Lyon's Gift (17 page)

Alison’s heart began to pound as it became clear to
her that he was perfectly serious. “You do?” she asked him,
bewildered.

“
I always have.”

He’d never once led her to believe he’d even noticed
her. She had always thought he’d considered her naught more than
Meggie’s little friend.

“
I... I did not realize,” Alison
whispered in wonder.

“
Och, lass... because you only had
eyes for Colin. But if you will have me as your husband, I would be
pleased to have you as my wife.”

Her father straightened within his seat. “Perhaps
all is not lost as yet!” he proclaimed. And then he sobered at
once, peering at Alison and shaking his head, seeming to temper his
excitement for her sake. “Though if Alison will not have you, I
cannot force her to wed where she will not,” he said, staggering
her with his proclamation.

Tears pricked at Alison’s eyes. She understood what
he was doing, and it warmed her heart, filled her with joy.

His gaze softened as he looked at her. “What say
you, daughter of mine?”

Alison turned to face Leith. Leith smiled at her,
and she knew the right thing to do.

“
Aye,” she exclaimed. “I will wed
with you, Leith Mac Brodie. If you truly want me—
if
you
truly do...” She shook her head, scarcely able to believe that he
would. “... it would be my honor to be your bride!”

“
I do, lass,” he assured, and her
father leapt up from his chair with a whoop of delight.

“
To bluidy hell with Montgomerie!”
he proclaimed. “To bluidy hell with David of Scotia, too! We’re
going to have ourselves a bluidy wedding the likes of which these
Highlands have never seen! But first things first!” he said,
nodding at Leith respectfully. “Let us gather ourselves together
and search for Meghan. And we’ll not stop until we’ve turned every
last stone!”

Lyon awoke at his desk in the wee hours of the morn,
and his eyes were at once drawn to the bed.

Pale morning light filtered in through the hole in
his ceiling, suffusing the room with a sweet glow. He didn’t lift
his head, didn’t stir, didn’t dare wake her as yet.

He wanted to watch her sleep.

She looked more like an angel than any mortal had a
right to…

She slept like an infant, he thought, upon her
belly, with her hands extended as though embracing the bed, like a
wee bairn clutching its mother’s bosom, her palms open and
caressing the sheets, her face turned to one side and her long
lashes pressed like ebony silk against her cheeks.

He stared, unable to keep himself from it, watching
her sleep so peacefully. In slumber, her features were
perfection... her lips full and perfectly formed, her lashes long
and soft against high exotic cheekbones, her nose perfectly
aquiline, and her hair a luscious copper mass of shining ringlets
spread over the pale sheets.

He hadn’t dared to crawl in next to her... not again
last night, determined as he was to do this right. He could have
seduced her, no doubt. The look in her eyes had assured him as
much. Beneath that deliberate facade she wore, she hid a passion as
fierce as his own.

He recognized it, and craved it.

And Christ, the way she’d gazed at him when he’d sat
here bare before her…

The mere thought hardened his loins all over again,
made his blood simmer and burn. God’s truth, he wanted Meghan
Brodie like he’d never wanted any woman in his life... not even in
his youth had he been so driven by lust.

And there was something more than her face that drew
him... something he could not put his finger upon. A pretty face
alone had little to recommend it, and he’d walked away from many a
bed for lack of interest. Particularly so in the last few
years.

This time was different.

Through the years, his desires had grown darker, and
it had taken more and more to whet his appetite of late. He’d begun
to think himself a little bit depraved that innocence no longer
drew him as once it had. He remembered a time when a simple smile
had been enough to make him hard as stone and ready to rut with any
woman who had two legs to spread for him. And many had done so. He
was the whore’s son, after all, and it drew the sort of attention
every lad craved from the moment he was able to spill his first
seed.

His first lover had been an earl’s wife. She’d been
two and twenty to his ten and four. He hadn’t been able to walk
away from her bed, though he’d understood the peril to his
soul.

