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Synopsis
AN UNEXPECTED DESIRE
Conan McTiernay will leave the joys of wedlock to his happily married brothers. He's too busy mapping out Scotland to protect her borders from English invasion . . . until he's dispatched to escort a cloistered Highland lass safely back to his family's castle.
A FOREVER LOVE
Mhàiri Mayboill has embarked on her journey facing an impossible choice: Marry or take the vows of a nun. But she cherishes her freedom too much to be tied to any man. Yet this arrogant Highlander with his spirited ways and piercing eyes awakens more than desire. For two people who want nothing of love but have everything in common, emotions soon forge an unforeseen bond. But happiness is never simple for a McTiernay, and more surprises lie ahead . . .
Contains mature themes.
Release date: January 30, 2018
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 400
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The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland
Michele Sinclair
“Chruitheachd! The damn man’s naked! I told you to stay hidden and wait for me, not pull a sword on him.”
Conan arched a brow at the angry older man yelling at his younger redheaded companion. Conan kept his expression unconcerned as the man’s dark eyes wandered cautiously down his completely exposed body. He was aware that even in the nude he made a somewhat imposing impression. Like most of his brothers, he had thick dark brown hair, bright blue eyes and was unusually tall. But it was not those features the man was gauging. And while Conan did not possess the bulk of one who trained every day, his powerful, well-muscled body looked like what it was—that of a skilled warrior who was deadly even without a sword.
The older man’s eyes continued their scrutiny until they reached Conan’s feet. “Mac na galla! He’s still standing in the fuar loch!”
Standing in ankle-deep water near the loch’s shoreline with his hands on his hips, Conan shifted his gaze from the much heavier, angry man approaching his companion to the tip of the shaking sword the thin redhead had pointed at his chest. To survive, most Highlanders were tough men, regardless of how they made a living. If they weren’t, they would eventually succumb to Scotland’s harsh northern environment, which made the scrawny man in front of him an anomaly. The redhead was tall, but his thin frame was frail and the shaking of his arm indicated what strength he had was waning. It would take little effort to incapacitate him.
His hairy beast of a friend, however, was enormous. He was almost a half a head taller than Conan, and based on the sizeable gut he was carrying, the man easily outweighed both him and his friend together. The giant knew these facts as well, and by his assertive walk, Conan sensed his size gave him a false sense of confidence, which would make him hard to rattle. Things were about to get interesting.
“He . . . he saw me.” The thin one swallowed, keeping his malevolent gaze on Conan. “I had no choice. I didn’t want him to get the upper hand.”
“Well, he’s obviously terrified,” the darker-haired man sneered with sarcasm, making no effort to hide his disdain. “And now he knows about us and we don’t even know if it’s him!”
“It has to be! No one else has been around since we got here. Then he comes, exactly where we were told, to this loch. And . . . and his tartan matches the piece we were given.” The redhead used his chin to gesture to Conan’s clothes lying on top of a large rock near the shoulder. “Look.”
Dark brown eyes narrowed with warning at Conan before taking a quick glance at the rock. The man’s gaze widened a bit, and he gripped the sword a little more firmly. “What’s your name?”
Conan inhaled deeply, slowly licked his lips, and replied, “McTiernay.”
The man’s lips twitched, but instead of walking away in realization of his mistake as Conan had expected him to do, he did nothing. It was almost as if he had never heard of one of the largest and most powerful clans in the Highlands. The idea was so unthinkable Conan suspected the man was just extremely good at hiding his emotions. The real question was whether he knew that he was not just facing a Highlander who belonged to the powerful clan, but actually one of the McTiernays.
“I’ve heard of the McTiernays,” the giant growled, cold dark eyes remaining steady on Conan’s blue ones. “But that is not what I asked. What is your name?”
“Conan,” he answered, keeping his look of boredom. The man’s unreadable expression also remained unchanged.
Conor was his eldest brother and chief of the McTiernay clan and all its chieftains—two of whom were his brothers, three when including his brother who was to become the next Schellden laird. There were seven McTiernay brothers total, and though Conan was the second to youngest, he had a strong reputation of his own. Or so he’d thought, for it did not look like either the giant or the redhead recognized his name.
If they were ignorant, Conan was not interested in educating them on their mistake. He had not been in a good mood for days, and in just a few moments, he was about to add another reason to his long list of things for which to blame Laurel McTiernay.
Despite their quarrelsome relationship, Conan loved his sister-in-law and appreciated her loyalty to his brother Conor, but she was by far the most exasperating, annoying, and altogether frustrating person he had ever met. And he would not be in this humiliating situation—naked, wet, and weaponless—if it were not for her. Worse, if Laurel ever learned of it, she would laugh until she cried, sharing her mirth with anyone with working ears.
Important details, however, would be lost. Laurel would not ruin her storytelling with pesky truths, such as that he had not been taken unawares or that, despite being temporarily weaponless against two men who did have swords, he was not in any real danger. Nor would she remember to relay that he had spied the two would-be thieves long before they approached. All Laurel would care about was that he had been caught unarmed in the nude by two men who had mistakenly been bold enough to wave a sword at his chest while demanding he answer their questions.
Conan prayed he could scare them into silence because he was not in the mood to kill anyone. Death was messy, and he had just gotten clean. Last thing he wanted to do was deal with bloody bodies.
“You would have to be one of them,” the large man snarled as he stared Conan in the eye.
Conan lifted his chin slightly in surprise, and then nodded once. An odd sense of joy went through him at learning that his name was as recognizable as he had thought.
“Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t change anything,” spat the redhead, recapturing Conan’s attention. The man had bright red frizzy hair with a matching beard. The color matched the almost tangible anger rolling off him.
The giant lifted his hand to hush his mouthy partner. “It might.”
Conan arched a brow at the comment. Perhaps he had been wrong to assume these two men were mere thieves. Both were more interested in him than they were in his horse or his sword, which was still sheathed to his saddle. And Conan had no idea why, but the redhead’s hate seemed personal as if he wished him dead—and that was before he’d had any idea who Conan was. His partner, however, had gone suddenly quiet.
