Lyon's Gift Page 9

  “Have it your way,” he said, and reached out to pluck her off the horse. Meghan squealed in surprise, and she expected him to toss her over his shoulder, but he surprised her by cradling her within his arms like a wee bairn. It flustered her so much that she forgot to scream.

  “What are you doing?” She scowled up at him.

  “What does it seem I am doing? I’m carrying you over the threshold.” He had the audacity to wink at her. “A loving husband and his blushing bride.”

  Meghan glared up at him. So much for her plan to show him for the barbarian he was. “You’re not my loving husband,” she assured. “Nor I your blushing bride!”

  He lifted her up to whisper into her ear, his breath warm and sweet against her face. It sent gooseflesh down her arms and legs. “Perhaps not, wench, but that’s what my people see.” He drew away and grinned down at her and Meghan suddenly ceased to breathe.

  She couldn’t find her thoughts suddenly, so discomposed was she by the intimacy of his embrace... his whisper... his tone...

  Good lord, what was happening to her? Her body was reacting curiously, quickening, and her heart pounded against her ribs.

  He seemed to realize what having his arms around her did to her, because his eyes were twinkling. “Go ahead and scream if you like,” he dared her.

  The rat—he’d understood her intent, and had thwarted her so easily. Meghan wished she could scream. But truth to tell, she couldn’t. She could only stare at his lips, vaguely aware that he bore her through the courtyard past the prying eyes of his people and over the threshold of his door. He carried her up the stairs then, and into his chamber. There he dumped her unceremoniously upon the bed and walked away.

  The cad! He intended, she surmised, to remind her of her place. Well, she hadn’t wed him as yet, and neither was she going to! Let him think so, if it pleased him. Her brothers would come for her soon enough, and then she’d have the last word. Rotten misbegotten knave! Until then, she was perfectly content to play his little game.

  “You cannot simply lock me away, you know,” Meghan announced, before he could close the door behind him.

  He stopped and turned to peer within. “Of course I can,” he replied and smiled coolly at her.

  If the truth be known, his arrogance both infuriated and intrigued her. How could that be so?

  He grinned. “Watch me.”

  Meghan wasn’t certain whether to be angry or amused by his response. No one had ever been so impervious to her. It seemed no matter what she said, or what she did, he would do as he pleased with a smile on his face. She was certainly accustomed to despotic men, but somehow Lyon Montgomerie was different. It was more than evident in the way he looked at her and in his actions—that he certainly was not indifferent to her appearance. Unlike other men, though, he was not reduced to babbling when he spoke to her. Nor did he seem particularly inclined to oblige her every whim. To the contrary, she’d never met a man who seemed so little concerned with her opinion of him. In fact, he didn’t seem to care whether she approved of him or not. And more, he seemed amused by her apparent disregard of him.

  The two of them seemed, in truth, to be engaged in some strange battle of wills and wits, and Meghan, for one, didn’t intend to lose.

  He turned once more to go, and Meghan said quite deliberately, “If you’re not going to stay and abuse me... would you mind terribly sending in my grandmother to keep me company?”

  If Meghan had hoped for a reaction from him, she’d hoped in vain, because he simply smiled tolerantly and said without hesitation, “Of course. I shall send her up directly.”

  Meghan smiled sweetly at him. “Thank you.” She batted her lashes coyly.

  “You never cease, do you?”

  Meghan’s brows lifted. “Whatever do you mean? I’ve no notion what you’re speakin’ of.”

  “Of course you do… I can see it in your eyes, wench. You know precisely what it is you are doing, and it’s not going to work.”

  “What’s not going to work?” Meghan asked in her most innocent tone. “I’ve no idea what you’re referring to. ’Tis merely the least you can do. If you’re going to keep us both prisoners here, you might as well be kind enough to let us serve our gaol time together.”

  “Prisoners?” He lifted a brow. “Do not think of yourself so,” he bade her. “You’ve my word you shall be given all due respect as my wife.”

  Meghan cocked her head at him, giving him her most willful glance. “I do not remember agreeing to such a thing, Sassenach. Though if it pleases you to think so... have yourself a merry time with the notion. You can go now,” she said dismissively. And with a sigh, she laid back upon the bed, stretching out upon it as though it were her own and his presence of little consequence.

  Lyon watched her make herself at home upon his bed, and experienced an immediate reaction to the sight of her lying there. She lounged upon it as though she had nary a care in the world... as though she were a sated mistress waiting for the return of her lover.

  His mouth went dry, and though he’d planned to go, to prepare messages to send to David and Dougal MacLean, he suddenly didn’t wish to leave.

  Most particularly because she seemed to wish him to go.

  Or did she?

  He closed the door and smiled when her head popped up at once to peer at him. Her surprised expression at finding him still present shifted at once to that already familiar expression of bored disdain she had perfected so well. Their gazes locked and held as he approached the bed. The room went completely silent but for the sound of his own footfalls across the creaky wooden floor.

  “I shall tell you what pleases me, wench,” he said, leaning over her and pinning her to the bed between his arms. Her small gasp of surprise pleased him immensely.

  “What?” She blinked, but held his gaze.

