Lyon's Gift Read online

  CHAPTER 22

  Rolling white clouds feathered the heavens above, swirling across the blue sky like furls of spun silk.

  Meghan had never imagined she could feel so free. She could scarcely believe she was lying in the middle of a meadow, fully revealed beneath God’s eyes, and relishing every moment.

  For the first time in her life, she felt no shame in herself. She lay enfolded within his embrace, feeling his heart beat against her cheek, and felt only exhilaration at the sensation of lying so uninhibited within his arms.

  He made her feel this way.

  And she couldn’t help but smile.

  She stirred, lifting her face from his chest, thinking that she should dress, but he pressed a hand to her head, drawing her back to cradle her head against him.

  “Stay with me,” he urged her.

  Meghan wished in that instant that she could lay there forever, listening to the quickened beat of his heart. She wondered if her own still beat so fast.

  “How is the arm?” He sounded concerned. “Did I hurt you, Meghan?”

  “Nay,” Meghan assured him. He had done anything but that. In truth, he had been cautious to a fault. It was difficult, having been privy to his written words, because she couldn’t help but yearn for the unrestrained passion he had written about in his manuscript. He hadn’t been that way with her at all... He had been gentle and solicitous instead.

  “Good.” He lifted her head gently from his chest. “I almost forgot,” he told her, “the reason I brought you out here, Meghan.”

  Meghan had forgotten as well.

  “Sit up,” he commanded her, and helped her to rise.

  Meghan blushed as his gaze slid appreciatively over her body, lingering at her breasts. He curved his lips roguishly.

  “What is it?” she asked, returning a demure smile of her own.

  “Look about,” he commanded her, turning his head from her abruptly. “Do you see naught at all?”

  Meghan did as he bade her, and saw nothing more than she had before: a meadow wide and green, resplendent with posies and heather. Colorful and bursting with life... except for a small plot of soil that had been freshly turned...

  She peered up at him, her brows drawing together in bewilderment.

  “I hope you do not mind,” he said. “It was not my wish to make you sad, Meghan.”

  “I dinna understand.”

  “I buried Fia here for you.”

  Meghan blinked in surprise. “You did?” She was staggered by the gesture. She hadn’t asked about the lamb, only because she hadn’t wished to know its fate, had assumed they would use the animal for its meat. Tears sprang to her eyes, though she knew it was foolish. It was naught but a lamb, she told herself. And his gesture... She didn’t know what to make of it.

  He stared at her, seeming to be searching her face for answers. “I... I know how much she meant to you,” he said. “So I buried her. I hope you do not mind,” he said again, more than a little hesitantly.

  Meghan shook her head, discomposed by his confession. She wasn’t certain what to think of a man who would bury a lamb, simply because she had claimed it was her grandmother, despite that he didn’t believe her.

  Or had he?

  Was he so willing to accept the body without the soul? As with Gavin, did her thoughts not matter to him? Her mind not at all?

  Well, it didn’t matter at this instant, as she was overwhelmed by his kind gesture. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her.

  Gulping down the knot that rose in her throat, she turned to gaze at the tiny plot of soil, not more than three yards from where they stood. “When?” she asked him, turning to look into his eyes. “When did you do this?”

  “Yesterday… when I left you. I came here. I am sorry if it was not the right thing to do, Meghan. I simply thought—”

  “Shhh.” Meghan lifted her finger to his lips. “Hush, Lyon Montgomerie... and kiss me again.”

  She didn’t have to ask twice.

  Lyon trembled as he drew her into his arms, and lapped the tears from her eyes with the tip of his tongue.

  “Be mine,” he begged her, and gently covered her mouth with his own.

  Meghan’s lips parted in helpless surrender, though she refused him an answer.

  How could she reply nay when it was already so?

  And neither could she yield her heart so completely.

  They spent the entire afternoon upon the meadow.

