Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (Sweet Scottish Brides Book 2) Page 4

  It wasn’t the safest way home, but it was certainly the quickest, and since she’d only just come that way and had encountered nothing amiss, she decided it was the best route to take. She didn’t particularly care to take the long way home with the sun bearing down upon the meadow as the poor lamb was enervated already.

  The shaded forest path, although it meandered in and out of Brodie and Montgomerie land—the latter being filled with thieving, conniving Sassenachs—was well worn by Brodie feet and little-traveled by anyone else. It sat at the far, far edge of Montgomerie land—land that had once belonged to the MacLeans until King David of Scotia had requested it from Alison’s father.

  The very thought made Meghan glower.

  As she understood it, Alison’s father had agreed to give it, only so long as Alison wedded the lumpish, greasy English beast—well, Meghan didn’t know if he was lumpish or greasy, precisely, because she’d never set eyes upon the man, but she certainly knew he was greedy.

  Alison, poor lass, was of a different mind entirely, as she didn’t wish to wed Montgomerie at all—and Meghan couldn’t blame her.

  It seemed to Meghan that the rotten Sassenach had no sooner set foot upon Scots soil when he was already ravaging and pillaging his good neighbors—greedy, misbegotten cur that he was. And in truth, she might not hold him in such contempt, for she was no stranger to reiving, but he’d thieved from her own kinsmen and without provocation.

  Well, her brothers were sworn to set him to rights, and if Meghan knew them at all, they wouldn’t stop until they did exactly that. Meghan only hoped it would end without bloodshed, for these were not Scotsmen they were dealing with, and she was afraid her sweet brothers had forgotten that fact.

  “Englishmen have no honor,” she told the wee lamb as they entered the shade of the forest. “Nor have they any hearts.”

  The lamb walked silently at her side.

  “Their mothers eat them when they are wee bairns, ye see,” she explained, feeling wicked. “And those who dinna end in their mother’s bellies, ’tis because they are full o’ piss and vin aigre.”

  The lamb peered up at her, as though in disbelief, and then its gaze shied away.

  “’Tis the truth I’m tellin’ ye,” she persisted. “They’re trying to bring Scotia to her knees, and if ye ask me,” she told the lamb in no uncertain terms, “I believe David is a fool for trusting those he calls friends,” she said, as though the lamb cared one whit what her opinion was—but why should it care when no one else seemed to think she had a brain to think with either? “Rotten Sassenachs dinna ken the meaning of the word friendship,” she said crossly.

  Chapter 4

  “Lyon was determined to keep his borders defended.

  After the last raid, he wasn’t taking chances. Those Brodie brothers were as devious as London thieves, and nearly as bold, raiding in the broad light of day. This last round had been his victory, and he was going to keep it that way.

  He swore they must sprout limbs and leaves, playing like trees to his face, and then, when he turned his back, they scurried away, like rats with their stolen cheese.

  They were good, very good.

  Only, he intended to be better.

  He and Baldwin were now appraising his land to determine the best course of defense.

  “Well now,” Baldwin exclaimed, sliding down the flank of his steed after another failed attempt to mount. “Do you see what I see, Lyon?” He shielded his embarrassment behind a mask of interest and stepped away from his horse in order to better see through the lush foliage.

  Lyon had spied the approaching woman long before Baldwin had turned his attention from his struggles, and her presence did, in fact, engage him, but his concern for his friend overrode his curiosity for an instant. “I do indeed, see her,” he answered. “But do you realize these savages would have easily overtaken you just now?”

  Baldwin’s ears turned red.

  “I’ve given you leave to ride free of your armor,” Lyon said. “I think it best under the circumstances. These Scots do not battle as we do; they fight free of the restraints of armor. What good will your mail do you if your movements are so sluggish that they’ve a blade to your throat long before you can manage to mount your horse?”

  Baldwin set his jaw stubbornly. “It took me years to earn this armor, Lyon,” he said, facing Piers.

