Page 12 of Lyon’s Gift (The Highland Brides #2)

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I t had taken every ounce of Lyon’s will to leave her there lying upon his bed.

He’d wanted so badly to kiss those lovely lips, to worship them with his own, but he wanted something else so much more. Aye, she might have kissed him back in the heat of the moment, but he understood that it was too soon. She would have regretted it after, because he wouldn’t have stopped with merely a taste of her mouth.

Then, too, it had provoked the bloody hell out of him that she would compare him to all the rest of her swains.

Had she carnal knowledge of them? Is that what he saw in her expression when she looked at him? The thought both disturbed and intrigued him. He didn’t like to think of her with another man, but the possibility that she would know a man’s body and how to please him appealed as well.

He was a man with dark passions, he knew .

And he wanted a woman who was bold enough to share them.

He wanted it to be the woman now lying upon his bed.

No other would do.

And that brought him to another matter entirely...

He had no notion how he was going to deal with Dougal MacLean over the matter of his daughter.

Lyon had met her only once, but she hadn’t appealed to him in the least, and he scarcely even recalled what she looked like now. And yet part of the understanding in his accepting this land from Dougal MacLean was that he would agree to give it back by virtue of an alliance. He’d put off the betrothal so long because after meeting MacLean’s daughter, he hadn’t been in any rush to fill his bed. And now that he was, it wasn’t Alison MacLean he wished to fill it with.

It was... whatever her bloody name was up there. He frowned at that. Christ, but she was as stubborn as they came. He wasn’t going to glean her name easily from her, only because he desired it, and she knew.

Well, he was simply going to have to write the missive to David without it. He would just name her as Brodie’s sister.

He barreled down the stairs, into the hall, and headed directly toward his table at the dais, ordering his pen and parchment from a lad who sat cross-legged upon the floor, petting a mangy cat. In his haste, he had forgotten to bring his writing implements with him.

The lad bounded up and ran to do his bidding, and Lyon stepped up on the dais and rounded the table. He drew out a weary breath along with his chair and sat to wait, trying to determine the best course of action to be taken. He raked his fingers through his hair.

Damned Scots.

He was going to have to word this precisely right, he knew, else he was going to end with yet another feud upon his hands.

Alison MacLean wasn’t precisely ill-favored, it was merely that she lacked spirit. She’d sat there before him, her expression ranging from disinterest to horror at the prospect of wedding with him. At least that he didn’t feel badly about. He had no doubt that she did not share her father’s enthusiasm for the alliance. So he hadn’t to worry about disappointing her. And yet he certainly didn’t wish to wound her tender feelings.

He tried to conjure her face to his thoughts, but all that came to him were those crossed eyes... that nose... the miserable expression she’d worn. She sat there beside her father, looking entirely wretched, while her father had babbled on about the rewards of their proposed alliance, completely oblivious to his daughter’s distress. Lyon had been aware of nothing but. How could he wed her anyway when it had been perfectly clear to him that MacLean’s daughter came into the bargain wholly unwilling?

Baldwin entered the hall. “Where’s the wench?” he asked, looking bedraggled and seeming surprised to find Lyon alone. Lyon didn’t think his old friend was ever going to forgive him for having to mount the bloody lamb upon his horse. As long as Lyon lived he didn’t think he would ever forget the sight of Baldwin trying to mount with the rotten little beast in his arms. He’d finally managed only by straddling the animal over his saddle and then mounting behind it.

“I stink to high heaven,” he complained, casting his arms out in disgust.

Lyon chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”

“I hope you’re happy,” Baldwin said sourly. “Where’s the mad wench?”

“In my chamber.”

Baldwin nodded. “Of course.”

“And where is Fia?”

“Where do you think? I gave her to Cameron to place with the others.”

“Well, you’ll have to get her back,” Lyon charged him, and couldn’t help but laugh at Baldwin’s harassed expression. “She wants to see her grandmother .”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly in earnest,” Lyon said. “She’s something, is she not?”

Baldwin muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he approached the table. “She’s something else all right,” he agreed. “Are you bloody insane, Lyon? Whatever do you want with a lunatic wench?”

