Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance Page 10

  “Poor wee thing,” she cooed, and lifted the creature upon the bed, commiserating with it.

  Weary as it was, it dropped down beside her, and she sat stroking its head while it grew still, listening to the sound of her voice. She’d always had a great love for animals—something she’d indubitably inherited from Fia. And having spent the entire day with this one, she was beginning to grow quite fond of the little beast. They seemed to have a natural affinity between them. In truth, strange as it seemed, she was even beginning to think of it as her Grammie Fia.

  She lay upon the bed, contemplating her prison as she stroked the animal’s newly sheared coat. It wasn’t a large room, nor was it precisely small. It was really quite unremarkable in every aspect, save for the gaping hole in the ceiling on the far side of the roof. It was growing dark; Meghan watched the gloaming sky fade to night before her eyes.

  She knew her brothers had begun to search for her by now. She also knew they would worry, and felt a stab of guilt for putting herself at risk to begin with. She should never have taken the shortcut through the woods.

  And Colin, she realized, would blame himself most of all because he’d been the one to let her go.

  Despite that Colin was the most indulgent of her brothers, he was quite protective of her still. He merely allowed her a little more freedom because he valued his own so very much. And yet, if it weren’t for the fact that she knew they were home fretting... or out searching and thinking the worst... in truth she might not be wholly regretful of her circumstances at all.

  Why was that, did she suppose?

  No matter that she told herself she was content to be alone, she was fiercely lonesome, and this union might at least give her children some day.

  “You know what?” she asked the wee lamb, now resting peacefully at her side. And seeing it so at ease in her presence made her feel a sense of achievement. “The Sassenach is right,” she continued, speaking low lest someone overhear her. “This might be the perfect solution, were I to wed that brute,” she reasoned. “What do you think?”

  She stared at the animal’s serene face and thought of Fia when she’d slept. It brought a smile to her lips. How many mornings had she gone tiptoeing into her grammie’s room, only to find her stretched out upon her bed, lying so still, looking as though she had passed in her sleep during the night. Meghan would approach Fia’s bed with wide-eyed apprehension and a valor that she’d hardly felt. She’d stand there, watching her grammie’s breast for some sign of life. But Fia always slept much too peacefully, and Meghan would wave a hand before her nostrils to feel the warm breath leave them in order to reassure herself. And then Fia would startle the life from her, coming awake abruptly.

  “Och,” she would complain. “Canna an auld woman rest in peace?”

  Meghan would gasp in fright and then sigh in relief, and then feel wracked with guilt over waking her dear grammie.

  The memory filled her with sorrow. Fia had been her sole companion, and Meghan had lived in fear of losing the one person who had truly understood her. Her mother had been too brokenhearted to think of anyone, ever.

  But Meghan didn’t fault her mother for that, because it had been so apparent by the look in her eyes that her grief had been real. After her father’s death, her mother’s pain had been so great that it had seemed easier for her not to feel at all. She had spent hours alone simply staring out from her window—and long nights weeping in her bed. Meghan knew that, somewhere in her heart, her mother had loved her as well, but her guilt and her pain had been too great for her to express it. Her father’s jealousy had carried him to his grave, and her mother had never forgiven herself for her wayward smiles. Nor did she ever forget Meghan’s da until the day she last closed her eyes. As for Megan’s brothers, they were all too involved with their own lives—Leith with his duties to the clan, Gavin with his God, and Colin with his women—to spend time enough with Meghan.

  After Fia died, Meghan felt as though she’d lost her mooring, for while Alison was as true a friend as any could have, Meghan was more a mother figure to her in so many ways; Alison had often shared her woes with Meghan, though Meghan never felt comfortable doing so in return. It had always seemed to be Meghan’s duty to be the strong one. And she’d felt so alone for so very long.

  She peered hard at the lamb’s face and wished with all her heart that she could live such a simple life... a silly thing to wish for... but she did.

  Oh, to be more plain, like Alison...

  Alison was lovely from within and it radiated without. Alison would someday find herself a man who would look past the flaws in her face and would love her for her beauteous soul.

  Meghan’s own face had always been a curse. Women rarely received her warmly because of it, and men only wanted to possess her for it.

  Now that Fia was gone... nobody seemed to care enough to know the heart within her silly body—not even her brothers. And Meghan had long since resolved herself to solitude. She’d learned from Fia’s example how to tend her own gardens behind the stone walls that sheltered her heart. And if she kept those walls strong, it was only because somewhere within she feared no one would like the imperfect soul behind the perfect face. She’d learned the importance of being content with herself and embracing even her flaws—particularly her flaws—as it was foolish to place her happiness into someone else’s hands.

  Och, but she knew it was foolish to hope for unconditional love.

  Aye... so this might well be the perfect solution after all... except that Piers Montgomerie was no different from the rest.

  Meghan was well aware of and none too pleased by the fact that peace between their clans was not his true motivation. Like all other men, Piers Montgomerie was driven by beauty. He wanted perfection, and little did he realize that Meghan was a fraud. Her face might be pleasing, but her soul was fraught with flaws. She was not sweet and well-tempered like Alison—nor was she patient and warmhearted.

