Page 24 of Lyon’s Gift (The Highland Brides #2)

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

S taring at the manuscripts that were spread before her, the small vial of medicine clutched within her fist, Meghan sat transfixed at the little bedside desk.

It was, in fact, an ingenious plan.

If she had ever wondered about Alison’s shrewdness, and which of them had the keener mind—and she had not, she had always known Alison was the more clever of the two—she certainly didn’t wonder now.

Meghan could never have conceived such a cunning scheme on the spur of the moment. As Cameron relayed it to her, she was to use the potion primarily for the pain, and the pouch of face powders and colors to validate the outlandish tale Alison had woven for Lyon’s benefit. She was to disfigure her face, make herself as unappealing as possible with the powders, until he no longer recognized her so well, so that when Alison came to replace her, he’d not suspect the two of them were different women .

With their hair and eye color so similar, and her own face covered with a veil, along with the doubts placed within his head by Alison’s shrewd tale, Lyon was certain to believe it.

Aye, it was a perfect plan.

Even if it failed, Meghan had every faith Lyon would simply let Alison go, as he wasn’t a cruel man. The worst that could happen would be that they would be discovered and they would have gained naught by it.

Meghan would remain with Lyon, and Alison would be sent home to her father with a scolding.

Not so terrible a thought to remain with Lyon, if the truth be known.

And if it worked... well, then... with Cameron’s help, she would be home with her brothers soon enough. And when Meghan was safely away, Alison would simply remove her disguise and slip away with no one the wiser.

The question was... did Meghan truly wish to leave?

She considered that a long and anguished moment and decided that it didn’t matter what she wanted. She owed it to her brothers to go to them. And if Lyon respected her enough to court her properly, then Meghan was certainly willing. No matter whether he held her heart or not, this was not the right way to go about it, she knew. Her brothers would never accept him this way, and she loved them all too much to choose between them. If Lyon wanted her truly, if he cared for her, if he loved her—aye, she dared to hope—then he would want her to come to him of her own free will.

As for the deception...

She set the vial of medicine down upon the desk.

If Lyon wanted her for more than her body, well then, this was the way to discover that, too, and Meghan refused to feel guilty for simply trying to find her way home.

And less so for attempting to learn the truth about the man who would have her heart.

With that decided, she opened up the little pouch, tugging the ribbon loose with her teeth, cursing her bad hand that she could not do this properly. That done, she set the pouch down upon the desk and removed a few items from it—a small piece of looking glass, a tiny box secured with ribbon, and a little bottle filled with a substance that appeared to be fine-ground meal.

To begin with, these would be enough.

Casting a glance first at the door, she struggled with opening the small bottle, popping the cork with her teeth at last. She poured a small amount of the flour upon the desk. Keeping her attention upon the door, she powdered her hand and then her face, making certain to blend it well. That done, she lifted up the small box and, with her teeth once more, she untied the ribbon that held the lid secure. She set it down then and lifted the tiny lid to find a substance like black ash within. She lay the mirror flat upon the desk, and dipped in a finger, bringing it to her eye, giving herself ghastly circles beneath. She was generous with the ash, but blended it well, and when she was through, she looked more like the living dead than a living, breathing being.

Scrunching her nose at the sight of herself in the distorted little glass, Meghan inspected her handiwork with a critical eye. Then she dipped her finger within the ash once more and added it to the powder upon her face, blending it well, and then dabbed on more powder to soften the effect.

When she was finished, the sight of herself within the tiny mirror was enough to make her grimace in disgust.

Deciding she had used more than enough for the first time, she re-covered the box, blew the remaining powder from the desktop, replaced the stopper within the bottle, and then placed the items once more within the small pouch. With her injured arm it was impossible to bind the box again, and so she did not even attempt it. She lifted the pouch carefully, so as not to spill anything, and then bent to place it carefully beneath the bed. When it was still visible from where she sat, she went to her knees upon the floor to better push it out of sight. No sooner had she done so when the door burst open.

Startled, Meghan sprang up at once, smacking her cheek against the corner of the desk in the process. “Ouch,” she cried, and bounded back up into the chair. Jesu, but she was determined to kill herself in this place.

