Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance Page 12

  “I dinna care,” her father roared, slamming his fist yet again.

  Alison winced, but didn’t cower this time.

  “You had no business staying until the wee hours of the morn, daughter of mine. You should not have come home at all after that.”

  Alison straightened her shoulders, a little wounded by his implication. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Would you rather I had made my way home alone, Da? Even after what happened to Meghan?” Never in her life had she spoken so disrespectfully to her father, but she couldn’t seem to help herself just now. “Is that what you would have preferred?”

  Her question seemed to startle him as much as her angry outburst. He didn’t seem to know how to respond; he looked at Leith and then down at the table. “Did you not think I would worry?” he asked Alison after a moment’s silence. And his eyes were suspiciously moist when he met her gaze once more.

  Alison blinked at his unexpected response. “You were worried about me, Da?”

  His brows collided. “Aye,” he said bearishly and peered down at the table again, suddenly unable to face her.

  Alison felt like weeping at his admission. She wished so much for the nerve to embrace him, but didn’t dare move from where she sat.

  It was not her father’s way, she knew.

  “I didna mean to make you worry,” she told him. “I was only thinkin’ of Meghan, Da. I did not consider the consequences.”

  He shook his head. “You should have come to me first, lass. You should have come to me.” He continued to stare down at the table, scratching the wood with his ragged nails.

  “I was afeared to, Da.”

  His gaze flew up to meet hers. “Afeared? You were afeared... of me, Alison?”

  Alison swallowed, and nodded.

  His brows collided and his eyes grew moist once more. “How could you be afeared... of me, daughter?”

  “I—because—”

  Leith slammed his hand down upon the table suddenly, startling her. “Alison, you dinna have to say it,” he told her. “You dinna have to.”

  Her father glared at Leith, suddenly furious once more. “Aye, Mac Brodie. She does.”

  And for once, Alison had to agree with him. “My da is right, Leith.”

  Leith’s gaze sought hers, held hers, reassured her. “Are you certain, lass? I swear you dinna have to.”

  Alison nodded. “Aye, but I do, Leith Mac Brodie,” she said, “but I thank you for protecting me, anyhow.”

  He nodded, seeming to understand, and she turned to her father and said, “Da... I had to go to them, you see... because I had a confession to make.” Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. All of this was her fault and it was time to make amends.

  His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her. “Confession? What confession would you have to be makin’ to a Brodie, Alison? And why didn’t you come to me instead?”

  Alison lowered her head, unable to face her father, unable to speak for the shame.

  “You’re a good lass,” she heard Leith whisper at her side, and it gave her the strength she needed to lift her gaze once more to meet her father’s glare. “I stole the goat,” she blurted.

  Her father’s face contorted. “What wretched goat, Alison? What are you speakin’ of?”

  Alison took a deep breath and then proceeded to confess all. Everything, from her unrequited love for Colin Mac Brodie, to her stealing the goat that started the feud, to her reasons why, to her failed attempt at making amends and her desire not to wed Piers Montgomerie. All of it, every last degrading detail.

  Her father listened to the story quietly, his normally florid face turning the color of new parchment. He shook his head gravely when she finished, and said after a time, “Och, Alison... what have you done... what have you done?”

  “I followed my heart,” Alison said despairingly, wanting desperately for him to understand—not to condone, but simply to understand. “I followed my heart, Da. I didna wish to end like Mairi, you see.”

  He licked his lips and raked a hand over his thick jaw, then raised a hand to his breast, looking as though his heart were aching him. His eyes grew red-rimmed and welled with tears. Of all things she might have said to him, Alison knew this one made his heart bleed, for Mairi had been his favorite daughter, and he missed her so. She could never seem to measure up even to beautiful Mairi’s memory. And yet, knowing she would fail, she had never even tried.

  Her sister had wedded the MacKinnon against her will and on the night she had borne him a son, she had taken her own life, plunging from the highest tower window onto the rocks below. Her death had been a terrible blow.

  “Well,” Dougal began when he could speak once more, “you need not fear wedding Montgomerie, daughter of mine. I doubt he would have you now. All is lost,” he murmured. “I dinna know what to do, Alison. All is lost.”

  “I’ll wed her,” Leith announced.

  Alison lifted her gaze to his in shock. He couldn’t possibly wish to…

  “You?” her father asked, sounding as aghast as Alison felt. “Why should you wish to do such a thing, Leith Mac Brodie? I dinna mean to disparage my own daughter, but you only just heard her tell us that she loves your own brother. Why would you wed with her knowing that?”

  Leith held Alison’s gaze, assuring her without words that he meant every word he uttered. “Because I have great affection for Alison,” he said quietly.

  Alison’s heart began to pound as it became clear to her that he was perfectly serious. “You do?” she asked him, bewildered.

  “I always have.”

  He’d never once led her to believe he’d even noticed her. She had always thought he’d considered her naught more than Meggie’s little friend.

  “I... I did not realize,” Alison whispered in wonder.

  “Och, lass... because you only had eyes for Colin. But if you will have me as your husband, I would be pleased to have you as my wife.”

