Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (17 page)

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 another’s arms.

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

L
yon 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 had he done such a thing?

Had he fallen so far into iniquity?

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 was happening to him?

He’d spent the morning alone digging a grave for a lamb named Fia. And then had remained by the grave after burying the 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 when he neared Meghan. 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—wished he could see her face when first she’d set eyes upon them.

Would she be appalled?

Amused?

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.

She was lovely.

M
eghan 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 chest, 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.

“Have you changed your mind now after reading those pages?”

Meghan’s breath caught as he approached her.

She didn’t know how to answer. Certainly, she
should
be shocked by their content, but she wasn’t. And perhaps she should think him wicked, too, but she couldn’t—because if he were so wicked then so, too, was she, because his private thoughts made her feel... warm... and his presence now made her heady with anticipation.

She closed his manuscript before he could spy her scribblings, and guiltily pushed it aside.

He came to stand beside her.

Meghan’s heart thundered as he lifted up the manuscript and held it, inspecting the binding. He didn’t open it, merely stood there holding it, and she prayed he’d leave it closed. She wasn’t certain whether he’d be incensed by her boldness... or merely amused that she should think herself learned enough to add her own observations to his. He would read them soon enough, she was certain, but she was afraid it would be now, when her musing was as yet incomplete and her thoughts too scattered to form into comprehensive words.

“Answer me, Meghan.” He tossed down the manuscript and Meghan let out a sigh of relief.

“Nay.” She averted her gaze, staring at the bright-yellow flame as it danced atop the burning taper.

“Nay?”

She held her breath as he knelt beside the desk, and cast him a glance but didn’t dare look him full in the face.

How could she ever again when now she knew what he was thinking?

When she shared his thoughts?

She couldn’t forget his words... or his drawings... Couldn’t keep her heart from hammering as he stared so expectantly at her.

“Nay, you will not answer me?” he asked, his voice no more than a husky murmur. “Or nay, you do not think me wicked, Meghan?”

Meghan’s face heated. “Nay...” She turned to look at him then, and the intensity in his eyes seized her breath. “I—I d-do not... th-think you wicked,” she told him, and sucked in a breath.

He cast a glance at the arm she had cradled before her within her lap. “Does it pain you?”

Meghan nodded. “A bit,” she confessed. Though in truth, she’d not thought of it overmuch whilst she’d read through his manuscripts—nor whilst she’d sat writing at his desk. Her thoughts had been so immersed within the manuscripts that she’d forgotten her physical pain.

He produced the same small vial he had once before from his belt, and opened it. The sweet scent of herbs tickled her senses. “Give me your tongue, Meghan,” he urged her, and the silken sound of his voice sent a quiver down her spine.

Meghan stared at his mouth, recalling all the wicked things he had confessed. Och, she wasn’t ignorant in the ways of men and women, but the very notion sent gooseflesh rippling over her.

“Give me your tongue,” he demanded once more.

Meghan swallowed convulsively and did as he bade her. She hugged herself, cradling her injured arm, trying to still the trembling of her traitorous body as he moved the vial over her tongue, dripping medicine into her mouth. The liquid tickled her buds. Meghan blinked as he withdrew the vial. She swallowed, her eyes drawn once more, against her will, to the manuscript that sat upon the desk between them, its leather cover illuminated by the candle’s twisting, flickering light.

His command was softly spoken. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Meghan’s gaze returned to his face.

Their gazes locked, held.

She swallowed once more, no more capable of revealing her own thoughts than she could cease thinking of his.

“Have you been reading all afternoon?”

“Most,” she confessed, and her voice was soft and low, strange to her own ears.

Her confession thrilled Lyon.

The blood hummed through his veins. He wasn’t certain what he’d hoped to accomplish by having her read his manuscripts, but he was pleasantly surprised.

Relieved.

Intrigued…

By the look upon her face.

Was she not what he had supposed?

Why was it that she was as yet unwed?

All these thoughts and more poured through his mind. He wasn’t certain how the answers should make him feel, but one thing was certain, he didn’t care this instant—couldn’t care less if she’d been wooed by unknown men, because she had yet to be wooed by him. And, if he had his way, when he was done there would be naught of her soul left to his imagination. When he was finished, there would be no memory remaining of any other man’s hand in hers.

The taper’s flame began to fade as it burned down the wick, the only evidence of the passing of time, for the air grew still between them, the tension as delicious as anticipation should be. The room was left deep in shadows but for the almost nonexistent glow from the candle, and what muted light came from the hole in his ceiling. The flame was a soft illumination upon her lovely face, casting a buttery-yellow light upon her pallid cheeks. And the flicker of the flame was a glimmer in her eyes—eyes that were hardly wicked as his own must seem, but hardly innocent either.

