Lyon's Gift (23 page)

He wanted the chance to win her.

It had suddenly become crucial to his state
of contentment. He didn’t understand what it was about her that
drew him, but she did. Her very presence had somehow banished
shadows from his life, like the morning sun, which dispelled
darkness with naught more than its glorious appearance.

The old witch—it was how Lyon began to think
of her—returned as David rode from the courtyard. She seemed to
appear from the night mist: he was alone one instant, and not the
next. She handed him a vial, dispensing instructions for the
administration of its contents. She’d laced the potion with
mandrake, she’d claimed, something for the pain, and he was to
measure it out to her judiciously lest he poison her. And then she
had demanded her coin forthwith. After wishing him well, she
vanished as swiftly as she’d appeared.

Clutching the precious vial within his fist,
Lyon climbed the stairs to his chamber. When she awoke, he wanted
to be with her. When she first opened her eyes, he wanted to be the
one she saw.

And if she did not awake this eve, he would
be content to simply watch over her... as long as he knew she would
open those beautiful green eyes eventually.

He entered the chamber, closing the door
behind him, and went to stand before the bed. She looked so fragile
lying there amidst his rent sheets and her own dried blood. The
very sight of her made his heart wrench.

The torchlight cast dancing shadows over the
bed, animating her face despite that she slept undisturbed. She was
beautiful even now, though her poor face was bruised and wan. She
looked more like an angel lying there so serenely, though he had to
own he preferred the imp in her to the cherub any day.

The very thought of her temper and wit made
him smile.

Guilt stabbed at him as he watched her.

He had no doubt she would recover, for she
was strong and her wounds were minor, but he couldn’t help but feel
responsible.

Had he not taken her against her will, none
of this would have happened. She would likely, at this instant, be
safe at home with her brothers.

And yet, God save his rotten soul, he still
could not find regret for his actions.

She stirred, whimpering softly, calling for
Fia once again, and he frowned. Lifting up the vial in his hand, he
contemplated its contents. It was entirely possible the elixir was
a waste of time... that there was naught wrong with her at all...
as he suspected.

But... what if he were wrong?

What if there were, in truth, some family
madness she was cursed with, and he had in his hands the means to
cure her?

He liked to think he was a better man than
to sacrifice her sanity for the privilege of gazing upon a perfect
face.

He watched her an instant longer, his heart
sinking when she began to weep softly in her sleep. God damn him to
hell if he could be so shallow as to allow her to suffer for his
pleasure.

His mind made up, he sat upon the bed beside
her and proceeded to open the vial. There was enough within it for
a sennight’s supply, the old woman had said. The results would be
immediate, she’d claimed.

Well, the morning would bring answers
enough. If he observed no significant difference when she awoke, he
simply wouldn’t continue the treatment.

But if the differences were apparent...
Well, then... he had the means within his hand to help her, and he
would be a selfish bastard not to use it.

And with that resolved, he set about
administering the potion.

CHAPTER 18

Meghan was uncertain at what point her dreams became
substance, but Lyon’s face was the first thing she saw when she
awoke. He sat upon the bed, staring down at her, his expression
concerned.

She’d been dreaming of him—strange dreams, pleasant
dreams, but his was a constant presence—and she couldn’t say she
was surprised upon opening her eyes to find him watching her.

“
Welcome back,” he said quietly,
his lips curving into a soft smile. His deep-blue eyes gazed at her
with such warmth that it stilled her heart.

Surely she imagined the tenderness... He couldn’t
possibly feel anything for her but lust.

Meghan tried to return a witty reply, but when she
parted her lips to speak, only a moan of pain came from between
parched lips. She lifted her head and peered groggily down at her
arm. “W-what... happened?”

“
Do you not recall?”

Meghan did, though she wished she didn’t!

