Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance Read online

  His gaze met hers once more, and Meghan recognized the regret in his deep-blue eyes. He didn’t have to ease her own burden of guilt, she knew, and yet he was attempting to do that. Meghan appreciated his efforts, though she knew full well that she had to accept much of the blame. She should never have used the lamb so selfishly. It had been cruel enough that she had forced it to remain locked within the room with her. She simply hadn’t considered the animal’s feelings and needs.

  She swallowed the knot in her throat and averted her gaze; the look upon his face was making her entirely uncomfortable.

  Och, he couldn’t possibly be so bad as his essays would have her believe. The man who gazed at her now with such compassion over the loss of an animal was certainly not the same man who had proclaimed himself able to shed blood so easily for the mere price of gold.

  “Well,” she said weakly, and it was the best concession she could make to the man who had stolen her against her will, and was now trying to steal her heart, “you could not possibly have known you would abduct me and lock me away in your chamber, now could you?”

  He smiled a little at that. “Of course I could,” he countered. “Did you not realize that all men are base and weak of will?” He winked at her. “I saw your face and simply could not resist.”

  Meghan had to quell the urge to roll her eyes at his proclamation. She tried to lift herself from the bed, and grimaced as pain shot through her arm.

  “Do not move,” he commanded her. “Rest, Meghan.”

  She seemed to have no choice in the matter.

  Meghan felt, after that small effort, so weak. Even had she wished to refuse him, she couldn’t have. She was too weary to fight.

  He produced a small vial from within his hand.

  “What is that?” she asked him.

  “Something for the pain.”

  A faint sheen of perspiration moistened her brow, and her body trembled still from the meager effort of trying to lift herself from the bed.

  “How long did I sleep?” she asked him. “It seems an eternity, and yet I would sleep again.”

  “’Tis the drogue,” he explained, lifting the vial as though to inspect its contents. He was quiet a moment, and then turned to study her.

  Under his scrutiny, Meghan felt a bit like a fly in a spider’s web.

  “Though your arm was not broken, Meghan,” he said, “it was displaced and had to be reset. It’ll plague you for some time, I think. But this—” He lifted the vial to show her. “—should ease it.”

  Meghan winced, and lifted her hand to her forehead, to the ache there. Her entire face felt bruised. Her cheeks hurt, and she had a headache, besides. Her entire body hurt, in truth. It was the least she deserved, she told herself.

  Dear grandmother would be sorely disappointed had she lived to see that Meghan had had so little regard for a wee creature’s life.

  “Your face remains unharmed,” he assured her, “all but for that wound upon your head.” He reached out then, parting her hair gently, inspecting the wound for himself, and Meghan flinched at his touch. “You’ll not be able to see it when it is healed, hidden as it is.”

  Meghan glowered at him. Why did his reassurances make her feel bitter, rather than relieved?

  “Pity,” she replied, before she could stop herself. “Were my face scarred, you would have little reason to keep me, now would you?”

  He withdrew his hand then. “Is that what you believe?”

  “Aye,” Meghan answered without doubt. “You said yourself it was my face that drew you.” And wanted to add that he’d kept her despite the possibility that she might be mad—so it wasn’t her mind that interested him, in any case. She had no doubt he would discard her if her face no longer appealed to him, but she didn’t say as much, because saying such a thing would imply that the notion disturbed her, and she certainly didn’t care whether she appealed to him or nay.

  At least he had the decency not to deny it.

  He merely stared at her without answer.

  Her gaze was drawn once more to the little desk, to his manuscripts lying there. His essays confused her. The man sitting before her now, tending her so gently, speaking to her so kindly, could not possibly be the same who wiped blood from his sword without remorse.

  She didn’t know what to think of him... what to feel.

  Lyon, equally bewildered, contemplated her accusation.

  He couldn’t deny it, though he wanted to. But neither was he so certain of it as truth. There was something about the woman lying within his bed... something other than the perfect face and body... something in her eyes that beckoned to him... challenged him.

