Lyon's Gift (15 page)

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.

CHAPTER 13

“
What the hell!”

Meghan awoke with a start to the most ungodly sound,
like that of a frightened, shrieking beast.

A shadow leapt from the bed and another leapt up and
pranced wildly about her head, kicking her in the mouth.

“
Ack!” she cried, and shielded her
face with her arms.

If she remained here much longer, she was going to
end up beaten to bloody death!

“
What the hell is that animal
doing in my bed?” Lyon Montgomerie shouted from somewhere in the
darkness of the room.

It took Meghan a full moment to comprehend
what must have happened, and then she couldn’t help herself, she
burst into laughter.

She heard him storm across the room and
swing the door open. By the light of the open door, she saw the
frightened lammie stumble from the bed to the floor. Montgomerie
walked out, leaving only for an instant before entering the room
once more, carrying a torch from a sconce in the hall. He stood
there in the doorway looking as wrathful as some pagan god, and
Meghan’s laughter faded abruptly.

The sight of him took her breath away.

Standing naked in the open doorway, the
torchlight illuminating him fully, he was extraordinary—a feast for
the senses. Meghan had certainly seen men nude before—she had three
brothers, after all—but this body was magnificent beyond words.

His hair flowed down his back, like the lion
he was named for, gleaming gold by the flame of the torch. His
chest was broad and glistened softly in the torchlight, and his
legs were long and lean, his hips and loins... fully revealed to
her eyes.

Meghan couldn’t tear her gaze away.

She blinked, mesmerized by the sight of
him.

Her gaze lifted to his face... to his eyes,
to find that they gleamed with unholy satisfaction.

God save her rotten soul, but she was just
as guilty as he for the thoughts that flew through her head. She
was no more immune to beauty than were all of those silly men who
babbled like loons before her.

And he seemed to know it—seemed to read her
thoughts, for the look in his eyes was all too revealing.

Would she have considered his proposal at
all if he weren’t such a beautiful man? she wondered suddenly. She
liked to think she would, but knew better.

Och, but she was, indeed, a foolish lass who
sighed over any handsome face, and the very prospect plagued her
sorely.

How could she be guilty of the very thing
she most disdained?

Their gazes held, locked, sparred.

The expression upon her face was almost more
than Lyon could bear.

Women had gazed at him with that particular
look of appreciation many times, but never had it given him such a
fierce satisfaction as it did this instant. She was sitting upright
upon the bed—his bed—her hair mussed and wild from sleep, her eyes
fixed upon his face.

She was lovely—God, but she was—and even the
likelihood that she smelled like sheep was not enough to keep his
blood from singing through his veins.

If he’d doubted her attraction to him
before, he certainly did not now. It was there in her eyes for him
to see, raw and undisguised. He savored it, like a well-earned
victory. Her gaze lowered, and he smiled fiercely. The mere
implication of her thoughts tightened his loins.

“
Care for a closer
inspection?” he asked, feeling utterly wicked under her
scrutiny.

Her gaze flew up to meet his in
surprise.

“
Och!” she replied. “Dinna
think so!”

“
Think what?” he asked
with false innocence. “What is it you would forbid me to
think?”

Shuttering her expression, she laid down
upon the bed and assured him quite pertly, “You’ve little enough
I’ve not seen before, Sassenach!”

Smart-arsed wench.

He had to commend her for her quick
recovery. She was certainly no fainting miss, and he was inclined
to believe her claim. What had she seen before him? And who? How
many? “Is that so?” he asked, provoked by the mere thought.

She turned over upon the bed and dragged a
pillow beneath her cheek. “Of course.”

“
Then you’ll not mind if I
remain unclad?”

“
Why should I?” she
replied, sounding unconcerned. “’Tis your home, your chamber, and
you can certainly do whatever you wish.”

Could he now?

He had to assure himself that no, he could
not. Because what he wanted to do just now was to walk over to the
bed, grasp her by the ankles, strip every last article of clothing
from her body with his teeth, and make her his bride in truth.

A slight smile curved his lips as he closed
the door and started across the room.

“
Do not mind if I do,
then,” he said as he rounded the bed, walking into her line of
vision once more, forcing her to acknowledge him.

