Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (13 page)

She peered up at him, blinking. “It says only that he holds her in custody for the charge of thievery.”

Behind the protective barrier of rails, Meghan stood looking down upon Lyon’s hall.

Her vantage point along the tiny open corridor offered her a clear view of all who came and went, and she needed only step back into the shadows if Lyon entered the hall below. Neither did she fear anyone would come upon her here, as only Lyon’s room could be accessed by the corridor, and no one seemed to dare climb his stairs, so Megan was able to observe her gaolers and make a plan.

The hall was empty now but for a few laggards who seemed disinclined to work whilst their master’s eyes were not upon them.

King David had remained rather than continue along his journey to Edinburgh, and he and Lyon had closeted themselves to discuss matters of consequence. She wondered what those topics might be, as David’s visits to the Highlands were rare. She was certain, however, their discussion did not concern her, as it was clear that her situation had been addressed and decided upon.

And she was hardly pleased with the outcome.

Yet neither could she argue it, as she had agreed to his bargain, and to admit she had been outwitted only made her feel foolish.

Nay, she wanted to make him regret his shallow-minded covetousness.

More than that, she needed to go home.

The only way she knew that Lyon had come to his room at all last night was because she’d awakened to his warmth upon the bed beside her, where he must have sat to ensure she was still asleep. His body was gone, but his scent had remained, and Meghan, her heart pounding fiercely, had dared to turn over upon the warm sheets, embracing it. It was a brazen thing to do, but Meghan, having slept within his bed for the second night in a row, was having the most peculiar thoughts.

She couldn’t seem to eradicate him from her brain—not that it was at all possible in her situation, she realized. How could she when she was occupying his chamber, contemplating wedding with him for the sake of her kinsmen, and reading his most personal thoughts?

She was really growing quite desperate.

Studying the hall, she noticed for the first time that it bore a similar ceiling to the one Gavin had had constructed within their chapel. Only this one was older and not domed. It was flat, as there were rooms above the enormous hall, but it was braced along the walls with the same sort of beams that supported the ceiling of the chapel.

The same sort from which that silly raven had peered down at her.

She had felt so helpless to reach it.

Meghan stared at the beam closest to her, the craziest notion entering her head, and then she peered down at the hall below.

One would have to be truly mad to perch oneself upon such a place on high, she thought, and noted the placement of the nearest beam...

If she could but reach it—and she thought she could—she could pull herself up onto it...

The thought of him looking up at her from below brought a cunning smile to her face. Well, perhaps she could convince him that she was mad after all. Determining that it was worthy of the effort, and certain she could see her grandmother doing the very same thing, Meghan went to the far end of the rail and reached out, trying to touch the beam. Stretching, stretching, she lifted herself up on tiptoes and giggled with mischievous delight when she was able to wrap her fingers about the board.

She tested it, tugging it to make certain it was secure, and then smiled and stepped up onto the rail, humming a merry tune...

“
L
yon
!” came a bark from beyond his closed doors, and was followed at once by a sharp rap. “Lyon!”

Lyon removed his booted feet from the table and peered at David, knowing instinctively that the news would not be good. The two of them had been discussing Iain MacKinnon, and the best course of action to take with him. Lyon had suggested that David consider returning to discuss the matter with Iain directly. Iain, as Lyon understood it, was a fair man, and Lyon believed in direct personal confrontation. At any rate, sequestered as he was with Scotia’s king, none would be so bold as to interrupt him here, lest the message be of grave import. Or…

“Enter,” he said, and braced himself as the door swung open to reveal a wan-looking Baldwin.

“Lyon?” Baldwin said apprehensively. “If I may beg pardon, I think you should come.”

Lyon cast a glance at David to find his old friend eyeing him curiously, brows raised. Rising from his chair, Lyon knew instinctively by the look upon Baldwin’s face that his interruption was about none other than Meghan.

What was she up to now?

“I shall return,” he said to David, and then asked as cordially as possible, “Have you perchance had the opportunity to sample the wine I sent you from Auvergne? I have some hoarded away for myself, I must confess. Perhaps you should like to try it now?”

