Page 9 of Lyon’s Gift (The Highland Brides #2)

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

T he woman was incorrigible.

She was enjoying herself, Lyon was certain.

And she’d managed to pique his curiosity despite the fact that he knew she was baiting him. “What curse?” he asked once more.

She peered coyly back at him. “Och, now! Surely you do not believe in curses, Sassenach? Not the almighty Lyon.”

Vixen.

He could tell by the sparkle in her eyes that she was mocking him. And quite well, besides.

Well, two could play at this game.

“You are correct, of course,” he relented. “Never mind, wench, I’ve no longer any desire to know.”

She went still before him, quiet too for an instant, and Lyon smiled.

“You don’t? Well truly ’tis naught more than silly babble at any rate,” she said after another moment’s contemplative silence.

“I’m certain.” He suppressed a grin.

They came from the forest into the bright afternoon sun. Lyon could make out the pounding of hammers and the clamor of voices in the distance, and the sound made him feel a sense of pride unlike any he’d ever experienced. This was his land, his home: his men were at work rebuilding, and there was something incredibly rousing about bringing this particular woman into his domain. Something about the occasion made him sit straighter in the saddle... compelled him to suck in a breath.

The scent of wild heather permeated the air... laced now with a more elusive and intriguing scent. His gaze returned to the woman sitting before him, and his loins tightened familiarly. Aye, something about her inspired him in a way he hadn’t been inspired in much too long.

She made him feel alive.

Bloody hell, who was he fooling?

She made him feel .

All of his senses were heightened.

He leaned closer, unable to keep himself from it, compelled to move nearer, inhaling the sweet scent of her beautiful hair once more. Marrow, was it? The mere thought made him smile. Saucy wench. Nay... what he scented was the faintest trace of rosemary... and sunshine.

There was nothing ostentatious about the woman sitting before him, nothing embellished. She was earthy and honest, and while there was nothing naive about her, she had an air of innocence that was decidedly refreshing. Unlike the women he’d known in his life, her eyes did not speak of seduction all the while her lashes fluttered with affected innocence.

But she seduced him nevertheless.

She sighed audibly and Lyon felt the breath leave his own lungs. How was it that she affected him so keenly?

What was it about her that made him so attuned to every breath she took and every word she uttered?

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she lamented.

On the contrary, he thought, he relished hearing her voice. Somehow it was the embodiment of both woman and child at once—her tone both sweet and provocative. It bewitched him, made him yearn both to coddle and to devour her all at once.

She sighed again, and he smiled to himself, knowing it was torturing her not to be able to elaborate, and decided to put her out of her misery once and for all. “Though now that you have,” he prompted, smiling, “you’ll expound? ”

“Well,” she relented at once. “If you insist.”

Lyon’s grin widened.

“Och, but if I tell you, you must not believe it,” she instructed quite firmly. “Swear it.”

“How can I promise such a thing, wench, when I’ve no idea how your disclosure will strike me? Tell me your tale and I shall tell you quite frankly whether I believe it or nay.”

She seemed to consider that an instant. “Fair enough,” she replied. “’Tis wholly untrue, of course, and unfairly said, but they claim we Brodie women are cursed.”

He sensed where she was leading with this, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing. “How so, wench?”

“Well,” she continued, “’tis rumored that madness runs in Brodie blood—but it isn’t true.”

Lyon had no doubt.

“And quite unkind to say. Don’t you think?”

“I’ve never heard such a thing,” he said. He wondered if she could possibly be speaking the truth, and decided not, as she was clearly enjoying this far too much.

“You haven’t?” She sounded so bloody disappointed that he had to reconsider. “Oh,” she said.

Christ, but she was a bloody good liar. Lyon tried not to laugh, though his shoulders shook with mirth. He couldn’t answer at once, and was relieved when she continued of her own accord.

“The truth is that my mother was hardly mad,” she went on, “merely a bit... emotional. And my grammie... she was only eccentric.”

Lyon’s brows lifted. “Was?” he asked her, catching her slip of the tongue, and unable to keep himself from baiting her in return. “She was eccentric? And what is she now?”

She peered back at him, her brows drawn together into a frown. She didn’t seem to catch his meaning for an instant, and then: “Is,” she amended at once. “Is, of course.”

This time he couldn’t contain his chuckle. “’Tis good to know as I wouldn’t wish to bring a madwoman into my home.”

“Oh?” she answered, and managed to instill a note of hope in the single word.

Lyon waited for her to suddenly spout some confession of her own madness, but he waited for naught. She was much too shrewd for that.

‘I wonder what is keeping them?” She truly sounded worried.

Stubborn wench.

He couldn’t believe she would persist in this absurd charade. He supposed she was hoping he would change his mind, but she was hoping in vain, because the longer he considered it, the more convinced he was that he was doing the right thing. It truly was the perfect solution for all concerned.

She turned to search the path behind him, and Lyon was at once intrigued by the flush high upon her cheeks. Not only was he going to wed her, he vowed, but he was going to wed her of her own accord.

Arrogant though it might be, he was perfectly confident in his... powers of persuasion.

And he was feeling quite merciless just now, quite the Lyon circling his prey.

