Page 17 of Lyon’s Gift (The Highland Brides #2)

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

M eghan decided she would appeal to the man’s sense of loyalty. If he were countryman, she had some chance, at least, of gaining his support. If he were an English toad, then she was simply out of luck. It was impossible to tell by his manner of speech as he spoke like an Englishman, with only the merest trace of a brogue.

“Are you a Scotsman, sir?” she asked, meeting his gaze as she approached the table. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

He cocked his head at her in puzzlement. “Aye,” he answered, casting Lyon a wary glance. “Why do you ask, lass?”

“Verra good,” Meghan exclaimed. “Because I wish to go home.”

The man turned to Lyon, looking all the more confused by her vehement demand. “What is this?” he asked. “What does she mean, Lyon?”

“Uh,” was all Lyon Montgomerie could think to say.

Meghan turned to glare at him, and was pleased to see that he had the decency to flush at the prospect of an explanation.

She wasn’t about to let him explain, however, because he would no doubt find some way to justify his actions. “He abducted me,” she charged, pointing an accusing finger at Lyon.

The man’s brows lifted higher. “Lyon?” he said. “Is this true?”

Lyon had the good grace not to deny it. He nodded with lifted brows and an abashed grimace. “Afraid so,” he admitted.

“Christ,” the man exploded.

“I was going to tell you as soon as you were finished,” Lyon assured him.

“What a bloody pair we are,” the man declared. “Whyever would you do such a thing? Who the devil is she anyway?”

“ I am Meghan Brodie,” she announced, wholly annoyed with their apparent comradeship. “And I dinna know who you are, sir. You dinna sound like any bluidy Scot to me, but my brothers will not be pleased to hear this, I assure you.”

The man turned to Lyon once more. “Damn, Lyon, but I anticipate you had a better reason than to simply warm your bed. Her very demeanor shrivels my willy. ”

Meghan gasped in outrage at his crude remark, and her face heated.

Lyon chuckled softly. “I cannot claim I did to begin with,” he said, “but in my own defense, I must say she was somewhat more appealing last night.”

The man chortled, and Meghan bristled. She gritted her teeth and clenched her hands at her sides. “I dinna see what precisely is so amusing,” she assured them both and narrowed her eyes at the arrogant stranger. “Who are you, sir?” she demanded of him.

He regarded her a moment, and then proclaimed matter-of-factly with an arrogant lift of his chin, “I am David of Scotia.”

Meghan blinked in surprise. “King David?”

“Aye, lass.”

“Son of Malcom Ceann Mor?”

“None other.”

Meghan tilted her head at him in disdain. “You dinna look like a king to me, sir,” she accused him. “You look and sound like a bluidy rotten Sassenach.”

He merely smiled at that.

“Och,” Meghan exclaimed, and was disheartened.

Or was she truly?

“I dinna suppose I can persuade you to send me home?” she asked the man without hesitation, but also without expectation. There was little chance of it, she knew, when he was the reason Lyon Montgomerie was in Scotia to begin with. The two were in league together. Bedfellows!

“Give me a single reason I should question the judgment of one of my most valuable men,” he answered.

“Because I dinna wish to wed with him is why,” Meghan said, lifting her chin.

His gaze flew to Lyon’s in surprise. His brow arched imperiously. “Wed, Lyon?”

Lyon seemed to brace himself. He nodded. “Aye,” he answered simply.

“You cannot wed with her,” David argued.

“That’s precisely what I have been trying to tell him,” Meghan interjected, pleased to see he was finally seeing her point.

“What of MacLean?” David asked, ignoring her.

Meghan bristled at his apparent dismissal.

“What of him?” Lyon replied mildly. “I have already dispatched him a letter of explanation, as I did with you. I assure you I’ll not be wedding Alison MacLean.”

“Lyon,” David urged him, “consider what you are saying.”

“I’ll not wed her,” Lyon answered quietly, but tersely, and Meghan wasn’t certain who she was more incensed for—herself, or Alison. Did no man know to look behind a silly face.