Her arm? It hurt. It served her right. She averted
her gaze to the bed, tears welling in her eyes. The entire ordeal
made her feel both guilty and childish at once. It didn’t matter
that she’d been pretending; he must think her a spoiled brat to
have thrown such a wicked tantrum.

And her fit of fury had gained her what?

And what of the poor wee lammie? She was afraid to
ask, but had to know. “W-where is...” she began, and choked on a
sob.

“
Fia?”

Her face burned with guilt, but she nodded, daring
to peer up into his glittering eyes. His expression was softer yet,
no condemnation there to be seen.

He shook his head. “I... am... so sorry, Meghan, but
the la—Fia,” he amended, “she... is... gone.”

Meghan gulped back another heartfelt sob, feeling
incredible shame.

“
There was naught to be done,” he
continued gently. “But know that it—that she did not suffer,” he
offered in condolence.

Tears rolled down Meghan’s cheeks. She didn’t have
to pretend grief.

“
Poor, poor wee lammie!” she
sobbed, bringing a hand to her mouth in remorse. “ ‘Tis all my
fault!”

He shook his head. “Nay,” he argued.

“ ‘
Twas not—” He narrowed his
eyes. “Poor wee lammie?”

Meghan couldn’t bear that she’d been the cause of
the poor animal’s death. If it hadn’t been for her tantrum... “Aye,
it is all my fault!” she cried. “If only I hadna—”

“
Nay,” he said quietly, though
with a lingering frown upon his face. “It was not your fault,
Meghan. You couldn’t possibly have known the floor would give way
beneath you. If the fault lies with any, then it lies with me, as I
knew the ceiling was weak and in disrepair. I should have fixed it
long before now,” he said, and shook his head with a look of self
disgust.

His gaze met hers once more, and Meghan recognized
the regret in his deep-blue eyes. He didn’t have to ease her own
burden of guilt, she knew, and yet he was attempting to do that.
Meghan appreciated his efforts, though she knew full well that she
had to accept much of the blame. She should never have used the
lamb so selfishly. It had been cruel enough that she had forced it
to remain locked within the room with her. She simply hadn’t
considered the animal’s feelings and needs.

She swallowed the knot in her throat and averted her
gaze; the look upon his face was making her entirely
uncomfortable.

Och, he couldn’t possibly be so bad as his essays
would have her believe. The man who gazed at her now with such
compassion over the loss of an animal was certainly not the same
man who had proclaimed himself able to shed blood so easily for the
mere price of gold.

“
Well,” she said weakly, and it
was the best concession she could make to the man who had stolen
her against her will, and was now trying to steal her heart, “you
could not possibly have known you would abduct me and lock me away
in your chamber, now could you?”

He smiled a little at that. “Of course I could,” he
countered. “Did you not realize that all men are base and weak of
will?” He winked at her. “I saw your face and simply could not
resist.”

Meghan had to quell the urge to roll her eyes at his
proclamation. She tried to lift herself from the bed, and grimaced
as pain shot through her arm.

“
Do not move,” he commanded her.
“Rest, Meghan.”

She seemed to have no choice in the matter.

Meghan felt, after that small effort, so weak. Even
had she wished to refuse him, she couldn’t have. She was too weary
to fight.

He produced a small vial from within his hand.

“
What is that?” she asked
him.

“
Something for the
pain.”

A faint sheen of perspiration moistened her brow,
and her body trembled still from the meager effort of trying to
lift herself from the bed.

“
How long did I sleep?” she asked
him. “It seems an eternity, and yet I would sleep
again.”

“’
Tis the drogue,” he explained,
lifting the vial as though to inspect its contents. He was quiet a
moment, and then turned to study her.

Under his scrutiny, Meghan felt a bit like a fly in
a spider’s web.

“
Though your arm was not broken,
Meghan,” he said, “it was displaced and had to be reset. It’ll
plague you for some time, I think. But this—” He lifted the vial to
show her. “—should ease it.”

