Page 28 of Lyon’s Gift (The Highland Brides #2)

H e didn’t bother to deal with her brothers.

Meghan knew he must have spied her, for the rumbling of hooves reverberated throughout the sanctuary as he reined in before the chapel doors. His voice was an echo within the stone building as he commanded his men to remain and guard the door.

Meghan heard her brothers’ furious voices beyond the chapel doors. Threats passed between the men, and she prayed they’d not come to arms.

“I merely wish to speak with her,” Lyon assured her angry brothers. “And I shall go once I have said my piece.”

Meghan scarcely had time to return the sling to Alison and to replace her veil. No sooner had she hid herself behind a pew when Lyon came bursting into the chapel.

Meghan gasped at the sight of him and lay down on the floor upon her belly in a desperate attempt to conceal herself from his view.

She couldn’t face him just now. Couldn’t look into his eyes. And she bloody well didn’t care what he had to say—didn’t wish to hear a word of it.

“Meghan!” His voice thundered within the tiny chapel. It bounced off the walls and battered against her heart. Her heart racing madly, she shimmied beneath the pew, desperate to conceal herself from his eyes.

Watching breathlessly as he approached Alison, his stride full of purpose and his expression stern with determination, she shuddered at the sight of him. He wore the same tunic and braies he’d worn yesterday, with the plaid belted at his waist, and his eyes seemed to glitter like the blue of a hot flame.

Och, but he was beautiful—beautiful but treacherous to her defenseless heart, for her arms cried out to hold him still, despite his falseness.

“Meghan,” he said with feeling, taking Alison by the shoulders and turning her about to face him.

The breath left her lungs as Alison cried out softly. Meghan felt ashamed for putting her friend once more in such an untenable position. And yet she just wasn’t brave enough to confront him herself.

He fell to his knees before Alison, and Meghan blinked in surprise as he took her gently by the hand .

“I read your notes upon my papers,” he disclosed, “and sent you away because I thought it was the right thing to do. Forgive me, Meghan!”

Alison remained silent, and Meghan bit her lower lip to keep from crying out that he was a lowly bastard, and that she would never forgive him—not ever.

Did he want her absolution now for being such a shallow-minded knave?

“You see,” he continued, “you were right. I have been searching all my life for something I should have discovered within my own self long ago. And it took you, Meghan Brodie, to open my eyes.”

A fine way he had of showing his appreciation, Meghan thought bitterly.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

Never.

Alison stood frozen, staring down at him, and Meghan knew she was afraid to speak. Not Meghan. If she were standing there before him, she thought she would rear back and slap his much-too-bonnie face.

“Meghan,” he said, staring up at Alison’s veiled face. He shook his head. “All those years I searched for contentment in the arms of so many women...”

Meghan felt nigh to bursting with outrage at hearing that. How dare he remind her of such a thing just now. How dare he rub salt into her wounds.

“And I never found it,” he confessed. “Not until you…”

Meghan blinked in confusion.

Me? she thought, and mouthed the word, stunned by his revelation.

Me?

“Aye,” he answered, as though she’d spoken the question aloud. “Not until you,” he repeated, and then said, “Do not look so surprised, my love.”

My love?

Shock reverberated through her as surely as his voice echoed within the church walls. Meghan’s heart pummeled her ribs as she lay there upon the cold wood floor, listening to his confession.

“I love you, Meghan Brodie,” he declared fiercely. “I love you from the very depths of my soul!”

Meghan’s heart tripped a painful beat. Tears welled in her eyes, and a sob caught in her throat.

“You do?” she thought she’d asked, but it was Alison’s voice that echoed through the chapel and not hers. She couldn’t have spoken in that instant had she tried.

“Aye,” he answered with feeling. “I do not give a bloody damn what you look like. You could have warts upon your eyelids and hair upon your chin. You are my precious gift,” he told her. “And your heart is more precious to me than gold. And your smile,” he continued, “makes my heart sing. And your words... I wait with bated breath but to hear them. And your eyes... I would give the sparkle from every jewel I own simply to see its glitter for even a single day more. And your wisdom... I love you, Meghan Brodie. And if you will have me, I would be honored to have you for my wife. And I swear that I will love and adore you until the day I last close my eyes.”

