Lyon's Gift (5 page)

The lamb bleated shyly and peered up at her
with bright trusting eyes, and Meghan smiled as she drew upon the
lead rope, prompting it to follow.

“
Let’s go now!’’ she
urged. “You’re comin’ home with me. Findings, keepings!” she
announced. Och, but why would anyone bind an animal and then leave
it? she wondered.

Unless the owner planned to come back for it
later?

“
Poor wee lost lammie,”
she said, coaxing it to follow.

She scanned the meadow once more, still
finding nothing and shrugging, she started away. The lamb
hesitated, and then followed, and Meghan smiled down at the
beast.

Well, it was her beastie now, she
determined. They certainly could use the livestock after having
been so thoroughly raided by David’s English lackey. And this was
Brodie land, after all! It made little sense that someone would
leave their animal bound here, whether they were returning for it
or not.

And furthermore, they didn’t deserve the
poor animal if they could so cruelly leave it to bake beneath the
hot sun.

Unless...

She faltered in her step. Perhaps it
belonged to Alison and she’d had to abandon it suddenly—though what
Alison would be doing with a single lamb this far from MacLean
land, Meghan certainly didn’t know. Her brow furrowed.

Could Alison be in danger?

The tiny hairs at the back of her nape
prickled.

Perhaps she shouldn’t leave so hastily?

She halted again, and the little lamb
stopped, too. Meghan peered down at the wee thing, frowning, and
then once more peered about.

What, indeed, if Alison were in danger? What
if Meghan left and forsook the opportunity to help her dear
friend?

And yet what could Meghan possibly do
alone?

She suddenly wasn’t certain what to do.

“
What do you think, wee
lammie?” she asked. “Do we stay or do we go?”

The lamb bleated and stared up at her, its
expression blank.

“
You dunno, you
say?”

She unwrapped the lead rope from her wrist
and stared pensively at the frayed end, brushing it absently with
her thumb.

There weren’t any signs of a struggle in the
meadow, as best she could tell, and Alison was nowhere to be found.
The best thing she could do, she decided, was to get her brothers
to order a search. And suddenly... she was beginning to feel a bit
uneasy—as though someone were out there...

Watching.

“
Well,” she concluded,
frowning, “I dunno either, but I’m supposin’ I should take you
home.” She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, and told the
wee lamb, “Come along then.” And she led it toward the forest path
from whence she’d come.

It wasn’t the safest way home, but it was
certainly the quickest, and since she’d only just come that way and
had encountered nothing amiss, she decided it was the best route to
take. She didn’t particularly care to take the long way home with
the sun bearing down upon the meadow as the poor lamb was enervated
already.

The shaded forest path, though it meandered
in and out of Brodie and Montgomerie land—the latter being filled
with thieving, conniving Sassenachs—was well worn by Brodie feet
and little-traveled by anyone else. It sat at the far, far edge of
Montgomerie land—land that had once belonged to the MacLeans until
King David of Scotia had requested it from Alison’s father.

The thought made Meghan glower.

As she understood it, Alison’s father had
agreed to give it, only so long as Alison wedded the lumpish,
greasy English bugger—well, Meghan didn’t know if he was lumpish or
greasy, precisely, because she’d never set eyes upon the man, but
she certainly knew he was greedy!

Alison, poor lass, was of a different mind
entirely, as she didn’t wish to wed with Montgomerie at all—and
Meghan couldn’t blame her!

It seemed to Meghan that the rotten
Sassenach had no sooner set foot upon Scot soil than he was already
ravaging and pillaging his good neighbors—greedy, misbegotten cur
that he was! And in truth, she might not hold him in such contempt,
for she was no stranger to feuding and raiding, but he’d thieved
from her own kinsmen and without provocation!

Well, her brothers were sworn to set him to
rights, and if Meghan knew them at all, they wouldn’t stop until
they did exactly that. Meghan only hoped it would end without
bloodshed. These were not Scotsmen they were dealing with, and she
was afraid her sweet brothers had forgotten that simple fact.

