Lyon's Gift Page 11

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

  As the ninth 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 marriage. He was, in truth, one of England’s most powerful barons as well as Henry’s brother by marriage. 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 God’s bloody truth, if anyone was capable of doing that, David surely was. David had placed his friends shrewdly, understanding well their strengths and their faults. And 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. Though Lyon didn’t think so. The greedy old bugger 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 knew, though he’d claimed it was the return of his land and an alliance with Lyon. But an alliance with Lyon was an alliance with David, and Lyon was betting that MacLean would not risk David’s disfavor to challenge Lyon. 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.

  Nay, 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.

  Damn, but Lyon respected the hell out of them.

  Pain-in-the-arse Scots.

  They were men after his own heart, but Lyon, in his mind, had not the bloody 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, 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.

  Christ, but the mere thought of her filled him with something exhilarating... something compelling. She stirred his loins, aye... but more, so bloody 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.

  She made him yearn for more.

  She made him hunger for far more than those luscious lips that must taste like warm summer rain.

  Meghan.

  Her name was Meghan.

  He smiled, thinking about the tales Baldwin had returned with. He didn’t believe a one of them... She simply didn’t have that look in her eyes.

  Nay, Meghan Brodie was no more a madwoman than he was a bloody saint.

  He sat there, wondering whether he should spend the night in the chair, or whether he could trust himself to lie next to her upon his bed—God, but the mere thought of her lying there aroused him. The thought of her lying beside him pleased him in a deeper sense as well, and he decided that he damned well wasn’t sleeping in a bloody chair. He wasn’t a blushing lad who could not restrain himself. He was certainly capable of lying upon a bed with a woman and not making love to her. He was master of his desires, not the other way around, he told himself.

  That settled, he stood and lifted up his tunic, tossing it determinedly aside. He pried off his boots with his feet while he untied his braies.

  He slid them down and shrugged them off, leaving them where they lay, and then he crawled into the bed beside her.

  CHAPTER 13

  “What the hell!”

  Meghan awoke with a start to the most ungodly sound, like that of a frightened, shrieking beast.

  A shadow leapt from the bed and another leapt up and pranced wildly about her head, kicking her in the mouth.

  “Ack!” she cried, and shielded her face with her arms.

  If she remained here much longer, she was going to end up beaten to bloody death!

  “What the hell is that animal doing in my bed?” Lyon Montgomerie shouted from somewhere in the darkness of the room.

  It took Meghan a full moment to comprehend what must have happened, and then she couldn’t help herself, she burst into laughter.

  She heard him storm across the room and swing the door open. By the light of the open door, she saw the frightened lammie stumble from the bed to the floor. Montgomerie walked out, leaving only for an instant before entering the room once more, carrying a torch from a sconce in the hall. He stood there in the doorway looking as wrathful as some pagan god, and Meghan’s laughter faded abruptly.

  The sight of him took her breath away.

  Standing naked in the open doorway, the torchlight illuminating him fully, he was extraordinary—a feast for the senses. Meghan had certainly seen men nude before—she had three brothers, after all—but this body was magnificent beyond words.

  His hair flowed down his back, like the lion he was named for, gleaming gold by the flame of the torch. His chest was broad and glistened softly in the torchlight, and his legs were long and lean, his hips and loins... fully revealed to her eyes.

  Meghan couldn’t tear her gaze away.

  She blinked, mesmerized by the sight of him.

  Her gaze lifted to his face... to his eyes, to find that they gleamed with unholy satisfaction.

  God save her rotten soul, but she was just as guilty as he for the thoughts that flew through her head. She was no more immune to beauty than were all of those silly men who babbled like loons before her.

  And he seemed to know it—seemed to read her thoughts, for the look in his eyes was all too revealing.

  Would she have considered his proposal at all if he weren’t such a beautiful man? she wondered suddenly. She liked to think she would, but knew better.

  Och, but she was, indeed, a foolish lass who sighed over any handsome face, and the very prospect plagued her sorely.

  How could she be guilty of the very thing she most disdained?

  Their gazes held, locked, sparred.

  The expression upon her face was almost more than Lyon could bear.

  Women had gazed at him with that particular look of appreciation many times, but never had it given him such a fierce satisfaction as it did this instant. She was sitting upright upon the bed—his bed—her hair mussed and wild from sleep, her eyes fixed upon his face.