“Just take my clothes and leave,” Conan prompted, testing his new theory.
“We don’t want your clothes, cac,” the frail figure snarled.
Unfazed by the insult, Conan sighed. Not thieves, he thought unhappily. “Well, if you do not want them, I do. My toes are numb and I would like to get out of the water.”
The thin arm that was holding a sword stiffened. “Don’t move.”
Conan renewed his bored look. The redhead jabbed his weapon in his direction, in an obvious attempt at intimidation. Running out of patience, Conan threw his hands up in the air. “What do you want?”
The thin man laughed in a pathetic attempt to show bravado. “We don’t want anything. It’s—”
“Cum do theanga ablaich gun fheum!” his companion shouted, cutting him off. The redhead closed his mouth and glowered. Whether it was from being told to shut up, being called an idiot, or just his hatred for Conan was unclear. What was clear was the giant did not care. “This would have been a hell of a lot easier if you had simply listened to me. Now he knows our faces, and neither of us have ones that are easy to forget.”
“We could kill him.” The redhead’s thin lips smiled at the idea.
If not thieves, Conan thought, ensuring he kept his face impassive despite the threat, assassins?
The giant scoffed. “Nay, we take him with us. He’s a McTiernay. That means I want more money.”
So not assassins. They were mercenaries. If Conan had to guess, they had been sent here on reconnaissance. But by whom? No one knew he was coming this way, which meant they were not looking for him.
The redhead opened his mouth to argue, but the giant cut him off. “And if I’m wrong, he can have the honor of killing a McTiernay.”
Capture, death, threats . . . all three annoyed Conan and it was becoming increasingly clear that he was not going to learn anything more this way. He needed to end this.
With hands already in the air, Conan took advantage of the brief sideways glance the larger man gave his companion and lunged for the redhead’s weapon. When his fingers circled the grip, he spun, yanking it out of the man’s weak grasp just in time to block an attack from the larger foe.
Conan deftly twirled the blade, leaving no doubt at his level of skill with a sword. The scrawny attacker’s eyes grew wide before he scurried back, letting his friend take charge. The large man did not look worried. Conan grimaced, knowing how this was going to have to end. “Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat,” he murmured, cursing Laurel once again under his breath.
Thinking fear was the reason behind Conan’s mutterings, the giant’s stony expression broke into a malicious smile. His dark gaze quickly swept down and up Conan’s naked form and his smile grew larger. Conan stifled a sigh. The man was an imbecile if he thought nudity diminished a man’s ability to fight. The state of one’s dress—or lack thereof—had nothing to do with wielding a weapon. The only reason Conan cared even a little about his lack of dress was that if this ever got back to his brothers, or especially his sister-in-law, he would never hear the end of it.
The massive man changed his stance and adjusted his grip, announcing not only that he was about to attack, but how. Believing his size compensated for his lack of skill, the giant swung wide, and Conan easily dodged the blade before thrusting his sword up and at an angle, forcing the large man to stumble backward.
“I’ll ask one more time. What do you want with me?” Conan knew he was giving the man time to regain his balance, but he wanted him to feel empowered enough to answer his question.
“I don’t want anything,” the giant snorted. “All I know and all I care about is the coin being offered to the one who finds the man who bathes in this loch and wears that tartan. That seems to be you.”
Conan’s eyes widened in shock hearing the flimsy description. They could be looking for anyone. “These are McTiernay lands. Anyone bathing here would be wearing a McTiernay tartan,” he retorted.
The large man sniggered. “We’ve been here weeks. No one ever comes to this loch. That is, until you.”
Conan inwardly groaned. Whoever this giant mercenary was looking for, it was not him. It probably was not even a McTiernay. That he was even here was sheer coincidence and prompted by his miserable attempt to prove to his sister-in-law that he was not someone willing to address any whim she had, even if she was Lady McTiernay. That was his brother’s job. Conor was laird and Laurel was his wife.
“This is my first time at this loch. I’m not who you want,” Conan stated unequivocally, still clinging to a little bit of hope that this could end without bloodshed.
“Maybe not.” The large man gave a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t matter. You’re coming with us, and that dull blade isn’t going to stop me from making that happen.”
Conan exhaled, all hope gone. His trip was ruined, and the possibility of studying the area any further was as dead as the man in front of him was going to be. Conan cursed under his breath. He really was not looking forward to bringing a colossal, fetid corpse with him for the remainder of his journey.
The man grinned, largely this time, exposing rotten and missing teeth. Then, with none of the speed necessary to make his thrust effective, he attacked. Conan easily blocked him. He took several steps back, knowing a quick way he could end this battle victoriously despite using a dull blade.
The man took the bait. He raised his sword high above his head and surged forward, preparing to put all his weight behind his downward thrust, knowing it would be impossible to block. Only at the very last moment did he realize that Conan had no intention of blocking his attack and instead had planted his feet. With a single lunge, Conan impaled the man’s stomach so that his arm dropped as he fell forward. The dull tip pierced his chest all the way through his back.
The sound of hooves riding away captured Conan’s attention. He spotted the bright red hair of the dead man’s companion as it disappeared behind the large rocks that partially surrounded the small loch. Conan groaned. He could go after the man and had no doubt of his ability to catch him eventually, but it would not be until after nightfall. And when he did, Conan was not sure what good it would do. The coward knew nothing more and was undoubtedly stupid enough to attack rather than answer questions if confronted. The only thing almost guaranteed in a pursuit was that he would have two bodies to carry back to Cole’s.
Conan knelt down and stared at the immense man as he took his dying breath. He studied the man’s filthy tartan and thanked God he had not killed a MacCoinnich—even if the man had deserved it. There were dozens of small clans that ran up Scotland’s western coastline and he knew very few of them, but like the McTiernays, the MacCoinnich clan was well known, just as large, and arguably almost as powerful. While Laird MacCoinnich and Conor respected each other, neither felt inclined to be anything more than civil toward the other.
Conan took one more look at the dead man and wished he had asked for the name of the one who actually sent him and his friend. He wondered just why they were so interested in the man who supposedly regularly visited this remote area. While the loch was nestled on the far eastern edge of his brother Cole’s territory, he had not seen signs of someone living this far out. It was cold, rocky, and impossible to farm, and had practically nothing for cattle to graze on.
