hadn’t left the Great Hall. She needed a place to sit or at least lean against. Laurel had been serious about having her help out, but Ellenor hadn’t thought that meant today. She didn’t even know where anything was, how things worked, what kind of help Laurel did and did not want. “I, uh…is Laurel unwell?”

  “Not that I am aware of, milady. She indicated she would be attending tonight’s dinner in the Hall, but you would be helping with final preparations. There is an issue dealing with the birds and the ovens, and an even larger difficulty in getting all who are supposed to be present to attend.”

  Ellenor took a deep breath and reminded herself that she had been dealing with such problems for years and it mattered little how well she knew these people or their customs. A fowl was a fowl and people were people…or so she hoped.

  “Let’s start with the birds and the ovens. And keep your explanation brief.”

  Fallon opened his mouth and closed it, shocked. He waited for a few seconds before trying again. This time with more respect. “It’s the cook. Fiona,” he began. “She refuses to prepare any birds for evening, saying the ones left are rotten and not fit for her kitchen.”

  “Is she correct?”

  “What do you mean?” Fallon asked, throwing his hands up in the air as he always did when frustrated.

  Ellenor instinctively jumped back. “I mean is the meat indeed rotten? And if so, what other food can be made ready in time?”

  Fallon’s thick brows bunched together, forming a fuzzy bridge along his forehead. “How would I know? Fiona’s the cook!”

  “Then listen to her and ask her to prepare something else for dinner. There has to be something. Tonight is just close friends, correct?”

  Fallon nodded, rubbing his scalp.

  “Then whatever she prepares shall suffice. Laurel says she is an excellent cook and I am assuming not just at roasting birds. Tomorrow I will inspect the meat myself and…” Ellenor paused, realizing that the timing of this problem was just a little too coincidental. From what Brighid and Laurel had insinuated, the famed McTiernay cook had an obsessive need to exert control over her kitchen. “And Fallon, you might also inform Fiona that she and I will meet each morning to discuss the day’s meals and identify any problems before they occur. I suspect your good cook knew the meat was rotten long before now. For some reason, she wanted to create a different meal, so let her—tonight.”

  Fallon gasped and his eyes widened to saucer size. “Aye, milady.” This time his voice held a distinct level of admiration.

  “You mentioned a second problem. Are there really clansmen who are refusing Laurel’s request?”

  Fallon winced. “I might have overstated that a bit. I should have said Conan is refusing to come.”

  “Who’s Conan and what reason did he give?”

  “Um, he’s one of the laird’s younger brothers, and the reason he gave was that he had more important things to do. I was to leave him alone and have someone bring his meal to him.”

  “I think I remember Laurel mentioning Conan now. Something about a new set of maps.”

  “Aye, milady. Father Lanaghly brought them yesterday and the young McTiernay has refused to leave his study ever since.”

  Again Fallon threw up his hands in aggravation and again Ellenor jumped back just in time. “Let me handle Conan. Could you tell me where he is?”

  Fallon pointed to the North Tower. “Top floor. And, milady, Conan and women…well…” He paused and then shook his head giving up. “Never mind.”

  Ellenor didn’t understand why Fallon had become so nervous, but she couldn’t imagine Cole having a brother who would hurt her. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m not. I mean I was, but now that I think about it, it’s Conan who should be warned, not you.”

  Ellenor was about to ask just what he meant when Fallon coughed into his hand and said, “Oh, and there was one last refusal.”

  “Another brother?”

  Fallon nodded. “Cole. Same reason Conan gave. Too busy.”

  Ellenor crossed her arms and closed her eyes. The man had to be the most stubborn creature alive. Cole wanted to leave. Fine. He wanted to be miserable and alone. Again, fine. But until then, she was not going to let him run and hide from her under such weak excuses as being too busy. Even if it was true.

  Taking a
deep breath, she opened her eyes and smiled warmly at the steward. And as sweetly as possible, she said, “He’ll come, Fallon. After you meet with Fiona, find Cole and explain to him that if he doesn’t attend tonight’s dinner, all will learn about Elmer.”

  “Did you say Elmer, milady?” Fallon asked, clearly confused.

  “That is correct. Elmer. Trust me. He’ll come.”