David’s brows lifted higher. “In other words, you would like me to occupy myself here alone whilst you go and deal with your
guest
?”

Lyon’s lips curved upward. “You were ever a shrewd scoundrel.”

“As were you, of course,” David returned, flashing a cunning smile. He sighed. “Very well, Lyon, go and deal with your wench. I will wait.”

Lyon laughed. “I shall be quick,” he promised, and abandoned David to his own devices. Preceding Baldwin out the door, he demanded of him, “What now?”

“Uh... I think you need to see this for yourself,” Baldwin answered, and said not a word more.

Lyon grimaced. He suddenly wasn’t certain he wished to know what she was up to, as he was certain Meghan was determined to make him pay in blood.

As he entered the hall, he heard her singing in the most god-awful voice, but didn’t see her straightaway for the audience that had gathered at the sound. The noise was as hideous as that of some ghoul from the black woods. And her lyrics were none the better.

“I must go walk the wood so wild,” she wailed,

‘‘And wander here and there in dread and deadly fear I. Alas, where I trusted, I am beguiled. And all for one. All for one.’’

He didn’t have to search long for her. He merely followed the gazes of his men to find her perched, of all places, upon a ceiling beam like some bird in a tree. He halted abruptly at the sight of her. She was crouched upon a high beam with her hand braced upon the ceiling for support—singing at the top of her lungs, totally unaware of her audience, or so it seemed.

“My bed shall be under the greenwood tree,” she carried on. “A tuft of brakes under my head.”

Truthfully, he didn’t for one instant believe her mad, but he had to admit that she had to be just a little daft to perch herself up so high.

“Meghan Brodie,” he shouted up at her, his voice thundering through the hall. He didn’t wish to startle her, lest she fall, but her very position was frightening him. “Come down at once,” he hollered, but he worried for naught, as she didn’t seem the least bit disconcerted by his presence.

She stopped singing and cocked her head as she peered down at him. “You cannot make me, Sassenach,” she shouted. “And you cannot order me about. You are not my husband yet, nor are you my da, and I dinna have to listen to a word you say.”

“If I were your da,” he assured her, “I vow I would lay you over my knee and give you the strapping you well deserve.”

“Och,” she answered, unconcerned. “My da didna ever do such a thing, and neither will you. Besides, Sassenach, I like it up here,” she announced, and with that she giggled, a sweet childlike titter that made him uncertain whether to laugh or scold her.

With the deftness of one who might have been climbing trees for all of her life, she surged forward to straddle the beam with her hand still balanced upon the ceiling.

Lyon’s heart jumped, and like an aftershock. Startled murmurs filtered through the room.

“Meghan,” he shouted, blood rushing to his head. “Get yourself down here now.”

“No,” she replied flippantly. “I will not.” And she surged forward to hug the brace, and continued to sing. “The running streams shall be my drink, Acorns be my food. Nothing may do me good, but when of your beauty I do think.” She paused. “Isn’t that silly?” she declared suddenly. “To think a body would pine so for beauty alone.” She cast Lyon a pointed glance.

No one spoke a word, merely stared up at their demented guest. Lyon understood her barb was meant for him.

“My grandmother used to sing it to me,” she revealed to one and all.

“Meghan—” He asked her nicely this time. “—please come down.”

“Why should I?”

“Because...” He glanced at his men, annoyed by their presence now. “Because I do not wish you to fall.”

“Why?” she persisted, staring down at him, and he had the distinct impression she was trying to embarrass him.

Lyon had to crane his head to see her. “Because...”

“Never mind. I know why,” she announced suddenly.

He knew better than to ask what conclusion she had come to.

She was showing much too much of those gorgeous legs of hers.

“Want to know why?” she asked when he would not respond.

“No,” he answered resolutely. “I want you to come down from there, Meghan. Now.”

She adjusted her skirts, revealing far more of her luscious limbs than pleased Lyon. “Because you dinna wish for everyone to see my bum,” she answered despite his refusal.

Snickers echoed through the hall, but were quashed at once by the glare Lyon cast them.