Most clansmen lived closer to Fàire Creachann, Cole’s home. The castle was set on a stretch of land that extended out into the blue waters of Loch Torridon, where one could glimpse the An Cuan Sgìth, the strait of sea separating the homeland from its islands. With only one access point, it was protected by the sea with enormous cliffs on almost all sides and therefore nearly impenetrable to attackers. Living close to the fortress gave clansmen protection.
This loch was so far from Fàire Creachann, it was highly unlikely his attackers were looking for an actual McTiernay. Whoever swam in these waters was probably a squatter, a nomad, or even a thief. He could have just found a McTiernay tartan and been using it as his own, thinking the appearance of being aligned with a powerful clan beneficial.
Conan put his hand on his knee and pushed himself back up to his feet. Speculating was a waste of time. Cole was his best chance of learning who had attacked him and why. As the third brother and McTiernay laird for this region of the Torridon Hills, Cole knew the tartans of all the larger clans in the area, and hopefully a majority of the smaller ones.
Conan went to the shore and quickly washed the blood off his arms and stomach. He then walked over to the boulder where his clothes lay drying and yanked on his leine. He grabbed his tartan and belt and was about to put them on when he spied the dead body near the shoreline. The man reeked. Everything about him was dirty, and Conan did not relish hauling his corpse up onto his horse.
One puffy hand floated in the water, and Conan considered rolling the mass into the water and rinsing it off in an effort to help reduce the stench. “Damn you, Laurel,” Conan hissed and pulled off his leine so that he was naked once more. The idea of the man’s dirt and grime on his skin was enough to turn his stomach, but unlike his clothes, his body was easy to wash and quickly dried.
Grabbing his sword, he went off to find the man’s horse. Minutes later, he returned, glad that it had been easy to locate with reins wrapped around the tree. It also served as further proof that the dead man’s companion had been an idiot since he had not freed the animal when he was making his own getaway.
Using rope, ingenuity, and a lot of energy and strength, Conan managed to get the large dead bulk lying across the saddle. After tying the body down so that it would not slide off, Conan once again headed toward the loch’s shore and dived into the icy waters, thinking of ways he might take revenge on his sister-in-law without it costing him his own life.
Nestled high within the Torridon Hills, Loch Coire Fionnaraich’s waters were always cold, but right now, its cool temperature felt soothing after the exhausting hour he had spent in the abnormally hot sun. Scotland’s fall weather could be unpredictable, bringing in cold winds or even seemingly ceaseless rains, but for the past few days, it had felt more like August than October. It had been perfect for trekking and plotting out the mountains that lay between the McTiernay and MacCoinnich borders.
Conan broke the water’s surface and took a deep breath, feeling slightly better. He did not really want to overly antagonize Laurel. He, in fact, begrudgingly liked his eldest brother’s wife when she was not annoying him. But lately, she had been more than irritating, she had been unusually demanding, and he was not the only one to think so. Laurel had been taking her frustrations out on everyone.
Her pleasant, mischievous demeanor rarely made an appearance lately. Instead, she was so moody that it was impossible to tell whether her over-the-top threats should be taken seriously. Her latest tirade had been the worst. And the one thing that kept his own anger from growing anew was knowing how furious Laurel would be to learn that he had gone against her wishes to take the shortest route to Cole’s and instead had selected a more circuitous path. And she would have only herself to blame for her anger. Laurel knew what happened when someone demanded anything of him. She knew it from personal experience.
When word had come that the McTiernay priest needed help—specifically his help—and Conan had not immediately jumped on a horse and taken off, Laurel had leaped to the correct conclusion that he never intended to go. But just because he was not inclined to make the journey himself did not mean he did not plan on dispatching someone to help the priest. But would Laurel listen to reason? No.
She knew he was very busy prepping hides so they could be turned into vellum. Halting the painstaking and time-consuming process midway to go north to help Father Lanaghly had cost him to lose three much-needed vellums for his trip this spring. But Laurel had not cared. To her, his trip was months away and therefore three vellums were a negligible loss. Father Lanaghly’s need, however, was important. Monumentally important. Conan disagreed. It was upsetting to learn that a small priory had caught fire and was no longer habitable, and even more disheartening to know that two people had died. But the church was already in the process of relocating the nuns and the undamaged artifacts to a larger, more established abbey in the Lowlands.
Conan cared nothing about some uninteresting religious scrolls that had miraculously survived a fire. It annoyed him greatly that, because he was highly intelligent and kept a lot of written scrolls and books, people assumed he wanted to read just anything. Maybe in his youth that had been true, but never had he aspired to be a scholar who consumed any type of knowledge whenever he had the chance.
Out of all his brothers, he might be the one who valued written knowledge the most; however, that did not mean he was the only one able to protect some religious documents. Anyone could put them in a crate, a trunk, or a bag. How hard was that? Even Conor could manage such a feat, and he was already up north visiting Cole. Then again, why did Father Lanaghly need send for help at all? He was as capable as anyone of carting some scrolls and keeping them safe from poor weather.
Instead of seeing the logic of his rather straightforward arguments, Laurel had become highly emotional and issued him a fiery command—ride north to Cole’s immediately and help Father Lanaghly or deal with not just her wrath, but that of Conor’s, when he returned.
His eldest brother, Conor, would indeed have been furious. Not because Conan had done anything wrong, but, because like many around the McTiernay Castle, his brother’s concern was mounting about his wife and her increasingly fragile emotional state. Conor had almost not even made the journey to Cole’s, and he had made it clear when he left that he was entrusting certain people to see to her happiness. That included Conan, especially if the clan was to provide him any precious vellums for his upcoming journey.
Happiness. A completely outrageous concept to demand. But that was what love did to a man. It made him unreasonable and caused him to issue crazy orders that no sane, cogent person could follow, even if they wanted to. And yet, in part to keep Laurel happy, Conan had left as she had demanded.
But not as she had intended.