“Meghan?” Lyon said as though he didn’t recognize her. His brows drew together as he stared.

Meghan tried to appear unaware of his careful scrutiny. “Aye?” she answered, clearing her throat.

“Are... are you well?”

“Certainly,” she said brightly, and cast a glance down at the little desk to be certain the telltale powder was gone. She brushed away the last remaining traces and lifted her gaze to the door where he stood. “Why should I not be?” she asked, and then for good measure, lifted the vial of medicine within her hand to show him. She held her breath as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. He faltered in his stride as he approached her, and was frowning still as he sat upon the bed beside the small desk, scrutinizing her.

She lifted the vial once more and said a little nervously, “I—I thought I’d broken it.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. And he wouldn’t stop staring. Meghan’s heart thundered in apprehension.

Had she not blended the powders well enough? Was it so obvious what she had done? Did he think her hideous now? And would it matter to him if he thought her less than lovely?

He reached out and fingered the air before her face, almost as though he were afraid to touch her, and Meghan held her breath.

“Christ and be damned,” he cursed softly.

“What is it?”

He had only just left her.

How could this be?

Lyon’s gaze fell to the small vial Meghan held within her hand, and then he lifted his eyes once more to her face, scarcely able to believe the changes that had come over her in so swift a time.

“You have a welt upon your cheek,” he informed her, forcing himself to touch her at last, uncertain what else to say.

“Oh,” she answered, lifting her hand to the flesh that was even now beginning to bruise, “that! I bumped my face upon the desk when I bent to retrieve the vial.”

“I see that.”

God’s bloody teeth, it appeared she’d bruised the rest of her face as well.

In fact, she looked much like she’d been beaten to death, buried, and then exhumed. He wanted to ask about the rest of her face, not merely the bruise, but didn’t dare. He wanted to ask if it hurt, but couldn’t find the words to speak. His gaze returned to the vial she held.

“You... uh... took your medicine?” he asked, swallowing the knot that rose in his throat, knowing she must have.

It was all his fault.

He had done this to her.

“Aye,” she answered, smiling, her eyes even now beginning to glaze over with that bleary-eyed stare the medicine seemed to give her—her gaze slightly askew, slightly unfocused.

He reached out to take the vial from her. “I do not think you need that any longer,” he said, but she jerked her hand away, placing the vial behind her back, out of his reach.

“Aye,” she asserted crossly, “I do.”

He scowled at her. “Why?”

“It lessens the pain in my arm. Is that not what you gave it to me for?” She tilted her head, gazing at him as though to read him.

Lyon had no answer.

Christ.

She turned from him, and he continued to stare at her profile, aghast. And yet, even with her complexion so deteriorated, there was a loveliness to her features that could not be diminished. She reminded him of the bean sidhe —the sort of apparition who haunted a man by night, who stood within the shadows of the forest and wailed for his soul.

“I was reading,” he heard her say.

Lyon blinked. “My manuscripts?”

“Aye.”

He tried to focus upon her words and not her appearance, but seemed to be failing miserably. What in God’s name had he done to her? “And what conclusions have you drawn?” He tried to sound casual.

“Only that these essays have a single theme among them.”

Her appearance forgotten for the instant in his curiosity, he lifted a brow. “And what might that be?”

“The pursuit of happiness.”

Lyon was struck with wonder at her conclusion. It was, in fact, the driving theme behind his efforts. All of his essays, though disguised behind a thousand other questions, amounted to little more than a simple quest for contentment—that was all. Though he understood what drove him, the answers eluded him still. In her arms he had come closest to experiencing that elusive fulfillment of the soul. And yet... now that it was done... and he sat before her... he felt content no longer.

He felt only discomposed.

Which drove him to wonder... was he truly so frivolous that he could love only beauty? Was he so shallow that only beauty could appease him? From past experience, he understood only too well how fleeting that form of pleasure was.

But there was no denying the way he felt this instant as he sat before her.

Confused .

Troubled.

Unfulfilled.

