Desiring the Highlander (26 page)

“And which one is that? Crazy or bossy?”

“The latter,” Cole answered with an appreciative grunt. “She will rise to anything perceived as a challenge. You experienced what happens when she feels like she’s being outwitted. That woman doesn’t back down from a fight…ever. She will drag herself back up and come at you until you yield.”

Conor’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “
You
yielded? I don’t believe it. You lost an argument to an
Englishwoman
in a battle of wits?”

Cole’s face briefly hardened before relaxing. He poured himself another mug of ale and leaned back in the chair, stretching his feet in front of him. “
You
lost,” he said, pointing to Conor with his mug, “not me. Although there was a time or two I might have let her think she won.”

Conor stared incredulously at his younger brother. Cole ignored him. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was keeping his feelings for Ellenor to himself. It would be a short-lived secret as he intended to announce their engagement that night. Still, in this setting and after Conor had just experienced the bolder side of Ellenor’s nature, Cole wasn’t ready to open himself to the ridicule he no doubt would receive. Payback was hell and he had done more than his share of teasing when Conor had announced his wedding plans to Laurel. Cole knew the moment anyone in his family learned of his intentions to marry Ellenor, the peace he was typically afforded by them would instantly disappear.

Conor pointed in the direction of the North Tower. “I think our younger brother has also been outsmarted a time or two. And unlike us resentful old men, he admires her for it. Maybe she admires him back.”

“Conan’s a boy,” Cole said with a little more bite than he had intended.

Conor leaned forward and poured himself some more ale. “To you and I, maybe. But to women, Conan looks like a man. A damn smart man who pretty much irritates and is irritated by all women. Except that one. What do you think? Maybe he has finally found someone who can stomach all his nonsense?”

Cole leaned back and narrowed his gaze. Conor returned the stare without expression. It was hard to know if his older brother was goading him, or truly thought Ellenor and Conan would make a good couple. “Ellenor’s not for Conan.”

“Well, she is certainly not for you,” Conor concluded and stretched out to put his feet on the table. “She’s English.”

Cole eyed his brother’s ankles and shoved them out of view. His brother was definitely goading him, and worse, it was working. “Aye, she’s English. And she’s actually
proud
of it. But that has nothing to do with whether or not she’s right for me.”

“Damn!” Conor cried out. He leaned forward and slammed his mug on the table. “You
like
this woman. I should have known last night when you rode in with her asleep in your lap. I just assumed you had somehow gotten stuck with the duty, but hell, I bet you would have punched me or any other man who dared to take her away from you.”

Conor cleared his throat and Cole wanted to ram his fist through it. Then he realized that Ellenor, in a way, already had. Cole stretched casually and said, “Before you get too proud of yourself, you might want to remember the mess you’re in.”

“What mess?”

“Who do you think has been running this place while you’ve been away? Your wife has been in bed per Hagatha’s orders, Aileen’s been busy with the twins, and Glynis is good at what she does, but you know she can’t handle Fiona or Fallon. It’s been Ellenor, and I do believe her parting comment had something to do with it being your responsibility now.”

The color drained from Conor’s face. “Good God, not again.”

“What do you mean? I thought you and Laurel used to argue endlessly about whose responsibility it was to manage the castle.”

“We did fight. Hell we still fight all the time. But on running this place…well, I am not ashamed to admit that I eventually lost and was glad to have finally admitted defeat. Fallon is a great steward. Glynis is capable of overseeing the maids, and Fiona…well, she’s the best cook in the Highlands. But dealing with the three of them…” Conor raked his scalp. “This Englishwoman was actually managing things?”

“Aye, and very well.”

“Damn,” Conor muttered, rubbing his course chin. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and the growth was now evident. “Do you think she meant it?”

Cole smiled and shook his head, unwilling to prolong his brother’s distress. “Doubt it. Elle likes Laurel too much. She just wanted to shut you up. And she did. If it turns out I’m wrong, I’ll ask her to continue for you. But she can only do so for a while. She’ll be leaving for Fàire Creachann with me.”

“So you’ve decided then. You are going to accept.”