Conan had proclaimed his departure was driven by his need to get away from her nagging voice, but in truth, once he had decided to take a longer route, he had been almost eager to leave, for he had wanted to come to this area of the Highlands for awhile. He had always taken the most direct route to Fàire Creachann, but this time Conan had journeyed along the eastern border of his brother Cole’s lands. He had never mapped this part of the Torridon Mountains and after trekking the area for hours he had been pleased to find a small loch nestled in the peaks. The surrounding large boulders were easy to climb and gave him a better perspective when it came to mapping the area.
That was his passion. Maps. The idea of converting information to a useful picture inspired how he saw all that was around him. Unfortunately, very few maps depicted such information, and he was not sure any existed that did of Scotland.
Oh, maps were plentiful, but none were accurate, nor were they intended to be. At best, their purpose was to illustrate those with power, and whatever the creator deemed most important was placed in the middle. Since most scribes were associated with the church, Jerusalem somehow became the center of most countries’ maps—something any intelligent being knew could not be true.
Conan intended to create an actual visual depiction of Scotland. Come this spring, nothing was going to stop him from leaving his McTiernay home to spend his life creating maps of real value. They would be accurate. They would show the best routes to travel. His maps would depict probable flashpoints along clan borders and various paths the English might use to re-invade Scotland.
He had already completed several small illustrations of McTiernay lands and those of their ally—the Schelldens. And while he had much of Cole’s lands and the majority of the Torridon peninsula sketched out, the eastern region lacked important details, such as the markers the MacCoinnich clan used to denote the border of their land.
Throughout the summer, skirmishes between MacCoinnich and their neighbors had been growing in both number and violence. As of yet, none had involved McTiernays. Both Cole and Conor wanted to keep it this way. It was the reason his brother had gone north despite Laurel’s erratic behavior. Conor had called a meeting to discuss the potential reasons behind the increase in activity and whether there was any reason for the McTiernay clan to be concerned. The answer would determine if Conor moved additional soldiers north to support Cole’s army. Such a move would not go unnoticed and, in itself, might create tensions where they could still be avoided. So caution was key.
Conan saw the importance of such talks, but he knew he would be no help with them. The best way he could support his brother was not with his sword and certainly not in negotiation, but with information. This surprised some, as he was oftentimes quite vocal with his opinions. Most women of his acquaintance had issue with this character trait, but in his mind, that was their problem. Conan liked who he was and was certainly not going to change just to make a woman feel at ease.
Conan was also well aware that he was not the smartest person alive. Not even close. Nor did he have some driving need to be the smartest person. The notion was almost as irritating as it was ludicrous.
He had met many monks who were far cleverer and more knowledgeable than he. He welcomed intelligence from anyone—which included women. Anyone who could offer witty and challenging conversations was preferable to someone inane. Unfortunately, his experience had taught him that those women were extremely rare and was why he valued Laurel and Conor’s youngest child, Bonny. Despite being only seven years old, she often caused him to pause and think about what she was saying when arguing a point. Bonny’s knowledge was only hampered by her limited life experience, but he would not be surprised if his niece grew up to outsmart every living soul she encountered. Conan dreaded saying good-bye to her in the spring and knew he would miss her enormously in the years to come.
Many did not understand the special bond between him and Bonny. Conan knew her parents blamed him for some of her blunt and seemingly offensive comments. Laurel often made it clear that she did not want her youngest child growing up to be like him—rude, mean, unsympathetic, and egocentric. Conan disagreed.
He was an ideal model for his niece.
First, he was not rude. He was honest. Why should Bonny learn to hold her opinion simply because some people were incapable of hearing the truth? And just because they could not accept the truth, that did not make her mean for stating it. Rarely was there malicious intent behind his words and so calling the straightforward delivery of his honest opinions brutal was not only misleading, but incorrect. And aye, sympathy was a quality to be admired, but there were always countless women around more than willing to provide a sympathetic ear.
As far as his self-absorptive personality, well, he knew that to be pure myth. The women he had been with enjoyed his charms while he was willing to give them. It was only when he was bored and needed to refocus his efforts to his future and his freedom that they suddenly claimed to be wounded by his callousness. So what Laurel viewed as egocentrism, he would call determination. And in the spring, all that focused attention was finally going to allow him to travel the world and never, ever be manipulated by Laurel McTiernay again.
As soon as Conan finished loosening the last knot in the rope, the dead body dropped to the ground. A loud crunching sound indicated that several bones had broken despite the short fall. Conan nudged the large mass with his foot so the man lay face up. It had taken almost two days to get from the small loch to Fàire Creachann, and in that time, the body had gone from limp to rigid and back to limp again. In a couple more days, he would no longer be recognizable, but for right now, he looked much like he had upon his death, aside from the yellow, somewhat greenish tint his skin was turning.
“You recognize him?” Conan asked, looking up at his brother.
“Nay,” Cole replied and waved his hand in front of his face. In the past several hours, the odor had gone from severely unpleasant to outright nauseating. “A shaoghail! It’s like smelling rotten cheese made from feces. Thank God you stayed outside of the castle walls. Elle would skin me if she had even a whiff. The stench is going to linger for days.”
“You ever see a young man with really bright red hair and matching beard. Tall, skinny?”
Again, Cole shook his head. “There are a few redheads in the village, but none match that description.”
Conan looked down at the dead man and then, with the tip of his sword, adjusted the man’s filthy tartan so that he could see it better. “I don’t recognize it. Do you?”
Cole’s forehead furrowed as he bent over to take a better look. “Nay, but there are so many small clans just south of here.” He looked over to Dugan, his commander and second in charge of clan affairs. “You know more of them than I as you regularly ride out to our borders. You recognize either him or the plaid?”
Dugan bent over and studied the face of the man for several seconds while holding his breath. Satisfied he had never seen him before, he took several steps back and exhaled. “I don’t know him, and based on his size, our people would have mentioned something if they saw someone matching his description during my visits.”
Conan grimaced. He had really thought that Cole would have at least some insight into who the man was. “What about the plaid?”
Dugan shook his head. “While there are several small clans along the coast, most have aligned themselves with us, the MacLeoid, or MacCoinnich. And you know both their colors. He’s not from around here.”