  She was lovely—God, but she was—and even the likelihood that she smelled like sheep was not enough to keep his blood from singing through his veins.

  If he’d doubted her attraction to him before, he certainly did not now. It was there in her eyes for him to see, raw and undisguised. He savored it, like a well-earned victory. Her gaze lowered, and he smiled fiercely. The mere implication of her thoughts tightened his loins.

 
“Care for a closer inspection?” he asked, feeling utterly wicked under her scrutiny.

  Her gaze flew up to meet his in surprise.

  “Och!” she replied. “Dinna think so!”

  “Think what?” he asked with false innocence. “What is it you would forbid me to think?”

  Shuttering her expression, she laid down upon the bed and assured him quite pertly, “You’ve little enough I’ve not seen before, Sassenach!”

  Smart-arsed wench.

  He had to commend her for her quick recovery. She was certainly no fainting miss, and he was inclined to believe her claim. What had she seen before him? And who? How many? “Is that so?” he asked, provoked by the mere thought.

  She turned over upon the bed and dragged a pillow beneath her cheek. “Of course.”

  “Then you’ll not mind if I remain unclad?”

  “Why should I?” she replied, sounding unconcerned. “’Tis your home, your chamber, and you can certainly do whatever you wish.”

  Could he now?

  He had to assure himself that no, he could not. Because what he wanted to do just now was to walk over to the bed, grasp her by the ankles, strip every last article of clothing from her body with his teeth, and make her his bride in truth.

  A slight smile curved his lips as he closed the door and started across the room.

  “Do not mind if I do, then,” he said as he rounded the bed, walking into her line of vision once more, forcing her to acknowledge him.

  To her credit, she merely peered up at him and raised her brows slightly when he stood by the bed directly before her. He placed the torch within the sconce above the desk, wholly aware of what lay exposed and where her field of vision lay. And then he sat upon the chair by the bed, casting her a glance to find that her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

  His lips curved with the knowledge that she wasn’t quite so unaffected after all. His smile deepened at the sight she presented—so like a little girl blocking her sight, as though to hide from him. Such a delightful contradiction she was.

  Her eyes remained closed while he arranged the items upon his desk. He pushed the inkwell aside, placed the quill beside it, and then opened one of his bound volumes, aware that she had yet to reopen her eyes. He could see her out of the comer of his eye, and her cheeks were adorably pink.

  “Are you certain this is not disturbing you?” he asked roguishly.

  Her eyes flew open. “Who? Me?”

  “You perchance see someone else within this chamber?” His gaze was drawn to the movement in the comer, to the wee cowering lamb, and he waited to see how she would respond.

  “Of course not!”

  Precisely what he suspected, and he was relieved to hear her say so.

  Scheming little wench.

  She flipped once more upon the bed. “As I said, this is your chamber; do what you will! However,” she amended almost at once, sounding startled as she spied the lamb and seemed to realize what she’d unknowingly confessed to him, “you should know you are distressing my grandmother!”

  Lyon pursed his lips, trying hard not to laugh.

  “You are only now recalling her presence?”

  “Of course not!”

  He tried not to sound amused, though his shoulders shook with mirth. “So I am distressing her... but not you?”

  “That’s right!” she replied at once. “You’ve driven her into the comer away from the sight of you, can’t you see. Mayhap you should dress, after all!”

  “I see,” Lyon said and chuckled softly.

  He decided to put her out of her misery once and for all and reached down to find his braies from the floor by the bed where he’d left them.

  “Tell your grandmother I am dressing,” he reassured her.

  “You tell her!” she countered. “She’s standing right before you, after all!”

  “I thought you said she was deaf?”

  “Uh... well... she is.” He could hear the grimace in her voice.

  “At any rate, I think she already knows,” he told her, “as she’s staring. And she doesn’t appear particularly offended to me.”

  “Well!” she snapped. “I can assure you she is!”

  He grinned as she stepped into his trap. “I thought you said your grandmother was blind?”

  She lapsed into silence a long moment—thinking, he knew, trying to remember her lies.

  “And yet she’s offended by the sight of me?”

  Silence was her response.

  He damned well wished he could see her face.

  She lay there stretched out upon his bed, and he had to remind himself that it was far too soon.

  Meghan chewed her lip, trying to think of a way to save her lie.

  She could hear the sounds of his dressing behind her and was grateful he was complying. She just couldn’t look at him and keep her wits about her, nor could she sleep knowing he was in the room with her. His presence alone was enough to unsettle her. His nakedness wholly discomposed her and scattered her thoughts.