“Aye, I have. But I have a few unusual requests of my own.”

Ellenor leaned against the flat wide worktable and watched as Conan searched an overstuffed chest for another scroll. “You cannot leave yet. You have to stay, and as my newfound absolute favorite lady, you cannot refuse me.”

“High praise coming from a woman hater.”

Conan glanced back briefly and then continued his rummaging. “I don’t hate women. In fact, I enjoy what they have to offer. It’s not my fault that rarely does the enjoyment extend beyond the bedroom.” He pulled something out. “I think this is it.”

“You are incorrigible, you know that?”

Conan raised a single brow and grinned, his expression one of mockery. “This coming from the Englishwoman who just called my eldest brother an idiot? And in the middle of a crowd of McTiernay clansmen, nonetheless.”

Ellenor grimaced. “Not my proudest moment.”

“Don’t worry about it. If Conor was going to throw you out, he would have done it by now. Besides, I thought it was great. Between you and Laurel, I just might have to reconsider my position on the fairer sex.”

“Someday you are going to find someone who is going to make you rethink your whole approach to women. You might find yourself endearing—”

“But I am,” Conan said, leaning against the bench, pasting on a devastating grin.

“Huh, maybe a little, but then I am not interested in you.”

“Not yet,” he said softly, leaning closer.

Ellenor poked him in the chest and pushed him back. “Not ever.”

Conan frowned, but Ellenor could tell that he wasn’t really hurt by the rejection. He shrugged and began uncurling the map in his hand. “That’s because you’re still in love with Cole.”

“What makes you think I am in love with Cole?”

“That wasn’t a denial. And I hate seeing you get hurt. You are wasting your time on him. He doesn’t allow anyone to get close. Not friends, not family, and certainly not an Englishwoman. Any man who refuses you doesn’t deserve you…but then, why listen to me? I’m the incorrigible woman hater who needs to rethink my approach to women.”

Ellenor rolled her eyes as Conan opened out the parchment and laid it in front of her, weighting the edges. “This is the last one,” she mumbled and started reading the various hand markings along the sides. “It’s not very old.”

“No, in fact I think it is a recent depiction of the European coastline. Most of it I can understand, but these markings right here, I think they have something to do with the unusual depth in the area.”

She shook her head. “It’s Latin again.
Sinus Cantabrorum
is just the name of this region. The Ocean of the
Cantabri
.”

Ellenor could sense Conan’s frustration. He didn’t just have a love of maps, he actually wanted to see and visit the places he was studying. Conan devoured all things written, but most especially those items that told him what to expect, details on the weather or how to best travel in the foreign lands.

“Then what about these markings on the side. They are not in Latin.”

Ellenor took a deep breath. “No, they are French, but they, too, are meaningless and have no relevance whatsoever to the map.”

Conan shook his head, unwilling to give up. “But what about these notations right here. They have to be of some importance. They definitely describe the waters in this channel area. What is meaningless to you—like dark blue or turbulent—is not meaningless to me.”

Ellenor sighed. “You really need to learn French.”

“Aye, but until I do, what does it mean?”

“You’re not going to believe me,” Ellenor murmured, knowing he would not relent. Looking down at the manuscript again, she read, “To my wife, who fell over on these stormy seas of hell. A better coffin for which she could not dwell.”

Conan’s jaw dropped. “You are not serious,” he said. “What about the tag below it?”

“Hmm, in a way it, too, does describe the waters. Though indirectly.”

“I knew it! What does it say?”

“It must have been made by a different man because he adds, ‘I curse these warm, foul summer days. I curse these dark calm waters, but mostly I curse my own luck. The blessed coffin lapping all around me, my wife has yet to find.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Well, the handwriting is messy, but I am not making it up. But it does say the seas are dark and calm in the summer.”

“I guess there is that.”

“Then again the man may have just been trying to be poetic.”

“Thanks.”

Ellenor exhaled and moved away from the bench. “Well, I have to go if I am going to get things ready for tonight.”

“Why? I thought you handed off all your responsibilities to Conor now that he has returned.”