Conan nodded. The McTiernay colors of dark greens and blues accented with bright colors of gold, red, and burgundy were well known throughout the Highlands, but so were MacLeoid and MacCoinnich tartans. All three had similar backgrounds, but MacCoinnich had no gold or burgundy lines. Instead, the plaid had a prominent white line outlining each plaid square. MacLeoid lines were bright red and yellow.
The man before
Conan arched a brow at the angry older man yelling at his younger redheaded companion. Conan kept his expression unconcerned as the man’s dark eyes wandered cautiously down his completely exposed body. He was aware that even in the nude he made a somewhat imposing impression. Like most of his brothers, he had thick dark brown hair, bright blue eyes and was unusually tall. But it was not those features the man was gauging. And while Conan did not possess the bulk of one who trained every day, his powerful, well-muscled body looked like what it was—that of a skilled warrior who was deadly even without a sword.
The older man’s eyes continued their scrutiny until they reached Conan’s feet. “Mac na galla! He’s still standing in the fuar loch!”
Standing in ankle-deep water near the loch’s shoreline with his hands on his hips, Conan shifted his gaze from the much heavier, angry man approaching his companion to the tip of the shaking sword the thin redhead had pointed at his chest. To survive, most Highlanders were tough men, regardless of how they made a living. If they weren’t, they would eventually succumb to Scotland’s harsh northern environment, which made the scrawny man in front of him an anomaly. The redhead was tall, but his thin frame was frail and the shaking of his arm indicated what strength he had was waning. It would take little effort to incapacitate him.
His hairy beast of a friend, however, was enormous. He was almost a half a head taller than Conan, and based on the sizeable gut he was carrying, the man easily outweighed both him and his friend together. The giant knew these facts as well, and by his assertive walk, Conan sensed his size gave him a false sense of confidence, which would make him hard to rattle. Things were about to get interesting.
“He . . . he saw me.” The thin one swallowed, keeping his malevolent gaze on Conan. “I had no choice. I didn’t want him to get the upper hand.”
“Well, he’s obviously terrified,” the darker-haired man sneered with sarcasm, making no effort to hide his disdain. “And now he knows about us and we don’t even know if it’s him!”
“It has to be! No one else has been around since we got here. Then he comes, exactly where we were told, to this loch. And . . . and his tartan matches the piece we were given.” The redhead used his chin to gesture to Conan’s clothes lying on top of a large rock near the shoulder. “Look.”
Dark brown eyes narrowed with warning at Conan before taking a quick glance at the rock. The man’s gaze widened a bit, and he gripped the sword a little more firmly. “What’s your name?”
Conan inhaled deeply, slowly licked his lips, and replied, “McTiernay.”
The man’s lips twitched, but instead of walking away in realization of his mistake as Conan had expected him to do, he did nothing. It was almost as if he had never heard of one of the largest and most powerful clans in the Highlands. The idea was so unthinkable Conan suspected the man was just extremely good at hiding his emotions. The real question was whether he knew that he was not just facing a Highlander who belonged to the powerful clan, but actually one of the McTiernays.
“I’ve heard of the McTiernays,” the giant growled, cold dark eyes remaining steady on Conan’s blue ones. “But that is not what I asked. What is your name?”
“Conan,” he answered, keeping his look of boredom. The man’s unreadable expression also remained unchanged.
Conor was his eldest brother and chief of the McTiernay clan and all its chieftains—two of whom were his brothers, three when including his brother who was to become the next Schellden laird. There were seven McTiernay brothers total, and though Conan was the second to youngest, he had a strong reputation of his own. Or so he’d thought, for it did not look like either the giant or the redhead recognized his name.
If they were ignorant, Conan was not interested in educating them on their mistake. He had not been in a good mood for days, and in just a few moments, he was about to add another reason to his long list of things for which to blame Laurel McTiernay.
Despite their quarrelsome relationship, Conan loved his sister-in-law and appreciated her loyalty to his brother Conor, but she was by far the most exasperating, annoying, and altogether frustrating person he had ever met. And he would not be in this humiliating situation—naked, wet, and weaponless—if it were not for her. Worse, if Laurel ever learned of it, she would laugh until she cried, sharing her mirth with anyone with working ears.
Important details, however, would be lost. Laurel would not ruin her storytelling with pesky truths, such as that he had not been taken unawares or that, despite being temporarily weaponless against two men who did have swords, he was not in any real danger. Nor would she remember to relay that he had spied the two would-be thieves long before they approached. All Laurel would care about was that he had been caught unarmed in the nude by two men who had mistakenly been bold enough to wave a sword at his chest while demanding he answer their questions.
Conan prayed he could scare them into silence because he was not in the mood to kill anyone. Death was messy, and he had just gotten clean. Last thing he wanted to do was deal with bloody bodies.
“You would have to be one of them,” the large man snarled as he stared Conan in the eye.
Conan lifted his chin slightly in surprise, and then nodded once. An odd sense of joy went through him at learning that his name was as recognizable as he had thought.
“Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t change anything,” spat the redhead, recapturing Conan’s attention. The man had bright red frizzy hair with a matching beard. The color matched the almost tangible anger rolling off him.
The giant lifted his hand to hush his mouthy partner. “It might.”
Conan arched a brow at the comment. Perhaps he had been wrong to assume these two men were mere thieves. Both were more interested in him than they were in his horse or his sword, which was still sheathed to his saddle. And Conan had no idea why, but the redhead’s hate seemed personal as if he wished him dead—and that was before he’d had any idea who Conan was. His partner, however, had gone suddenly quiet.
“Just take my clothes and leave,” Conan prompted, testing his new theory.
“We don’t want your clothes, cac,” the frail figure snarled.
Unfazed by the insult, Conan sighed. Not thieves, he thought unhappily. “Well, if you do not want them, I do. My toes are numb and I would like to get out of the water.”
The thin arm that was holding a sword stiffened. “Don’t move.”
Conan renewed his bored look. The redhead jabbed his weapon in his direction, in an obvious attempt at intimidation. Running out of patience, Conan threw his hands up in the air. “What do you want?”