  Lyon could see the question in her eyes. She wasn’t so dauntless as she would like to have him believe. And yet she faced him squarely, her delicate chin lifting in challenge—tilted at a perfect angle so as to meet his lips... did he but lower his mouth to hers.

  And Christ, what lips she was blessed with... full and pouty, perfectly shaped... He imagined them to be soft and luscious... imagined them wrapped about him in the most wicked way.

  Her breast lifted with another soft gasp, and his gaze fell to her full bosom, lingering for an instant before returning to her face. It was all he could do not to bend for a taste of those sweet luscious lips. The scent of her rose to taunt him... that sweet elusive scent of her that awakened his body’s hunger in a way no woman had in much too long a time.

  “Seeing you here upon my bed,” he whispered. “That pleases me.”

  She moaned softly in answer, and he could see that her own reaction shocked her, for it registered there upon her face with a startled blink.

  God, he wanted her.

  And yet he wanted her willing.

  He wanted more than her body.

  He wanted her to lie beneath him and call out his name in pleasure in the dark of night... and to think of him the first instant her long lashes lifted from sleep in the morn. He wanted to see the longing in her deep-green eyes, and the yearning in her body in the taut peaks of her breast—he wanted to feel them harden beneath the palm of his hand. He wanted her to moan with pleasure when his hands covered her breasts and wanted her to cry out when his mouth replaced his hands.

  He wanted to initiate her into every wicked pleasure he had ever indulged in...

  And more.

  She did that to him somehow... this woman whose name he did not even know. This woman who looked at him askance, and pretended an indifference she couldn’t possibly feel with that look she now wore in those beautiful eyes: a look of pure virgin innocence mingled with uninhibited curiosity. He sensed she hid a passion as deep as his own.

  God help him, if it was the last thing he did... he was going to seduce her into his bed. And he was going to employ every device he knew to keep her there.

&n
bsp; He was going to woo his way into her heart.

  And he was going to bind her to him for always.

  That he vowed as he stared down at her lovely face, flushed now with color.

  He moved closer, savoring the heat between their bodies, hovering above her mouth, until the warmth of her breath teased his lips.

  Meghan held her breath as he stared down at her.

  Never in her life had she been kissed by a man—never had she desired it.

  And yet... somehow she could suddenly think of little else but the way his lips would feel upon her own. She swallowed convulsively.

  Poised above her as he was, with his beautiful lips so near her own, and his vivid blue eyes locked with hers, Meghan felt utterly dizzy.

  That look he wore... she wasn’t so naive that she didn’t comprehend what it meant. She’d seen Colin gaze that way at his women much too oft to mistake it.

  “You’re just like all the rest,” she murmured huskily.

  He shook his head and was so near that Meghan imagined she felt the brush of his lips.

  Or had it been real?

  “Nay,” he assured her. “I am not, wench, and do not make the mistake of thinking so.” His eyes gleamed wickedly, and Meghan immediately sensed that perhaps he spoke the truth. Perhaps, as with the others, her face had caught his eye, but his response to her was anything but familiar.

  “You cannot force me to wed with you,” Meghan said a little breathlessly. “And I will not. You cannot make me.”

  Was she trying so hard to convince him?

  Or herself?

  “Quite true,” he agreed, smiling. “I cannot force you. But you will.”

  Meghan narrowed her eyes at him. “Dinna be so certain of yourself. I’m not some foolish lass who sighs after every handsome lad. You will not win me with flattery.”

  His smile deepened. “You think me handsome, do you?”

  Meghan’s face burned. “I didna say such a thing! Dinna put words in my mouth, Sassenach!” But she was surely thinking it. Never in her life had a face appealed to her more. It was the face of a man, not that of a boy. And yet Meghan could very much spy the deviltry of his youth in his every expression. He was a man who relished his pleasures... and it was obvious to Meghan that his pleasure at the moment was her.

  “I would not dare put words in your mouth,” he assured her.

  Never in her life had a man looked at her so. It was not solely the hunger so apparent in his eyes, or the intent written in the expression upon his face... Nay, there was something more...

  “Not when there is something else I’d so much rather do with that lovely mouth of yours.”

  Meghan shivered at the silky tone of his voice.

  He was a man who knew what he wanted and was used to getting it, she realized.

  “Do you not know what those lips do to a man?”

  Meghan shook her head, blinking. Was he going to kiss her now? It seemed to her that he meant to, for his eyes slitted and he tilted his face, as though to lock his mouth with hers.

  She held her breath in anticipation.

  Would she let him?

  Should she?

  “One day,” he vowed, “you will ask me to love you.”

  “Nay—”

  “Shhh...”

  His breath blew warm and sweet upon her lips. Meghan closed her eyes for an instant, letting the sensation brush over her. Good lord, but she felt defenseless against this form of seduction. She knew how to deal with men who leered, men who vowed their love after first setting eyes upon her, and overeager beaus, but she didn’t know how to deal with this man at all—nor with the strange way he seemed to speak to her body. It answered to him like a slave to its master... no matter that her head and heart both said nay.

  He withdrew a little, giving her space to breathe, to think.

  “I think you will.” He offered her an incorrigible grin.