  Her father straightened within his seat. “Perhaps all is not lost as yet,” he proclaimed. And then he sobered at once, peering at Alison and shaking his head, seeming to temper his excitement for her sake. “Though if Alison will not have you, I cannot force her to wed where she will not,” he said, staggering her with his proclamation.

  Tears pricked at Alison’s eyes. She understood what he was doing, and it warmed her heart, filled her with joy.

  His gaze softened as he looked at her. “What say you, daughter of mine?”

  Alison turned to face Leith. Leith smiled at her, and she knew the right thing to do.

  “Aye,” she exclaimed. “I will wed with you, Leith Mac Brodie. If you truly want me—if you truly do...” She shook her head, scarcely able to believe that he would. “... it would be my honor to be your bride.”

  “I do, lass,” he assured, and her father leapt up from his chair with a whoop of delight.

  “Curse Montgomerie,” he proclaimed. “Curse David of Scotia, too. We’re going to have ourselves a wedding the likes of which these Highlands have never seen. But first things first,” he said, nodding at Leith respectfully. “Let us gather ourselves together and search for Meghan. And we’ll not stop until we’ve turned every last stone.”

  * * *

  Lyon awoke at his desk in the wee hours of the morn, and his eyes were at once drawn to the bed. She’d completely distracted him from his intentions to leave with her wicked wit and he’d fallen asleep in his little, uncomfortable chair, content beyond measure listening to her slumbering breath.

  Pale morning light filtered in through the hole in his ceiling, suffusing the room with a sweet glow. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t stir, didn’t dare wake her as yet.

  He wanted to watch her sleep.

  She looked more like an angel than any mortal had a right to…

  She slept like an infant, he thought, upon her belly, with her hands extended as though embracing the bed, like a wee bairn clutching its mother’s bosom, her palms open and caressing the sheets, her face
turned to one side and her long lashes pressed like ebony silk against her cheeks.

  He stared, unable to keep himself from it, watching her sleep so peacefully. In slumber, her features were perfection... her lips full and perfectly formed, her lashes long and soft against high exotic cheekbones, her nose perfectly aquiline, and her hair a luscious copper mass of shining ringlets spread over the pale sheets.

  He hadn’t dared to crawl in next to her... determined as he was to do this right. He could have seduced her, no doubt. The look in her eyes had assured him as much. Beneath that deliberate facade she wore, she hid a passion as fierce as his own.

  He recognized it, and craved it.

  The way she’d gazed at him when he’d sat here before her…

  The mere thought made his blood simmer and burn. In truth, he wanted Meghan Brodie like he’d never wanted any woman in his life... not even in his youth had he been so driven by a pretty face or a sharp tongue.

  And there was something more than her face that drew him... something he could not put his finger upon. A pretty face alone had little to recommend it, and he’d walked away from many a bed for lack of interest. Particularly so in the last few years.

  This time was different.

  Through the years, his desires had grown darker, and it had taken more and more to whet his appetite of late. He’d begun to think himself a little bit depraved that innocence no longer drew him as once it had. He remembered a time when a simple smile had been enough to make his heart thunder in his chest. And many had done so. He was a harlot’s son, after all, and it drew the sort of attention every lad craved from the moment he could turn a woman’s head.

  His first suitor had been an earl’s wife. She’d been two and twenty to his ten and eight. He hadn’t been able to walk away from her, though he’d understood the peril to his soul.

  His second had been a chambermaid who’d boasted to him that she’d loved his father as well.

  And the third... well, she’d been a sweet infatuation of his... a lass three years his senior whom he’d dreamed of kissing for weeks until he’d finally taken the chance. And then she’d gone away and married her baron, and her memory was only a smear now upon his memory.

  They were all a blur after that.

  And now... he remembered not the faces, so much, but the appetite that had enslaved his very soul. He’d been so long a prisoner to his desires, and nobody but him had known. He could never condemn his mother, for he understood her only too well.

  And then one day he simply hadn’t been interested any longer. The hunger that had consumed him body and soul had simply abated, and he’d found himself walking away from intent knowing glances that would have once set his heart to pounding and his blood to thrumming within his veins.

  Nay, it had been a long time since a pretty face alone had been enough to stir him.

  And though Meghan Brodie’s face was sheer perfection, it was the look in her eyes that tempted him and set his heart to pounding once more. She’d roused his hunger, and it had awakened hard as stone. He’d scarcely been able to think of anything else since the moment he’d first laid eyes upon her.

  She made him feel alive as he hadn’t felt in far too long.

  He wanted her, aye, but more than that... he wanted to know what thoughts stole through that engaging mind of hers. He wanted to know what stirred her heart and made her burn. There was something bewitching in those deep-green eyes... something compelling... something that drew him... something he wanted to know as intimately as one would a wife.

  He wanted to be her husband. He’d never been more sure.

  He lifted his head from his arms, watching the way she stirred.

  And then he spied the lamb shivering in the corner, and frowned. How could they have forgotten the wee beast?

  The poor animal probably needed to relieve itself—and was like to be half-starved, as well. He rose quietly from the desk, paused to take another long look at the woman lying so serenely within his bed, drinking in the sight of her... and then he set about taking her grandmother out to wee.