  Lyon understood what the small defiance cost him, for Baldwin was ever dutiful, ever faithful. He would badger Lyon on occasion, as any longtime companion might do, but when it came to matters of war, he obeyed Lyon’s every word.

  “I shall practice, but do not ask me to cast away my honors,” Baldwin begged.

  “As you will.”

  Baldwin smiled. “I shall exercise more,” he swore. “You have my word.”

  “I’ve little doubt.” Lyon offered a reluctant smile in return.

  “Thank you, Lyon.” With that settled between them, he once again peered out through the covert, watching the woman make her way toward them down the narrow path. “I wonder who she is,” he remarked as she came into clearer view.

  “I’m certain I’ve no idea,” Lyon replied, bending low over his mount to peer beneath the overhanging limbs. With his height, he was afforded a clearer view, but the forest was overgrown with vegetation. “She’s coming from our direction, so it seems.”

  “From our land, do you mean?”

  Lyon didn’t answer; his attention was completely engaged now by the approaching woman.

  His first impression of her was of willowy limbs and shimmering hair: she was tall and thin, with a lithe, slim form that swayed with feminine self-assurance as she walked. And that hair—a wanton mass of coppery ringlets—ignited like the biblical burning bush as she passed through a nimbus of light from above.

  And then she neared enough for him to see her face, and his breath caught.

  She was an angel incarnate.

  That face... it was a face he would have imagined belonged to Helen of Troy... or to the Aphrodite of legend.

  Her delicate features were nothing less than perfection—her nose not tiny and upturned, like that of a child’s, but straight and lovely.

  And her eyes... He could not see their color at this distance, but they were almond-shaped and exotic like those of the Saracen women he’d encountered along his travels.

  And her mouth... it was full and pink... A mouth that demanded to be kissed... A mouth formed by Eros himself... It stirred his imagination.

  As jaded as he’d become, his heart’s response to the woman surprised him—rather pleasantly, as it had been much too long since something so simple as a glance at beauty had sent his heart beating out of his chest—a misfortune of his upbringing, no doubt.

  Growing up as a harlot’s son had definitely had its downfalls. It was a label that had found him feeding his high-minded peers a mouthful of his fist more oft than not.

  And yet, he’d certainly relished some of the inherent benefits, shameless libertine that he was. Like mother, like son, so they’d claimed.

  And so he was.

  It was certainly true enough that he loved women, as his mother had loved men. And there didn’t seem to be any point in denying the obvious. At least he knew this much about himself. And it was precisely the reason he’d not pursued the life of a monk, for while the pursuit of knowledge and reason had been his mind’s greatest desire, he was innately weak to pleasures of the flesh.

  And yet it had been a long time since he’d taken simple pleasure in any woman.

  He lamented this, but not as much as he regretted the course his life had taken—resorting to brute force for gain. It befouled his personal philosophy despite that it had been the way of his life since the moment of his birth. He’d gained naught, accomplished naught, save through the might of his arm. That he’d clung to his erudite ideals so long was a matter of stubborn pride. But though his conventions negated his convictions, he still believed the mind was a more powerful tool than the body—
knowledge more effectual than mere brute strength. His body might fail him, but his mind would always see him through. However, if the mind failed... well, then... what good was a body of any sort?

  He took a deep breath, and cast a glance at Baldwin to find that his friend and confidant was just as entranced by the woman as he had been, and he frowned at the discovery. It provoked him, in fact. Not immensely, but enough.

  Baldwin whistled low. “Bones of the saints, she’s exquisite, Lyon.”

  Lyon said nothing, merely watched the woman’s approach with growing interest. It was only belatedly that he realized she wasn’t precisely alone.

  “Lyon,” Baldwin began, his attention to detail scarcely more timely than Lyon’s was, “she has a lamb with her. What do you suppose she’s doing with a lamb?”

  Lyon’s frown deepened as he watched the animal tangle its lead rope about the woman’s legs.

  “And she’s coming from our land,” Baldwin felt compelled to point out yet again.