“
Englishmen have no
honor!” she told the little lamb as they entered the shade of the
forest. “Nor have they any hearts!”

The lamb walked silently at her side, though
its stride seemed uncertain.

“
Their mothers eat them
when they are wee bairns, you see,” she explained, feeling quite
wicked.

The lamb peered up at her, as though in
disbelief, and then its gaze shied away.

“’
Tis God’s truth I’m
saying!” she persisted. “Humph! And they’re trying to bring Scotia
to her knees. If you ask me,” she told the lamb in no uncertain
terms, “I think David is a fool for trusting those he calls
friends!” she said, as though the lamb cared one whit what her
opinion was—though why should it care when no one else seemed to
think she had a brain to think with either? “Rotten Sassenachs
don’t the meaning of the word friendship!” she muttered
crossly.

CHAPTER 4

“
Lyon was determined to
keep his borders well defended.

After his last raid, he wasn’t taking
chances. Those damned Brodies were as devious as London thieves,
and just as bold, raiding in the broadest light of day. This last
round had been his victory, and he was damned well going to keep it
that way.

He swore to God they must sprout limbs and
leaves, playing like bloody trees to his face, and then when he
turned his back they scurried away like rats with their stolen
cheese.

Damn, but they were good.

Only, he intended to be better.

He and Baldwin were now appraising his land
to determine the best course of defense.

“
Well now!” Baldwin
exclaimed, sliding back down the flank of his steed after another
failed attempt to mount. “Do you see what I see, Lyon?” He shielded
his embarrassment behind a mask of interest and stepped away from
his horse in order to better see through the lush woodland
foliage.

Lyon had spied the approaching woman long
before Baldwin had turned his attention from his struggles, and her
presence did, in fact, engage him, but his concern for his friend
overrode his curiosity for an instant. “I do indeed,” he answered.
“But do you realize that these bare-arsed Scots would have easily
overtaken you just now?”

Baldwin’s ears turned red.

“
I’ve given you leave to
ride free of your armor,” Lyon said. “I think it best under the
circumstances. These Scots do not battle as we do; they fight free
of the restraints of armor. What good will your mail do you if your
movements are so sluggish that they’ve a blade to your throat long
before you can manage to mount your horse?”

Baldwin set his jaw stubbornly. “It took me
years to earn this armor, Lyon,” he said, facing Piers.

Lyon understood what the small defiance cost
him, for Baldwin was ever dutiful, ever faithful. He would badger
Lyon on occasion, as any longtime companion might, but when it came
to matters of war, he obeyed Lyon’s every word.

“
I shall practice
swiftness, but do not ask me to cast away my honors,” Baldwin
begged.

“
As you will
it.”

Baldwin smiled. “I shall exercise more,” he
swore. “You have my word.”

“
I’ve little doubt you
will.” Lyon offered a reluctant smile in return.

“
Thank you, Lyon.” With
that settled between them, he once again peered out through the
covert, watching the woman make her way toward them down the narrow
lane. “I wonder who she is,” he remarked as she came into clearer
view.

“
I’m certain I’ve no
idea,” Lyon answered, bending low over his mount to peer beneath
the overhanging limbs. With his height, he was afforded a clearer
view, but the forest was overgrown with vegetation. “She’s coming
from our direction, it seems.”

““
From our land, do you
mean?”

Lyon didn’t answer; his attention was
completely engaged now by the approaching woman.

His first impression of her was of willowy
limbs and shimmering hair: she was tall and thin, with a lithe,
slim form that swayed with feminine self-assurance as she walked.
And that hair—a wanton mass of coppery ringlets—ignited like the
biblical burning bush as she passed through a nimbus of light from
above.

And then she neared enough for him to see
her face, and his breath caught.

Christ, but she was an angel incarnate!

