Lyon's Gift Page 20

  “Aye,” he whispered, his voice low and husky with a desire he didn’t attempt to conceal. “I’ll not deny it. I do,” he confessed, and fell to his knees before her.

  “I want your body, Meghan,” he whispered. “I wish to know you...” He spread her legs, settling himself before her, and Meghan’s heart thundered within her breast as he shoved up her skirts and cast her a last hungry glance before leaning forward to blow out the taper.

  Under cover of darkness, he moved in to kiss her where no man had ever laid his eyes upon her before.

  “I want to know the taste of you upon my tongue,” he whispered, “upon my lips…” And he moaned as the warmth of his mouth opened over her most private place.

  Meghan gasped, and her head lolled backward, enveloped by a sweet heady pleasure unlike any she had ever experienced before. Wrapped within a cocoon of pure sensation, she fell backward against the wall, crying out... not in protest, or in pain, but in utter surrender.

  His heart hammering, Lyon closed his eyes and concentrated not on the burn of his loins, but the taste of her upon his tongue.

  This time it was not for him, he told himself.

  As much as he craved the taste of her... as much satisfaction as he received in the pleasuring... for once, it was not a means to an end, his end, but an act of giving. He wanted to give her this with all his heart.

  He could see in her eyes that she was not completely lucid, and he didn’t simply desire her surrender... he wanted the gift of her heart along with that of her body.

  Nay, this time it would be different.

  Because she was different.

  Deep in his soul, he sensed that in her arms he would find all his answers—all the revelations he sought were hidden behind the mirror of her gaze.

  He craved them madly.

  Answers.

  Closing his eyes, he adored her with his mouth... his lips... his tongue... wanting to please her... needing to please her. She fell backward, whimpering with pleasure, and the sweet sound of it sent desire clawing through his loins. His body hardened, pulsed with need, but he ignored it, seizing her good hand into his own, and anchoring it about his neck. Sheer and utter exultation filled him as she responded by thrusting her fingers through his hair, clutching him in ecstasy.

  Aye, he was well aware she was drugged... that she might not have allowed him so much liberty otherwise, but he’d never confessed to moral restraint. He’d never intended mercy in his pursuit, nor did he play fairly.

  He played as he fought as he loved...

  To win.

  Only this time, the prize was hers to receive.

  Not his.

  He wanted to hear her cry of release... wanted to feel her tremble sweetly against his lips... taste her honey... wanted her to cry out his name.

  And then when at last she slept...

  When at last she dreamt...

  When she awoke in the morn...

  He wanted her to remember every instant of pleasure he’d given her.

  He wanted her to think of naught else but him every waking hour of the day—as he did with her.

  She was in his blood.

  He was obsessed.

  He wanted to look upon her beautiful face and see her flush of desire. And he wanted her to look him in the eyes and beg for more.

  He worked feverishly, denying his own need, his heart pounding and his blood thrumming through his veins as he worshipped her body with every lap and every suckle. She wrapped her thighs about his neck in utter abandon, and he felt a fierce satisfaction in her pleasure.

  When she cried out at last, embracing his head as though she were clinging to him for her very life, he felt joy as he’d never experienced in his own completion.

  Closing his eyes, inhaling the sweet feminine scent of her, Lyon kissed her and then each of her thighs in turn. He kissed her belly then and lifted his head to her breast, listening to the thundering beat of her heart.

  Who would have thought after all this time without a bloody woman... he would find such perverse pleasure in his own denial. Christ, but he did!

  He held her, taking thorough gratification in every throbbing pulse of his own unfulfilled desire.

  Aye, this time was different, he assured himself, and he didn’t give a damn if she was mad or not—if she was bloody mad, let him be mad with her—he wanted Meghan Brodie for the rest of his life.

  CHAPTER 21

  Bless you, Cameron!” Alison MacLean said, and bent to kiss the old man upon the cheek. “Thank you again for coming to fetch me when Meghan fell. And bless your true Scots heart for doing this for me now!”