He had to know...

How innocent?

His own heart fluttered at the mere scent of her flesh.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, his voice thick with hunger.

“M-my arm…”

He wanted to hear that she did not think him depraved.

He wanted to take her beautiful face into his hands... kiss her sweet mouth...

“I have something that will ease it...”

The candle flickered between them, making it appear her dark-green eyes widened a bit in fear, but it was a trick of the candlelight, he hoped, for in the next instant they were filled only with a curiosity he wanted more than life to satisfy.

“If you will trust me,” he added.

She seemed to understand that his meaning was deeper, because she hesitated before nodding. And yet she nodded and it sent his pulses leaping.

He reached down, holding her gaze, and separated her kirtle from her undergown. Watching her face, he gathered it within his fist and jerked it, renting a strip from it. She gasped, but her gaze never wavered. Lyon’s heart thundered within his chest. Not knowing his intent, she trusted him still, allowed him his will. He tore his gaze away long enough to examine the strip he’d rent, and then folded it and rose to his feet.

“Extend your arm a bit,” he bade her. “Just a bit... I know it hurts, Meghan.”

Once more she did as he asked her, and he slid the strip about her arm so that it cradled it comfortably and then he lifted it about her neck to secure it. He couldn’t help but wonder if she would be so compliant in his arms...

“Lift your beautiful hair for me,” he urged.

She did, gathering the strands with her good hand, and he slid his hands about her neck, reveling in the feel of her warm silken skin beneath his touch. He tied the sling at her nape.

H
is hands lingered
... his fingertips caressing lightly...

Meghan’s heart beat faster.

Swallowing, her breath quickening painfully, she released her hair so that it fell and covered his hands.

And still he did not remove them.

He wrapped his fingers about her nape, then, and slid his thumb beneath her jaw, gently turning her head up to look him full in the face.

“I said you were lovely, Meghan Brodie,” he whispered fiercely, “and so you are.”

Meghan gulped back the retort that came naturally to her lips. Heaven help her, she did like the way he looked at her.

No matter that she told herself she did not. Och, but her heart seemed to blossom when he gazed at her so. It made her feel... wanted... cherished...

And yet she needed so much more.

She wanted him to gaze at her and think her beautiful
within
as well. Because someday, someday... Meghan knew she’d no longer have beauty to fall back upon. Someday, as with Fia... she would lose her youthfulness and then they would all call her mad and view her as though she were some curiosity to be hidden away. Even her brothers had been guilty of it with Fia; they had felt nothing but shame for the woman who had raised them.

Aye, beauty was but a curse.

Her father had been driven to his own demise in obsession over beauty, and her grandfather had all but discarded her grandmother in pursuit of it once Fia’s own beauty had fled her.

Aye, Meghan was afraid to embrace his words, afraid to take pleasure in them, lest she end like her mother and grandmother before her.

Alone.

She wanted him to accept all of her. She wanted him to see that she was more than the sum of her parts. She wanted him to look into her eyes and know that there was a brain behind her silly face... and thoughts... and feelings.

She wanted him to hear her words and respect them.

She wanted him...

She wanted him to kiss her...

His fingers tangled within her hair. Goose-flesh erupted over her flesh yet again. Meghan held her breath as he looked down upon her, his eyes glittering with the reflected light of the dancing candle flame...

And with something else... something that truly was a little wicked...

Meghan averted her eyes to the desk, to the manuscript lying there.

“Look at me, Meghan,” he demanded.

Meghan did, and her heart skipped a beat. It was wholly impossible to look into his eyes and not imagine the women he’d wooed... the desire he made no effort to hide. A delicious shiver raced down her spine.

“Look me in the eye,” he commanded her, his voice naught more than a husky whisper, “and tell me, Meghan Brodie...”

The sound of her name upon his lips sent another quiver down her spine.

“Do you think me wicked now?”

Meghan blinked.

How to respond? She inhaled a shuddering breath.

Did she tell him aye, and accuse him, when she knew in her heart that she was as wicked as he?

Or did she deny it and let him think her wicked too?

She could not find her voice to speak. Her lips parted but no words came.

“Tell me, Meghan.”

“I—I dinna think... I don’t know,” she whispered.

“I think you do,” he murmured and bent, brushing his lips softly against her brow. She moaned softly at the sweetness of the gesture, tilting her head back, melting beneath his lips, and he moved lower, kissing the bridge of her nose. Meghan held her breath, closing her eyes, and he then kissed each of her lids. She ceased to breathe at all as the warmth of his mouth descended toward her lips.

But he didn’t kiss her. The scent of ale accosted her... ale and man... and something more...

“I d-don’t know,” she swore, and expelled a breathy sigh.