Lyon's Gift Page 15

  Lyon’s heart jumped, and like an aftershock. Startled murmurs filtered through the room.

  “Meghan!” he shouted, blood rushing to his head. “Get yourself down here now!”

  “No!” she replied flippantly. “I will not!” And she surged forward to hug the brace, and continued to sing. “The running streams shall be my drink, Acorns be my food! Nothing may do me good, but when of your beauty I do think!” She paused. “Isn’t that silly!” she declared suddenly. “To think a body would pine so for beauty alone!” She cast Lyon a pointed glance.

  No one spoke a word, merely stared up at their demented guest. Lyon understood her barb was meant for him.

  “My grandmother used to sing it to me,” she revealed to one and all.

  “Meghan—” He asked her nicely this time. “—please come down.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because...” He glanced at his men, annoyed by their presence now. “Because I do not wish you to fall!”

  “Why?” she persisted, staring down at him, and he had the distinct impression she was trying to embarrass him.

  Bloody rotten wench.

  Lyon had to crane his head to see her. “Because...”

  “Never mind! I know why!” she announced suddenly.

  He knew better than to ask what conclusion she had come to.

  Damn, but she was showing much too much of those gorgeous legs of hers.

  “Want to know why?” she asked when he would not respond.

  “No,” he answered resolutely. “I want you to come down from there, Meghan. Now!”

  She adjusted her skirts, revealing far more of her luscious limbs than pleased Lyon. “Because you dinna wish for everyone to see my bum!” she answered despite his refusal.

  Snickers echoed through the hall, but were quashed at once by the glare Lyon cast them.

  “Meghan!” he thundered.

  She merely giggled.

  His patience ended, he started up the stairs after her. “You will come down if I have to drag you down!”

  “Oh!” she replied flippantly. “That will be fun!”

  The hall erupted again with giggles.

  Impudent wench.

  “No, it will not be,” he apprised her, “and neither will you think so when we have both cracked our skulls upon the ground!”

  Meghan watched him climb the stairs and then come to the rail’s edge, scowling at her all the while. She lifted herself up, and the room below seemed to sway below her. She frowned back at him.

  Och, but she did wish to come down now.

  Despite her outward calm, she was quite uneasy at this great height. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. She was sorely disappointed that King David had not been present to witness her stunt. It seemed she had bestirred herself for naught.

  “Where is David?” she asked Lyon when he thrust out his arms for her, demanding once more without words that she get down.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Busy,” he assured her. “I’m afraid he will not be attending your performance.”

  Meghan scowled at him, vexed that he should guess at her reason for asking. She knew by the expression upon his face that he had. She peered down at the hall below, at the faces that stared up at her. Och, but sitting up here so high above them all was the epitome of how she felt—alone and under everyone’s scrutiny.

  “Come down, Meghan!” Lyon demanded of her.

  Meghan leaned to hug the beam suddenly, pouting, and said honestly, “No! I miss my Minnie!”

  He seemed uncertain how to respond to that, and Meghan’s eyes watered. She missed Fia terribly, and feared that never again would she feel the closeness she had shared with her grandmother—that unconditional acceptance that came with pure love.

  “Damn,” he said, and frowned. “Don’t you go and weep, Meghan.”

  His arms were reaching out for her, beckoning, promising warmth, and Meghan’s resolve wilted.

  “I promise to get her for you, if you’ll only come down,” he coaxed her, his expression full of concern.

  He didn’t understand, Meghan knew, and yet she recognized the small victory in his concession.

  Maybe she would, in fact, convince him that she was mad after all.

  Blinking tears away, she forced a smile, and allowed him to help her down from the beam, uncertain what, if anything, she had accomplished with her silly stunt—except to make herself feel lonely.

  Except to make her yearn.

  Bloody hell.

  She would be stronger next time, she vowed.

  She’d had them all thinking she was raving mad—she could tell by the looks upon their faces as they’d stared up at her—and then she’d had to go and spoil it all by listening to reason!