  The North Tower did not have as many stories as the Star Tower, but the ones it had seemed inordinately taller than most. Pausing by the big oak door hiding the fourth-story room, Ellenor caught her breath and tried to prepare herself for whatever physical or mental affliction Conan must have to cause such consternation among his friends and family.

  She gave the thick door a solid knock and waited. Finally, a short and exasperated “Enter” bellowed from the other side.

  Ellenor pushed the thick-planked door open and almost stumbled over a stack of papers, scrolls, and boxes filled with more writing and pictures. The room was crammed with stacked chests and boxes, all with various writings in them. “Good Lord, it must have taken years, decades, to collect all this stuff,” she muttered aloud.

  Bright blue eyes shrouded by a wavy mane of shoulder-length brown hair popped around from one of the corners, quickly glanced her up and down, and with a snort, disappeared again behind a makeshift bookcase.

  Ellenor rolled her eyes, wondering if Highlanders thought it was their God-given right to be rude. The man only came into view for a few seconds, but it was clear whatever Laurel, Brighid, and even Fallon had been intimating did not involve a physical impairment.

  She skirted around the various sundries and found him alone, bent over a massive workbench studying what looked to be a map. There were several other similar items strewn over the table, each with rock weights to keep them from recurling. “Are you Conan?”

  Silence followed. Ellenor shrugged. She knew he was. The dark coloring, blue eyes, and oversized frame all screamed McTiernay. Ink covered his fingertips and the sleeves of his leine were rolled to his elbows. He didn’t wear a sword, but she did see one teetering against the stone wall within arm’s reach. Like his brother, Conan was enormous and powerfully built, and yet, despite their numerous physical similarities, Ellenor thought Cole a much better looking man. There was something lacking in Conan that Cole had. A type of confidence one gained only with experience.

  “I asked you a question.”

  The dark head snapped up at the light reprimand. His royal blue eyes darkened a tad before narrowing. “I have no need for pretty women with empty heads consuming what little space I have. So unless you can read French, be gone.” Immediately he turned and started searching for something in one of the chests.

  Ellenor moved over to the bench and peered at the large rendering of what she had been told was the European coastline. Nothing about the map looked any different from the dozen or so she had seen at the abbey. “I cannot see why this is so interesting. It depicts nothing different from any other map, except that it seems a little older. A little more worn perhaps.”

  “I thought I told you to leave.”

  “You said anyone who didn’t know French should leave,” Ellenor corrected.

  Conan pivoted and leveled his eyes on her, giving her a long stare. “Women are unable to know such things. Now go, and don’t touch anything.” Then with a quick shake of his head, he dismissed her with a deprecating scoff before adding, “And find Fallon and tell him I’m hungry.”

  Ellenor stood silent, shocked for several moments. She had just grasped the nature of Conan’s problem with the rest of the human race. He was an ass. Sharing that fact with him would be pointless, as he had no doubt been told by numerous others. He didn’t care. To him, he was surrounded by ignorance and women were the worst offenders.

  Left with few options—walk away, return the insult, or stay and prove him wrong—Ellenor opted for the latter.

  Pulling a stool over to the bench, she sat down and scanned the illustration. “This isn’t French. It’s Latin.”

  Conan dropped the few things in his hands and moved over to reexamine the document. “Latin?” he asked incredulously. “Are you sure? What does this say?”

  Ellenor followed his fingertip to a paragraph above one of the elevated markings and said, “It says caveant consules.”

  “Caveant consules,” Conan repeated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Ellenor swallowed her chuckle but could not hide her grin. She had suddenly gone from being a brainless female to a fellow man, where swearing in front of each other was not only done, but expected. “It means ‘Consuls beware.’ The Roman Consuls were—”

  Conan cut her off with the wave of his hand. “I know. I know. Roman officials. This map is old, but it certainly does not date back to when Roman consuls were in power. So why would someone write that on a map and here?”

  Ellenor shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? Maybe they were raiders who attacked wealthy travelers in the area. Maybe it was just a dangerous journey. Maybe the map was a re-creation of an older one when there were Roman consuls. There could be dozens of reasons.”

  Conan grimaced and leaned over another drawing right beside the one he had been studying. “Is this Latin? It looks French.”

