Page 13 of Lyon’s Gift (The Highland Brides #2)

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

I t was the wee hours of the morn when the torches were once again returned to their sconces upon the walls.

They had searched the woodlands, the meadows, the loch’s edge even, and still there was no sign of Meghan.

Leith Mac Brodie slumped behind the table where MacLean’s daughter sat still, waiting, with her head cradled wearily within her arms. Her lovely copper tresses pooled about her upon the table. He resisted the urge to reach out and see for himself whether it was as soft as it appeared.

She peered up when he sat, looking as frightened as a wee rabbit startled by a pack of wolves. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks stained with tears. His heart wrenched a little at the sight of her, and his conscience pricked him.

They had yet to take her home, and he knew it would bear its own consequences come the morning light, but it could scarce be helped. He could spare not a man to see her safely to her father—could not spare them from the search for Meghan. And neither could he simply have let her go, not as a matter of principle, and certainly not in light of Meghan’s disappearance.

He averted his gaze, rubbing at his temples, unable to face the lass as yet, as he knew she was like to have considered the consequences of her having spent the night unchaperoned in his home.

Damn, but troubles never ceased.

“You did not find her?” Alison asked apprehensively, though hopefully, peering up at him, her eyes wide.

Leith met her gaze, shook his head, and sighed. “Nay, lass. We didna.”

“And did you search the meadow?”

Leith nodded.

“And the woodlands?”

“Aye, lass,” he answered. “Colin and Gavin are still searching as we speak.”

“Poor lads,” she said, her expression full of concern.

Leith knew she was thinking of Colin; he recognized that forlorn look upon her face. He couldn’t understand why Colin did not see the good in her. He couldn’t perceive how his brother placed such weight upon the fickle face, and so little upon the heart. Alison MacLean was possessed of a beautiful heart and even lovelier soul. It was discernible in her eyes and in every expression that graced her sweet face.

And that hair, the color of Meghan’s it was her most remarkable feature. Even her eyes, crossed as they were, were like Meghan’s... The two were not so dissimilar, he thought. As children they had looked naught alike, but it seemed to Leith that as they’d grown up together, the two had begun to resemble one another somewhat. It was peculiar.

He stared at her, thinking that a man could do much worse than to look into those eyes before he closed his own to sleep at night.

“Did you find the wee lamb, perchance?”

He cocked his head at her. “Lamb?”

“Aye,” she replied. “Do you not recall I told you I left a lamb for Meghan to find?”

“Oh! Aye!” He straightened in his seat. “No sign of the lamb either,” he told her.

Her brows knit. “None at all?”

“None.”

“It seems to me,” she said, thinking aloud, “that there should have been some sign of the animal—hoof marks—something to show the path it took away from the meadow. Don’t you think so?”

“The ground is dry,” he pointed out.

She nodded, frowning. It was only then, with that small defeat, that he recognized the dread in her expression. Her face grew wan. Her eyes met his, and they were so full of fear that Leith once again had the most incredible urge to hold her... to fold her under his arms like a mother bird did with her hatchlings.

And it struck him then that she had yet to voice concern for her own situation. He knew she had to have considered the consequences of her remaining unchaperoned in his home. How could she not have? With every moment that passed, she was compromised all the more. As it was, dawn was quickly approaching, and they had not even sent a messenger to her da, letting him know of her whereabouts. As much as he loathed the thought of doing so—weary as he was, concerned as he was for Meghan—he knew he had to rouse himself once more... for Alison’s sake.

“I came to take you home,” he told her.

She seemed to take in a fretful breath, but nodded bravely. “Verra well, then... I am ready to go.”

Guilt pricked at him once more. “I’m sorry we did not take you sooner, lass.”

“I understand why you didna,” she assured him, but it didn’t help to soothe his conscience. “I could not have expected you to do so.”

Leith nodded, as he didn’t know what to say to her. She was right, of course; Meghan was his priority just now, but he knew her da well enough to know that she was not going to be well-received.

She seemed to understand what it was he could not say, for she told him then, “I came knowing it would be so, Leith Mac Brodie... Dinna fash yourself over it, please.”

Compelled to speak his mind, Leith reached out and took her chin within his hand, lifting it so that her gaze would meet his own. “You’re a good lass, Alison. Dinna think otherwise. My imbecile brother does not deserve you.”

She smiled softly, and the sight of it lifted him at once, but he wasn’t simply saying so to make her feel better. He believed it with all of his heart. Aye, MacLean’s daughter would make some man a fine, fine wife.

“Come now,” he urged her, “let us go and deliver you home.”

She didn’t come down for the evening meal, and Lyon thought it prudent to leave her be, as she needed time to think about his proposal. No matter that he’d threatened to force her hand, he would not, he knew. He might not need her compliance, but he wanted it nevertheless, as he was well aware that forcing her to wed with him would not bode well for peace between their clans.

Nay, it was best to allow her some time to think.

And it was just as well that she’d not appeared, for it had taken him long hours to prepare his letters. He returned to them directly after supping, and only completed them when the hall had fallen to silence for the evening.

His chamber was dark when he returned, and he stood in the doorway, allowing his vision to adjust to the blackness before entering.

The only light that filtered within the room was that from the gaping hole within his ceiling. The shutters were nailed shut as they had been in peril of falling off when he’d moved into the manor a mere month before, and he’d thought it better, for now, to keep them closed rather than to have them not at all. At least they were secure.

There was much work to be done, and so little time. His chamber had been left to repair last, as he had only so many men to spare, and the entire manor had been in disrepair when he’d acquired it. It made no difference to him, at any rate. He had slept in worse places than this—hard cold stone floors and bare ground.

