Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (16 page)

And yet...

“You dinna frighten me,” she told him, though the hammering of her heart within her ears belied her bold claim.

“I know,” he said, and smiled. He winked at her. “But let us see if you can say that still... after you have finished the manuscripts.”

Meghan lifted her chin. “Do you give me permission to read them?”

“Nay,” he answered, his eyes glittering with challenge.

Meghan’s brows knit. “Nay?”

“Nay, Meghan,” he countered, rising from the bed and making his way toward the desk.

He lifted up the manuscripts and suspended them before her. “Rather I am daring you to read it.” And he tossed them upon the bed. “See if you can still look me in the eye afterward and say I am not so wicked as I think.”

A knock sounded upon the door.

Lyon abandoned the manuscripts to her to answer the door.

Cameron stood there. “Baldwin says for you to come quick.”

“What is it?”

Cameron peered within the room, casting a pointed glance at Meghan, then nodded and said, “He says for you to come, is all.”

“Judas,” Lyon said, understanding the unspoken message. He turned to Meghan. “Are you comfortable, Meghan?”

She lifted a brow. “As comfortable as a wounded prisoner can be.”

He grinned at her, seeming satisfied enough with her reply. “I shall be back directly then,” he said with a wink. “In the meantime, enjoy the read... if you dare.”

And with that challenge, he left her to her curiosity and his manuscripts.

“
T
ell
him Leith Mac Brodie says we’re not leavin’ till we see our sister.”

“Tell him yourself,” Lyon charged as he approached the armed gathering within his courtyard.

His men parted, giving him room to enter the circle they’d formed about his mounted guests. He had to admire these Scots, riding in as they had, just the three of them against his greater numbers. These Highlanders were nothing if not fearless.

“Meet the devil, Lyon Montgomerie,” the stockiest of them proclaimed. He charged his horse at Lyon, but his men moved forward at once, blocking him, and he jerked the reins back, bringing the horse to a protesting halt. “You have no right to take what does not belong to you.”

“So says the man who now owns five of my goats and a blasted cow, as well.”

“You started it, mon. You cannot thieve from us and not expect us to retaliate. And you cannot take our only sister in turn for a handful of goats and a milk cow.”

“Who started this?” Lyon countered, unable to believe the gall of that single remark. It was his goat that had been discovered in their hands, not the other way around, as he recalled.

“You did, Sassenach,” said the third Brodie.

Lyon didn’t even feel the need to reply, ludicrous as it was. Accursed Scots. “You’ve short memories,” he said to no one in particular. “And who makes these rules?” he asked of Leith Mac Brodie. “Who dictates what eye is to be plucked for another?”

“Honor makes them,” Leith Mac Brodie returned.

“Whose honor?” Lyon contended.

The two of them faced each other, neither relenting.

“The fact is I caught your sister in the act of stealing from me,” Lyon told him. “I did no more than to arrest her.”

“Liar,” shouted the bigger Brodie.

Lyon turned to face him directly, his jaw taut with restrained anger. “No man has ever called me that and walked away with his arms still attached to his body.”

The impudent Brodie returned his glare, undaunted, his hand going to his sword. Lyon watched his every move but didn’t respond save to raise his hand when his own men drew their own weapons.

“Aye?” the other man replied. “Well, Colin Mac Brodie has now. My sister steals from no one—no one, do you hear me—not to save her own life. Speak that lie again, Sassenach, and you’ll rue every syllable to come from your mouth.”

Lyon’s hand went reflexively to the sword at his belt. He flexed his hand upon the hilt, reminding himself that he was speaking to Meghan’s brother—reminding himself, too, that Colin Mac Brodie stood now for his sister’s honor. He’d like to think he’d do the same were the situation reversed.

“You can call me a blackguard,” Lyon told him as calmly as he was able, “because ‘tis the truth. And you can call me a thief if it please you, as I’ll not mince words, but do not ever again call me a liar, Colin, or I’ll slice your tongue from your mouth and feed it to you with my fist. Do you understand?”