The thin man laughed in a pathetic attempt to show bravado. “We don’t want anything. It’s—”
“Cum do theanga ablaich gun fheum!” his companion shouted, cutting him off. The redhead closed his mouth and glowered. Whether it was from being told to shut up, being called an idiot, or just his hatred for Conan was unclear. What was clear was the giant did not care. “This would have been a hell of a lot easier if you had simply listened to me. Now he knows our faces, and neither of us have ones that are easy to forget.”
“We could kill him.” The redhead’s thin lips smiled at the idea.
If not thieves, Conan thought, ensuring he kept his face impassive despite the threat, assassins?
The giant scoffed. “Nay, we take him with us. He’s a McTiernay. That means I want more money.”
So not assassins. They were mercenaries. If Conan had to guess, they had been sent here on reconnaissance. But by whom? No one knew he was coming this way, which meant they were not looking for him.
The redhead opened his mouth to argue, but the giant cut him off. “And if I’m wrong, he can have the honor of killing a McTiernay.”
Capture, death, threats . . . all three annoyed Conan and it was becoming increasingly clear that he was not going to learn anything more this way. He needed to end this.
With hands already in the air, Conan took advantage of the brief sideways glance the larger man gave his companion and lunged for the redhead’s weapon. When his fingers circled the grip, he spun, yanking it out of the man’s weak grasp just in time to block an attack from the larger foe.
Conan deftly twirled the blade, leaving no doubt at his level of skill with a sword. The scrawny attacker’s eyes grew wide before he scurried back, letting his friend take charge. The large man did not look worried. Conan grimaced, knowing how this was going to have to end. “Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat,” he murmured, cursing Laurel once again under his breath.
Thinking fear was the reason behind Conan’s mutterings, the giant’s stony expression broke into a malicious smile. His dark gaze quickly swept down and up Conan’s naked form and his smile grew larger. Conan stifled a sigh. The man was an imbecile if he thought nudity diminished a man’s ability to fight. The state of one’s dress—or lack thereof—had nothing to do with wielding a weapon. The only reason Conan cared even a little about his lack of dress was that if this ever got back to his brothers, or especially his sister-in-law, he would never hear the end of it.
The massive man changed his stance and adjusted his grip, announcing not only that he was about to attack, but how. Believing his size compensated for his lack of skill, the giant swung wide, and Conan easily dodged the blade before thrusting his sword up and at an angle, forcing the large man to stumble backward.
“I’ll ask one more time. What do you want with me?” Conan knew he was giving the man time to regain his balance, but he wanted him to feel empowered enough to answer his question.
“I don’t want anything,” the giant snorted. “All I know and all I care about is the coin being offered to the one who finds the man who bathes in this loch and wears that tartan. That seems to be you.”
Conan’s eyes widened in shock hearing the flimsy description. They could be looking for anyone. “These are McTiernay lands. Anyone bathing here would be wearing a McTiernay tartan,” he retorted.
The large man sniggered. “We’ve been here weeks. No one ever comes to this loch. That is, until you.”
Conan inwardly groaned. Whoever this giant mercenary was looking for, it was not him. It probably was not even a McTiernay. That he was even here was sheer coincidence and prompted by his miserable attempt to prove to his sister-in-law that he was not someone willing to address any whim she had, even if she was Lady McTiernay. That was his brother’s job. Conor was laird and Laurel was his wife.
“This is my first time at this loch. I’m not who you want,” Conan stated unequivocally, still clinging to a little bit of hope that this could end without bloodshed.
“Maybe not.” The large man gave a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t matter. You’re coming with us, and that dull blade isn’t going to stop me from making that happen.”
Conan exhaled, all hope gone. His trip was ruined, and the possibility of studying the area any further was as dead as the man in front of him was going to be. Conan cursed under his breath. He really was not looking forward to bringing a colossal, fetid corpse with him for the remainder of his journey.
The man grinned, largely this time, exposing rotten and missing teeth. Then, with none of the speed necessary to make his thrust effective, he attacked. Conan easily blocked him. He took several steps back, knowing a quick way he could end this battle victoriously despite using a dull blade.
The man took the bait. He raised his sword high above his head and surged forward, preparing to put all his weight behind his downward thrust, knowing it would be impossible to block. Only at the very last moment did he realize that Conan had no intention of blocking his attack and instead had planted his feet. With a single lunge, Conan impaled the man’s stomach so that his arm dropped as he fell forward. The dull tip pierced his chest all the way through his back.
The sound of hooves riding away captured Conan’s attention. He spotted the bright red hair of the dead man’s companion as it disappeared behind the large rocks that partially surrounded the small loch. Conan groaned. He could go after the man and had no doubt of his ability to catch him eventually, but it would not be until after nightfall. And when he did, Conan was not sure what good it would do. The coward knew nothing more and was undoubtedly stupid enough to attack rather than answer questions if confronted. The only thing almost guaranteed in a pursuit was that he would have two bodies to carry back to Cole’s.
Conan knelt down and stared at the immense man as he took his dying breath. He studied the man’s filthy tartan and thanked God he had not killed a MacCoinnich—even if the man had deserved it. There were dozens of small clans that ran up Scotland’s western coastline and he knew very few of them, but like the McTiernays, the MacCoinnich clan was well known, just as large, and arguably almost as powerful. While Laird MacCoinnich and Conor respected each other, neither felt inclined to be anything more than civil toward the other.
Conan took one more look at the dead man and wished he had asked for the name of the one who actually sent him and his friend. He wondered just why they were so interested in the man who supposedly regularly visited this remote area. While the loch was nestled on the far eastern edge of his brother Cole’s territory, he had not seen signs of someone living this far out. It was cold, rocky, and impossible to farm, and had practically nothing for cattle to graze on.
Most clansmen lived closer to Fàire Creachann, Cole’s home. The castle was set on a stretch of land that extended out into the blue waters of Loch Torridon, where one could glimpse the An Cuan Sgìth, the strait of sea separating the homeland from its islands. With only one access point, it was protected by the sea with enormous cliffs on almost all sides and therefore nearly impenetrable to attackers. Living close to the fortress gave clansmen protection.