  In truth, he was no longer certain that her face alone had motivated him to begin with... and yet... neither could he put his finger upon the attraction. He could scarcely claim he knew her mind and loved her for it. Nor could he profess to adore her heart, though he saw evidence of her goodness in the tears that stained her face over a mere beast of the fields—it didn’t matter whether last night she had thought the animal her grandmother or not; this morn he saw lucidity in her eyes—potion-induced or not—and he knew without doubt that she understood her true relation to the animal. And still she wept.

  He also knew he would administer the rest of the vial to her.

  The old witch had claimed she’d laced it with something for the pain, as well, and he could see the strain of Meghan’s injuries in her every expression, her every move.

  She was watching him, he realized, and seemed to be waiting for a response.

  He lifted his brows. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to deny it?” he asked her, and popped open the vial. “When I only admitted as much.”

  “Nay,” she returned, “we both know what it is you want of me.”

  “Do we?” She couldn’t possibly know what it was he wanted of her, as neither did he.

  But he wanted her, that much was certain.

  “I’m not stupid,” she told him.

  He cast her a glance. “Perhaps not,” he conceded. “Now, however, I want only your tongue.”

  “You’re just the same as every other mon,” she accused him then, narrowing her eyes. “Why do you want my tongue?”

  “Why else?” he asked, and smiled slightly. “I wish you to take your medicine, is all.”

  She was silent for a moment.

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “Depends,” he answered, “but I’m certain you’re going to tell me.”

  “I think you’re not so wicked as you like to think you are,” she informed him baldly, and thrust out her tongue to receive her dram of medicine.

  Lyon blinked, merely staring for an instant at the tender flesh she offered, imagining what it would be like to kiss her once, fully upon the mouth.

  His jaws tightened.

  “Nay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  He had to shake himself free from his thoughts in order to tip a few drops upon her waiting tongue.

  She swallowed, and he licked at his suddenly dry lips.

  “Nay,” she answered, and her gaze moved once more to his desk.

  Lyon couldn’t help but note the direction of her eyes.

  His manuscripts remained just as he’d left them, and yet... why did he feel she knew their contents?

  It was highly unlikely, as he didn’t know many men or women who could read or write their own names, much less read a manuscript of its nature. He was well aware that it was onerous reading at best, interspersed as it was with both Latin and French. One thing he could scarcely claim to be was an engaging scribe. Much of the text, in fact, was incomprehensible as there were pages and pages of fragmentary ruminations—left so on purpose, for much of its content would gain him little more than persecution—interspersed with unclear references to the second manuscript.

  His scribblings were naught more than the discourses of a man attempting to comprehend his own life’s purpose.

  What was it going to take to bring h
im peace?

  He hadn’t ever truly experienced contentment—satiation perhaps, but not contentment. And yet, though he’d never experienced the one, he understood the difference innately. It was a far, far different thing to satisfy the body than to satisfy the soul.

  His body had many times known the gratification of a daring caress...a lurid kiss, but his soul had always been left wanting.

  He watched her as she stared at his manuscripts, watched the expression upon her face...and knew.

  She’d read them.

  And yet... had she read them all... she couldn’t possibly make such a claim as the one she’d only just made to him—that he was not as wicked as he believed.

  He was wicked

  The evidence was manifested now within his chest. Even wounded as she was, the sight of her lying within his bed sent his heart through the roof.

  How far had she read into his manuscripts?

  Did she know his darkest desires... his fantasies?

  The notion that she might... that she knew... and yet would still claim such a thing made his heart pound fiercely.

  How far had she read?

  “I’m afraid I am as wicked as I think,” he told her, feeling compelled to warn her. He smiled softly then, feeling quite predatorial, despite that she lay helpless within his bed—or perhaps because she lay so helpless within his bed.