Colin’s eyes burned with fury. “If that was said to strike terror into my bones, Montgomerie, then you failed. Give us Meghan, or we’ll show you the meaning of terror.”

“I’d have you remember where you are, Colin Mac Brodie,” Lyon apprised him. “Do not try my hospitality.”

Colin spat viciously upon the ground. “Standin’ before a lyin’, thievin’ Sassenach,” he answered. “That’s where I am.”

“Colin,” Leith Mac Brodie barked at his brother. “Cease.”

Lyon nodded at Leith. “Wise man.” He turned to Colin. “You should heed your brother, whelp.”

Colin launched into an explosion of expletives.

“Aye, he should,” Leith Mac Brodie interjected. “But dinna mistake me. I will be leaving here with my sister, Montgomerie. You have no right to keep her.”

Lyon said naught; he merely removed his hand from his sword and crossed his arms.

“I will not go without her,” Leith asserted.

“Aye,” Lyon countered, “you will, as your sister is in my custody by David of Scotia’s command.”

“That Sassenach-lovin’ cur holds no sway in these parts,” Colin hissed.

“Aye,” Lyon said, “he does, as he does with me.

“Return Meghan to us,” Leith Mac Brodie persisted. “And we shall go and the bad blood be ended between us.”

“Nay,” Lyon said, and uncrossed his arms. “I’ve decided that Meghan is the solution to our little dispute.”

Leith Mac Brodie urged his mount forward suddenly and approached him. Their gazes locked, held. “Solution?” he asked, coming to a halt before Lyon, looking down upon him with narrowed eyes. “What is it you are proposing Sassenach?”

“I’ve decided to make Meghan my bride.”

“You shall not,” Colin Mac Brodie erupted.

Lyon ignored him. “That should put an end to our disputes once and for all,” he pointed out, “as what is mine shall in essence be yours and what is yours shall in essence be mine. No more quarreling.”

Leith Mac Brodie remained silent, scrutinizing him.

“Meghan wants no husband,” Colin proclaimed, spurring his mount forward as well. “So you can forget that, Montgomerie.”

“I’ll not agree to such a thing,” Leith announced, after a moment’s contemplation. “Not unless I see my sister and she agrees to the same with her own lips. No other way, Montgomerie.”

“Well,” Lyon said, “then you have wasted your time in coming here today, because Meghan is not seeing guests. She is indisposed, as well you know.”

“Montgomerie,” Leith warned him, his lips thin with anger now, “I cannot force my way past your guards today, but hear me well... I’ll not rest until I see my sister where she belongs. And if you will not let me see her now as a show of faith, I will not promise to fight fairly. I will leave here, as you leave me little choice, but Meghan is my flesh and my blood and I’llna abandon her to you so easily.”

Lyon ignored the prick of his own conscience.

He wanted this too badly, he knew.

“I am asking for a fortnight,” he said stubbornly. “Give me that time with Meghan, and thereafter I will allow her to decide freely. If she chooses to leave, she may go of her own accord. That is the best I can do.”

Leith seemed once more to contemplate his request.

“You expect us to simply abandon her here, Montgomerie?” Colin countered. “Knowing she is wounded and in need of us? I dinna think so, you rotten knave.”

“Return her to us, woo her properly,” Leith said.

It was a reasonable enough request, but Lyon could not agree to it.

“Nay,” he answered. If he returned her now, he knew, he’d never see her again.

He needed time.

And right or wrong, he was willing to wield his sword to keep her.

“Sassenach,” Colin spat. “Lay a hand upon my sister and I’ll do some slicing of my own.”

Lyon met Colin’s gaze, assuring him, “I give you my word I’ll do naught to your sister she does not wish me to do.”

The quietest brother rode forward then and whispered into Leith’s ear. The two spoke an instant, and then Leith nodded, and turned to face Lyon once more. “Your word?” he said. “And what assurances have I that your word is honorable, Montgomerie?”

