Lyon's Gift (14 page)

Meghan didn’t fault her mother for it,
because it had been so apparent by the look in her eyes that her
grief had been real. After her father’s death, her mother’s pain
had been so great that it had seemed easier for her not to feel at
all. She had spent hours alone simply staring from her window—and
nights weeping in her bed. Meghan knew that, somewhere in her
heart, her mother had loved her too, but her guilt and her pain had
been too great for her to express it. Her father’s jealousy had
carried him to his grave, and her mother had never forgiven herself
for her wayward smiles. Nor did she ever forget Meghan’s da till
the day she last closed her eyes. As for Megan’s brothers, they
were too involved with their own lives—Leith with his duties to the
clan, Gavin with his God, and Colin with his women—to spend time
enough with Meghan.

When Fia died, Meghan had felt as though
she’d lost her mooring, for while Alison was as true a friend as
any could have, Meghan was more a mother figure to her in many
ways; Alison had often shared her woes with Meghan, but Meghan had
never felt comfortable to do so in return. It had always seemed
Meghan’s duty to be the strong one. And she had felt so alone for
so very long.

She peered hard at the little lamb’s face
and wished with all her heart that she could live such a simple
life... a silly thing to wish... but she did.

Oh, to be more plain, like Alison...

Alison was lovely from within and it
radiated without. Alison would someday find herself a man who would
look past the flaws in her face and would love her for her
soul.

Meghan’s own face had always been a bloody
curse. Women rarely received her warmly because of it, and men only
wanted to possess her for it.

Now that Fia was gone... nobody seemed to
care enough to know the heart within her silly body—not even her
brothers! And Meghan had long since resolved herself to spiritual
solitude. She’d learned from Fia’s example how to tend her own
gardens behind the stone walls that sheltered her heart. And if she
kept those walls erect, it was only because somewhere within she
feared no one would like the imperfect soul behind the perfect
face. She’d learned the importance of being content with herself
and embracing even her flaws—especially her flaws—as it was foolish
to place her happiness into someone else’s hands.

Och, but she knew it was foolish to hope for
unconditional love.

Aye... so this might very well be the
perfect solution for all... save that Piers Montgomerie was no
different from the rest.

Meghan was well aware of and none too
pleased by the fact that that peace between their clans was not his
true motivation. Like all other men, Piers Montgomerie was driven
by lust. He lusted after beauty and perfection, and little did he
realize that Meghan was a fraud. Her face might be pleasing, but
her soul was fraught with flaws! She was not sweet and
well-mannered like Alison—nor was she patient and warmhearted.

She was not perfect.

Never had been.

Never would be.

CHAPTER 12

It was the wee hours of the morn when the torches
were once again returned to their sconces upon the walls.

They had searched the woodlands, the meadows, the
loch’s edge even, and still there was no sign of Meghan.

Leith Mac Brodie slumped behind the table where
MacLean’s daughter sat still, waiting, with her head cradled
wearily within her arms. Her lovely copper tresses pooled about her
upon the table. He resisted the urge to reach out and see for
himself whether it was as soft as it appeared.

She peered up when he sat, looking as frightened as
a wee rabbit startled by a pack of wolves. Her eyes were red-rimmed
and her cheeks stained with tears. His heart wrenched a little at
the sight of her, and his conscience pricked him.

They had yet to take her home, and he knew it would
bear its own consequences come the morning light, but it could
scarce be helped. He could spare not a man to see her safely to her
father—could not spare them from the search for Meghan. And neither
could he simply have let her go, not as a matter of principle, and
certainly not in light of Meghan’s disappearance.

He averted his gaze, rubbing at his temples, unable
to face the lass as yet, as he knew she was like to have considered
the consequences of her having spent the night unchaperoned in his
home.

Damn, but troubles never ceased.

“
You did not find her?” Alison
asked apprehensively, though hopefully, peering up at him, her eyes
wide.