  The old man blushed fiercely, his face mottling with color. “’Twas naught,” he replied. “Dinna thank me, lass, as I didna want the bastard mon upon my birth land, anyhow, and I dinna appreciate the way he takes what he wills—arrogant Sassenach!”

  “I know!” Alison agreed. “But I could not do this without you, Cameron, so I can thank you if I please!”

  The old man nodded. “You were a brave lass,” he said, “going in there like that to help your friend.”

  “How could I not!” Alison declared. “Meghan Brodie is my verra best friend! She would have done the same for me.” And Meghan would, she knew. It had twisted Alison’s heart to see her friend lying there in so much pain. If she could have lifted her up and carried her from that wretched place, she would have! As it was, she’d had to tend Meghan and then hurry away lest he recognize her face.

  Cameron nodded again in agreement, and Alison went on, “I was so worried! I had to see with my verra own eyes that she was well.” In truth, she’d not thought up her plan until King David had sounded so uncertain of Meghan’s sanity. It had startled her, as Meghan Brodie was the sweetest, smartest person Alison knew! But Alison had taken advantage of David’s uncertainty and had formed this hasty plan. She hadn’t known how well it would go, but it was worth a try. “Anyway, Montgomerie did not recognize me so all is well. But I cannot risk myself again so soon, if I am to go back and trade places with Meghan later. So, then, be sure to give her this,” she instructed, and pressed a small sack into the old man’s hands. “’Tis verra important! And you tell her just what I told you, all right?”

  “Aye, lass, I remember it all.”

  “Verra good, and this is for you.” She held out a few gold coins.

  “For me?” He peered up at her in surprise.

  “Aye,” Alison smiled brilliantly. “For you. And thank you again, Cameron of the MacLeans, and go on with ye now. I’ll need you soon enough if my plan is to work. Run now to Meghan and tell her to follow my instructions precisely.”

  The old man smiled as he took the coins from her. “Aye, lass. I’ll give her the sack the instant she is alone, I promise.”

  “Thank you,” Alison said with feeling, and threw her arms about his neck in appreciation. “You’re a sweet auld mon,” she said and drew away. “Go quickly now,” she urged him.

  “No sooner said than done,” he promised, and turned on his heel.

  Alison watched him wend his way through the forest until he was gone from her sight, and then she turned and hurried home. There was much to do before her final performance, she knew.

  She had colored her face with a thin layer of mud, not enough to make her appear grimy, but enough to dry her skin and give her the appearance of wrinkles, and she had been thankful for the dim light of his chamber that he could not make out her eyes, for though she’d met him only the once, she knew they were revealing, crossing as they did so oft.

  She didn’t worry he would suspect her later, because by the time Cameron snuck her in to trade places with Meghan, he would be ready to believe anything. And her hair and eye color were close enough to Meghan’s, that as long as she kept her face concealed, it would give them more than enough time to sneak Meghan out and carry her home. And then Alison would simply slip away herself, remove her wimple and makeup, and leave with none the wiser. Meghan would be home and safe and jus
t in time to see her wedded to Leith.

  She smiled at that, certain that Meghan was going to be surprised with the turn of events. Alison could scarcely believe it herself, but Leith Mac Brodie had been so kind to her. And if she’d initially believed his proposal one of mere pity, she no longer thought so. He sent her gifts, one each day, and Alison was beginning to wonder what it was she ever saw in Colin Mac Brodie. A handsome face alone was not nearly enough to recommend a person, she knew, and Colin Mac Brodie had never treated her kindly. How could she have been so blind to Leith? How could she have done to him what Colin had done to her? She’d nearly discarded Leith without a second glance merely because his face was not as comely as Colin’s.

  “You should be ashamed, Alison!” she berated herself. And she certainly was!

  And that brought her to another thought entirely...

  Could she have misjudged Piers Montgomerie as well? She knew what she’d spied in his eyes—the way he’d looked upon Meghan as she’d lain so still within his bed. It seemed to Alison that he had gazed upon her with genuine distress. And perhaps it was no more than he should rightly feel, as it was his fault Meghan was insured to begin with.

