Lyon's Gift (25 page)

It was a reasonable enough request, but Lyon could
not agree to it.

“
Nay,” he answered. If he returned
her now, he knew, he’d never see her again.

He needed time.

And right or wrong, he was willing to wield his
sword to keep her.

“
Sassenach bastard!” Colin spat.
“Lay a hand upon my sister and I’ll do some slicing of my
own!”

Lyon met Colin’s gaze, assuring him, “I give you my
word I’ll do naught to your sister she does not wish me to do.”

The quietest brother rode forward then and whispered
into Leith’s ear. The two spoke an instant, and then Leith nodded,
and turned to face Lyon once more. “Your word?” he said. “And what
assurances have I that your word is honorable, Montgomerie?”

Lyon considered his answer carefully, and then spoke
truthfully, as there was no other way with him. “None at all,” he
replied, “save that I value honesty above all else.”

Leith contemplated his words, and then announced,
“Not good enough!” He motioned for his men to follow. “We’re going,
but you’ve not seen the last of us, Montgomerie! My sister is not
some beast to be bartered!” He whirled his mount about and spurred
it away, forcing his way through the circle of Lyon’s men. “I’ll
see her a bluidy auld maid before I see her unhappy!” he swore as
he thundered away, his brothers at his heels.

“
Sassenach bastard!” Colin said
and spat upon the ground as he followed his elder
brother.

Lyon watched them leave, and for the first time in a
long time, experienced a twinge of guilt for his actions.

It confused him.

He’d done things in his life for which he should
have prostrated himself upon the ground, and yet he hadn’t felt
guilt then. He’d always done whatever needed to be done, with the
least amount of brooding, because to dwell upon them brought
madness. But this moment, as he watched Meghan’s brothers ride out
from his courtyard, he felt a prick of conscience.

It was as though Meghan Brodie, somehow, in the
space of a single day, had revived him in whole, body and soul.

It was as though he’d been slumbering and now
reawakened—by a smart-arsed, canny-eyed wench who might or might
not be mad, as well.

He shook his head and turned toward the manor with
the intention of returning to her, and then stopped and forced
himself to turn around and walk away.

He would go to her soon enough, but just now he
needed time to think. Nor could he so easily face her after
refusing her brothers so coldly.

He didn’t particularly like himself at the moment,
and he needed to determine why, when he’d felt far less remorse for
much worse.

Meghan completed the second essay, and forced
herself to set the manuscript aside and contemplate it, before
going on to the next.

Sometime during the years in which the second essay
had been written, Piers Montgomerie had ceased to exist and Lyon
had been born. What had begun with noble cause—his pursuit of
justice—had ended with a far, far different tone. Meghan had no
notion what had happened to him, precisely, as he didn’t elaborate
within his texts—perhaps naught at all and it was simply a
consequence of the life he’d led—but he’d ceased to claim any noble
incentives at all. In fact, he seemed quite resigned to his own
avidity, and even irreverent when his pursuits conflicted with
those of others. And the detached manner in which he spoke of
himself within the text was both unapologetic and yet
self-reproachful. In truth, had Meghan not read the previous essay,
she might have taken him at his word: she might have believed him
no more than an evil greedy knave, concerned only with his own
personal gain. It seemed to Meghan, however, that he was not
content to be what he was. It seemed to her that he had embarked
upon a search and somehow had ended empty-hearted.

He was testing his limits in an effort to...
what?

Had he lost something of himself along the way and
tried to recapture it? Had he found himself numb and yearned to
feel again?

She knit her brows and pondered those questions. She
couldn’t quite discern what drove him... couldn’t quite put
together the two sides of this man.

Still, she didn’t view him as wicked precisely, no
matter that he thought so of himself.

But there was still more to read, she knew.

Perhaps, in truth, she would think so after.

With her good hand, she lifted up the manuscript
once more, set it upon her lap, opened it, and turned another
page.

The next essay was titled simply
Plaisir.

She wasn’t familiar with the word... Plaisir...
plesir... plesur...

Pleasure?

Something like fluttering wings erupted from her
belly and soared into her breast.

Her heartbeat quickened as she turned the page and
read...

I am my mother’s son. I understand her too well to
condemn her for her carnal vices.

Her heart beat faster as she continued...

I can deny it if I so choose, but the evidence lies
sleeping now within my bed, her body bare and replete by my own
body and my hands and mouth…

Meghan’s heart tripped. How could she continue to
read this essay, when it was so obviously a private matter? And yet
how could she not?

He wanted her to read it.

Had dared her to, even.

Beauty is my vulnerability,
he wrote, and her
heart leapt at the words. Curiosity bade her go on...

... has always been my weakness. Beauty turned my
eyes from the university, my hands from justice, and my heart from
piety. And in my covetousness I walked away and never looked back.
And where is it I walk to? Where is it that I stand?

Where is that boy who once yearned for knowledge and
virtue?

I doubt now his existence, as no trace of him seems
to remain.

Meghan paused, inhaling a quivering breath, her
heart aching for the man whose words spilled like lifeblood upon
these brittle pages. She caressed the bound parchment... feeling it
beneath her palm... wishing it were the sweet face of that little
boy of whom he spoke so distantly. She heard the confusion in his
chosen words, the condemnation, too, and wanted to tell him that no
man who agonized so, no matter how wrong his choices, could be so
wicked as he believed.

She took another deep breath, her heart pounding,
and continued...

If one must conclude that happiness is associated
with the fulfillment of one’s nature, as Socrates suggests... then
I should be well sated... and yet I am driven here once again to
pour my words upon these pages in hopes that I should find that
part of me which remains absent from my soul.