“The poor lass appeared as though she might cry did I simply breathe upon her,” Lyon said by way of explanation. “I cannot wed a girl who will not have me.”

There was an immediate soberness between them as they stared at each other, seeming to be sparring without words.

David’s expression was an unreadable mask but for his eyes, which flashed forbiddingly.

“Do you recall,” Lyon said, “what you once claimed you would give to me upon a silver plate?”

David turned away, his jaw tautening. “I do,” he replied.

Lyon’s expression was every bit as firm. “This is not the way.”

Meghan watched the two, considering their curious exchange. By the expression upon David’s face it became quite apparent that Lyon would hold his ground, that David would relent.

What hold did Lyon have over this man?

It was also apparent by the look in David’s eyes that he was unused to being opposed, and yet she knew instinctively he would yield.

“If you will not, you will not,” David relented, “though I cannot and will not condone a marriage without consent. Christ, Lyon, but you have not even her brothers’ blessings in this.”

Meghan held her breath.

“I will have hers,” Lyon assured him.

Meghan inhaled a breath. “Nay, you will not,” she swore, enraged by his arrogance.

David peered at her then, looking suddenly annoyed with her presence. Well! Meghan didn’t care. This was her life. And she was certainly not going to stand idly by while two strangers decided her fate.

He returned his gaze to Lyon and yielded, “Are you so certain of this, Lyon?”

Lyon smiled. “What do you think, David?” He lifted a brow.

In answer, David arched a brow as well. “I think if anyone can, you certainly may, but if you do not gain consent, I cannot, as I said, condone it.”

Meghan could scarcely believe they were bartering the matter of her life right before her so arrogantly.

“Very well,” David said, “I can give you a fortnight to convince her, after which you must agree to release her if she remains opposed.”

Lyon was silent, unresponsive, and Meghan, knowing this was the best she was going to get from David of Scotia, lifted her chin and challenged Lyon, “Unless you are not so certain of your bluidy self, after all?”

Lyon met her gaze and his lips curved softly, his uncanny blue eyes flashing with seductive interest.

“I will agree if you will agree,” she boldly invited him.

He turned abruptly to David, looking suddenly quite satisfied with the arrangement. A quiver raced down Meghan’s spine. Recalling the way he had left her upon his bed, ready to yield to him for want of a simple kiss, she wondered whether she had somehow made a mistake in challenging him so.

“You were ever the negotiator,” he said to David.

David gave him a look that told Meghan he was hardly feeling a victor in this settlement.

“Fair enough,” Lyon said. “I shall agree to a fortnight, after which, if she does not agree to be my bride...” He peered at Meghan, and his smoldering blue eyes stole her breath. “I shall personally escort her home.”

“Very well,” David announced, and Meghan had the immediate impression she had made a terrible mistake. Something in Lyon’s expression told her she had lost already. And somehow, she got the feeling she’d played directly into his hands.

The image of him as he’d appeared standing in the doorway last night accosted her then, and her heart began to pound traitorously, thundering in her ears.

Wasn’t it enough she had to vie with Lyon Montgomerie? Was she going to have to battle her own treacherous body, as well?

She had never thought herself so susceptible to the wiles of any man, but there was little use in denying the way this one made her feel—despite that she knew him to be as shallow-minded as the rest of his gender.

Well! She hadn’t lost as yet, she reminded herself. And she wasn’t very good at losing, besides. Lyon Montgomerie might win after all, Meghan resolved, but she was going to make certain he looked thrice at his bloody rotten prize.

It probably wasn’t the wisest thing Alison had ever done, but she had to speak with Leith. She had to tell him how much she appreciated what he was willing to sacrifice for her sake, but she had begun to feel the weight of her conscience ever since he’d taken his leave the other night. She knew he couldn’t possibly love her, and she couldn’t allow him to surrender his own chance for happiness with some other woman of his choice.