To him the bed was an indulgence.

And the woman within it a mystery.

Peering up at the yawning hole in his ceiling, he gauged the night sky. The stars were clear and the moon high, but it was hardly bright enough to illuminate his way across the room.

No matter, he knew his way well enough.

Having accustomed himself enough to the darkness, he made his way unerringly across the creaking wood floor, stopping when it seemed to sink beneath his feet midway across. He frowned, testing it, and then looked up again at the hole in the roof, shaking his head in disgust of the condition of the place. There was no telling how long the hole had been there, or for that matter how much snow and rain had dampened the floors.

Sighing, he made his way to the small desk that occupied his bedside. Upon it he kept his most prized possessions: his personal treatises. Placing the quill and inkwell down upon the desk, he slumped within the chair, wishing now that he’d carried up a candle to write by.

Tonight was one of those nights he knew sleep would elude him... like a veiled lover whose face he craved but could not see.

His gaze was drawn to the shadow stretched out upon his bed.

He tried to make her out, but could not. The room was entirely too dark, and his eyes too weary from staring so long at his scribblings. He’d had to word the letters just so. He knew how important it was to convey a precise message. And he was pleased with the outcome. He planned to dispatch the letters first thing in the morn.

David would feel thwarted, he knew, for he had his well-laid plans and liked to see them carried out exactly so, and yet Lyon also knew that his longtime friend was smart enough to adjust when the need arose.

David hadn’t come so far as he had by being so inflexible.

As the eighth son of Malcom Ceann Mor, David had, against great odds, come to Scotia’s throne. But neither had he come empty-handed, and that in itself had been a tour de force. He had in essence ruled most of southern Scotia already, Cumbria, and also Huntingdon and Northampton by virtue of marriage. He was, in truth, one of England’s most powerful barons as well as Henry’s brother by marriage. And he hadn’t come so far so fast by making stupid decisions... or by turning his back upon his allies.

The first thing David had done, in fact, upon his return to Scotia was to reward his friends—de Brus, FitzAlan, de Bailleul, de Comines, and Lyon among the many. Though Lyon was well aware that while David was sincere in his desire to reward those he favored, he’d also chosen his beneficiaries with a particular purpose in mind. It was his intent to bring the Highlanders under his yoke, and God’s bloody truth, if anyone was capable of doing that, David surely was. David had placed his friends shrewdly, understanding well their strengths and their faults. And Lyon had been granted the most ungovernable bailiwick.

And he knew precisely why.

Nay, David would not oppose him.

MacLean, on the other hand, could prove to be a problem. Though Lyon didn’t think so. The greedy old bugger had only agreed to yield this wasted slice of land in the hopes of gaining favor with David. Ultimately, that was MacLean’s design, Lyon knew, though he’d claimed it was the return of his land and an alliance with Lyon. But an alliance with Lyon was an alliance with David, and Lyon was betting that MacLean would not risk David’s disfavor to challenge Lyon. All these things he’d pointed out to David in the letter, as well.

As for the Brodies...

Lyon sighed at the mere thought of them.

He had understood long before he’d ever set foot upon this land that they, along with Iain MacKinnon, would be his greatest challenge—MacKinnon, by far, being his greatest concern. The Brodies, however, were certainly no small undertaking. They, like MacKinnon, comprised David’s staunchest opposition.

Nay, men like these were not easily won, as they had no susceptibility to bribery. They chose their alliances with their guts, and fought their battles with their hearts. They were not blinded by gold, nor were they seduced by power. They clung to freedom and the right to their own will. They fought for their kinsmen, and did not fear death in the pursuit of their cause.

Damn, but Lyon respected the hell out of them.

Pain-in-the-arse Scots.

They were men after his own heart, but Lyon, in his mind, had not the bloody right even to lick their boots for he had compromised every value he had ever set for himself in the pursuit of personal gain. And if the truth be known, it had, like a sliver under one’s flesh, begun to fester within his heart .

He did not like himself very well for the decisions he had made in his life. There was so much that he had aspired to, yet he had pursued all that he abhorred instead.

He sat back within the small chair and stared at the bed.

She could give him something to fight for.

She could give him a reason to change.

But he had to win her first... and then convince her brothers.

Christ, but the mere thought of her filled him with something exhilarating... something compelling. She stirred his loins, aye... but more, so bloody much more... she stirred his heart, as well. She was cunning and brave, and she spoke her mind freely, revealing the convictions of her heart.

She made him yearn for more.

She made him hunger for far more than those luscious lips that must taste like warm summer rain.

Meghan.

Her name was Meghan.

He smiled, thinking about the tales Baldwin had returned with. He didn’t believe a one of them... She simply didn’t have that look in her eyes.

Nay, Meghan Brodie was no more a madwoman than he was a bloody saint.

He sat there, wondering whether he should spend the night in the chair, or whether he could trust himself to lie next to her upon his bed—God, but the mere thought of her lying there aroused him. The thought of her lying beside him pleased him in a deeper sense as well, and he decided that he damned well wasn’t sleeping in a bloody chair. He wasn’t a blushing lad who could not restrain himself. He was certainly capable of lying upon a bed with a woman and not making love to her. He was master of his desires, not the other way around, he told himself.

That settled, he stood and lifted up his tunic, tossing it determinedly aside. He pried off his boots with his feet while he untied his braies.

He slid them down and shrugged them off, leaving them where they lay, and then he crawled into the bed beside her.