This loch was so far from Fàire Creachann, it was highly unlikely his attackers were looking for an actual McTiernay. Whoever swam in these waters was probably a squatter, a nomad, or even a thief. He could have just found a McTiernay tartan and been using it as his own, thinking the appearance of being aligned with a powerful clan beneficial.
Conan put his hand on his knee and pushed himself back up to his feet. Speculating was a waste of time. Cole was his best chance of learning who had attacked him and why. As the third brother and McTiernay laird for this region of the Torridon Hills, Cole knew the tartans of all the larger clans in the area, and hopefully a majority of the smaller ones.
Conan went to the shore and quickly washed the blood off his arms and stomach. He then walked over to the boulder where his clothes lay drying and yanked on his leine. He grabbed his tartan and belt and was about to put them on when he spied the dead body near the shoreline. The man reeked. Everything about him was dirty, and Conan did not relish hauling his corpse up onto his horse.
One puffy hand floated in the water, and Conan considered rolling the mass into the water and rinsing it off in an effort to help reduce the stench. “Damn you, Laurel,” Conan hissed and pulled off his leine so that he was naked once more. The idea of the man’s dirt and grime on his skin was enough to turn his stomach, but unlike his clothes, his body was easy to wash and quickly dried.
Grabbing his sword, he went off to find the man’s horse. Minutes later, he returned, glad that it had been easy to locate with reins wrapped around the tree. It also served as further proof that the dead man’s companion had been an idiot since he had not freed the animal when he was making his own getaway.
Using rope, ingenuity, and a lot of energy and strength, Conan managed to get the large dead bulk lying across the saddle. After tying the body down so that it would not slide off, Conan once again headed toward the loch’s shore and dived into the icy waters, thinking of ways he might take revenge on his sister-in-law without it costing him his own life.
Nestled high within the Torridon Hills, Loch Coire Fionnaraich’s waters were always cold, but right now, its cool temperature felt soothing after the exhausting hour he had spent in the abnormally hot sun. Scotland’s fall weather could be unpredictable, bringing in cold winds or even seemingly ceaseless rains, but for the past few days, it had felt more like August than October. It had been perfect for trekking and plotting out the mountains that lay between the McTiernay and MacCoinnich borders.
Conan broke the water’s surface and took a deep breath, feeling slightly better. He did not really want to overly antagonize Laurel. He, in fact, begrudgingly liked his eldest brother’s wife when she was not annoying him. But lately, she had been more than irritating, she had been unusually demanding, and he was not the only one to think so. Laurel had been taking her frustrations out on everyone.
Her pleasant, mischievous demeanor rarely made an appearance lately. Instead, she was so moody that it was impossible to tell whether her over-the-top threats should be taken seriously. Her latest tirade had been the worst. And the one thing that kept his own anger from growing anew was knowing how furious Laurel would be to learn that he had gone against her wishes to take the shortest route to Cole’s and instead had selected a more circuitous path. And she would have only herself to blame for her anger. Laurel knew what happened when someone demanded anything of him. She knew it from personal experience.
When word had come that the McTiernay priest needed help—specifically his help—and Conan had not immediately jumped on a horse and taken off, Laurel had leaped to the correct conclusion that he never intended to go. But just because he was not inclined to make the journey himself did not mean he did not plan on dispatching someone to help the priest. But would Laurel listen to reason? No.
She knew he was very busy prepping hides so they could be turned into vellum. Halting the painstaking and time-consuming process midway to go north to help Father Lanaghly had cost him to lose three much-needed vellums for his trip this spring. But Laurel had not cared. To her, his trip was months away and therefore three vellums were a negligible loss. Father Lanaghly’s need, however, was important. Monumentally important. Conan disagreed. It was upsetting to learn that a small priory had caught fire and was no longer habitable, and even more disheartening to know that two people had died. But the church was already in the process of relocating the nuns and the undamaged artifacts to a larger, more established abbey in the Lowlands.
Conan cared nothing about some uninteresting religious scrolls that had miraculously survived a fire. It annoyed him greatly that, because he was highly intelligent and kept a lot of written scrolls and books, people assumed he wanted to read just anything. Maybe in his youth that had been true, but never had he aspired to be a scholar who consumed any type of knowledge whenever he had the chance.
Out of all his brothers, he might be the one who valued written knowledge the most; however, that did not mean he was the only one able to protect some religious documents. Anyone could put them in a crate, a trunk, or a bag. How hard was that? Even Conor could manage such a feat, and he was already up north visiting Cole. Then again, why did Father Lanaghly need send for help at all? He was as capable as anyone of carting some scrolls and keeping them safe from poor weather.
Instead of seeing the logic of his rather straightforward arguments, Laurel had become highly emotional and issued him a fiery command—ride north to Cole’s immediately and help Father Lanaghly or deal with not just her wrath, but that of Conor’s, when he returned.
His eldest brother, Conor, would indeed have been furious. Not because Conan had done anything wrong, but, because like many around the McTiernay Castle, his brother’s concern was mounting about his wife and her increasingly fragile emotional state. Conor had almost not even made the journey to Cole’s, and he had made it clear when he left that he was entrusting certain people to see to her happiness. That included Conan, especially if the clan was to provide him any precious vellums for his upcoming journey.
Happiness. A completely outrageous concept to demand. But that was what love did to a man. It made him unreasonable and caused him to issue crazy orders that no sane, cogent person could follow, even if they wanted to. And yet, in part to keep Laurel happy, Conan had left as she had demanded.
But not as she had intended.
Conan had proclaimed his departure was driven by his need to get away from her nagging voice, but in truth, once he had decided to take a longer route, he had been almost eager to leave, for he had wanted to come to this area of the Highlands for awhile. He had always taken the most direct route to Fàire Creachann, but this time Conan had journeyed along the eastern border of his brother Cole’s lands. He had never mapped this part of the Torridon Mountains and after trekking the area for hours he had been pleased to find a small loch nestled in the peaks. The surrounding large boulders were easy to climb and gave him a better perspective when it came to mapping the area.