She found him in the courtyard with both Colin and Gavin, their heads together in solemn discussion. Gavin and Colin had evidently only just returned from yet another search, for Gavin still held the reins of his mount firmly within his hand. Colin had abandoned his own mount entirely, and it stood dutifully by, as Colin listened to whatever it was Leith was saying to him. Her heart twisted a little at the sight of him, but she told herself she was a fool. He had never shown her the least regard. Why should she care so much for a man who refused even to look her in the eyes?

Alison had to know, too, whether they had word of Meghan, as she was tormented with worry for her friend’s sake. She couldn’t bear the wait any longer; she had to know.

And yet, she waited still, unable to face Colin.

When both Gavin and Colin had taken their leave, and Leith turned to go as well, she ran after him, calling his name.

He turned to face her at once, his brows lifting in surprise. “Alison!” He reached out and seized her hand when it seemed she would stumble into his arms.

“Och! Forgive me for intruding,” she beseeched him a bit breathlessly. “But I had to know! I had to know of Meghan! Please dinna be angry with me for coming yet again!”

“Dinna be silly,” Leith said. “I understand, Alison.” And he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

Alison clutched his arm hopefully. “Is there news?”

He shook his head. “None at all, I am afraid.”

Alison frowned. “I am so worried.”

“So are we, lass, so are we. But dinna ye fret. We will find her soon.”

“I do hope,” she said, and took a deep breath. “Leith,” she began, peering up at him bravely. “I also came for another reason.”

His brows lifted. “What is it, Alison?” he said with a look of concern.

Alison suddenly could not find the words to speak. “I... I... wished to say... well, you see,” she stammered, “I feel a bit that you were forced to ask my father... ”

He clasped her hands gently, seeming to understand what she was trying to say. “Alison sweeting, I was not forced to do anything at all, dinna ye see?”

Alison shook her head. “I cannot believe you would wish to wed with me,” she told him. “I know that you feel sorry for me, and I wanted you to know that I will not be crushed if you dinna wish to take me as your wife. I do not need a man to feel sorry for me, and I dinna wish to make you unhappy.”

He smiled down at her. “Look at me, Alison MacLean... Does the prospect of wedding you seem to distress me?”

“Well, nay, but—”

“Nay, but naught,” he said, hushing her. “Come with me a moment.” And then he drew her aside for privacy behind a horse and cart. “Will you do me a favor?” he asked her.

Alison nodded, so grateful to him that she would have fallen at his feet and kissed them with her lips.

“Listen to me with your heart just now, Alison,” he said, and then drew her into his arms.

Alison gasped in surprise. Her heart began to hammer within her breast as he turned her face up to his and bent to touch his lips to her own.

She felt dizzy with shock as he kissed her sweetly, gently upon the mouth—just a tender kiss, but it was the first kiss Alison had ever had in her entire life.

No man had ever, ever done such a thing to her.

No man had ever even expressed the desire to do so.

It confused her, startled her so that she merely stared up at him in bewilderment as he lifted his face to peer down at her. She blinked in surprise.

“Did you hear that?” he asked her, his voice tender.

Alison could not find her voice to speak, nor did she find the will even to nod.

“Listen to me, and listen to me well, Alison MacLean,” Leith told her with certainty. “I want you to go home now,” he directed her, “and think on what I have just said to you with my heart. Think about what you desire. Consider carefully whether you would have me as your mon. My offer stands as it was made, but I dinna wish to force you, either, lass. Go home, then, and think of this, and decide if you will have me as your husband, because I would be honored to take you as my bride.”

Alison shook her head and opened her mouth to speak.

“Shhh,” he bade her. “Dinna say a word until you have passed the night in thought. Do me the favor of that. Will you?”

Taking in a breath, before she should swoon at his feet with the shock of it all, she nodded.

“Good, then,” he said, and drew her out from behind the cart into open view once more.

He had to drag her out behind him because she would have remained there, so shocked was she by what he had said and done. She placed her fingers in bewilderment to her lips.

The messenger came as she stood there staring up at Leith Mac Brodie in bewilderment. Alison was scarcely aware of him, even, for he handed the missive to Leith and practically turned and fled whilst she stood there contemplating what had only just happened between them.