Lyon raised his brows. He could think of a few things—one in particular in direct relation to the throbbing condition he had concealed beneath the table. “What do you think I want with her, Baldwin?”

“Randy bastard,” Baldwin accused him.

Lyon merely laughed.

“I’m telling you, she’s more trouble than it’s worth,” Baldwin warned.

Lyon arched a brow. “I shall be the judge of that.”

Baldwin sat upon the table. “She’s insane,” he said with conviction.

Lyon was tired of hearing it. “Nay,” he disagreed, “I assure you she is not.”

“What if she is?” Baldwin persisted.

“She’s not. She’s simply a cunning little wench, is all.”

“And you seriously mean to do this?”

Lyon ran his hand over his jaw. “As serious as I can be.”

“Christ, but you are.” Baldwin gave a low whistle, and shook his head.

The two remained silent an instant, considering the gravity of Lyon’s decision.

“And what of MacLean? What will you say to him? He’ll not be pleased, Lyon.”

Lyon leaned back in his chair. “I know.”

“He is counting upon this alliance, I do not have to tell you.”

Lyon’s lips twisted. “Well, we’ll simply have to find the proper compensation for him, will we not? Every man has a price, as they say. As for David,” he continued, “I am not so dim-witted that I do not understand why he gave me this land to begin with.”

Baldwin nodded.

“He needs me here, else he’d never have risked the displeasure of these Highlanders to begin with—not when he is trying so desperately to win them over. Nay, he did not barter land from MacLean simply to reward an old friend. He’s too shrewd for that. He placed me here because I’m damned good at what I do.”

“This is true,” Baldwin affirmed. “No one is better at commanding wayward men.”

Lyon leaned forward in his chair and over the table, peering up at Baldwin. “He also realizes that while I want this—and I do—I’d as soon leave it all as to sell myself any longer. I’m through with all that, Baldwin. I’ve gold enough to do as I will. Life is too short,” he concluded.

“That it is. What can I do? How can I help?”

Lyon smirked up at him. “You can get your stinking arse off the table I eat on, to begin with.”

Baldwin laughed .

“And then you can take Fia up to see her granddaughter,” Lyon added with a note of wry humor.

Baldwin shook his head and hopped off the table, but, to his credit, said nothing.

“Thank you,” Lyon added as his friend turned to go. “I realize this has the potential to make life difficult for the lot of us. Not only me.”

Baldwin smiled. “You have done far more for me. Supporting you is the least I can do. Anything else you need just now?”

“Just one more thing,” Lyon said. “Get her name for me, if you will, that I might have it before the evening meal.”

“Very well,” Baldwin said, and started away just as the lad returned, bringing Lyon his quill, inkwell, and parchment.

Lyon took the items from his hands and then sent him on his way with a ruffle of his dark hair and a word of thanks. And then he set about writing the necessary letters: one to Dou-gal MacLean, one to David of Scotia, and one to her damned brothers as Lyon was certain they’d be wondering over her whereabouts just about now. It served little purpose to keep them in suspense. They were going to be brothers by marriage, after all.

In fact, while he was at it, he thought he might simply make it a wedding invitation and remind them to bring their own ale.

The little lamb was growing weary.

Meghan could tell by the way it seemed to wobble on its wee legs. And yet she knew the poor creature couldn’t possibly make itself at ease enough in this strange place long enough to fall asleep on its own.

“Poor wee thing,” she cooed, and lifted the creature upon the bed, commiserating with it.

Weary as it was, it dropped down beside her, and she sat stroking its head while it grew still, listening to the sound of her voice. She’d always had a great love for animals—something she’d indubitably inherited from Fia. And having spent the entire day with this one, she was beginning to grow quite fond of the little beast. They seemed to have a natural affinity between them. In truth, strange as it seemed, she was even beginning to think of it as her grammie Fia.

She lay upon the bed, contemplating her prison as she stroked the animal’s newly sheared coat. It wasn’t a large room, nor was it precisely small. It was really quite unremarkable in every aspect, save for the gaping hole in the ceiling on the far side of the roof. It was growing dark; Meghan watched the gloaming sky fade to night before her eyes.

She knew her brothers had begun to search for her by now. She also knew they would worry, and felt a stab of guilt for putting herself at risk to begin with. She should never have taken the shortcut through the woods.