The feeling had begun the instant he’d left her late this afternoon and had spoken to Baldwin, for her brothers had returned once again, demanding to see her. Baldwin had sent them away, per Lyon’s instructions, and truth to tell Lyon was beginning to feel like the villain in some satyric play.

She peered up at him, and he focused upon her lovely eyes. The torch flame flared in the silence that fell between them. Its light flickered against her face, flashed within her eyes. He grimaced, for it gave them a slightly demonic gleam.

“What else?” he asked her, glancing away. “What else have you found?”

“That you are still searching.”

She brought her hand from her back and set the vial down upon the desk between them, luring his gaze to it. Lyon resisted the urge to seize it and smash it against the bloody wall, lest it damage her further. He let it be, however, respecting her wishes, though he wanted more than anything to warn her what it was doing to her. And yet, to tell her such a thing he would need to reveal the true reason he had given her the potion to begin with, and the old woman’s warning, as well. And how could he tell her such a thing? That he’d thought her insane and meant to cure her? He was certain she would appreciate that not at all.

His lips twisted in self-disgust.

What was he doing to her? Greedy bastard, he was.

“Am I?” he asked. “Still searching, Meghan?”

She nodded, her eyes fixed upon his face.

“And do you know where I might find it? This happiness.” As he sure as hell did not.

“Nay,” she answered, and then added, “But I know where you lost it, Piers Montgomerie.” It was the first time she’d ever used his given name, and he might have savored the sound of it upon her lips, but sensed a point to her use of it.

Lyon lifted a brow. “You know where I lost it?” How could she possibly, when he’d never possessed it at all? He studied her face. What was it she had gleaned from his words? “And where is that, Meghan Brodie?”

She shook her head, and answered simply, “ That you must discern for yourself.” She gazed at him sadly, and in that instant, Lyon knew that she truly did know. How was it that he had searched all these many years, poring over his books, studying them meticulously, and this woman sitting before him could read his manuscripts and discover, in the span of mere days, what he had been searching for all his life?

Was it the potion, he wondered, that gave her such insight? God’s bloody truth, perhaps he should take it himself ?

“If I tell you…” She shook her head, “… ’twill be naught more than words.”

His jaw tautened as he nodded, understanding. Averting his gaze from her face to her hand, he noted it was stained black. Reaching out to pluck it up, he inspected it closely. Gasping softly, she jerked it back from his scrutiny.

“I smeared ink upon myself,” she said, seeming embarrassed by his study of her hand. “I hope you dinna mind, but I scribbled a bit upon your papers.”

Had she? In his curiosity, he reached to lift up the manuscript.

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Nay,” she exclaimed. “Dinna!” She stayed his hand.

He drew his brows together in confusion.

“Later,” she begged him, and he was acutely aware of the delicate way her hand lay upon his own.

The beat of his heart quickened at the warmth of her touch.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because!”

“Because why?” he persisted, and his gaze was at once drawn to her mouth. Perfectly formed. Sweet lips that were made for kissing...

He could scarcely help but recall the way they had trembled so sweetly beneath his own.

“Because,” she answered, and seemed to note the direction of his gaze... the turn of his thoughts... for her breath caught as he stared. Her tongue darted out to moisten lips gone dry, and they seemed to pinken before his very eyes.

He wanted to feel those lips upon his flesh... suckling... wanted to know what they felt like wrapped about him in the most intimate way...

His heart thundered within his chest.

“Do you not realize,” he told her, “what those lips of yours do to a man, Meghan Brodie?”

She didn’t respond, merely stared at his own mouth, her breasts lifting with her inhaled breath. Her fingers curled about his hand, and the feel of them made him swallow the knot that formed in his throat.

Warmth spread through his loins, hardening him fully.

Need clawed at him, and he felt a surge of satisfaction in the return of his body’s fierce hunger.

“Nay,” she answered at last, lifting her chin slightly. “But you told me once that I would ask... so show me,” she bade him, her eyes flashing with invitation.

His heart hammering, Lyon stood before her, holding her gaze, his body taut with anticipation as he lifted her hand to the laces of his braies.