Leith broke the seal, and stared at the parchment. He turned it sideways, and then his face colored a bit. “Alison,” he said. “Gavin is not here, and I cannot read this. Will you do me the honor?”

Alison nodded, taking the parchment from his hands at once. She gazed at the paper without seeing the words for an instant, and then blinked and read.

“Lyon Montgomerie has her,” she said, stunned. “He has Meghan.”

“The hell you say,” he thundered, and tore the parchment from her hands.

She peered up at him, blinking. “It says only that he holds her in custody for the charge of thievery.”

Behind the protective barrier of rails, Meghan stood looking down upon Lyon’s hall.

Her vantage point along the tiny open corridor offered her a clear view of all who came and went, and she needed only step back into the shadows if Lyon entered the hall below. Neither did she fear anyone would come upon her here, as only Lyon’s room could be accessed by the corridor, and no one seemed to dare climb his stairs, so Megan was able to observe her gaolers and make a plan.

The hall was empty now but for a few laggards who seemed disinclined to work whilst their master’s eyes were not upon them.

King David had remained rather than continue along his journey to Edinburgh, and he and Lyon had closeted themselves to discuss matters of consequence. She wondered what those topics might be, as David’s visits to the Highlands were rare. She was certain, however, their discussion did not concern her, as it was clear that her situation had been addressed and decided upon.

And she was hardly pleased with the outcome.

Yet neither could she argue it, as she had agreed to his bloody bargain, and to admit she had been outwitted only made her feel foolish.

Nay, she wanted to make him regret his shallow-minded covetousness.

More than that, she needed to go home.

The only way she knew that Lyon had come to his bed at all last night was because she’d awakened to his warmth upon the bed beside her. His body was gone, but his scent had remained, and Meghan, her heart pounding fiercely, had dared to turn over upon the warm sheets, embracing it. It was a brazen thing to do, but Meghan, having slept within his bed for the second night in a row, was having the most peculiar thoughts.

She couldn’t seem to eradicate him from her brain—not that it was at all possible in her situation, she realized. How could she when she was occupying his chamber, contemplating wedding with him for the sake of her kinsmen, and reading his most personal thoughts?

She was really growing quite desperate.

Studying the hall, she noticed for the first time that it bore a similar ceiling to the one Gavin had had constructed within their chapel. Only this one was older and not domed. It was flat, as there were rooms above the enormous hall, but it was braced along the walls with the same sort of beams that supported the ceiling of the chapel.

The same sort from which that silly raven had peered down at her.

She had felt so helpless to reach it.

Meghan stared at the beam closest to her, the craziest notion entering her head, and then she peered down at the hall below.

One would have to be truly mad to perch oneself upon such a place on high, she thought, and noted the placement of the nearest beam...

If she could but reach it—and she thought she could—she could pull herself up onto it...

The thought of him looking up at her from below brought a cunning smile to her face. Well, perhaps she could convince him that she was mad after all. Determining that it was worthy of the effort, and certain she could see her grandmother doing the very same thing, Meghan went to the far end of the rail and reached out, trying to touch the beam. Stretching, stretching, she lifted herself up on tiptoes and giggled with mischievous delight when she was able to wrap her fingers about the board.

She tested it, tugging it to make certain it was secure, and then smiled and stepped up onto the rail, humming a merry tune...

“Lyon,” came a bark from beyond his closed doors, and was followed at once by a sharp rap. “Lyon!”

Lyon removed his booted feet from the table and peered at David, knowing instinctively that the news would not be good. The two of them had been discussing Iain MacKinnon, and the best course of action to take with him. Lyon had suggested that David consider returning to discuss the matter with Iain directly. Iain, as Lyon understood it, was a fair man, and Lyon believed in direct personal confrontation. At any rate, sequestered as he was with Scotia’s king, none would be so bold as to interrupt him here, lest the message be of grave import. Or …

“Enter,” he said, and braced himself as the door swung open to reveal a wan-looking Baldwin.

“Lyon?” Baldwin said apprehensively. “If I may beg pardon, I think you should come.”