Leith met her gaze, shook his head, and sighed.
“Nay, lass. We didna.”

“
And did you search the
meadow?”

Leith nodded.

“
And the woodlands?”

“
Aye, lass,” he answered. “Colin
and Gavin are still searching as we speak.”

“
Poor lads,” she said, her
expression full of concern.

Leith knew she was thinking of Colin; he recognized
that forlorn look upon her face. He couldn’t understand why Colin
did not see the good in her. He couldn’t perceive how his brother
placed such weight upon the fickle face, and so little upon the
heart. Alison MacLean was possessed of a beautiful heart and even
lovelier soul. It was discernible in her eyes and in every
expression that graced her sweet face.

And that hair, the color of Meghan’s it was her most
remarkable feature. Even her eyes, crossed as they were, were like
Meghan’s... The two were not so dissimilar, he thought. As children
they had looked naught alike, but it seemed to Leith that as they’d
grown up together, the two had begun to resemble one another
somewhat. It was peculiar.

He stared at her, thinking that a man could do much
worse than to look into those eyes before he closed his own to
sleep at night.

“
Did you find the wee lamb,
perchance?”

He cocked his head at her. “Lamb?”

“
Aye,” she replied. “Do you not
recall I told you I left a lamb for Meghan to find?”

“
Oh! Aye!” He straightened in his
seat. “No sign of the lamb either,” he told her.

Her brows knit. “None at all?”

“
None.”

“
It seems to me,” she said,
thinking aloud, “that there should have been some sign of the
animal—hoof marks—something to show the path it took away from the
meadow. Don’t you think so?”

“
The ground is dry,” he pointed
out.

She nodded, frowning. It was only then, with that
small defeat, that he recognized the dread in her expression. Her
face grew wan. Her eyes met his, and they were so full of fear that
Leith once again had the most incredible urge to hold her... to
fold her under his arms like a mother bird did with her
hatchlings.

And it struck him then that she had yet to voice
concern for her own situation. He knew she had to have considered
the consequences of her remaining unchaperoned in his home. How
could she not have? With every moment that passed, she was
compromised all the more. As it was, dawn was quickly approaching,
and they had not even sent a messenger to her da, letting him know
of her whereabouts. As much as he loathed the thought of doing
so—weary as he was, concerned as he was for Meghan—he knew he had
to rouse himself once more... for Alison’s sake.

“
I came to take you home,” he told
her.

She seemed to take in a fretful breath, but nodded
bravely. “Verra well, then... I am ready to go.”

Guilt pricked at him once more. “I’m sorry we did
not take you sooner, lass.”

“
I understand why you didna,” she
assured him, but it didn’t help to soothe his conscience. “I could
not have expected you to do so.”

Leith nodded, as he didn’t know what to say to her.
She was right, of course; Meghan was his priority just now, but he
knew her da well enough to know that she was not going to be
well-received.

She seemed to understand what it was he could not
say, for she told him then, “I came knowing it would be so, Leith
Mac Brodie... Dinna fash yourself over it, please.”

Compelled to speak his mind, Leith reached out and
took her chin within his hand, lifting it so that her gaze would
meet his own. “You’re a good lass, Alison. Dinna think otherwise.
My imbecile brother does not deserve you.”

She smiled softly, and the sight of it lifted him at
once, but he wasn’t simply saying so to make her feel better. He
believed it with all of his heart. Aye, MacLean’s daughter would
make some man a fine, fine wife.

“
Come now,” he urged her, “let us
go and deliver you home.”

She didn’t come down for the evening meal, and Lyon
thought it prudent to leave her be, as she needed time to think
about his proposal. No matter that he’d threatened to force her
hand, he would not, he knew. He might not need her compliance, but
he wanted it nevertheless, as he was well aware that forcing her to
wed with him would not bode well for peace between their clans.

Nay, it was best to allow her some time to
think.