  Ellenor moved closer, but made sure they did not come into contact. “Uh-uh. It’s Latin as well. The languages can be confusing as some words are very similar such as this one—abundans—is very similar to the French word, abondants. But this word here clearly makes this phrase Latin. In French, the word approach is approche, but you can see this is accedo. Definitely Latin. Basically, it’s telling the reader to approach this reef with care. I assume it is shallow.”

  “Fascinating,” Conan mumbled, sinking into a nearby chair. “Latin, huh? No wonder I have had trouble translating these damn things.” He rubbed his scalp and reassessed the unfamiliar woman who had entered his private domain. “Just what other languages do you know? How did you learn them? And who are you, by the way?”

  Ellenor’s light laughter filled the room and Conan found himself intrigued by the mysterious beauty. “I am Laurel’s friend from England.”

  Conan’s mouth opened slightly and he bobbed his head in memory. “The one she tricked Cole into fetching?”

  “The one. My name is Ellenor.”

  Conan whistled. “She didn’t say you knew our tongue.” Hell, he thought to himself, our Laurel didn’t mention several things about the Englishwoman, including how beautiful she was or how intelligent. “How many languages do you know anyway?”

  “Only a few both spoken and written.”

  “And Gàidhlig?”

  “I can only speak Gaelic as I have never seen it scribed.”

  That knowledge restored a little bit of Conan’s pride and he felt himself breathing easier around her. Until today, he had never encountered anyone who was possibly smarter than he was. Even more disconcerting was that the person was a woman. Women were supposed to be docile and weak, requiring support and nurturing. They needed men, and men needed offspring. That was how it worked, or at least mostly. Laurel was definitely an exception to that rule and it seemed the second Englishwoman he had ever encountered was one as well.

  “Anything else you know? Mathematics, science, or are you like Laurel, a hellion with a knife and bow.”

  “Nothing like that, I assure you. My passions are few and they do include reading. I was fortunate my father didn’t mind and allowed me to converse with several travelers when I was young.” Ellenor pointed at the door with her thumb. “I think it is time you and I made our way to the Hall. Your lady requests your presence for dinner and I promised Fallon you would be there. So unless you want to tell Laurel that her pretty, empty head is not worthy of your undeniably important task of interpreting a map, then we better leave.”

  Conan’s jaw dropped, but no quick retort came out. He finally shook his head in disbelief and followed her out the door and down the stairwell. “If onl
y I had known you would be a scholar and had the power to tame Fallon, I would have leaped at the chance to bring you back. I almost feel ashamed of knowing you were forced to travel with my brother.”

  Ellenor couldn’t help herself and laughed out loud. Smooth, this young Highlander was not. “Cole was quite the honorable gentleman.”

  “Honorable I believe,” Conan smirked, stepping out of the tower and into the inner yard. He looked up. Dark clouds were on the horizon. The wind was starting to pick up, indicating another storm would arrive some time that night. “Heroic maybe, but gentleman? Ha! I don’t think Cole has ever behaved in a courteous, gallant, or any other ‘gentlemanlike’ manner to a single woman. And you’re English!”

  Ellenor stopped to turn around. Long dark gold strands of her hair swirled around her face but she ignored them. Her dark green eyes pierced his blue ones and she said, “Cole is…who he is, but he was actually very helpful and I will always be grateful that he came for me. He understands people better than most realize.”

  A flicker of desire stirred inside Conan. Ellenor was proving herself a truly exceptional woman. Someone who could look past all of Cole’s harsh qualities, and admire the traits that truly made a man what he was, was a very rare find. Anyone who could do that and read several languages was someone to pursue. “Be careful, Lady Ellenor, or I just might ask for your hand in marriage.”

  Ellenor turned and started once again toward the Hall. She tried to suppress her laughter, but couldn’t. It finally erupted and its infectious sound caused Conan to join her and all those in earshot to smile.

  All but one.

  Chapter 8

  Cole had just returned from seeing his men and was dismounting by the stables when he spied the happy couple leave the North Tower and move toward the Great Hall entrance. Jealousy, white-hot and savage, raced over every nerve. His body tensed with possessive anger, made only stronger knowing he had no right to feel that way. Still, no stab wound had ever hurt quite as much as seeing another man desire Ellenor.