  And yet... Alison could have sworn there was something more in his eyes when he gazed upon Meghan.

  And he had purchased the potion at an exorbitant price—one she had set only to make him think her greedy. As far as Alison was concerned, Meghan had a right to choose her own husband. If Lyon Montgomerie wished to woo her once she was home, then that was another thing entirely. Let him court her properly as would any self-respecting man.

  And with that decided, she lifted her skirts and ran the rest of the way home, not wanting to be discovered, not even by her father, lest he forbid her to do what she knew she must. For once in her life she was doing something that mattered, and Alison didn’t care what the risks were.

  Meghan needed her.

  The fact that she could make a difference so exhilarated her that she wanted naught more than to run home and share the news with her father. She wanted to run and tell Leith what she’d done and what she planned, but she didn’t dare, lest the two of them, in their silly male pride, forbid her to help and insist upon saving Meghan themselves. Nay, she wasn’t about to tell them! Male pride had gotten them thus far, and it was time to use their wits, not might!

  Foolish men!

  With the morning sun upon her face, Meghan lay wholly afraid to open her eyes.

  The very thought of what she had done... of what she had allowed... heated her cheeks. And sweet Jesu, it warmed her body as well!

  Last night, though she’d been sated and drugged besides, she had lain there, unable to sleep. And even now, this morning, the memory of their wicked embrace made her belly stir with desire she hardly could deny.

  But she could scarcely sleep forever, no matter that the drogue kept her weary enough to do so.

  Cautiously, she opened her eyes to the bright light of morning.

  Lyon Montgomerie’s face was the first thing she saw.

  He was kneeling by the bed, watching her. Meghan started, blinking in surprise.

  “I mean to steal your heart, Meghan Brodie,” he said, and Meghan’s heart leapt.

  She feared, somehow, he already had.

  Her heart quickened its beat. “H-have you been watching me all morn?” she asked hesitantly, feeling both flattered and distressed all at once.

  She had dreamt of him, his lips upon her flesh, his hand upon her breast. And in her dream... she had awakened to find his head cradled between her thighs... as he had been last eve. In her dream, he’d peered up at her, grinning wickedly, his eyes flashing with an unmistakable gleam as he’d slid his hand along her belly to her naked breast, whispering, “It’s only me.”

  Meghan shuddered at the memory.

  “Time to get up!” he said, avoiding the question. “I have something to show you.”

  Meghan gave him an exasperated glance. “You are a despotic mon!” she said, taking comfort in her pique. “Do you never tire of ordering people about?”

  “Never.” He grinned roguishly at her, his look much too boyish to be anything but engaging. It spoiled her ill humor.

  Meghan grimaced as she tried to rise. He moved to help her.

  “I can do it myself!” she exclaimed. “Stop being so bluidy nice. I dinna wish to like you!” she said honestly. “Don’t you realize?”

  He chuckled at that. “And yet you do?”

  Meghan gave him a withering glance. “I didna say such a thing!”

  “But you are thinking it?”

  “Och, but you are arrogant, too.”

  Lyon merely shrugged at that.

  “Then I shall resolve to be less so,” he vowed, and inhaled a breath at the sight of her.

  He could scarcely keep himself from staring.

  Damn, but he couldn’t seem to get enough of her.

  He’d fallen asleep with his body hard as stone, and nevertheless with a smile upon his face. And this morning he’d felt himself scarcely able to leave her, though he’d had matters to attend to. He’d left her only long enough to see them well in hand, and then had rushed back to her side.

  What the devil was wrong with him?

  He felt as reckless as the boy he’d once been, eagerly chasing every skirt that passed him by, starved for the sight of creamy flesh and greedy for the female scent.

  Only he no longer wanted the rest.

  He wanted this one.

  He couldn’t stop smiling.

  “I have told you, Lyon Montgomerie, I dinna want you to be so accommodating! Move out of my way,” she demanded, ripping the tattered bedsheets off and sliding her legs over the side of the bed.