  This time she was determined to carry her scheme through. Deciding that Fia didn’t look enough the part of an old woman, Meghan tore herself a piece of Lyon’s sheets and formed it into a scarf to tie about the lamb’s head. That done, she surveyed her handiwork. She hoped her grandmother would forgive her for it, but it couldn’t be helped. Now she looked more like Fia.

  And this, after all, was war between her and Lyon!

  “You look verra lovely,” she told the lamb, quite pleased with her handiwork. She gave the beast a quick pat to its head and smiled down upon it.

  Strange, but she was growing quite fond of the wee animal. In a peculiar way it was almost as though she had acquired a new friend. She was only sorry she was forced to handle it so rudely. Her grandmother would have given her a tongue-lashing for it, she knew, as Fia had fancied herself a guardian to all creatures great and small.

  She apologized to the wee lammie, for her grandmother’s sake, and when she was satisfied that both she and Fia were prepared to face their prospective audience, she urged the lamb out of the chamber door. Once out, she lifted it up to bear it down the narrow stairwell and hoped with all her might that they were all at the noonday meal because she wanted to make the greatest impact with her entrance.

  She wanted to shame Lyon Montgomerie into doing the honorable thing—or at the very least embarrass him until even his bloody toes turned red!

  If truly he yearned for peace he could ask her brothers for her hand in matrimony, and let her decide yea or nay for herself—instead of abducting her like some barbarian and then resorting to wile to lure her into this devil’s bargain!

  She frowned behind the little lamb as she made her way down the stairs. God’s truth, she might have bargained with the devil, in truth, but she was determined to save her soul!

  Trying not to trip as she bore the lamb down the final steps, she entered the hall and was well satisfied to find that conversation came to an abrupt halt as she entered. Peering over the fidgeting lamb, she spied the confederates together at table and made her way purposefully toward them.

  Lyon had spotted her already, she was pleased to see, though David was in the middle of his discourse and didn’t appear to notice. Until she placed the lamb before them upon the table.

  “Good evening,” she bade them. “We’ve come to join you at table.”

  She smiled at David as he turned to peer at her with a bemused expression that nearly made her laugh aloud.

  “We?”

  Meghan smiled sweetly and nodded. “Of course.”

  David eyed the lamb warily. “I usually prefer my mutton well done,” he told her with lifted brows.

  “Och! Mutton!” Meghan exclaimed, sounding perfectly affronted at his declaration. “This is not mutton!” she informed him brashly. “This is Fia!”

  She saw that Lyon rolled his eyes, and tried not to appear pleased by his reaction.

  David turned a questioning glance to Lyon.

  “Humor her,” Lyon urged his liege.

  David turned once more to face her. “Fia?” he dared to ask. “What is a fia, might I ask?”

  Meghan sighed in exasperation. “Why, yes, Fia is my grandmother, of course! Have you no eyes with which to see, s
ir?”

  The lamb began to bleat as it trampled a dish near David’s trencher. David slid his chair backward across the dais in alarm. He stared at the creature, aghast. “This lamb is your grandmother?” he said, repeating her outrageous claim as though he could not believe his ears.

  “Och! Not you too!” she complained and rolled her eyes. Her hands flew to her hips. “What did he tell ye?” she demanded, casting Lyon a vexed glance. “I don’t know why he should think her a bluidy lamb!”

  “Perhaps,” Lyon interjected, his tone mordant, “because she is a bloody lamb.” He was frowning at her now.

  So let him frown! Meghan resolved. She hoped he was humiliated.

  She glared at him in turn. “I told you, Sassenach! This is no lamb! This is my dear sweet grandmother! And you have insulted her quite enough!”

  She turned to David once more, narrowing her eyes at him. “That brute you would have me wed,” she informed him pettishly, “is a verra poor host, I should tell you. Why he tossed my grandmother out in the meadow yesterday morn!”