  That was the nature of the beast... the darkest side every good man fought to deny. But Lyon understood his beast all too well; it was not defeated by turning his back upon it. Nay, but you had to stare it in the eye, know it well in order to master it.

  “You see,” he reasoned, “you cannot possibly know how wicked I think I am, therefore you cannot begin to suppose whether I am, or not, so wicked as I think. I could think myself only slightly wicked,’ he told her. “In which case you are safe enough lying there in my bed. Or... I could think myself absolute evil... and you cannot possibly conceive which of the two is true. Can you now?”

  She sucked in a breath, instinctively understanding his challenge, causing her to wince, drawing his gaze once more upon her face. She swallowed.

  His gaze lingered.

  “I—I think I can,” she answered a little breathlessly.

  “Though you cannot be certain, Meghan.” He cast a glance at his papers, wanting her to know that he knew... needing to know how far she’d gone. “Do you read?” he asked her casually, though his look was anything but that.

  She followed his gaze to the desk. “A-aye,” she answered hesitantly. “I—I do.”

  “Do you?” His gaze returned to her face.

  Meghan’s breath snagged at the intensity within his deep-blue eyes.

  “Aye.”

  His eyes slitted, and her heart quickened its beat, tripping painfully.

  He knew.

  He knew she’d been reading his essays. Was he angry?

  She thought not... and yet... the look in his eyes was anything but harmless.

  “I think I need not ask how far you’ve read,” he said low, his voice softening to a mesmerizing note. “Because if you’d read far enough, Meghan Brodie, you would scarce claim any such thing to me... that I am not so wicked as I think. I am,” he advised her once more. “And you’d do well to remember it.”

  Meghan suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

  Her heart pounded like thunder in her ears.

  Though she knew instinctively he’d not harm her—he hadn’t as yet, though she’d given him ample cause—she sensed the truth in his threat. She would do well to remember. Somehow, she had forgotten the tales told of this man. She’d forgotten how he’d won this little piece of Scotia. She’d somehow, from the very first, forgotten to fear him, when she’d had every reason to.

  And yet...

  “You dinna frighten me,” she told him, though the hammering of her heart within her ears belied her bold claim.

  “I know,” he said, and smiled. He winked at her. “But let us see if you can say that still... after you have finished the manuscripts.”

  Meghan lifted her chin. “Do you give me permission to read them?”

  “Nay,” he answered, his eyes glittering with challenge.

  Meghan’s brows knit. “Nay?”

  “Nay, Meghan,” he countered, rising from the bed and making his way toward the desk.

  He lifted up the manuscripts and suspended them before her. “Rather I am daring you to read it.” And he tossed them upon the bed. “See if you can still look me in the eye afterward and say I am not so wicked as I think.”

  A knock sounded upon the door.

  Lyon abandoned the manuscripts to her to answer the door.

  Cameron stood there. “Baldwin says for you to come quick.”

  “What is it?”

  Cameron peered within the room, casting a pointed glance at Meghan, then nodded and said, “He says for you to come, is all.”

  “Judas,” Lyon said, understanding the unspoken message. He turned to Meghan. “Are you comfortable, Meghan?”

  She lifted a brow. “As comfortable as a wounded prisoner can be.”

  He grinned at her, seeming satisfied enough with her reply. “I shall be back directly then,” he said with a wink. “In the meantime, enjoy the read... if you dare.”

  And with that challenge, he left her to her curiosity and his manuscripts.

  Chapter 19

  “Tell him Leith Mac Brodie says we’re not leavin’ till we see our sister.”

  “Tell him yourself,” Lyon charged as he approached the armed gathering within his courtyard.

  His men parted, giving him room to enter the circle they’d formed about his mounted guests. He had to admire these Scots, riding in as they had, just the three of them against his greater numbers. These Highlanders were nothing if not fearless.