His second had been a chambermaid who’d boasted to
him that she’d lain with his father as well.

And the third... well, she’d been a sweet
infatuation of his... a lass three years his senior whom he’d
dreamed of rutting with for weeks until he’d made her his conquest.
And then she’d gone away and married her baron, and her memory was
only a smear now upon his memory.

They were all a blur after that.

And now... he remembered not the faces, so much, but
the appetite that had enslaved his very soul. He’d been so long a
prisoner to his desires, and nobody but him had known. He could
never condemn his mother, for he understood her only too well.

And then one day he simply hadn’t been interested
any longer. The hunger that had consumed him body and soul had
simply abated, and he’d found himself walking away from creamy
round breasts that would have once set his heart to pounding and
his blood to thrumming within his veins.

Nay, it had been a long time since a pretty face
alone had been enough to stir him.

And though Meghan Brodie’s face was sheer
perfection, it was the look in her eyes that tempted him and set
his heart to pounding once more. She’d roused his hunger, and it
had awakened hard as stone. God’s teeth, he’d scarcely been able to
think of anything else since the moment he’d first laid eyes upon
her.

She made him feel alive as he hadn’t felt in far too
long.

He wanted her, aye, but more than that... he wanted
to know what thoughts stole through that engaging mind of hers. He
wanted to know what stirred her heart and made her burn. There was
something bewitching in those deep-green eyes... something
compelling... something that drew him... something he wanted to
know as intimately as one would a lover.

He wanted to be her lover.

He lifted his head from his arms, watching with
hungry eyes the way she stirred.

And then he spied the lamb shivering in the comer,
and frowned. Damn, how could they have forgotten the wee beast?

The poor animal probably needed to relieve
itself—and was like to be half-starved, as well. He rose quietly
from the desk, paused to take another long look at the woman lying
so serenely within his bed, drinking in the sight of her... and
then he set about taking her grandmother out to piss.

CHAPTER 15

Meghan awakened to find herself alone. Not even Fia
remained to bid her good morn.

She hoped Lyon had taken the poor little beast out
to the meadow for a bit. She was certain it wasn’t in the animal’s
best interest to keep it confined within a room all hours of the
day. And yet it hadn’t seemed so distressed while she’d been alone
with it. Still she felt a stab of guilt for having gone to sleep
without concerning herself with its needs. She had been so weary.
The day had taken its toll on her, mind and body.

She’d lain awake for some time after their
discourse, too aware of the man sitting there at the little desk.
She’d lain with her eyes closed, wondering about the papers that
held his attention—distracted him from her—until exhaustion had
overcome her and she’d slept at last. But though she’d slept
deeply, she didn’t feel particularly refreshed this morn.

Nor did she feel especially benevolent toward Lyon
Montgomerie.

Her brow furrowed. She wasn’t certain why she felt
so provoked by him, but she certainly was.

She had dared to hope…

What?

That she might be wrong about him? That he might be
different? That he might see her as something more than a pretty
face?

Meghan yearned so much to spill her heart... to
someone... to reveal every dark part of herself and every flaw, to
be unveiled in the light of day... and to still be loved despite
her flaws!

Piers Montgomerie, like all the rest, merely wanted
a vessel.

The problem was that her heart was riddled with
fissures. And her soul was exploding behind it, bursting to be set
free. If she let them... the bricks in the wall surrounding her
heart would come tumbling down so easily.

And if she revealed herself... and he were to be
repelled by what he saw?

She couldn’t take that chance.

And still... if she managed to bring peace with this
union, all was well that ended well.

Right?

Then, too, she would be saving Alison from a
marriage she surely did not want. Alison was her best friend, and
Alison wanted Colin, Meghan knew—desperately! If Meghan wedded Lyon
Montgomerie, it would buy Alison time at least to win her brother’s
fickle heart. Meghan was certain Colin could be content with Alison
if he but gave her a chance. Alison might not be the fairest of
women, but her heart was sweeter than honey and purer than
gold.