  Lyon sucked in a breath as her movement placed him kneeling before her once more.

  She seemed to realize this belatedly and her brows lifted in surprise. Her gaze flew to his and her cheeks pinkened.

  He merely smiled at her, wholly satisfied with her reaction. He wanted her to remember, wanted her never to forget. He wanted her to be his, body and soul; he knew very well that her heart would come if he mastered her body. He understood women only too well, and knew how to please them. He damned well wasn’t going to waste his God-given talents when he wanted this more than he wanted to breathe.

  He lifted a brow. “Are you asking for more?”

  “Och!” She gasped in outrage. “You are a wicked rotten knave! I’ve changed my mind! I do know you well enough to make such a judgment! You are wicked!”

  “Aye,” he murmured, and he bent to plant a swift, but chaste kiss upon the bridge of her nose.

  Her hand flew to her face at once, her fingers touching her nose where he had kissed her. “Why did you do that?” she asked, seeming confused by the innocence of the gesture.

  “Because you are adorable,” he answered simply. “Come, let us go.” He rose, drawing her up with him by her good arm, though gently, lest he hurt her. “There is something I wish to show you this morn, and I hope it pleases you.”

  He insisted she close her eyes as he led her along behind him, taking her to some unknown place.

  Meghan had no choice but to follow, as her curiosity was too great to deny.

  When he bade her open her eyes at last, they were in the meadow, with no one else in sight. The bright sunlight, after being secluded so long within his chamber, made her squint. She had difficulty focusing enough to see anything at all, and then, she only saw Lyon standing there before her, gazing at her expectantly, as though he were awaiting her response.

  Her brow furrowed. “I thought you wished to show me something. I see naught.”

  He was grinning at her.

  She tilted a glance at him. “Why are you looking at me so?”

  He lifted his brows, and his eyes shone with a boyish gleam that snuck its way into her heart. “Because,” he said playfully, “’tis not oft one beholds both the sun and the moon together, Meghan Brodie!”

  Meghan tried not t
o roll her eyes at his exalted praise, and was thankful for his shameless cajolery as it helped her to keep him at bay. Accustomed as she was to men’s empty flattery, it no longer stirred her heart to hear it.

  Except when Lyon Montgomerie spoke it, it seemed.

  Her heart quickened.

  “You are both the fiery brilliance of sunlight, Meghan, and the bewitching serenity of moonlight!” His ardent tone managed to seep into the cracks of the wall surrounding her heart—despite that Meghan sat behind it, casting mortar at every fracture.

  “And you, I fear, have missed your calling, Lyon Montgomerie. You should have been a troubadour begging entrance at every manor.” She eyed him sharply. “You are a shameless flatterer! And I have told you I am unmoved by pretty words, and still you persist—why?” she demanded.

  He stood there, looking entirely too beauteous for Meghan’s peace of mind—his smile too radiant, and his words entirely too blithe—and she wanted to loathe him for making her yearn for more.

  “Because you’ve turned me into a besotted lad,” he answered unrelentingly, “who would do anything for merely the favor of a smile from his darling.”

  Meghan frowned at him. “I am not your darling, lest you forget!”

  She eyed him circumspectly. He wore a deep-blue tunic that brought out the vivid color of his eyes, with a strip of green and blue plaid about his waist and black braies that hugged his long lean legs. He stood tall before her, with his long hair stirring like silk in the breeze. It shimmered like spun gold beneath the mid-morning sun.

  She could scarcely forget the way it had felt clutched between her trembling fingers, the way it had gleamed last eve by candlelight as he’d played her body so masterfully.

  Och, but if ever a man could be called beautiful, Lyon Montgomerie was fiercely so!

  And yet there was naught about him that made one doubt his masculinity. He was as hard and as beauteous as the hills that surrounded them.

  And it didn’t help much to see that he seemed at ease here upon the land she loved so passionately. It was as though he’d been carved from the very stone, in fact, as those ancient cairns that bedecked this soil of her birth.