  Lyon reconsidered that particular fact as woman and animal made their way toward them.

  “What do you suppose it means?”

  It was rather self-evident, Lyon thought. Then again, much that was apparent was also misleading, especially in these parts.

  The lamb lagged behind, and the woman slowed to allow it to catch up. It meandered about to her other side, tangling the lead rope further about her long, lean limbs. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “And she’s talking to herself,” Baldwin added. “Do you hear?”

  “Nay.” Lyon cast a narrow-eyed glance down at Baldwin’s back. He refrained from pointing out that he could scarcely even think over Baldwin’s prattle. How could he possibly hear the wench?

  “Do you think she’s daft?”

  It was quite certainly a possibility, but Lyon hoped not. He rather hoped she was as quick-witted as she was beautiful. Anything less would dull his interest, and he didn’t particularly wish it to be dulled.

  “Baldwin,” Lyon whispered.

  Baldwin peered up at him, murmuring in return, “What, Lyon?”

  “Shut up.”

  Baldwin smiled a little sheepishly and ducked his head beneath the branches to spy at the woman again.

  “Well,” the woman exclaimed, near enough to be heard now, her brogue soft and lyrical. She peered down at the bewildered-looking beast. “If Lyon Montgomerie knows what’s best...”

  “Lyon,” Baldwin began, “she’s—”

  “Shhh,” Lyon said, not wanting to miss a word of her discourse with the animal.

  “... he’ll thrust that Sassenach tail of his between his puny legs,” she haughtily informed the beast, “and hie himself back to his England. We dinna need another rotten Englishman about to plague us.”

  Lyon raised his brows at her declaration.

  Baldwin turned to him, grinning. “Puny?” he said low. His shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.

  Lyon glowered down at his friend’s back.

  He’d been called many a thing in his time, but never puny. Even as a lad, lanky though he might have been, none but one would have dared call him such a thing to his face. And then never again.

  Impudent woman.

  He’d like to show her puny.

  The mere thought of that quickened his pulse, and the response took him once more by surprise. Provoked him, as well—curse it all, why should he feel annoyed over her disparaging remark, and feel compelled to prove himself like some too big for his boots lad with his first chin hair?

  “Do you think she stole the lamb from us?”

  “Why would she steal a single lamb?” Lyon asked, and found himself wondering whether she was wife or daughter—or mayhap both. Women of her beauty rarely went unspoken for.

  She was nearly upon them now, and Baldwin whispered lower. “Do these Scots ever need a reason to steal?”

  Lyon responded with a wry twist of his lips. The truth was that they didn’t seem to. He certainly hadn’t instigated the raids between them.

  “Lyon!” the woman spat, successfully recapturing their attention. “Pah!” She cast a downward glance at the lamb ambling along beside her. “He’s no lion,” she declared. “Merely a cowardly milksop skulking about in the dark of night.”

  Coward?

  “Milksop?” Baldwin said, and his shoulders once again began to quake.

  Lyon ignored him.

  “Why, he cannot even face us—hah! Worm is more the like.”

  Lyon scowled. Cannot face who? The Brodies? He couldn’t imagine who else she might be speaking of, though he hadn’t noticed that they’d made any particular efforts to face him, either.

  “Steal from my brothers, will he?”

  Brothers.

  His brows lifted with comprehension. Baldwin turned to look at him then and nodded. It seemed she had a reason after all, bootless though her raid might have been.

  Although she’d nearly passed them by now, Lyon restrained himself still, contemplating his best course of action. She was merely a woman, and hardly a threat, but he didn’t think he should simply allow her to walk away with his livestock. Then again, what retribution could he possibly deliver against a hapless woman? It was from her brothers he desired satisfaction.

  If she were in truth their sister, why didn’t he know of her? He’d made it a point to learn all that he could about his new neighbors.

  Then again, he reminded himself, other than the fact that the MacLeans had a long-standing feud with the nearby MacKinnons, these were said to be peace-loving clans, and that certainly hadn’t turned out to be so. These Scots were all liars.