Still and all, Meghan couldn’t simply surrender
herself so easily.

Pride would scarcely allow it.

She dared to want more!

She might concede to this union for the sake of
peace, but Piers Montgomerie was going to get more than he
bargained for, she vowed. He was going to learn not to judge a soul
by the mask it wore!

He wanted a face to wed, did he... Well... he could
have the face, but not the heart!

And Meghan was looking forward to teaching the rogue
a bloody good lesson!

Her gaze was drawn toward the desk... and curiosity
seized her.

She didn’t care if it might be wrong to pry. ’Twas
certainly the least he deserved for so rudely locking her away
within his room... and for leaving his mysterious
papers
out
upon the desk.

A little peek couldn’t possibly hurt anyone.

She went resolutely to the desk and found two thick,
leather-bound manuscripts sitting upon it. Turning over the first,
she saw that it was untitled. Opening it revealed scribbled
notations... pages and pages, all written in Latin to the best she
could determine. Her brows knit as she tried to make out the words.
She recognized a few, but she had never really learned Latin. Her
mother had been familiar with the language of the church, but Fia
had not. Only her brother Gavin knew the tongue well enough to read
script. The best Meghan could make out, by perusing the headings of
each notation, was that they were entries taken from the writings
of others: Aristotle and Augustine, Boethius and Anselm, and many
more... too many to name—all dated, she assumed, to the year they
were written.

Meghan’s curiosity was piqued... and yet, she could
hardly sit down to read the texts when she could not understand
them. Frowning, she dropped the first manuscript down upon the
desk, and turned over the other.

This one also was untitled. In the bottom right-hand
comer was written... Piers Montgomerie.

Lifting a brow in surprise, Meghan drew out the
chair and sat down before the little desk. She turned to the first
page.

It was titled
Spiritualitas vs. Carnalis.

But the script was written in the English tongue and
that she understood very well, for Alison’s mother had been an
Englishwoman and had taught her daughter well. Alison, in turn, had
taught Meghan.

Much too engaged to walk away now, she laid the
manuscript flat upon the desk and began to read…

Given that Lyon had only this morning dispatched his
letters, David of Scotia was the last person he expected to find in
his courtyard so soon.

David arrived with a retinue of five, looking
harassed as he dismounted before Lyon.

“
Christ be damned! You must be
foreknowing!”

David’s answering scowl was a testament to his mood.
“What the devil are you speaking of?”

Lyon arched a brow. “Only this morn I dispatched you
a letter, and here you are.”

“
So I am!” David replied, his tone
curt.

Lyon slanted him a knowing glance. “What brings you
to these parts?” he said. “Naught good, I suppose.”

David shook his head ominously. “Naught good!” he
agreed. “Damned misbegotten Highland rogues!”

Lyon slapped a hand upon his shoulder, his
expression sober. “Come, then,” he urged, “let us converse
within.”

And the two made their way toward the hall.

“
I’m afraid I bring distressing
news,” David disclosed.

“
I gather as much.”

“
Lyon, old friend, I believe I’ve
just made your charge here all the more complicated.”

“
I see,” Lyon answered. “Well,
that makes two of us, then, as so have I.”

David cast him a curious glance.

“
I shall explain within,” Lyon
assured. “We can argue over who shall go first over a tankard of
ale. What say you?”

David’s look darkened. “I’d say if you need to ply
me with ale, Lyon, something tells me I’m not going to like this
one whit.”

“
Then we are even,” Lyon replied.
“Because something tells me that if you felt compelled to stop and
tell me about something you’ve done, neither will I.”

“
You always were a canny bastard,”
David told him. “And nay, you will not like this, I think. I hope
you have something more than bog water to drink. I’m not in the
bloody mood to grind my ale between my teeth.”