  She was not perfect.

  Never had been.

  Never would be.

  Chapter 12

  It was the wee hours of the morn when the torches were once again returned to their sconces upon the walls.

  They had searched the woodlands, the meadows, the loch’s edge even, and still there was no sign of Meghan.

  Leith Mac Brodie slumped behind the table where MacLean’s daughter sat, waiting, with her head cradled wearily within her arms. Her lovely copper tresses pooled about her on the table. He resisted the urge to reach out and see for himself whether it was as soft as it appeared.

  She peered up when he sat, looking as frightened as a wee rabbit startled by a pack of wolves. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks stained with tears. His heart wrenched a little at the sight of her, and his conscience pricked him.

  They had yet to take her home, and he knew it would bear its own consequences come the morning, but it could scarce be helped. He could not spare a single man to see her safely to her father—could not spare them from the search for Meghan. And neither could he simply let her go, not as a matter of principle, and certainly not in light of Meghan’s disappearance.

  He averted his gaze, rubbing at his temples, unable to face the lass as yet, as he knew she was like to have considered the consequences of her having spent the night unchaperoned in his home.

  Troubles never ceased.

  “You did not find her?” Alison asked apprehensively, though hopefully, peering up at him, her eyes wide.

  Leith met her gaze, shook his head, and sighed. “Nay, lass. We didna.”

  “And you searched the meadow?”

  Leith nodded.

  “And the woodlands?”

  “Aye, lass,” he answered. “Colin and Gavin are still searching as we speak.”

  “Poor lads,” she said, her expression full of woe.

  Leith knew she must be thinking of Colin; he recognized that forlorn look upon her face. He couldn’t understand why Colin did not see the good in her. He couldn’t pe
rceive how his brother placed such weight upon the fickle face, and so little upon the heart. Alison MacLean was possessed of a beautiful heart and even lovelier soul. It was discernible in her eyes and in every expression that graced her sweet face.

  And that hair, the color of Meghan’s, it was her most remarkable feature. Even her eyes, crossed as they were, were much like Meggie’s... The two were not so dissimilar, he thought. As children they had looked naught alike, though it seemed to Leith that as they’d grown up together, the two had begun to resemble one another, like married couples in their auld years.

  He stared at her, thinking that a man could do much worse than to look into those bonny eyes before he closed his own to sleep at night.

  “Did you find the wee lamb, perchance?”

  He cocked his head at her. “Lamb?”

  “Aye,” she replied. “Do you not recall I told you I left a lamb for Meghan to find?”

  “Oh. Aye,” He straightened in his seat. “No sign of the lamb either,” he told her.

  Her brows knit. “None at all?”

  “None.”

  “It seems to me,” she said, thinking aloud, “that there should have been some sign of the animal—hoof marks perhaps—something to show the path it took away from the meadow. Don’t you think so?”

  “The ground is dry,” he pointed out.

  Alison nodded, frowning. It was only then, with that small defeat, that he recognized the dread in her expression. Her face grew wan. Her eyes met his, and they were so full of fear that Leith once again had the most incredible urge to hold her... to fold her under his arms like a mother bird did with her hatchlings.

  And it struck him then that she had yet to voice any concern for her own situation. He knew she had to have considered the consequences of her remaining unchaperoned in his home. How could she not have? With every moment that passed, she was compromised all the more. As it was, dawn was quickly approaching, and they had not even sent a messenger to her da, letting him know of her whereabouts. As much as he loathed the thought of doing so—weary as he was, concerned as he was for Meghan—he knew he had to rouse himself once more... for Alison’s sake.

  “I came to take you home,” he told her.

  She seemed to take in a fretful breath, but nodded bravely. “Verra well, then... I am ready to go.”

  Guilt pricked at him once more. “I’m sorry we did not take you sooner, lass.”

  “I understand why you didna,” she assured him, though it didn’t help to soothe his conscience. “I could not have expected you to do so.”

  Leith nodded, as he didn’t know what to say to her. She was right, of course; Meghan was his priority now, though he knew her da well enough to know that she was not going to be well-received.

  She seemed to understand what it was he could not say, for she told him then, “I came knowing it would be so, Leith Mac Brodie... Dinna fash yourself o’er it, please.”

  Compelled to speak his mind, Leith reached out and took her chin within his hand, lifting it so that her gaze would meet his own. “You’re a good lass, Alison. Dinna think otherwise. My imbecile brother does not deserve you.”

  She smiled softly, and the sight of it lifted him at once. But he wasn’t simply saying so to make her feel better. He believed it with all of his heart. Aye, MacLean’s daughter would make some man a fine, fine wife some day.

  “Come now,” he urged her, “let us go deliver you home.”

  * * *

  She didn’t come down for the evening meal, and Lyon thought it prudent to leave the girl be, as she needed time to think about his proposal. No matter that he’d threatened to force her hand, he would not, he knew. He might not need her compliance, but he wanted it nevertheless, as he was well aware that forcing her to wed would not bode well for peace between their clans.

  Nay, it was best to allow her some time to think.