Lyon cast a glance at David to find his old friend eyeing him curiously, brows raised. Rising from his chair, Lyon knew instinctively by the look upon Baldwin’s face that his interruption was about none other than Meghan.

What the devil was she up to now?

“I shall return,” he said to David, and then asked as cordially as possible, “Have you perchance had the opportunity to sample the wine I sent you from Auvergne? I have some hoarded away for myself, I must confess. Perhaps you should like to try it now?”

David’s brows lifted higher. “In other words, you would like me to occupy myself here alone whilst you go and deal with your guest ?”

Lyon’s lips curved upward. “You were ever a shrewd bastard.”

“As were you, of course,” David returned, flashing a cunning smile. He sighed. “Very well, Lyon, go and deal with your wench. I will wait.”

Lyon laughed. “I shall be quick,” he promised, and abandoned David to his own devices. Preceding Baldwin out the door, he demanded of him, “What now?”

“Uh... I think you need to see this for yourself,” Baldwin answered, and said not a word more.

Lyon grimaced. He suddenly wasn’t certain he wished to know what she was up to, as he was certain Meghan was determined to make him pay in blood.

As he entered the hall, he heard her singing in the most god-awful voice, but didn’t see her straightaway for the audience that had gathered at the sound. Christ, but the noise was as hideous as that of some ghoul from the black woods. And her lyrics were none the better.

“I must go walk the wood so wild,” she wailed,

‘‘And wander here and there in dread and deadly fear I. Alas, where I trusted, I am beguiled. And all for one! All for one!’’

He didn’t have to search long for her. He merely followed the gazes of his men to find her perched, of all places, upon a ceiling beam like some bird in a bloody tree. He halted abruptly at the sight of her. She was crouched upon a high beam with her hand braced upon the ceiling for support—singing at the top of her lungs, totally unaware of her audience, or so it seemed .

“My bed shall be under the grenwood tree,” she carried on. “A tuft of brakes under my head.”

God’s truth, he didn’t for one instant believe her mad, but he had to admit that she had to be just a little daft to perch herself up so high.

Damned lunatic wench.

“Meghan Brodie,” he shouted up at her, his voice thundering through the hall. He didn’t wish to startle her, lest she fall, but her very position was frightening him. “Come down at once,” he hollered, but he worried for naught, as she didn’t seem the least bit disconcerted by his presence.

She stopped singing and cocked her head as she peered down at him. “You cannot make me, Sassenach,” she shouted. “And you cannot order me about. You are not my husband yet, nor are you my da, and I dinna have to listen to a bluidy word you say.”

“If I were your da,” he assured her, “I vow I would lay you over my knee and give you the strapping you well deserve.”

“Och,” she answered, unconcerned. “My da didna ever do such a thing, and neither will you. Besides, Sassenach, I like it up here,” she announced, and with that she giggled, a sweet childlike titter that made him uncertain whether to laugh or scold her.

Damn.

With the deftness of one who might have been climbing trees for all of her life, she surged forward to straddle the beam with her hand still balanced upon the ceiling.

Lyon’s heart jumped, and like an aftershock. Startled murmurs filtered through the room.

“Meghan,” he shouted, blood rushing to his head. “Get yourself down here now.”

“No,” she replied flippantly. “I will not!” And she surged forward to hug the brace, and continued to sing. “The running streams shall be my drink, Acorns be my food. Nothing may do me good, but when of your beauty I do think.” She paused. “Isn’t that silly?” she declared suddenly. “To think a body would pine so for beauty alone.” She cast Lyon a pointed glance.

No one spoke a word, merely stared up at their demented guest. Lyon understood her barb was meant for him.

“My grandmother used to sing it to me,” she revealed to one and all.

“Meghan—” He asked her nicely this time. “—please come down.”

“Why should I?”

“Because...” He glanced at his men, annoyed by their presence now. “Because I do not wish you to fall.”

“Why?” she persisted, staring down at him, and he had the distinct impression she was trying to embarrass him.