That face... it was a face he imagined
belonged to Helen of Troy... or to the Aphrodite of legend.

Her delicate features were nothing less than
perfection—her nose not tiny and upturned, like that of a child’s,
but straight and lovely.

And her eyes... He could not see their color
at this distance, but they were almond-shaped and exotic like those
of the Saracen women he’d encountered in his travels.

And her mouth... it was full and sensual...
A mouth that demanded to be kissed... A mouth formed by Eros
himself... made to be pleasured... and to pleasure in return.

It stirred the imagination, hardened his
loins.

Christ and be damned, as jaded as he’d
become, his body’s response to the woman surprised him—pleasantly,
as it had been much too long since something so simple as a glance
at beauty had roused his lust—a misfortune of his upbringing, no
doubt.

Growing up as the whore’s son had definitely
had its downfalls. It was a label that had found him feeding his
high-minded peers a mouthful of his fist more oft than not. And
yet, he’d certainly relished some of the inherent benefits,
shameless libertine that he was.

Like mother, like son, they’d claimed.

And so he was.

And he hadn’t had the right to take offense.
It was certainly true enough; he loved women, as his mother had
loved men. And there didn’t seem to be any point in denying the
obvious. At least he knew that much about himself. It was precisely
the reason he’d not pursued the life of a celibate, for while the
pursuit of knowledge and reason had been his mind’s greatest
desire, his body was innately weak to the pleasures of the
flesh.

And yet it had been a long time since he’d
taken simple pleasure in any woman.

That he lamented.

Though not as much as he regretted the
course his life had taken—resorting to brute force for gain. It
befouled his personal philosophy despite that it had been the way
of his life since the moment of his birth. He’d gained naught,
accomplished naught, save through the might of his arm.

That he’d clung to his erudite ideals so
long was a matter of stubborn pride. Though his conventions negated
his convictions, he still believed the mind was more powerful a
tool than the body—knowledge more effectual than mere brute
strength. His body might fail him, but his mind would see him
through. However, if the mind failed... well, then... what good was
a body of any sort?

Though—God’s truth—a body
such as the one
she
possessed was certainly rewarding no matter what the state of
her mind.

He took a deep breath, and cast a glance at
Baldwin to find that his friend and confidant was just as entranced
by the woman as he had been, and he frowned at the discovery. It
provoked him. Not immensely, but enough that he could not deny
it.

“
God’s teeth!” Baldwin
whistled low. “She’s exquisite!”

Lyon said nothing, merely watched the
woman’s approach with growing interest. It was only belatedly that
he realized she wasn’t precisely alone.

“
Lyon,” Baldwin began, his
attention to detail scarcely more timely than Lyon’s own, “she has
a lamb with her. What do you suppose she’s doing with a
lamb?”

Lyon’s frown deepened as he watched the
animal tangle its lead rope about the woman’s legs.

“
And she’s coming from our
direction,” Baldwin felt compelled to point out again.

Lyon reconsidered that particular fact as
woman and animal made their way toward them.

“
What do you suppose it
means?”

It was rather self-evident, Lyon
thought.

Then again, much that was apparent was also
misleading, especially in these parts.

The lamb lagged behind, and the woman slowed
to allow it to catch up. It meandered about to her other side,
tangling the lead rope further about her long, lean limbs.

She didn’t seem to notice.

“
And she’s talking to
herself,” Baldwin added. “Do you hear?”

“
Nay.” Lyon cast a
narrow-eyed glance down at Baldwin’s back. He refrained from
pointing out that he could scarcely even think over Baldwin’s
prattle. How could he possibly hear the wench?

“
Do you think she’s daft?”
Baldwin persisted.

It was certainly a possibility, but Lyon
hoped not. He hoped she was as quick-witted as she was beautiful.
Anything less would dull his interest, and he didn’t particularly
wish it to be dulled.

“
Baldwin,” Lyon
whispered.

Baldwin peered up at him, murmuring in
return, “What, Lyon?”