  It wasn’t until late that Lyon returned Meghan to the hall, bidding her go upstairs and rest before it was time to sup.

  Meghan could scarcely protest as she was weary in a way she’d never been in her life. And her arm hurt terribly, besides.

  She didn’t wish to, because she didn’t like the drowsy way it made her feel, but Lyon had left the vial of medicine upon the desk for her, and she was in too much discomfort to care if she supped at all. She was going to go take some of the elixir and lie down upon the bed, for it seemed that every step she climbed toward his chamber left her all the more fatigued.

  He had asked to carry her up, but Meghan refused to be coddled in such a way. Her will was as yet her own, and she was perfectly capable of climbing stairs on her own.

  In her weariness, however, she was blind to the figure standing in the shadows of the corridor leading to Lyon’s bedchamber.

  “Meghan!” came an anxious whisper as she reached for the door.

  Startled, Meghan whirled to find the old man Cameron stepping from the shadows toward her.

  He peered anxiously about. “Is he comin’ after you?”

  “Lyon?” she asked him, startled.

  “Aye!”

  Meghan frowned at his strange behavior. “Nay, but he did not say where he was off to,” she informed him warily. “If you’re needin’ to speak—”

  “Nay,” he replied. “ ‘Tis you I wished to see!” He held out a small cloth sack and pressed it into her hands. “This comes to you from Alison, lass.”

  “Alison!” Meghan said, suddenly feeling more alert. “Is Alison here?”

  “Nay, lass, but I met her in the woods. She bade me give you this, and to tell you that it was she who came to tend you after the fall.”

  Confused, Meghan took the sack from his hands. “It was Alison? But they didna say so!”

  He gave her a look of reproach, lifting heavy red brows. “Neither did he say your brothers came to see you… while he was out there wooing you? I’m sorry but I spied you together lass.”

  Meghan’s face warmed. “Leith and Colin and Gavin came here?”

  “Do you have other brothers?” he retorted. “Aye, lass, they came yesterday, but he would not let them see you. In any case, they didna realize it was Alison who came to tend you, as she came disguised as an auld hag.”

  “But how—”

  “When they asked me if I knew of a physician, I answered that I knew of a midwife. They sent me out after her, and I brought Alison.”

  Meghan could scarcely believe that Lyon would fail to mention to her that her brothers had come to see her. He had to realize she would be concerned for them, and they for her. It didn’t make sense to her that he could be so generous about the lamb, and then so ruthlessly deny her brothers and herself.

  “Alison has a good plan,” Cameron revealed. “Dinna fash yourself, lass, we’ll get you home to your brothers soon enough.”

  Meghan was confused. How could he make love to her so sweetly, say such warmhearted things... and then keep something so important from her?

  She shook herself free of her thoughts, of the memory of his touch, forcing herself to consider her brothers. “What sort of plan?”

  “The sort that will work, I think,” he said, and bent to whisper it quickly into her ear.

  CHAPTER 23

  Staring at the manuscripts that were spread before her, the small vial of medicine clutched within her fist, Meghan sat transfixed at the little bedside desk.

  It was, in fact, an
ingenious plan.

  If she had ever wondered about Alison’s shrewdness, and which of them had the keener mind—and she had not, she had always known Alison was the more clever of the two—she certainly didn’t wonder now.

  Meghan could never have conceived such a cunning scheme on the spur of the moment. As Cameron relayed it to her, she was to use the potion primarily for the pain, and the pouch of face powders and colors to validate the outlandish tale Alison had woven for Lyon’s benefit. She was to disfigure her face, make herself as unappealing as possible with the powders, until he no longer recognized her so well, so that when Alison came to replace her, he’d not suspect the two of them were different women.

  With their hair and eye color so similar, and her own face covered with a veil, along with the doubts placed within his head by Alison’s shrewd tale, Lyon was certain to believe it.

  Aye, it was a perfect plan.