Meghan winced, and lifted her hand to her forehead,
to the ache there. God’s teeth, but her entire face felt bruised.
Her cheeks hurt, and she had a headache, besides. Her entire body
hurt, in truth. It was the least she deserved, she told
herself.

Dear grandmother would be sorely disappointed had
she lived to see that Meghan had had so little regard for a wee
creature’s life.

“
Your face remains unharmed,” he
assured her, “all but for that wound upon your head.” He reached
out then, parting her hair gently, inspecting the wound for
himself, and Meghan flinched at his touch. “You’ll not be able to
see it when it is healed, hidden as it is.”

Meghan glowered at him. Why did his reassurances
make her feel bitter, rather than relieved?

“
Pity,” she replied, before she
could stop herself. “Were my face scarred, you would have little
reason to keep me, now would you?”

He withdrew his hand then. “Is that what you
believe?”

“
Aye,” Meghan answered without
doubt. “You said yourself it was my face that drew you.” And wanted
to add that he’d kept her despite the possibility that she might be
mad—so it wasn’t her mind that interested him, in any case. She had
no doubt he would discard her if her face no longer appealed to
him, but she didn’t say as much, because saying such a thing would
imply that the notion disturbed her, and she certainly didn’t care
whether she appealed to him or nay!

At least he had the decency not to deny it.

He merely stared at her without answer.

Her gaze was drawn once more to the little desk, to
his manuscripts lying there. His essays confused her. The man
sitting before her now, tending her so gently, speaking to her so
kindly, could not possibly be the same who wiped blood from his
sword without remorse.

She didn’t know what to think of him... what to
feel.

Lyon, equally bewildered, contemplated her
accusation.

He couldn’t deny it, though he wanted to. But
neither was he so certain of it as truth. There was something about
the woman lying within his bed... something other than the perfect
face and body... something in her eyes that beckoned to him...
challenged him.

In truth, he was no longer certain that her face
alone had motivated him to begin with... and yet... neither could
he put his finger upon the attraction. He could scarcely claim he
knew her mind and loved her for it. Nor could he profess to adore
her heart, though he saw evidence of her goodness in the tears that
stained her face over a mere beast of the fields—it didn’t matter
whether last night she had thought the animal her grandmother or
not; this morn he saw lucidity in her eyes—potion-induced or
not—and he knew without doubt that she understood her true relation
to the animal. And still she wept.

He also knew he would administer the rest of the
vial to her.

The old witch had claimed she’d laced it with
something for the pain, as well, and he could see the strain of
Meghan’s injuries in her every expression, her every move.

She was watching him, he realized, and seemed to be
waiting for a response.

He lifted his brows. “I don’t suppose it would do
any good to deny it?” he asked her, and popped open the vial. “When
I only admitted as much.”

“
Nay,” she returned, “we both know
what it is you want of me.”

“
Do we?” She couldn’t possibly
know what it was he wanted of her, as neither did he.

But he wanted her, that much was certain.

“
I’m not stupid,” she told
him.

He cast her a glance. “Perhaps not,” he conceded.
“Now, however, I want only your tongue.”

“
You’re just the same as every
other mon!” she accused him then, narrowing her eyes. “Why do you
want my tongue?”

To draw it into his mouth, suckle her sweet nectar;
that’s what he wanted with her tongue.

“
Why else?” he asked, and smiled
slightly. “I wish you to take your medicine, is all.”

“
You want to know what I
think?”

“
Depends,” he answered, “but I’m
certain you’re going to tell me.”

“
I think you’re not so bluidy
wicked as you like to think you are,” she informed him baldly, and
thrust out her tongue to receive her dram of medicine.

Lyon blinked, merely staring for an instant at the
tender flesh she offered, imagining... the feel of it... the taste
of it...

His loins tightened.

“
Nay?” he asked, his voice
hoarse.

He had to shake himself free from his thoughts in
order to tip a few drops upon her sweet waiting tongue.