And Colin, she knew, would blame himself most because he’d been the one to let her go.

Although Colin was the most indulgent of her brothers, he was quite protective of her still. He merely allowed her a little more freedom because he valued his own so much.

And yet, if it weren’t for the fact that she knew they were home fretting... or out searching and thinking the worst... in truth she might not be wholly regretful of her circumstances.

No matter that she told herself she was content to be alone, she was fiercely lonesome, and this union could at least give her children some day.

“You know what?” she asked the wee lamb, now resting peacefully beside her. Seeing it so at ease in her presence made her feel a sense of achievement. “The Sassenach is right,” she continued, speaking low lest someone overhear her. “This truly might be the perfect solution, were I to wed the brute,” she reasoned. “What do you think?”

She stared at the animal’s serene face and thought of Fia when she’d slept. It brought a smile to her lips. How many mornings had she gone tiptoeing into her grammie’s room, only to find her stretched out upon her bed, lying so still, looking as though she had passed in her sleep during the night. Meghan would approach Fia’s bed with wide-eyed apprehension and a valor that she’d hardly felt. She’d stand there, watching her grammie’s breast for some sign of life. But Fia always slept much too peacefully, and Meghan would wave a hand before her nostrils to feel the warm breath leave them in order to reassure herself. And then Fia would startle the life from her, coming awake abruptly.

“Och!” she would complain. “Cannot an auld woman rest in peace?”

Meghan would gasp in fright and then sigh in relief, and then feel wracked with guilt over waking her grammie.

The memory filled her with sorrow. Fia had been her sole companion, and Meghan had lived in fear of losing the one person who had truly understood her. Her mother had been too brokenhearted to think of anyone ever.

Meghan didn’t fault her mother for it, because it had been so apparent by the look in her eyes that her grief had been real. After her father’s death, her mother’s pain had been so great that it had seemed easier for her not to feel at all. She had spent hours alone simply staring from her window—and nights weeping in her bed. Meghan knew that, somewhere in her heart, her mother had loved her too, but her guilt and her pain had been too great for her to express it. Her father’s jealousy had carried him to his grave, and her mother had never forgiven herself for her wayward smiles. Nor did she ever forget Meghan’s da till the day she last closed her eyes. As for Megan’s brothers, they were too involved with their own lives—Leith with his duties to the clan, Gavin with his God, and Colin with his women—to spend time enough with Meghan.

When Fia died, Meghan had felt as though she’d lost her mooring, for while Alison was as true a friend as any could have, Meghan was more a mother figure to her in many ways; Alison had often shared her woes with Meghan, but Meghan had never felt comfortable to do so in return. It had always seemed Meghan’s duty to be the strong one. And she had felt so alone for so very long.

She peered hard at the little lamb’s face and wished with all her heart that she could live such a simple life... a silly thing to wish... but she did.

Oh, to be more plain, like Alison...

Alison was lovely from within and it radiated without. Alison would someday find herself a man who would look past the flaws in her face and would love her for her soul.

Meghan’s own face had always been a bloody curse. Women rarely received her warmly because of it, and men only wanted to possess her for it.

Now that Fia was gone... nobody seemed to care enough to know the heart within her silly body—not even her brothers. And Meghan had long since resolved herself to spiritual solitude. She’d learned from Fia’s example how to tend her own gardens behind the stone walls that sheltered her heart. And if she kept those walls erect, it was only because somewhere within she feared no one would like the imperfect soul behind the perfect face. She’d learned the importance of being content with herself and embracing even her flaws—especially her flaws—as it was foolish to place her happiness into someone else’s hands.

Och, but she knew it was foolish to hope for unconditional love.

Aye... so this might very well be the perfect solution for all... save that Piers Montgomerie was no different from the rest.

Meghan was well aware of and none too pleased by the fact that peace between their clans was not his true motivation. Like all other men, Piers Montgomerie was driven by lust. He lusted after beauty and perfection, and little did he realize that Meghan was a fraud. Her face might be pleasing, but her soul was fraught with flaws. She was not sweet and well-mannered like Alison—nor was she patient and warmhearted.

She was not perfect.

Never had been.

Never would be.