Bloody rotten wench.

Lyon had to crane his head to see her. “Because...”

“Never mind. I know why,” she announced suddenly.

He knew better than to ask what conclusion she had come to.

Damn, but she was showing much too much of those gorgeous legs of hers.

“Want to know why?” she asked when he would not respond.

“No,” he answered resolutely. “I want you to come down from there, Meghan. Now!”

She adjusted her skirts, revealing far more of her luscious limbs than pleased Lyon. “Because you dinna wish for everyone to see my bum,” she answered despite his refusal.

Snickers echoed through the hall, but were quashed at once by the glare Lyon cast them.

“Meghan,” he thundered.

She merely giggled.

His patience ended, he started up the stairs after her. “You will come down if I have to drag you down.”

“Oh,” she replied. “That will be fun!”

The hall erupted again with giggles.

Impudent wench.

“No, it will not be,” he apprised her, “and neither will you think so when we have both cracked our skulls upon the ground.”

Meghan watched him climb the stairs and then come to the rail’s edge, scowling at her all the while. She lifted herself up, and the room below seemed to sway below her. She frowned back at him.

Och, but she did wish to come down now.

Despite her outward calm, she was quite uneasy at this great height. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. She was sorely disappointed that King David had not been present to witness her stunt. It seemed she had bestirred herself for naught.

“Where is David?” she asked Lyon when he thrust out his arms for her, demanding once more without words that she get down.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Busy,” he assured her. “I’m afraid he will not be attending your performance.”

Meghan scowled at him, vexed that he should guess at her reason for asking. She knew by the expression upon his face that he had. She peered down at the hall below, at the faces that stared up at her. Och, but sitting up here so high above them all was the epitome of how she felt—alone and under everyone’s scrutiny.

“Come down, Meghan,” Lyon demanded of her.

Meghan leaned to hug the beam suddenly, pouting, and said honestly, “No! I miss my grammie!”

He seemed uncertain how to respond to that, and Meghan’s eyes watered. She missed Fia terribly, and feared that never again would she feel the closeness she had shared with her grandmother—that unconditional acceptance that came with pure love.

“Damn,” he said, and frowned. “Don’t you go and weep, Meghan.”

His arms were reaching out for her, beckoning, promising warmth, and Meghan’s resolve wilted.

“I promise to get her for you, if you’ll only come down,” he coaxed her, his expression full of concern.

He didn’t understand, Meghan knew, and yet she recognized the small victory in his concession.

Maybe she would, in fact, convince him that she was mad after all.

Blinking tears away, she forced a smile, and allowed him to help her down from the beam, uncertain what, if anything, she had accomplished with her silly stunt—except to make herself feel lonely.

Except to make her yearn.

Bloody hell.

She would be stronger next time, she vowed.

She’d had them all thinking she was raving mad—she could tell by the looks upon their faces as they’d stared up at her—and then she’d had to go and spoil it all by listening to reason.

This time she was determined to carry her scheme through. Deciding that Fia didn’t look enough the part of an old woman, Meghan tore herself a piece of Lyon’s sheets and formed it into a scarf to tie about the lamb’s head. That done, she surveyed her handiwork. She hoped her grandmother would forgive her for it, but it couldn’t be helped. Now she looked more like Fia.

And this, after all, was war between her and Lyon.

“You look verra lovely,” she told the lamb, quite pleased with her handiwork. She gave the beast a quick pat to its head and smiled down upon it.

Strange, but she was growing quite fond of the wee animal. In a peculiar way it was almost as though she had acquired a new friend. She was only sorry she was forced to handle it so rudely. Her grandmother would have given her a tongue-lashing for it, she knew, as Fia had fancied herself a guardian to all creatures great and small.

She apologized to the wee lammie, for her grandmother’s sake, and when she was satisfied that both she and Fia were prepared to face their prospective audience, she urged the lamb out of the chamber door. Once out, she lifted it up to bear it down the narrow stairwell and hoped with all her might that they were all at the noonday meal because she wanted to make the greatest impact with her entrance.