That was his passion. Maps. The idea of converting information to a useful picture inspired how he saw all that was around him. Unfortunately, very few maps depicted such information, and he was not sure any existed that did of Scotland.
Oh, maps were plentiful, but none were accurate, nor were they intended to be. At best, their purpose was to illustrate those with power, and whatever the creator deemed most important was placed in the middle. Since most scribes were associated with the church, Jerusalem somehow became the center of most countries’ maps—something any intelligent being knew could not be true.
Conan intended to create an actual visual depiction of Scotland. Come this spring, nothing was going to stop him from leaving his McTiernay home to spend his life creating maps of real value. They would be accurate. They would show the best routes to travel. His maps would depict probable flashpoints along clan borders and various paths the English might use to re-invade Scotland.
He had already completed several small illustrations of McTiernay lands and those of their ally—the Schelldens. And while he had much of Cole’s lands and the majority of the Torridon peninsula sketched out, the eastern region lacked important details, such as the markers the MacCoinnich clan used to denote the border of their land.
Throughout the summer, skirmishes between MacCoinnich and their neighbors had been growing in both number and violence. As of yet, none had involved McTiernays. Both Cole and Conor wanted to keep it this way. It was the reason his brother had gone north despite Laurel’s erratic behavior. Conor had called a meeting to discuss the potential reasons behind the increase in activity and whether there was any reason for the McTiernay clan to be concerned. The answer would determine if Conor moved additional soldiers north to support Cole’s army. Such a move would not go unnoticed and, in itself, might create tensions where they could still be avoided. So caution was key.
Conan saw the importance of such talks, but he knew he would be no help with them. The best way he could support his brother was not with his sword and certainly not in negotiation, but with information. This surprised some, as he was oftentimes quite vocal with his opinions. Most women of his acquaintance had issue with this character trait, but in his mind, that was their problem. Conan liked who he was and was certainly not going to change just to make a woman feel at ease.
Conan was also well aware that he was not the smartest person alive. Not even close. Nor did he have some driving need to be the smartest person. The notion was almost as irritating as it was ludicrous.
He had met many monks who were far cleverer and more knowledgeable than he. He welcomed intelligence from anyone—which included women. Anyone who could offer witty and challenging conversations was preferable to someone inane. Unfortunately, his experience had taught him that those women were extremely rare and was why he valued Laurel and Conor’s youngest child, Bonny. Despite being only seven years old, she often caused him to pause and think about what she was saying when arguing a point. Bonny’s knowledge was only hampered by her limited life experience, but he would not be surprised if his niece grew up to outsmart every living soul she encountered. Conan dreaded saying good-bye to her in the spring and knew he would miss her enormously in the years to come.
Many did not understand the special bond between him and Bonny. Conan knew her parents blamed him for some of her blunt and seemingly offensive comments. Laurel often made it clear that she did not want her youngest child growing up to be like him—rude, mean, unsympathetic, and egocentric. Conan disagreed.
He was an ideal model for his niece.
First, he was not rude. He was honest. Why should Bonny learn to hold her opinion simply because some people were incapable of hearing the truth? And just because they could not accept the truth, that did not make her mean for stating it. Rarely was there malicious intent behind his words and so calling the straightforward delivery of his honest opinions brutal was not only misleading, but incorrect. And aye, sympathy was a quality to be admired, but there were always countless women around more than willing to provide a sympathetic ear.
As far as his self-absorptive personality, well, he knew that to be pure myth. The women he had been with enjoyed his charms while he was willing to give them. It was only when he was bored and needed to refocus his efforts to his future and his freedom that they suddenly claimed to be wounded by his callousness. So what Laurel viewed as egocentrism, he would call determination. And in the spring, all that focused attention was finally going to allow him to travel the world and never, ever be manipulated by Laurel McTiernay again.
As soon as Conan finished loosening the last knot in the rope, the dead body dropped to the ground. A loud crunching sound indicated that several bones had broken despite the short fall. Conan nudged the large mass with his foot so the man lay face up. It had taken almost two days to get from the small loch to Fàire Creachann, and in that time, the body had gone from limp to rigid and back to limp again. In a couple more days, he would no longer be recognizable, but for right now, he looked much like he had upon his death, aside from the yellow, somewhat greenish tint his skin was turning.
“You recognize him?” Conan asked, looking up at his brother.
“Nay,” Cole replied and waved his hand in front of his face. In the past several hours, the odor had gone from severely unpleasant to outright nauseating. “A shaoghail! It’s like smelling rotten cheese made from feces. Thank God you stayed outside of the castle walls. Elle would skin me if she had even a whiff. The stench is going to linger for days.”
“You ever see a young man with really bright red hair and matching beard. Tall, skinny?”
Again, Cole shook his head. “There are a few redheads in the village, but none match that description.”
Conan looked down at the dead man and then, with the tip of his sword, adjusted the man’s filthy tartan so that he could see it better. “I don’t recognize it. Do you?”
Cole’s forehead furrowed as he bent over to take a better look. “Nay, but there are so many small clans just south of here.” He looked over to Dugan, his commander and second in charge of clan affairs. “You know more of them than I as you regularly ride out to our borders. You recognize either him or the plaid?”
Dugan bent over and studied the face of the man for several seconds while holding his breath. Satisfied he had never seen him before, he took several steps back and exhaled. “I don’t know him, and based on his size, our people would have mentioned something if they saw someone matching his description during my visits.”
Conan grimaced. He had really thought that Cole would have at least some insight into who the man was. “What about the plaid?”
Dugan shook his head. “While there are several small clans along the coast, most have aligned themselves with us, the MacLeoid, or MacCoinnich. And you know both their colors. He’s not from around here.”
Conan nodded. The McTiernay colors of dark greens and blues accented with bright colors of gold, red, and burgundy were well known throughout the Highlands, but so were MacLeoid and MacCoinnich tartans. All three had similar backgrounds, but MacCoinnich had no gold or burgundy lines. Instead, the plaid had a prominent white line outlining each plaid square. MacLeoid lines were bright red and yellow.
The man before
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The Most Eligible Highlander in Scotland
Michele Sinclair
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