  Even if it failed, Meghan had every faith Lyon would simply let Alison go, as he wasn’t a cruel man. The worst that could happen would be that they would be discovered and they would have gained naught by it.

  Meghan would remain with Lyon, and Alison would be sent home to her father with a scolding.

  Not so terrible a thought to remain with Lyon, if the truth be known.

  And if it worked... well, then... with Cameron’s help, she would be home with her brothers soon enough. And when Meghan was safely away, Alison would simply remove her disguise and slip away with no one the wiser.

  The question was... did Meghan truly wish to leave?

  She considered that a long and anguished moment and decided that it didn’t matter what she wanted. She owed it to her brothers to go to them. And if Lyon respected her enough to court her properly, then Meghan was certainly willing. No matter whether he held her heart or not, this was not the right way to go about it, she knew. Her brothers would never accept him this way, and she loved them all too much to choose between them. If Lyon wanted her truly, if he cared for her, if he loved her—aye, she dared to hope—then he would want her to come to him of her own free will.

  As for the deception...

  She set the vial of medicine down upon the desk.

  If Lyon wanted her for more than her body, well then, this was the way to discover that, too, and Meghan refused to feel guilty for simply trying to find her way home.

  And less so for attempting to learn the truth about the man who would have her heart.

  With that decided, she opened up the little pouch, tugging the ribbon loose with her teeth, cursing her bad hand that she could not do this properly. That done, she set the pouch down upon the desk and removed a few items from it—a small piece of looking glass, a tiny box secured with ribbon, and a little bottle filled with a substance that appeared to be fine-ground meal.

  To begin with, these would be enough.

  Casting a glance first at the door, she struggled with opening the small bottle, popping the cork with her teeth at last. She poured a small amount of the flour upon the desk. Keeping her attention upon the door, she powdered her hand and then her face, making certain to blend it well. That done, she lifted up the small box and, with her teeth once more, she untied the ribbon that held the lid secure. She set it down then and lifted the tiny lid to find a substance like black ash within. She lay the mirror flat upon the desk, and dipped in a finger, bringing it to her eye, giving herself ghastly circles beneath. She was generous with the ash, but blended it well, and when she was through, she looked more like the living dead than a living, breathing being.

  Scrunching her nose at the sight of herself in the distorted little glass, Meghan inspected her handiwork with a critical eye. Then she dipped her finger within the ash once more and added it to the powder upon her face, blending it well, and then dabbed on more powder to soften the effect.

  When she was finished, the sight of herself within the tiny mirror was enough to make her grimace in disgust.

  Deciding she had used more than enough for the first time, she re-covered the box, blew the remaining powder from the desktop, replaced the stopper within the bottle, and then placed the items once more within the small pouch. With her injured arm it was impossible to bind the box again, and so she did not even attempt it. She lifted the pouch carefully, so as not to spill anything, and then bent to place it carefully beneath the bed. When it was still visible from where she sat, she went to her knees upon the floor to better push it out of sight. No sooner had she done so when the door burst open.

  Startled, Meghan sprang up at once, smacking her cheek against the comer of the desk in the process. “Ouch!” she cried, and bounded back up into the chair. Jesu, but she was determined to kill herself in this place!

  “Meghan?” Lyon said as though he didn’t recognize her. His brows drew together as he stared.

  Meghan tried to appear unaware of his careful scrutiny. “Aye?” she answered, clearing her throat.

  “Are... are you well?”

  “Certainly!” she said brightly, and cast a glance down at the little desk to be certain the telltale powder was gone. She brushed away the last remaining traces and lifted her gaze to the door where he stood. “Why should I not be?” she asked, and then for good measure, lifted the vial of medicine within her hand to show him. She held her breath as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. He faltered in his stride as he approached her, and was frowning still as he sat upon the bed beside the small desk, scrutinizing her.

  She lifted the vial once more and said a little nervously, “I—I thought I’d broken it.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. And he wouldn’t stop staring. Meghan’s heart thundered in apprehension.