  Chapter 15

  Meghan awakened to find herself alone.

  Not even Fia remained to bid her good morn. She hoped Lyon had taken the poor little beast out to the meadow for a bit. She was certain it wasn’t in the animal’s best interest to keep it confined within a room all hours of the day. And yet it hadn’t seemed so distressed while she’d been alone with it. Still she felt a stab of guilt for having gone to sleep without concerning herself with its needs. She had been so weary. The day had taken its toll on her, mind and body.

  She’d lain awake for some time after their discourse, too aware of the man sitting there at the little desk. She’d lain with her eyes closed, wondering about the papers that held his attention—distracted him from her—until exhaustion had overcome her and she’d slept at last. But though she’d slept deeply, she didn’t feel particularly refreshed this morn.

  Nor did she feel especially benevolent toward Lyon Montgomerie.

  Her brow furrowed. She wasn’t certain why she felt so provoked by him, but she certainly was.

  She had dared to hope…

  What?

  That she might be wrong about him? That he might be different? That he might see her as something more than a pretty face?

  Meghan yearned so much to spill her heart... to someone... to reveal every dark part of herself and every flaw, to be unveiled in the light of day... and to still be loved despite her flaws.

  Piers Montgomerie, like all the rest, merely wanted a vessel.

  The problem was that her heart was riddled with fissures. And her soul was exploding behind it, bursting to be set free. If she let them... the bricks in the wall surrounding her heart would come tumbling down so easily.

  And if she revealed herself... and he were to be repelled by what he saw?

  She couldn’t take that chance.

  And still... if she managed to bring peace with this union, all was well that ended well.

  Right?

  Then, too, she would be saving Alison from a marriage she surely did not want. Alison was her best friend, and Alison wanted Colin, Meghan knew—desperately. If Meghan wedded Lyon Montgomerie, it would buy Alison time at least to win her brother’s fickle heart. Meghan was certain Colin could be content with Alison if he but gave her a chance. Alison might not be the fairest of women, but her heart was sweeter than honey and purer than gold.

  Still and all, Meghan couldn’t simply surrender herself so easily.

  Pride would scarcely allow it.

  She dared to want more.

  She might concede to this union for the sake of peace, but Piers Montgomerie was going to get more than he bargained for, she vowed. He was going to learn not to judge a soul by the mask it wore, of a certain.

  He wanted a face to wed, did he... Well... he could have the face, but not the heart.

  And Meghan was looking forward to teaching the rogue a lesson he’d never forget.

  Her gaze was drawn toward the desk... and curiosity seized her.

  She didn’t care if it might be wrong to pry. ’Twas certainly the least he deserved for so rudely locking her away within his room... and for leaving his mysterious papers out upon the desk.

  A little peek couldn’t possibly hurt anyone.

  She went resolutely to the desk and found two thick, leather-bound manuscripts sitting upon it. Turning over the first, she saw that it was untitled. Opening it revealed scribbled notations... pages and pages, all written in Latin to the best she could determine. Her brows knit as she tried to make out the words. She recognized a few, but she had never really learned Latin. Her mother had been familiar with the language of the church, but Fia had not. Only her brother Gavin knew the tongue well enough to read script. The best Meghan could make out, by perusing the headings of each notation, was that they were entries taken from the writings of others: Aristotle and Augustine, Boethius and Anselm, and many more... too many to name—all da
ted, she assumed, to the year they were written.

  Meghan’s curiosity was piqued... and yet, she could hardly sit down to read the texts when she could not understand them. Frowning, she dropped the first manuscript down upon the desk, and turned over the other.

  This one also was untitled. In the bottom right-hand corner was written... Piers Montgomerie.

  Lifting a brow in surprise, Meghan drew out the chair and sat down before the little desk. She turned to the first page.

  It was titled Spiritualitas vs. Carnalis.

  But the script was written in the English tongue and that she understood very well, for Alison’s mother had been an Englishwoman and had taught her daughter well. Alison, in turn, had taught Meghan.

  Much too engaged to walk away now, she laid the manuscript flat upon the desk and began to read…

  * * *

  Given that Lyon had only this morning dispatched his letters, David of Scotia was the last person he expected to find in his courtyard so soon.

  David arrived with a retinue of five, looking harassed as he dismounted before Lyon.

  “Tis a surprise. You must be foreknowing.”

  David’s answering scowl was a testament to his mood. “What are you speaking of?”

  Lyon arched a brow. “Only this morn I dispatched you a letter, and here you are.”

  “So I am,” David replied, his tone curt.

  Lyon slanted him a knowing glance. “What brings you to these parts?” he said. “Naught good, I suppose.”

  David shook his head ominously. “Naught good,” he agreed. “Misbegotten Highland rogues.”

  Lyon slapped a hand upon his shoulder, his expression sober. “Come, then,” he urged, “let us converse within.”

  And the two made their way toward the hall.

  “I’m afraid I bring distressing news,” David disclosed.

  “I gather as much.”

  “Lyon, old friend, I believe I’ve just made your charge here all the more complicated.”