She wanted to shame Lyon Montgomerie into doing the honorable thing—or at the very least embarrass him until even his bloody toes turned red.

If truly he yearned for peace he could ask her brothers for her hand in matrimony, and let her decide yea or nay for herself—instead of abducting her like some barbarian and then resorting to wile to lure her into this devil’s bargain.

She frowned behind the little lamb as she made her way down the stairs. God’s truth, she might have bargained with the devil, in truth, but she was determined to save her soul.

Trying not to trip as she bore the lamb down the final steps, she entered the hall and was well satisfied to find that conversation came to an abrupt halt as she entered. Peering over the fidgeting lamb, she spied the confederates together at table and made her way purposefully toward them.

Lyon had spotted her already, she was pleased to see, though David was in the middle of his discourse and didn’t appear to notice. Until she placed the lamb before them upon the table.

“Good evening,” she bade them. “We’ve come to join you at table.”

She smiled at David as he turned to peer at her with a bemused expression that nearly made her laugh aloud.

“We? ”

Meghan smiled sweetly and nodded. “Of course.”

David eyed the lamb warily. “I usually prefer my mutton well done,” he told her with lifted brows.

“Och! Mutton,” Meghan exclaimed, sounding perfectly affronted at his declaration. “This is not mutton,” she informed him brashly. “This is Fia!”

She saw that Lyon rolled his eyes, and tried not to appear pleased by his reaction.

David turned a questioning glance to Lyon.

“Humor her,” Lyon urged his liege.

David turned once more to face her. “Fia?” he dared to ask. “What is a fia, might I ask?”

Meghan sighed in exasperation. “Why, yes, Fia is my grandmother, of course. Have you no eyes with which to see, sir?”

The lamb began to bleat as it trampled a dish near David’s trencher. David slid his chair backward across the dais in alarm. He stared at the creature, aghast. “This lamb is your grandmother?” he said, repeating her outrageous claim as though he could not believe his ears.

“Och! Not you too,” she complained and rolled her eyes. Her hands flew to her hips. “What did he tell ye?” she demanded, casting Lyon a vexed glance. “I don’t know why he should think her a bluidy lamb.”

“Perhaps,” Lyon interjected, his tone mordant, “ because she is a bloody lamb.” He was frowning at her now.

So let him frown, Meghan resolved. She hoped he was humiliated.

She glared at him in turn. “I told you, Sassenach. This is no lamb. This is my dear sweet grandmother. And you have insulted her quite enough.”

She turned to David once more, narrowing her eyes at him. “That brute you would have me wed,” she informed him pettishly, “is a verra poor host, I should tell you. Why he tossed my grandmother out in the meadow yesterday morn.”

She stared at David expectantly, as though anticipating he should do something about her complaint. “Have you naught to say about that?” she demanded when he did not respond, and tried not to laugh at the harassed expression he wore.

“Lyon?” David said warily, turning to face Lyon again, clearly taken aback by her behavior.

Meghan lifted her chin as she too turned to face Lyon Montgomerie, tilting a victorious look at him.

She was either a very shrewd actress, Lyon decided, or she was deadly in earnest.

He could no longer bloody well tell, and he frowned.

Christ, but the damned beast was dressed in a bloody wimple. And he didn’t care to look so closely at what she’d formed it of, because the cloth looked entirely too familiar, and he hadn’t as yet had the opportunity to procure more.

David turned to glare at the bleating lamb. “Let me get this aright,” he said, addressing Meghan once more. “This lamb, you claim, is your grandmother?”

Meghan nodded, lifting her chin—the bloody wicked wench. “Of course,” she persisted.

Lyon tried not to laugh at the blatant challenge flashing in her green eyes as she met David’s gaze once more.

“I see,” David remarked calmly, turning again to Lyon. He lifted his brows. “Lyon, you would wed this woman?”

Lyon was uncertain how to respond: while he did not wish to impugn her before David, neither did he enjoy being made the bloody fool.