  Had she not blended the powders well enough? Was it so obvious what she had done? Did he think her hideous now? And would it matter to him if he thought her less than lovely?

  He reached out and fingered the air before her face, almost as though he were afraid to touch her, and Meghan held her breath.

  “Christ and be damned!” he cursed softly.

  “What is it?”

  He had only just left her.

  How could this be?

  Lyon’s gaze fell to the small vial Meghan held within her hand, and then he lifted his eyes once more to her face, scarcely able to believe the changes that had come over her in so swift a time.

  “You have a welt upon your cheek,” he informed her, forcing himself to touch her at last, uncertain what else to say.

  “Oh,” she answered, lifting her hand to the flesh that was even now beginning to bruise, “that! I bumped my face upon the desk when I bent to retrieve the vial.”

  “I see that.”

  God’s bloody teeth, it appeared she’d bruised the rest of her face as well!

  In fact, she looked much like she’d been beaten to death, buried, and then exhumed. He wanted to ask about the rest of her face, not merely the bruise, but didn’t dare. He wanted to ask if it hurt, but couldn’t find the words to speak. His gaze returned to the vial she held.

  “You... uh... took your medicine?” he asked, swallowing the knot that rose in his throat, knowing she must have.

  It was all his fault.

  He had done this to her.

  “Aye,” she answered, smiling, her eyes even now beginning to glaze over with that bleary-eyed stare the medicine seemed to give her—her gaze slightly askew, slightly unfocused.

  He reached out to take the vial from her. “I do not think you need that any longer,” he said, but she jerked her hand away, placing the vial behind her back, out of his reach.

  “Aye,” she asserted crossly, “I do!”

  He scowled at her. “Why?”

  “It lessens the pain in my arm. Is that not what you gave it to me for?” She tilted her head, gazing at him as though to read him.

  Lyon had no answer.

  Christ.

  She turned from him, and he continued to stare at her profile, aghast. And yet, even with her complexion so deteriorated, there
was a loveliness to her features that could not be diminished. She reminded him of the bean sidhe—the sort of apparition who haunted a man by night, who stood within the shadows of the forest and wailed for his soul.

  “I was reading,” he heard her say.

  Lyon blinked. “My manuscripts?”

  “Aye.”

  He tried to focus upon her words and not her appearance, but seemed to be failing miserably. What in God’s name had he done to her? “And what conclusions have you drawn?” He tried to sound casual.

  “Only that these essays have a single theme among them.”

  Her appearance forgotten for the instant in his curiosity, he lifted a brow. “And what might that be?”

  “The pursuit of happiness.”

  Lyon was struck with wonder at her conclusion. It was, in fact, the driving theme behind his efforts. All of his essays, though disguised behind a thousand other questions, amounted to little more than a simple quest for contentment—that was all. Though he understood what drove him, the answers eluded him still. In her arms he had come closest to experiencing that elusive fulfillment of the soul. And yet... now that it was done... and he sat before her... he felt content no longer.

  He felt only discomposed.

  Which drove him to wonder... was he truly so frivolous that he could love only beauty? Was he so shallow that only beauty could appease him? From past experience, he understood only too well how fleeting that form of pleasure was.

  But there was no denying the way he felt this instant as he sat before her.

  Confused.

  Troubled.

  Unfulfilled.

  The feeling had begun the instant he’d left her late this afternoon and had spoken to Baldwin, for her brothers had returned once again, demanding to see her. Baldwin had sent them away, per Lyon’s instructions, and truth to tell Lyon was beginning to feel like the villain in some satyric play.

  She peered up at him, and he focused upon her lovely eyes. The torch flame flared in the silence that fell between them. Its light flickered against her face, flashed within her eyes. He grimaced, for it gave them a slightly demonic gleam.

  “What else?” he asked her, glancing away. “What else have you found?”