She brought out something primordial in him—something more than mere lust. The need to possess was overwhelming.

“They’ll be along,” he assured her, and had to restrain himself from leaning forward and brushing his mouth across the warmth of her cheek. He imagined the feel of it against his lips... of his tongue against her burning skin... and it sent a jolt of pure sensation through him.

Christ, but she seemed to have little notion of the tempest that raged within him. If only she realized, he was certain she’d be kicking and screaming just now, instead of employing such sophistry against him. He swallowed with some difficulty as his mouth was becoming quite dry, and said, “’Tis more than likely Baldwin may have—”

“There they are,” she exclaimed. “And ’tis about time!”

Lyon turned to find Baldwin emerging from the woodlands some ways behind them, dragging the little lamb in tow .

She shrieked suddenly, startling the hell out of him.

He had to reach out and snatch her back before she was able to leap from his mount.

He jerked the reins, halting at once.

“Are you truly insane, wench?”

Meghan didn’t have to pretend outrage for her grandmother’s sake.

Her temper erupted at the sight of Baldwin dragging the lamb behind him.

How dare he treat the poor creature so cruelly. She wanted to leap at Baldwin and snatch the hair from his head. Mounted upon his horse, he held the lead rope in hand, and was dragging the poor creature behind him, not bothering to slow when the confused animal resisted in fright. He was all but strangling the poor sweet baby. “How dare he,” she exploded.

“How dare who what?” Lyon snarled, scowling at her.

She didn’t bloody care if he was angry with her just now. “Stop him,” she shrieked in outrage. “Let me down! How dare he treat her so unkindly!” Meghan glared up at him. “Tell him to lift her onto his mount, Sassenach, or I’ll not go with you.”

“The lamb?”

Meghan cast him daggers with her eyes. “Fia,” she countered. “Her name is Fia. Tell him to let her ride, or I’ll not go with you.”

His jaw clenched, and he seemed vexed that she persisted.

Meghan didn’t care.

“Does it seem you have a choice?” he had the nerve to ask her.

How dare he think she did not. “This is not England, Sassenach. Aye, I do have choices, and you shall find yourself cold in your bed one morn if you do not think so.”

His brows lifted. “Do you threaten me, wench? Shall I need bind your hands behind your back each night?”

Despite the implied warning, his face revealed little more than impatience, and Meghan clenched her teeth.

“Take it as you will,” she countered. “But I stand my ground. Tell him to let her ride.”

His eyes slitted, gleaming oddly, and Meghan’s belly lurched.

Mayhap it was a mistake for her not to fear him?

He was Henry’s infamous Lyon, after all, champion of the highest bidder—reputed to have spilled the blood of Englishman, Frenchman, Scotsman and Saracen alike.

And yet she didn’t seem to fear him at all.

In truth... he made her feel... curiously excited. Particularly now when they were face to face, so close . . . clashing wills.

She was acutely aware that his fingers remained closed about her arm, restraining her, lest she leap from his mount.

“I wonder if you might enjoy that?” he asked suddenly, grinning a little wickedly. “Being bound to my bed.”

Meghan refused to cower before him. “Tell him to let her ride,” she persisted, ignoring his taunt. “Or—”

“Or what?” He tightened his hold slightly upon her arm, not enough to injure, though enough to remind her of his superior strength.

Meghan thought about it an instant, well aware that they were near his manor, and that Baldwin approached them still.

“You say you wish to wed me for the sake of peace? Is not that right?”

“Aye, wench, ’tis what I said.”

“Wouldn’t it be a pity for everyone to see you carry me in against my will—kicking and screaming? I wonder what my brothers would do did they discover you’d treated me so brutishly?”

He was grinning still, but Meghan vowed not for long. “More threats, wench?”

“Mayhap,” Meghan admitted.

He lifted one brow and cocked his head at her. “So, then, let me understand... are you saying you’ll agree to wed me... if I simply make Baldwin carry the beast within his arms?”

Meghan shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not... You’ll simply have to wait and see, will you not?”

His smile widened, revealing gleaming white teeth, and Meghan felt her heart quicken within her breast.

And yet she wasn’t about to relinquish her one advantage: the question of her will.

She returned his smile, hoping she appeared as merciless as he. And then she opened her mouth and began to scream.

“Christ!” he exclaimed, and slapped a hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle her.

Meghan didn’t bother to struggle, merely continued to scream at the top of her lungs, ceasing only when she needed a breath. He released her when she stopped abruptly, and she gulped in another breath and launched into an ear-piercing screech.

“All right, damn it all,” he relented. “Cease, wench! Cease, already! Baldwin, put her bloody grandmother on your damned horse,” he ordered.

Meghan stopped screaming and smiled with satisfaction.

Baldwin’s eyes widened. “But I cannot mount with—”

“Do it,” Lyon demanded of him.

“Thank you,” Meghan said sweetly, and tried not to laugh at the flustered expression upon Baldwin’s face. “Fia will appreciate it, I assure you … because you see, she has the—”

“Gout, I know,” Lyon answered. “Smart-arsed wench.”

Meghan fluttered her lashes at him, giving him her most ingenuous look.