  And it was just as well that she’d not appeared, for it had taken him long hours to compose his letters. He returned to them directly after supping, and only completed them once the hall had fallen to silence for the evening.

  His chamber was dark when he finally returned, and he stood in the doorway, allowing his vision to adjust to the blackness before entering.

  The only light that filtered within the room was that from the gaping hole in his ceiling. The shutters were nailed shut as they had been in peril of falling off when he’d moved into the manor a mere month before, and he’d thought it better, for now, to keep them closed rather than have them not at all. At least they were now secure.

  There was much work to be done, and so little time. His chamber had been left to repair last, as he had only so many men to spare, and the entire manor had been in disrepair when he’d acquired it. It made no difference to him, at any rate. He had slept in worse places than this—hard cold stone floors and bare ground.

  To him the bed was an indulgence.

  And the woman within it a mystery.

  Peering up at the yawning hole in his ceiling, he gauged the night sky. The stars were clear and the moon was high, but it was hardly bright enough to illuminate his way across the room.

  No matter, he knew his way well enough.

  Having accustomed himself enough to the darkness, he made his way unerringly across the creaking wooden floor, stopping when it seemed to sink beneath his feet midway across. He frowned, testing it, and then looked up again at the hole in the roof, shaking his head in disgust of the condition of the place. There was no telling how long the hole had been there, or for that matter, how much snow and rain had already dampened the floors.

  Sighing, he made his way to the small desk that occupied his bedside. Upon it he kept his most prized possessions: his personal treatises. Placing the quill and inkwell down upon the desk, he slumped within the chair, wishing now that he had carried up a candle to write by.

  Tonight was one of those nights he knew sleep would elude him... like a veiled lover whose face he craved but could not see.

  His gaze was drawn to the shadow stretched upon his bed.

  He tried to make her out, but could not. The room was entirely too dark, and his eyes too weary from staring so long at his scribblings. He’d had to word the letters just so. He knew how important it was to convey a precise message. And he was pleased with the outcome. He planned to dispatch the letters first thing come morn.

  David would feel thwarted, he knew, for he had his well-laid plans and liked to see them carried out exactly so, and yet Lyon also knew that his longtime friend and king was smart enough to adjust when the need arose.

  David hadn’t come so far as he had by being so inflexible.

  As the eighth son of Malcom Ceann Mor, David had, against great odds, come to Scotia’s throne. But neither had he come empty-handed, and that in itself had been a tour de force. He had, in essence, ruled most of southern Scotia already, Cumbria, and also Huntingdon and Northampton by virtue of his marriage. He was, in truth, one of England’s most powerful barons as well as Henry’s brother by law. And he hadn’t come so far so fast by making stupid decisions... or by turning his back upon his allies.

  The first thing David had done, in fact, upon his return to Scotia was to reward his friends—de Brus, FitzAlan, de Bailleul, de Comines, and Lyon among the many. Though Lyon was well aware that while David was sincere in his desire to reward those he favored, he’d also chosen his beneficiaries with a particular purpose in mind. It was his intent to bring the Highlanders under his yoke, and truthfully, if anyone was capable of doing so, David surely was the one. He had placed his friends shrewdly, understanding well their strengths as well as their faults. Lyon had been granted the most ungovernable bailiwick. And he knew precisely why.

  Nay, David would not oppose him.

  MacLean, on the other hand, could prove to be a problem. But Lyon didn’t think so. The greedy old lecher had only agreed to yield this wasted slice of land in the hopes of gaining favor with David. Ultimately, that was MacLean’s design, Lyon
realized, although he’d claimed it was the return of his land and an alliance with Lyon. Still, an alliance with Lyon was an alliance with David, and Lyon was betting that MacLean would not risk David’s disfavor to challenge him. All these things he’d pointed out to David in the letter, as well.

  As for the Brodies...

  Lyon sighed at the mere thought of them.

  He had understood long before he’d ever set foot upon this land that they, along with Iain MacKinnon, would be his greatest challenge—MacKinnon, by far, being his greatest concern. The Brodies, however, were certainly no small undertaking. They, like MacKinnon, comprised David’s staunchest opposition. Men like these were not easily won, as they had no susceptibility to bribery. They chose their alliances with their guts, and fought their battles with their hearts. They were not blinded by gold, nor were they seduced by power. They clung to freedom and the right to their own will. They fought for their kinsmen, and did not fear death in the pursuit of their cause.

  Simply put, Lyon respected them.

  Pesky Scots.

  They were men after his own heart, and yet Lyon, in his mind, had not the right even to lick their boots for he had compromised every value he had ever set for himself in the pursuit of personal gain. And if the truth be known, it had, like a sliver under one’s flesh, begun to fester within his heart. He did not like himself very well for the decisions he had made in his life. There was so much that he had aspired to, and yet he had pursued all that he abhorred instead. He sat back within the small chair and stared at the bed.

  She could give him something to fight for.

  She could give him a reason to change.

  But he had to win her first... and then convince her brothers.

  The mere thought of her filled him with something exhilarating... something compelling. She stirred his thoughts, aye... but more, so much more... she stirred his heart, as well. She was cunning and brave, and she spoke her mind freely, revealing the convictions of her heart.