While I cannot deny the physical pleasure my body
receives in the carnal act, the satisfaction is fleeting. And I sit
behind my papers now... knowing only too well that next time it
will take so much more to bring back the trice of contentment which
Eros brings.

It makes me weary to think of it only.

Plato, I think, claims Eros to be passionate rather
than calm, and thus demanding, irrational, and even obsessive, and
Protagoras observes it as one of the impulses that may overcome
one’s knowledge of good. On this I can agree wholeheartedly, as I
have experienced the above in full. But Eros defined it as the
desire for the beautiful? I’m afraid this I must dispute, though my
eyes and actions might call me a liar.

In truth... I have wallowed in beauty like a swine
wallows in cool mud, surfeited my body in ways to be delineated in
this very text, shocking though the experiments might be, and it is
my contention that Eros is far more than a desire for merely the
beautiful.

It is a desire for something more, as well...
something which my soul understands, but my heart has yet to
see.

It is that which drives me from bed to bed, I
think... and compels me again to leave.

The truth is that I have yet to find true
contentment in pleasure.

Does that state of true contentment known as
happiness exist beyond the realm of human imagination?

If so, it is certain that pleasure and happiness are
not equal as argued, for the separation is easily measured within
the confines of the soul. And knowing as much... I cannot, in good
conscience, return to the bed just now... even knowing what
pleasures await me there.

This descent into intemperance has left me deplete
of desire.

Her heart pounding fiercely, Meghan paused once more
for breath. In reading, she’d entirely forgotten to breathe, so
entranced was she by his heartfelt words.

This was by far the most personal of his essays.
None of the others had been nearly so revealing, nor had he spoken
of himself in such a forthright manner.

Why did he wish her to read this essay?

Meghan would have buried such a manuscript ten feet
under after writing it, in fear that anyone would know her most
personal thoughts.

Why had he simply handed it over to her so easily?
Even dared her to read it?

Was he trying to frighten her away?

Surely not—not when he’d made so little pretense
about wanting her for his own.

What was it he wanted her to discover in these
pages?

She nibbled her lower lip, contemplating.

Perhaps if she continued reading, she would learn
the answers.

Below the passage she’d read was a reference to
works she had no knowledge of—by men called Plato and Socrates.
Some of their arguments, it appeared, he’d copied into the second
notebook, and were therefore impossible for her to read, as she did
not understand the Latin text. She turned the page, and gasped at
the crude sketches which accompanied the detailed text. She stared
wide-eyed at the raw drawings of man and woman in positions and
acts that she would never have conceived of. Her breath quickened
and her heart tripped.

God have mercy upon her wicked soul, she could not
stop now, no matter that she knew what next she would read...

CHAPTER 20

Lyon hadn’t meant to stay away so long.

But neither had he been able to face her, lest he
feel obliged to confess what he’d done. Sending her brothers away
when they must have been worried sick after not seeing her for
three days and then discovering she was hurt was certainly not the
proudest moment of his life.

Why the hell had he done such a thing?

Had he fallen so far into iniquity?

God help him, it was just that... for the first time
in his life he wanted something so sorely.

Meghan Brodie.

Her name alone made him burn.

She was becoming an obsession.

It seemed he could think of naught else but her. In
the time he’d known her, he’d abandoned his promises to old man
MacLean, disappointed his sovereign, and now turned away worried
kinfolk for fear they would seize her from him. What the devil was
happening to him?

He’d spent the morning alone digging a grave for a
bloody lamb named Fia! And then had remained by the grave after
burying the damned animal, swilling his ale under the high
afternoon sun. His skin was blistered now, but the burn upon his
flesh was nowhere near that which smoldered through his loins. The
mere thought of her there... lying within his bed... reading his
manuscripts... made his heart thunder and his blood blaze through
his veins.

He thought about his words and wondered if she would
be shocked by them, repelled—thought about his drawings and wished
he could see her face when first she’d set eyes upon them.

Would she be appalled?

Amused?

Aroused?

His heart hammering as it had not in years, he
climbed the stairwell to his bedchamber, wavering a bit in his
drunkenness. He’d returned from the gravesite and had remained
within the hall below, swilling more ale whilst he’d stared at the
hole he’d had boarded within the floor of his chamber... trying to
imagine what it was she was thinking behind the upstairs door.

What it was she was doing?

His breath quickened at the thought of seeing her
once more.

He swallowed the last of his ale as he reached the
top of the stairs and hurled the empty tankard down the stairwell,
listening to it clatter on its way down, uncertain whether it was a
warning to Meghan or a self-recriminating gesture.

It didn’t matter. He was too besotted to care.

He opened the door, and stood wavering upon his
feet, acclimating himself to the dimness of the room. His eyes were
drawn at once to the lone taper lit upon his desk. The tiny flame
illuminated her face and little else, and his breath caught at the
sheer beauty of her profile.

God, but she was lovely.

Meghan heard the warning clatter beyond the door,
but had no time to leave the desk before the door swung open to
reveal Lyon standing there.

Her heart leapt against her breast, and she dropped
the quill upon the desk, afraid he would catch her penning her own
words upon the pages of his manuscript.

Despite the fact that the room had grown dim and
she’d had to squint to see the pages, she’d scarcely been aware of
the passage of time.

And now he was here, filling the doorway with his
presence.

He came into the room, swinging the door shut behind
him, and her heart quickened.

“
Is that fear I spy in your eyes,
Meghan?”

Meghan couldn’t find her tongue to speak, so
expressive was his look. After having read his essays, the
brightness of his gaze took on an entirely new significance. Och,
but she could hardly look him in the eyes without wondering if he
thought of her in those ways he had written about.