Meghan’s heart blossomed with joy. Tears slid unchecked down her cheeks. She could scarcely believe her ears.

She held her breath, watching Alison and him together. The sight of him kneeling before her, pouring out his heart to her, was the most romantic thing she had ever beheld in all her life. It was the sort of thing troubadours sang of and bards wove their tales over. And his words were all for her—and she was hiding under a bloody rotten pew. Och! she thought. Say something, Alison!

Tell him I love him too.

His blood pumping like fire through his veins, Lyon held his breath and waited for Meghan to respond. But she simply stood there, staring down at him as though he were a viper curled before her feet.

And then he happened to note the hand he held within his own, and his brows drew together in confusion. It was her left hand, not her right he held. And yet she had injured her left arm. How could it be that he was holding it now?

He peered up into her face.

Her crossed eyes gazed down at him in confusion and in fear. And his frown deepened as he noted once more that her bruise was on her left cheek and not the right. Where had it been last night when he’d sent her away? He’d been so weary and so preoccupied with his guilty conscience that he hadn’t taken the time to consider what it meant. But now that he did, he was more than certain she had injured her right cheek, and not her left...

And then his gaze fell once more to the hand he held, for he knew without a bloody doubt that it was her left hand she had injured and that was precisely the hand which he held within his own just now.

Something was definitely amiss here.

He released her hand and stood, his body taut with growing suspicion, and stared into her face, his anger mounting.

The silence within the chapel was a roar in his ears.

His heart sank as he studied her eyes... They were familiar to him, certain enough, but though they were the same color, they were not Meghan Brodie’s eyes.

Bloody hell.

He ripped off the veil and was at first startled at the face that peered back at him.

And then his face hardened with fury .

“I see I have been played for a fool,” he said tautly, and nothing more.

Meghan thought she would weep at the look upon his face as he turned to go.

Tears coursing down her cheeks, she tried to crawl out from under the pew, but with her injured arm she was not fast enough.

“Nay,” she cried out. “Wait!”

He stopped and turned to face her, but didn’t see her, and Meghan waved from under the pew.

“Wait,” she exclaimed, wriggling as fast as she could out from under her wooden prison.

He saw her at last, and his expression was wholly unreadable for an instant as he stared down at her. Meghan stilled, her heart thumping wildly. She held her breath, lest he spit down upon the floor in disgust and leave her before she could chance to speak her mind.

“I do love you,” she cried out. “I do!” And she muttered an oath in sheer frustration. “But I am stuck beneath this bluidy pew! Help me!”

“You do?” he asked, and came to her at once.

“I do,” she swore, and was vaguely aware that Alison stole away, leaving them alone to speak.

“Christ, woman, what the devil are you doing beneath there?”

“Och! You daft mon,” she said. “I was hiding from you, of course.”

He dragged her out and took her into his arms, kissing her lips fiercely.

“Ah, Meghan,” he said. “Come home with me, my love?”

Meghan wrapped her good arm about his neck. “Aye,” she answered. “I want to go.”

That was all Lyon needed to hear.

He lifted her up into his arms and carried her out of the chapel, commanding his men to get out of his way.

Her brothers all shouted warnings, fought to reach her, swords drawn.

“Let her go,” Leith demanded of him.

“Not a bloody chance,” Lyon refused them.

“Bastard,” Colin shouted, and Meghan laughed.

“'Tis all right,” she told them, announcing to one and all, “'Cause I’m going to wed the bluidy bastard, after all!”

Her brothers fell silent. They stared at one another in shock.

Lyon chuckled at her choice of words, but didn’t feel the least bit offended by them, and this time, as he stole his wife away from her brothers, she filled his ears with laughter and his heart with joy.

“Ah, Meghan,” he whispered. “You’re going to make me a very happy man.” David had not lied to him after all, it occurred to him as he looked back at the chapel, remembering the childhood promise. He’d found happiness and then had it all but handed to him upon a silver plate.

“As you will me,” Meghan assured him. “As you already have.”

And so he had.

And so she did.