“Meghan,” he thundered.

She merely giggled.

His patience ended, he started up the stairs after her. “You will come down if I have to drag you down.”

“Oh?” she replied. “That will be fun.”

The hall erupted again with giggles.

“No, it will not be,” he apprised her, “and neither will you think so when we have both cracked our skulls upon the ground.”

Meghan watched him climb the stairs and then come to the rail’s edge, scowling at her all the while. She lifted herself up, and the room below seemed to sway below her. She frowned back at him.

Och, but she did wish to come down now.

Despite her outward calm, she was quite uneasy at this great height. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. She was sorely disappointed that King David had not been present to witness her stunt. It seemed she had bestirred herself for naught.

“Where is David?” she asked Lyon when he thrust out his arms for her, demanding once more without words that she get down.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Busy,” he assured her. “I’m afraid he will not be attending your performance.”

Meghan scowled at him, vexed that he should guess at her reason for asking. She knew by the expression upon his face that he had. She peered down at the hall below, at the faces that stared up at her. Och, but sitting up here so high above them all was the epitome of how she felt—alone and under everyone’s scrutiny.

“Come down, Meghan,” Lyon demanded of her.

Meghan leaned to hug the beam suddenly, pouting, and said honestly, “No! I miss my grammie.”

He seemed uncertain how to respond to that, and Meghan’s eyes watered. She missed Fia terribly, and feared that never again would she feel the closeness she had shared with her grandmother—that unconditional acceptance that came with pure love.

He frowned. “Don’t you go and weep, Meghan.”

His arms were reaching out for her, beckoning, promising warmth, and Meghan’s resolve wilted.

“I promise to get her for you, if you’ll only come down,” he coaxed her, his expression full of concern.

He didn’t understand, Meghan knew, and yet she recognized the small victory in his concession.

Maybe she would, in fact, convince him that she was mad after all.

Blinking tears away, she forced a smile, and allowed him to help her down from the beam, uncertain what, if anything, she had accomplished with her silly stunt—except to make herself feel lonely.

Except to make her yearn.

She would be stronger next time, she vowed.

S
he’d had
them all thinking she was raving mad—she could tell by the looks upon their faces as they’d stared up at her—and then she’d had to go and spoil it all by listening to reason.

This time she was determined to carry her scheme through. Deciding that Fia didn’t look enough the part of an old woman, Meghan tore herself a piece of Lyon’s sheets and formed it into a scarf to tie about the lamb’s head. That done, she surveyed her handiwork. She hoped her grandmother would forgive her for it, but it couldn’t be helped. Now she looked more like Fia.

And this, after all, was war between her and Lyon.

“You look verra lovely,” she told the lamb, quite pleased with her handiwork. She gave the beast a quick pat to its head and smiled down upon it.

Strange, but she was growing quite fond of the wee animal. In a peculiar way it was almost as though she had acquired a new friend. She was only sorry she was forced to handle it so rudely. Her grandmother would have given her a tongue-lashing for it, she knew, as Fia had fancied herself a guardian to all creatures great and small.

She apologized to the wee lammie, for her grandmother’s sake, and when she was satisfied that both she and Fia were prepared to face their prospective audience, she urged the lamb out of the chamber door. Once out, she lifted it up to bear it down the narrow stairwell and hoped with all her might that they were all at the noonday meal because she wanted to make the greatest impact with her entrance.

She wanted to shame Lyon Montgomerie into doing the honorable thing—or at the very least embarrass him until even his toes turned red.

If truly he yearned for peace he could ask her brothers for her hand in matrimony, and let her decide yea or nay for herself—instead of abducting her like some barbarian and then resorting to wile to lure her into this devil’s bargain.

She frowned behind the little lamb as she made her way down the stairs. In truth, she might have bargained with the devil, but she was determined to save her soul.

Trying not to trip as she bore the lamb down the final steps, she entered the hall and was well satisfied to find that conversation came to an abrupt halt as she entered. Peering over the fidgeting lamb, she spied the confederates together at table and made her way purposefully toward them.