  She stared at David expectantly, as though anticipating he should do something about her complaint. “Have you naught to say about that?” she demanded when he did not respond, and tried not to laugh at the harassed expression he wore.

  “Lyon?” David said warily, turning to face Lyon again, clearly taken aback by her behavior.

  Meghan lifted her chin as she too turned to face Lyon Montgomerie, tilting a victorious look at him.

  She was either a very shrewd actress, Lyon decided, or she was deadly in earnest.

  He could no longer bloody well tell, and he frowned.

  Christ, but the damned beast was dressed in a bloody wimple! And he didn’t care to look so closely at what she’d formed it of, because the cloth looked entirely too familiar, and he hadn’t as yet had the opportunity to procure more.

  David turned to glare at the bleating lamb. “Let me get this aright,” he said, addressing Meghan once more. “This lamb, you claim, is your grandmother?”

  Meghan nodded, lifting her chin—the bloody wicked wench! “Of course!” she persisted.

  Lyon tried not to laugh at the blatant challenge flashing in her green eyes as she met David’s gaze once more.

  “I see,” David remarked calmly, turning again to Lyon. He lifted his brows. “Lyon, you would wed this woman?”

  Lyon was uncertain how to respond: while he did not wish to impugn her before David, neither did he enjoy being made the bloody fool.

  “Where might we sit to eat?” she persisted, seeming entirely too pleased over the havoc she’d wreaked. “Or did you plan on starvin’ us as well?”

  “Meghan,” Lyon said softly in warning, through now playing games.

  “You said you would make us both welcome!” she reminded him pertly. “And so far you’ve not! Are you a liar as well as a thief?”

  Lyon eyed the bleating lamb in growing frustration. He cast a glance at David, who was staring now, quite displeased, and for the first time in his life, his face burned with chagrin.

  “Meghan,” he warned, clenching his jaw.

  If she was serious, he determined, then she was truly mad... and if she was not, then she was undermining him before his friend and his liege. Feeling obliged to take the situation in hand, to save his food if not his face, he stood and lifted the noisy beast from his table, placing it at his feet.

  “My pardon if it offends you, Meghan, but your grandmother is not welcome at my table.”

  “How dare you!” she exclaimed, and sank to her knees at once, unfazed by his growing ire. Lyon peered down in trepidation to find that she was crawling beneath the table to reach the wee lamb, shoving at David’s knee. “Get out of my way!” she demanded.

  Bloody hell, but she was mad!

  She was a goddamned beautiful lunatic!

  “What the devil is she doing, Lyon?”

  “There, there! Poor Fia!” she cried out, and then peered up accusingly at Lyon from under the table. “How dare you!” she declared once more, crawling out from under the table at last. “You will not win me like that!” she swore, and having said that, she stood, brushed herself off, and quite rudely reached between him and David, seizing a loaf of bread from the table. “If Fia is not welcome, then I am not welcome!” she proclaimed, and reached down to snatch up the lamb into her arms, as well. “Hmmph!” she said, and gave them her back. And without a by your leave she left them, hurrying toward the stairs, with her grandmother and his food in tow.

  David stared after her, bemused. “What the hell was that?”

  Lyon sat staring after her as well. Crazy-as-the-devil wench. “Naught more than stubborn Scot pride, I think,” he answered, and his brows drew together as he watched her stomp her way up the stairs to his chamber. His face contorted. “I hope.” And then, “Pardon the interruption... what were you saying?”

  “Never mind!” David declared. “I’ve changed my mind! I should think twice were I you, Lyon! That woman might be beautiful, but she’s daft besides! You’d be better suited to wed Alison MacLean!”

  Lyon wasn’t willing to concede. “I respectfully disagree,” he said. “And I’ve already made clear my reasons why. Aside from that, Alison MacLean is entirely too—”

  “Sane!” David interjected. “What the devil has come over you, Lyon?”

  Meghan Brodie.

  Meghan Brodie had come over him.

  A stubborn-as-the-devil miss with flashing green eyes and a temper as fierce as the Highlands that had bred her.