  “W-well,” she stammered at long last, “you did crawl into the bed beside her, did you not?”

  “Good save, Meghan,” he commended her, like the rogue he was.

  She turned in shock at hearing her name upon his lips and demanded, “How did you know my name?”

  He was grinning down at her, one half of his face illuminated by the torchlight, the other remaining in shadow.

  He stood there, lacing his braies, looking down upon her, and Meghan shivered at the knavish look in his eyes. “Perhaps your grandmother revealed it?” He winked at her.

  Meghan frowned up at him. He was toying with her, she knew. He didn’t believe her charade any more than she believed his claim.

  And still she wasn’t about to confess!

  Not yet!

  Perhaps she could convince him as yet...

  “Did you speak with my brothers, perchance?” she asked him. “Are they worried?”

  “What?” he mocked her. “Do you not believe your grandmother Fia told me your name?”

  “Oh,” Meghan said, smiling up at him, “well, I would, of course... save that Fia has been here with me all along. How could she possibly have revealed anything to you at all?”

  “You have a point,” he allowed. “And so Fia was not the one.”

  Once he was through lacing his braies, he sat down behind his little desk—one very much like the one Gavin used to study his manuscripts—and Meghan dared to stare at him in profile. She could scarcely help herself.

  Och, but he was a beautiful man.

  She stared at his lips, unable to keep herself from wondering how they might feel upon her own.

  “I did not speak with your brothers,” he said, relenting. “But ’tis not as though your name not known in these parts, Meghan Brodie.” He cast a glance at her, lifting a brow. “In fact, it seems your reputation precedes you.”

  “My what!” Meghan narrowed her eyes at him. “Just what is it you’re implying, Sassenach? What do you mean, my reputation?”

  “Naught at all.” He winked at her once more, then returned to perusing his blasted papers, vexing her with his evasiveness. Och, but he couldn’t leave it at that! He couldn’t simply tell her she had a reputation and then not explain what he meant!

  “What sort of reputation?”

  He turned the pages of his manuscript, seeming wholly engaged with the volume, and Meghan wondered if he was ignoring her on purpose.

  Wretch.

  At the very least he was prolonging her distress.

  “Only that I was warned that Brodie women are all mad, and that their mates all end up dead.”

  “Me?” Meghan gasped in surprise, lifting her head up from the pillow. “I am mad?” It was one thing for her to say it, and another entirely for it to be said of her. “They think I am mad, as well?”

  He turned to her and winked again. The bloody misbegotten wretch!

  “Who would say such a thing?” Meghan demanded.

>   She wasn’t witless; she knew her mother and grandmother had oft been fodder for gossip, but she’d never imagined they would think such a thing of her as well! The prospect disheartened her at the very least.

  Good lord, what had she ever done that anyone should think her mad?

  Then again, what had her mother and grandmother ever done? Her mother had grieved over a dead husband a little too devoutly, and, well, they’d simply never understood her grandmother!

  “How dare they say such a thing!” Meghan exclaimed, and despite the fact that she wouldn’t have to try so hard to convince Lyon she was mad if he believed the rumors, her feelings were hurt. “Well! It does not seem to keep them away!” she said, and knew she sounded petulant.

  He frowned at her. “Keep who away?”

  She glared at him. “Men! Silly creatures—singing odes to bloody faces and slobbering all over themselves at the mere mention of breasts!”

  He lifted a brow. “And when do you mention breasts?”

  “Och!” Meghan exclaimed. “I have no need to talk about breasts when I have my own!”

  He lifted his fingers to his lips and Meghan knew he was trying not to laugh. Well, she didn’t particularly find this amusing!

  “Well, maybe they’ve a death wish?” he suggested. “The rumormongers swear all men married to Brodie women end up with cocked toes.”

  “What silliness!” Meghan replied. She studied him, searching his face for his thoughts. She couldn’t read them.

  What did he want from her? “And what of you?” she asked baldly.

  “What of me, Meghan?”

  Meghan wished he would stop saying her name so; the mere sound of it upon his lips sent quivers down her spine.

  “Have you a death wish, too, Sassenach?”

  “Not particularly,” he answered, “though I vow I would die a happy man after a single night in your arms, Meghan.”

  Meghan’s heart jolted.

  Their gazes held.

  Something stirred deep within her at his words… over the way he looked at her.