“Where might we sit to eat?” she persisted, seeming entirely too pleased over the havoc she’d wreaked. “Or did you plan on starvin’ us as well?”

“Meghan,” Lyon said softly in warning, through now playing games.

“You said you would make us both welcome,” she reminded him pertly. “And so far you’ve not. Are you a liar as well as a thief?”

Lyon eyed the bleating lamb in growing frustration. He cast a glance at David, who was staring now, quite displeased, and for the first time in his life, his face burned with chagrin .

“Meghan,” he warned, clenching his jaw.

If she was serious, he determined, then she was truly mad... and if she was not, then she was undermining him before his friend and his liege. Feeling obliged to take the situation in hand, to save his food if not his face, he stood and lifted the noisy beast from his table, placing it at his feet.

“My pardon if it offends you, Meghan, but your grandmother is not welcome at my table.”

“How dare you,” she exclaimed, and sank to her knees at once, unfazed by his growing ire. Lyon peered down in trepidation to find that she was crawling beneath the table to reach the wee lamb, shoving at David’s knee. “Get out of my way,” she demanded.

Bloody hell, but she was mad.

She was a goddamned beautiful lunatic.

“What the devil is she doing, Lyon?”

“There, there! Poor Fia,” she cried out, and then peered up accusingly at Lyon from under the table. “How dare you,” she declared once more, crawling out from under the table at last. “You will not win me like that,” she swore, and having said that, she stood, brushed herself off, and quite rudely reached between him and David, seizing a loaf of bread from the table. “If Fia is not welcome, then I am not welcome,” she proclaimed, and reached down to snatch up the lamb into her arms, as well. “Hmmph,” she said, and gave them her back. And without a by your leave she left them, hurrying toward the stairs, with her grandmother and his food in tow.

David stared after her, bemused. “What the hell was that?”

Lyon sat staring after her as well. Crazy-as-the-devil wench. “Naught more than stubborn Scot pride, I think,” he answered, and his brows drew together as he watched her stomp her way up the stairs to his chamber. His face contorted. “I hope.” And then, “Pardon the interruption... what were you saying?”

“Never mind,” David declared. “I’ve changed my mind. I should think twice were I you, Lyon! That woman might be beautiful, but she’s daft besides. You’d be better suited to wed Alison MacLean.”

Lyon wasn’t willing to concede. “I respectfully disagree,” he said. “And I’ve already made clear my reasons why. Aside from that, Alison MacLean is entirely too—”

“Sane!” David interjected. “What the devil has come over you, Lyon?”

Meghan Brodie.

Meghan Brodie had come over him.

A stubborn-as-the-devil miss with flashing green eyes and a temper as fierce as the Highlands that had bred her.

He frowned. “How the hell should I know?”

The slam of his chamber door reverberated throughout the hall. Lyon could hear her stomping across his room, bearing the weight of the lamb within her arms.

“As a friend, not your liege...” David began.

The floorboards creaked ominously. Lyon peered up, making a mental note to fix them soon. He could hear her muffled ravings and her subsequent tantrum, designed specifically for his ears, he was well aware.

She continued to stomp, punctuating her every rant with another stomp, bringing an unwilling smile to his lips... until he heard the first crack...

David continued ominously. “... I beg you, think with your head and not—”

It happened so fast, Lyon hadn’t time to react. “Meghan,” he shouted.

The floorboards gave even as he surged from his chair.

She came crashing down through the ceiling.

David leapt up and out of the way barely in time.

The little lamb gave an unholy shriek as it followed her down.

Meghan landed with a crash, smashing trenchers and cracking her forehead upon David’s tankard.

The lamb landed upon the floor with a sickening thud.

Meghan murmured, “I—I decided to j-join you a-after a-all.” And she closed her eyes as her head landed in a plate full of mutton.

For an instant, Lyon was too stunned to move.

The hall fell into a stupor.

David stood beside him, staggered.

She lay before him much too still.

He turned to David. “Find me a physician,” he snapped, dispensing with formalities for Meghan’s sake, and reached out to scoop her at once into his arms, his heart pounding with fear.