  “I’ll not!” Meghan assured him, with more certainty than she suddenly felt.

  “Then prove me wrong,” he challenged her, rising from the bed abruptly. Meghan blinked in confusion at his unanticipated answer, at her own keen sense of disappointment. He abandoned her there, leaving her to stare after him, dumbfounded, as he walked away.

  “You will wed with me,” he said, “because you know I speak the truth. It is the most obvious solution to our little dilemma.” And then he closed the door behind him.

  What in God’s name had just happened?

  Had she wanted him to kiss her?

  Surely not!

  Then why was she so disappointed that he had not?

  And why should she feel rejected, when he’d made his intentions and desires clear from the first?

  Because for once, she hadn’t been the one in control, Meghan realized.

  And truth to tell, it galled her that he had been.

  The knave! How dare he simply walk away and leave her like this!

  CHAPTER 11

  It had taken every ounce of Lyon’s will to leave her there lying upon his bed.

  He’d wanted so badly to kiss those lovely lips, to worship them with his own, but he wanted something else so much more. Aye, she might have kissed him back in the heat of the moment, but he understood that it was too soon. She would have regretted it after, because he wouldn’t have stopped with merely a taste of her mouth.

  Then, too, it had provoked the bloody hell out of him that she would compare him to all the rest of her swains.

  Had she carnal knowledge of them? Is that what he saw in her expression when she looked at him? The thought both disturbed and intrigued him. He didn’t like to think of her with another man, but the possibility that she would know a man’s body and how to please him appealed as well.

  He was a man with dark passions, he knew.

  And he wanted a woman who was bold enough to share them.

  He wanted it to be the woman now lying upon his bed.

  No other would do.

  And that brought him to another matter entirely...

  He had no notion how he was going to deal with Dougal MacLean over the matter of his daughter.

  Lyon had met her only once, but she hadn’t appealed to him in the least, and he scarcely even recalled what she looked like now. And yet part of the understanding in his accepting this land from Dougal MacLean was that he would agree to give it back by virtue of an alliance. He’d put off the betrothal so long because after meeting MacLean’s daughter, he hadn’t been in any rush to fill his bed. And now that he was, it wasn’t Alison MacLean he wished to fill it with.

  It was... whatever her bloody name was up there. He frowned at that. Christ, but she was as stubborn as they came. He wasn’t going to glean her name easily from her, only because he desired it, and she knew.

  Well, he was simply going to have to write the missive to David without it. He would just name her as Brodie’s sister.

  He barreled down the stairs, into the hall, and headed directly toward his table at the dais, ordering his pen and parchment from a lad who sat cross-legged upon the floor, petting a mangy cat. In his haste, he had forgotten to bring his writing implements with him.

  The lad bounded up and ran to do his bidding, and Lyon stepped up on the dais and rounded the table. He drew out a weary breath along with his chair and sat to wait, trying to determine the best course of action to be taken. He raked his fingers through his hair.

  Damned Scots.

  He was going to have to word this precisely right, he knew, else he was going to end with yet another feud upon his hands.

  Alison MacLean wasn’t precisely ill-favored, it was merely that she lacked spirit. She’d sat there before him, her expression ranging from disinterest to horror at the prospect of wedding with him. At least that he didn’t feel badly about. He had no doubt that she did not share her father’s enthusiasm for the alliance. So he hadn’t to worry about disappointing her. And yet he certainly didn’t wish to wound her tender feelings.

  He tried
to conjure her face to his thoughts, but all that came to him were those crossed eyes... that nose... the miserable expression she’d worn. She sat there beside her father, looking entirely wretched, while her father had babbled on about the rewards of their proposed alliance, completely oblivious to his daughter’s distress. Lyon had been aware of nothing but. How could he wed her anyway when it had been perfectly clear to him that MacLean’s daughter came into the bargain wholly unwilling?

  Baldwin entered the hall. “Where’s the wench?” he asked, looking bedraggled and seeming surprised to find Lyon alone. Lyon didn’t think his old friend was ever going to forgive him for having to mount the bloody lamb upon his horse. As long as Lyon lived he didn’t think he would ever forget the sight of Baldwin trying to mount with the rotten little beast in his arms. He’d finally managed only by straddling the animal over his saddle and then mounting behind it.

  “I stink to high heaven!” he complained, casting his arms out in disgust.

  Lyon chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”

  “I hope you’re happy,” Baldwin said sourly. “Where’s the mad wench?”

  “In my chamber.”

  Baldwin nodded. “Of course.”

  “And where is Fia?”

  “Where do you think? I gave her to Cameron to place with the others.”

  “Well, you’ll have to get her back,” Lyon charged him, and couldn’t help but laugh at Baldwin’s harassed expression. “She wants to see her grandmother.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “Deadly in earnest,” Lyon said. “She’s something, is she not?”

  Baldwin muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he approached the table. “She’s something else all right!” he agreed. “Are you bloody insane, Lyon? Whatever do you want with a lunatic wench?”

  Lyon raised his brows. He could think of a few things—one in particular in direct relation to the throbbing condition he had concealed beneath the table. “What do you think I want with her, Baldwin?”