To her credit, she merely peered up at him
and raised her brows slightly when he stood by the bed directly
before her. He placed the torch within the sconce above the desk,
wholly aware of what lay exposed and where her field of vision lay.
And then he sat upon the chair by the bed, casting her a glance to
find that her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

His lips curved with the knowledge that she
wasn’t quite so unaffected after all. His smile deepened at the
sight she presented—so like a little girl blocking her sight, as
though to hide from him. Such a delightful contradiction she
was.

Her eyes remained closed while he arranged
the items upon his desk. He pushed the inkwell aside, placed the
quill beside it, and then opened one of his bound volumes, aware
that she had yet to reopen her eyes. He could see her out of the
comer of his eye, and her cheeks were adorably pink.

“
Are you certain this is
not disturbing you?” he asked roguishly.

Her eyes flew open. “Who? Me?”

“
You perchance see someone
else within this chamber?” His gaze was drawn to the movement in
the comer, to the wee cowering lamb, and he waited to see how she
would respond.

“
Of course
not!”

Precisely what he suspected, and he was
relieved to hear her say so.

Scheming little wench.

She flipped once more upon the bed. “As I
said, this is your chamber; do what you will! However,” she amended
almost at once, sounding startled as she spied the lamb and seemed
to realize what she’d unknowingly confessed to him, “you should
know you are distressing my grandmother!”

Lyon pursed his lips, trying hard not to
laugh.

“
You are only now
recalling her presence?”

“
Of course
not!”

He tried not to sound amused, though his
shoulders shook with mirth. “So I am distressing her... but not
you?”

“
That’s right!” she
replied at once. “You’ve driven her into the comer away from the
sight of you, can’t you see. Mayhap you should dress, after
all!”

“
I see,” Lyon said and
chuckled softly.

He decided to put her out of her misery once
and for all and reached down to find his braies from the floor by
the bed where he’d left them.

“
Tell your grandmother I
am dressing,” he reassured her.

“
You tell her!” she
countered. “She’s standing right before you, after all!”

“
I thought you said she
was deaf?”

“
Uh... well... she is.” He
could hear the grimace in her voice.

“
At any rate, I think she
already knows,” he told her, “as she’s staring. And she doesn’t
appear particularly offended to me.”

“
Well!” she snapped. “I
can assure you she is!”

He grinned as she stepped into his trap. “I
thought you said your grandmother was blind?”

She lapsed into silence a long
moment—thinking, he knew, trying to remember her lies.

“
And yet she’s offended by
the sight of me?”

Silence was her response.

He damned well wished he could see her
face.

She lay there stretched out upon his bed,
and he had to remind himself that it was far too soon.

Meghan chewed her lip, trying to think of a
way to save her lie.

She could hear the sounds of his dressing
behind her and was grateful he was complying. She just couldn’t
look at him and keep her wits about her, nor could she sleep
knowing he was in the room with her. His presence alone was enough
to unsettle her. His nakedness wholly discomposed her and scattered
her thoughts.

“
W-well,” she stammered at
long last, “you did crawl into the bed beside her, did you
not?”

“
Good save, Meghan,” he
commended her, like the rogue he was.

She turned in shock at hearing her name upon
his lips and demanded, “How did you know my name?”

He was grinning down at her, one half of his
face illuminated by the torchlight, the other remaining in
shadow.

He stood there, lacing his braies, looking
down upon her, and Meghan shivered at the knavish look in his eyes.
“Perhaps your grandmother revealed it?” He winked at her.

Meghan frowned up at him. He was toying with
her, she knew. He didn’t believe her charade any more than she
believed his claim.

And still she wasn’t about to confess!

Not yet!

Perhaps she could convince him as yet...

“
Did you speak with my
brothers, perchance?” she asked him. “Are they worried?”

“
What?” he mocked her. “Do
you not believe your grandmother Fia told me your name?”

“
Oh,” Meghan said, smiling
up at him, “well, I would, of course... save that Fia has been here
with me all along. How could she possibly have revealed anything to
you at all?”

“
You have a point,” he
allowed. “And so Fia was not the one.”

Once he was through lacing his braies, he
sat down behind his little desk—one very much like the one Gavin
used to study his manuscripts—and Meghan dared to stare at him in
profile. She could scarcely help herself.

Och, but he was a beautiful man.

She stared at his lips, unable to keep
herself from wondering how they might feel upon her own.

“
I did not speak with your
brothers,” he said, relenting. “But ’tis not as though your name
not known in these parts, Meghan Brodie.” He cast a glance at her,
lifting a brow. “In fact, it seems your reputation precedes
you.”