  “Well, now,” she continued, sounding particularly vengeful now, “he shall know soon enough what it means to deal with Brodies!”

  Would he now?

  He suddenly didn’t feel so charitable. And he’d heard quite enough, besides. Without warning, he spurred his mount, startling Baldwin.

  “Where are you going, Lyon?”

  “To put an end to this feud once and for all.”

  Never mind that only moments ago he said he’d reveled in it.

  Meghan was so immersed in her discussion with the lamb that she heard the voices much too late. Without warning, the foliage parted and the path before her was suddenly barred by a most fearsome sight.

  She froze in mid-stride.

  For an instant, she couldn’t speak, so stunned was she by the horseman’s sudden appearance. She could merely stare at the devil. No man had ever stood so tall in his stirrups. As it was, she had to crane her neck up at a painful angle in order to see his face. And what a face it was! In truth, he looked more like an angel than a devil.

  Although swarthy, his skin appeared to be as soft as her own. And his flaxen hair was the richest gold, but she couldn’t tell its length for it was bound at the back of his neck. His cheekbones were high and well-hewn, but it was his eyes that held her transfixed: uncanny blue, they bore into her very soul. And he wore blue, but a blue so dark it was almost black—blue tunic, blue breeches, black boots. The tunic upon his chest was emblazoned with a blood-red lion rearing back upon its beastly little legs—no mail as the English were wont to wear, but he certainly had no need of mail to look invulnerable. Were her legs not so tangled within the rope she held so firmly within her fist, she would have turned and fled.

  She swallowed convulsively, and stammered, “Who... who are you?”

  “Who are you?’ is the better question,” he countered, his tone furious. “And what are you doing on my land?”

  Meghan gulped back a wave of panic. “Your land?” she asked, trying to sound as calm as she might while her heart seemed bent upon pummeling its way out of her chest.

  He leaned forward over the horse’s withers, and enunciated slowly and more clearly, lest she mistake him, “My land.”

  Meghan swallowed the knot of apprehension that rose in her throat. It was Montgomerie—Henry’s Lyon in the flesh, King David’s accursed mercenary baron.


  It suddenly occurred to her—had he left her a trap with the lamb?

  But Nay, why would he do such a thing? she reasoned. He had nothing to gain by it. Och, but he would do it, because he was a greedy, deceiving Englishman. That was why!

  “What business have you upon my land? And what are you doing with that lamb?”

  Meghan tried to remain composed, but she fidgeted under his scrutiny. Her heart hammering fiercely, she searched around for some means of escape, and her heart lurched as she spied a second man emerging from the thicket. This man was dark-haired and burly, with eyes that assessed her quite rudely. Her panic increased tenfold.

  “Well,” she said, fumbling for an answer, “I—I was walking, ye see...”

  “Walking?” Montgomerie asked much too pleasantly, but with an unmistakable note of suspicion to his voice.

  “I believe ’tis what I said, Sassenach.” She was becoming vexed with his annoying echoing of her answers. Nor did she appreciate his tone any more than she did his companion’s snickers at nearly everything the brute said. He spoke as though he thought her an idiot or a liar, neither of which was acceptable to Meghan.

  “Did you really?” he asked, with that same unmistakable air of suspicion.

  “Do you not have eyes to see with?” she asked, losing her temper. She jerked up the lead rope to display the evidence, but jerking up the lead rope turned out to be the wrong thing to do. Tangled as it was between her legs, Meghan tripped herself and promptly fell upon her rear.

  “Rotten rope!” she railed, tossing it down in a fit of fury. “See what you did?” she hissed at the animal knowing it wasn’t the poor lammie’s fault. And still she couldn’t quite help herself. Taking comfort in the fact that the poor beast couldn’t possibly comprehend what she was spouting in anger, she railed, “Och, I should have left ye there in the meadow.”

  It was all Montgomerie’s fault, she assured herself, and glowered up at him, her cheeks burning with chagrin and no small amount of ire.