  “Meet the devil, Lyon Montgomerie,” the stockiest of them proclaimed. He charged his horse at Lyon, but his men moved forward at once, blocking him, and he jerked the reins back, bringing the horse to a protesting halt. “You have no right to take what does not belong to you.”

  “So says the man who now owns five of my goats and a blasted cow, as well.”

  “You started it, mon. You cannot thieve from us and not expect us to retaliate. And you cannot take our only sister in turn for a handful of goats and a milk cow.”

  “Who started this?” Lyon countered, unable to believe the gall of that single remark. It was his goat that had been discovered in their hands, not the other way around, as he recalled.

  “You did, Sassenach,” said the third Brodie.

  Lyon didn’t even feel the need to reply, ludicrous as it was. Accursed Scots. “You’ve short memories,” he said to no one in particular. “And who makes these rules?” he asked of Leith Mac Brodie. “Who dictates what eye is to be plucked for another?”

  “Honor makes them,” Leith Mac Brodie returned.

  “Whose honor?” Lyon contended.

  The two of them faced each other, neither relenting.

  “The fact is I caught your sister in the act of stealing from me,” Lyon told him. “I did no more than to arrest her.”

  “Liar,” shouted the bigger Brodie.

  Lyon turned to face him directly, his jaw taut with restrained anger. “No man has ever called me that and walked away with his arms still attached to his body.”

  The impudent Brodie returned his glare, undaunted, his hand going to his sword. Lyon watched his every move but didn’t respond save to raise his hand when his own men drew their own weapons.

  “Aye?” the other man replied. “Well, Colin Mac Brodie has now. My sister steals from no one—no one, do you hear me—not to save her own life. Speak that lie again, Sassenach, and you’ll rue every syllable to come from your mouth.”

  Lyon’s hand went reflexively to the sword at his belt. He flexed his hand upon the hilt, reminding himself that he was speaking to Meghan’s brother—reminding himself, too, that Colin Mac Brodie stood now for his sister’s
honor. He’d like to think he’d do the same were the situation reversed.

  “You can call me a blackguard,” Lyon told him as calmly as he was able, “because ‘tis the truth. And you can call me a thief if it please you, as I’ll not mince words, but do not ever again call me a liar, Colin, or I’ll slice your tongue from your mouth and feed it to you with my fist. Do you understand?”

  Colin’s eyes burned with fury. “If that was said to strike terror into my bones, Montgomerie, then you failed. Give us Meghan, or we’ll show you the meaning of terror.”

  “I’d have you remember where you are, Colin Mac Brodie,” Lyon apprised him. “Do not try my hospitality.”

  Colin spat viciously upon the ground. “Standin’ before a lyin’, thievin’ Sassenach,” he answered. “That’s where I am.”

  “Colin,” Leith Mac Brodie barked at his brother. “Cease.”

  Lyon nodded at Leith. “Wise man.” He turned to Colin. “You should heed your brother, whelp.”

  Colin launched into an explosion of expletives.

  “Aye, he should,” Leith Mac Brodie interjected. “But dinna mistake me. I will be leaving here with my sister, Montgomerie. You have no right to keep her.”

  Lyon said naught; he merely removed his hand from his sword and crossed his arms.

  “I will not go without her,” Leith asserted.

  “Aye,” Lyon countered, “you will, as your sister is in my custody by David of Scotia’s command.”

  “That Sassenach-lovin’ cur holds no sway in these parts,” Colin hissed.

  “Aye,” Lyon said, “he does, as he does with me.

  “Return Meghan to us,” Leith Mac Brodie persisted. “And we shall go and the bad blood be ended between us.”

  “Nay,” Lyon said, and uncrossed his arms. “I’ve decided that Meghan is the solution to our little dispute.”

  Leith Mac Brodie urged his mount forward suddenly and approached him. Their gazes locked, held. “Solution?” he asked, coming to a halt before Lyon, looking down upon him with narrowed eyes. “What is it you are proposing Sassenach?”