Ellenor tipped her head back and scoffed. “Laurel told me about what happens when Conor runs things around here.”

“Aye, it’s awful, but there is an up side. Just think of the work we could do…” Conan said, waving his hand at the various papers and items scattered all over the room.

“I wanted to teach your brother a lesson, not punish Laurel and everyone else around here. Now I really must go. With the laird back, I need to talk with Fiona and Fallon about a small celebratory meal. You
are
coming, and if you want me to help you ever again, don’t make me come up here and get you,” she warned with a grin and approached the door.

“Ellenor?”

She paused and turned around.

“Ellenor? Wear the McTiernay plaid tonight.”

Ellenor hesitated. “I cannot. I am a guest of your clan’s, but I am not a member of it. I have no right.”

“You do if a McTiernay asks you. Promise me.”

She gave a firm tug on the latch. It freed and she swung the door open. She looked back and said, “I’ll think about it.”

Laurel pressed her palm against her stomach and gave it a good shove.

“Sit still,” Ellenor chided, moving Laurel’s head back so she could finish pinning her hair.

“I cannot. I am being kicked mercilessly and it hurts. My ankles are swollen. My back aches and I look like a stuffed pheasant.”

“Then stay up here and rest,” Ellenor goaded, knowing that her friend desperately wanted something fun to see and do.

“Never! Besides I have to be there as Conor’s wife. Are you sure all will be prepared? I still think you should have delayed this celebration for a day or two to give you more time.”

“Nonsense. The food will be ready. The Great Hall is set, and the wood for the bonfires is being piled up right now.”

“But what about the game? I could have made sure we had enough if I could have only gone out to hunt with the men.”

Ellenor threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. “What’s more important? Another type of meat or your baby?”

Laurel pursed her lips. “The baby, of course.”

“Then stop your complaining. We need to finish making you look beautiful. I want your husband’s eyes to be completely on you. Hopefully, then when he does see me, he will have totally forgotten about how I insulted him. Somebody,” Ellenor said, tugging a particular braid a little stronger, “should have warned me he had returned.”

“I
told
you he wasn’t angry!”

“Yes, well, now it won’t matter,” murmured Ellenor as she fastened the last hairpin. She handed the polished silver dish to Laurel. “There. You look stunning, even for a stuffed pheasant.”

Laurel looked at her reflection and nodded in approval. Her deep teal bliaut was accented with cream beading along the hems. Most of her gowns had been adjusted as best as possible for her ever-growing figure, but this was the one bliaut that had been made for her extended form and went all the way to the floor. Lightly fingering the small interwoven braids, she said, “You are going to have to teach Aileen this trick you did with our hair. It is quite becoming.”

“I’ll ask someone to send her up here to the solar. Is she still in your bedroom?”

Laurel shook her head, laying the dish down on the table in front of her. “No, she and Finn are going to meet us in the Great Hall.” Getting up, she shook her finger at Ellenor, indicating it was her turn to sit down.

Ellenor took several steps back in protest. “I am done primping tonight.”

“Just one or two more gold threads,” Laurel encouraged.

“No, I don’t need them. They just blend in with the color of my hair and the pins scratch my scalp all night.”

“You are right about your hair. How about some deep blue thread to match your gown.”

“Blue strings in my hair? No, Laurel. It was hard enough accepting this gown as a gift, but no more. You have done enough.”

“It wasn’t I, it was Brighid. She’s the one gifted with the talent of embroidery,” Laurel said, gesturing to Ellenor’s shallow, curved neckline and sleeves.

“Brighid is amazing,” Ellenor agreed, afraid to look in the dish one more time. The reflection staring back was of another person. Someone beautiful, in a stunning gown, pretending to belong to a clan when she had no right.

The soft, velvet material of deep, almost midnight blue complemented almost every aspect of Ellenor, from her long, thin frame, to her wispy chestnut hair. The sleeves were split along the arm, exposing just a hint of the creamy, diaphanous chainse underneath. The gold looped belt drooped over her hips, accentuating her small waist and emphasizing the intricate golden designs stitched along each hem.