  He frowned. “How the hell should I know?”

  The slam of his chamber door reverberated throughout the hall. Lyon could hear her stomping across his room, bearing the weight of the lamb within her arms.

  “As a friend, not your liege...” David began.

  The floorboards creaked ominously. Lyon peered up, making a mental note to fix them soon. He could hear her muffled ravings and her subsequent tantrum, designed specifically for his ears, he was well aware.

  She continued to stomp, punctuating her every rant with another stomp, bringing an unwilling smile to his lips... until he heard the first crack...

  David continued ominously. “... I beg you, think with your head and not—”

  It happened so fast, Lyon hadn’t time to react. “Meghan!” he shouted.

  The floorboards gave even as he surged from his chair.

  She came crashing down through the ceiling.

  David leapt up and out of the way barely in time.

  The little lamb gave an unholy shriek as it followed her down.

  Meghan landed with a crash, smashing trenchers and cracking her forehead upon David’s tankard.

  The lamb landed upon the floor with a sickening thud.

  Meghan murmured, “I—I decided to j-join you a-after a-all.” And she closed her eyes as her head landed in a plate full of mutton.

  For an instant, Lyon was too stunned to move.

  The hall fell into a stupor.

  David stood beside him, staggered.

  She lay before him much too still.

  He turned to David. “Find me a physician!” he snapped, dispensing with formalities for Meghan’s sake, and reached out to scoop her at once into his arms, his heart pounding with fear.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Lyon bore her up the stairs, barking orders to his men: one to bring water, another to bring rags.

  She was bleeding somewhere on her beautiful face, but it was too soiled with food and blood for him to tell precisely where she was injured.

  He kicked open his door with an urgency born of fear.

  She began to murmur unintelligibly within his arms. “Fia,” she whimpered.

  His heart twisted a little. He carried her to his bed and laid her gently down upon it. What was he going to say to her? How could he tell her? “Shhh,” he urged her.

  She opened her eyes, and stared up at him with a dazed expression upon her face. “W-where is Fia?” she persisted.
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  “Sleeping,” he lied, and winced as a vision of the animal’s twisted form flashed through his head.

  She closed her eyes. “Not dead...”

  “Shhh...”

  “Sleeping,” she murmured. “Dinna mean to wake her,” she whispered, drifting off once yet again.

  David came into the room as she lost consciousness, his concern evident in his eyes. “They say there is only a midwife to be found,” he said. “ ‘Tis the best we could do. I sent one of your men to fetch her. How does she fare, Lyon?”

  “She spoke,” Lyon said gravely, peering up at his longtime friend. “She asked after the lamb.”

  David shook his head. “Poor creature,” he said low. “I ordered the carcass lifted.”

  Lyon nodded, and then muttered an oath beneath his breath. “Where is the water to wash her, damn it! I can see naught for all the blood!”

  David placed a hand upon his shoulder.

  “I should have fixed those floorboards!” Lyon said in self-reproach. “I should have bloody well fixed them!”

  “You could not have foreseen this.”

  “Nay! I saw their condition days ago,” Lyon confessed. “I should have fixed them!” He shook his head in self-disgust. “I should have fixed them!”

  “And I should never have interfered in MacKinnon’s affairs,” David countered, much too calmly for Lyon’s state of mind. He could scarcely think, yet alone reason, and David would speak to him of politic matters?

  David’s voice was drowned in a torrent of his own thoughts. Where was she cut? Was she hurt elsewhere besides? And what was he going to tell her about her poor lamb?

  Christ, she was bleeding too much!

  “I should not have taken his son,” David continued, his voice grating upon Lyon’s nerves. He couldn’t think. “Because of me Lagan MacKinnon lies dead. I should not have interfered in the MacKinnon’s affairs, and because I did, your task is made all the more difficult.”

  At the moment, Lyon didn’t bloody well care!

  “And my goal lies all the more distant,” David added as well.