And it was just as well that she’d not appeared, for
it had taken him long hours to prepare his letters. He returned to
them directly after supping, and only completed them when the hall
had fallen to silence for the evening.

His chamber was dark when he returned, and he stood
in the doorway, allowing his vision to adjust to the blackness
before entering.

The only light that filtered within the room was
that from the gaping hole within his ceiling. The shutters were
nailed shut as they had been in peril of falling off when he’d
moved into the manor a mere month before, and he’d thought it
better, for now, to keep them closed rather than to have them not
at all. At least they were secure.

There was much work to be done, and so little time.
His chamber had been left to repair last, as he had only so many
men to spare, and the entire manor had been in disrepair when he’d
acquired it. It made no difference to him, at any rate. He had
slept in worse places than this—hard cold stone floors and bare
ground.

To him the bed was an indulgence.

And the woman within it a mystery.

Peering up at the yawning hole in his ceiling, he
gauged the night sky. The stars were clear and the moon high, but
it was hardly bright enough to illuminate his way across the
room.

No matter, he knew his way well enough.

Having accustomed himself enough to the darkness, he
made his way unerringly across the creaking wood floor, stopping
when it seemed to sink beneath his feet midway across. He frowned,
testing it, and then looked up again at the hole in the roof,
shaking his head in disgust of the condition of the place. There
was no telling how long the hole had been there, or for that matter
how much snow and rain had dampened the floors.

Sighing, he made his way to the small desk that
occupied his bedside. Upon it he kept his most prized possessions:
his personal treatises. Placing the quill and inkwell down upon the
desk, he slumped within the chair, wishing now that he’d carried up
a candle to write by.

Tonight was one of those nights he knew sleep would
elude him... like a veiled lover whose face he craved but could not
see.

His gaze was drawn to the shadow stretched out upon
his bed.

He tried to make her out, but could not. The room
was entirely too dark, and his eyes too weary from staring so long
at his scribblings. He’d had to word the letters just so. He knew
how important it was to convey a precise message. And he was
pleased with the outcome. He planned to dispatch the letters first
thing in the morn.

David would feel thwarted, he knew, for he had his
well-laid plans and liked to see them carried out exactly so, and
yet Lyon also knew that his longtime friend was smart enough to
adjust when the need arose.

David hadn’t come so far as he had by being so
inflexible.

As the ninth son of Malcom Ceann Mor, David had,
against great odds, come to Scotia’s throne. But neither had he
come empty-handed, and that in itself had been a tour de force. He
had in essence ruled most of southern Scotia already, Cumbria, and
also Huntingdon and Northampton by virtue of marriage. He was, in
truth, one of England’s most powerful barons as well as Henry’s
brother by marriage. And he hadn’t come so far so fast by making
stupid decisions... or by turning his back upon his allies.

The first thing David had done, in fact, upon his
return to Scotia was to reward his friends—de Brus, FitzAlan, de
Bailleul, de Comines, and Lyon among the many. Though Lyon was well
aware that while David was sincere in his desire to reward those he
favored, he’d also chosen his beneficiaries with a particular
purpose in mind. It was his intent to bring the Highlanders under
his yoke, and God’s bloody truth, if anyone was capable of doing
that, David surely was. David had placed his friends shrewdly,
understanding well their strengths and their faults. And Lyon had
been granted the most ungovernable bailiwick.

And he knew precisely why.

Nay, David would not oppose him.

MacLean, on the other hand, could prove to be a
problem. Though Lyon didn’t think so. The greedy old bugger had
only agreed to yield this wasted slice of land in the hopes of
gaining favor with David. Ultimately, that was MacLean’s design,
Lyon knew, though he’d claimed it was the return of his land and an
alliance with Lyon. But an alliance with Lyon was an alliance with
David, and Lyon was betting that MacLean would not risk David’s
disfavor to challenge Lyon. All these things he’d pointed out to
David in the letter, as well.