Lyon considered his answer carefully, and then spoke truthfully, as there was no other way with him. “None at all,” he replied, “save that I value honesty above all else.”

Leith contemplated his words, and then announced, “Not good enough.” He motioned for his men to follow. “We’re going, but you’ve not seen the last of us, Montgomerie. My sister is not some beast to be bartered.” He whirled his mount about and spurred it away, forcing his way through the circle of Lyon’s men. “I’ll see her an auld maid before I see her unhappy,” he swore as he thundered away, his brothers at his heels.

“Sassenach,” Colin said and spat upon the ground as he followed his elder brother.

Lyon watched them leave, and for the first time in a long time, experienced a twinge of guilt for his actions.

It confused him.

He’d done things in his life for which he should have prostrated himself upon the ground, and yet he hadn’t felt guilt then. He’d always done whatever needed to be done, with the least amount of brooding, because to dwell upon them brought madness. But this moment, as he watched Meghan’s brothers ride out from his courtyard, he felt a prick of conscience.

It was as though Meghan Brodie, somehow, in the space of a single day, had revived him in whole, body and soul.

It was as though he’d been slumbering and now reawakened—by a smart-mouthed, canny-eyed siren who might or might not be mad, as well.

He shook his head and turned toward the manor with the intention of returning to her, and then stopped and forced himself to turn around and walk away.

He would go to her soon enough, but just now he needed time to think. Nor could he so easily face her after refusing her brothers so coldly.

He didn’t particularly like himself at the moment, and he needed to determine why, when he’d felt far less remorse for much worse.

M
eghan completed the second essay
, and forced herself to set the manuscript aside and contemplate it, before going on to the next.

Sometime during the years in which the second essay had been written, Piers Montgomerie had ceased to exist and Lyon had been born. What had begun with noble cause—his pursuit of justice—had ended with a far, far different tone. Meghan had no notion what had happened to him, precisely, as he didn’t elaborate within his texts—perhaps naught at all and it was simply a consequence of the life he’d led—but he’d ceased to claim any noble incentives at all. In fact, he seemed quite resigned to his own avidity, and even irreverent when his pursuits conflicted with those of others. And the detached manner in which he spoke of himself within the text was both unapologetic and yet self-reproachful. In truth, had Meghan not read the previous essay, she might have taken him at his word: she might have believed him no more than an evil greedy knave, concerned only with his own personal gain. It seemed to Meghan, however, that he was not content to be what he was. It seemed to her that he had embarked upon a search and somehow had ended empty-hearted.

He was testing his limits in an effort to... what?

Had he lost something of himself along the way and tried to recapture it? Had he found himself numb and yearned to feel again?

She knit her brows and pondered those questions. She couldn’t quite discern what drove him... couldn’t quite put together the two sides of this man.

Still, she didn’t view him as wicked precisely, no matter that he thought so of himself.

But there was still more to read, she knew.

Perhaps, in truth, she would think so after.

With her good hand, she lifted up the manuscript once more, set it upon her lap, opened it, and turned another page.

The next essay was titled simply
Plaisir.

She wasn’t familiar with the word... Plaisir... plesir... plesur...

Pleasure?

Something like fluttering wings erupted from her belly and soared into her chest.

Her heartbeat quickened as she turned the page and read...

I am my mother’s son. I understand her too well to condemn her for her vices.

Her heart beat faster as she continued...

I can deny it if I so choose, but the evidence speaks volumes without nary a word passing between my lips to another’s.

Meghan’s heart tripped. How could she continue to read this essay, when it was so obviously a private matter? And yet how could she not?

He wanted her to read it.

Had dared her to, even.

Beauty is my vulnerability,
he wrote, and her heart leapt at the words. Curiosity bade her go on...

... has always been my weakness. Beauty turned my eyes from the university, my hands from justice, and my heart from piety. And in my covetousness I walked away and never looked back. And where is it I walk to? Where is it that I stand?

Where is that boy who once yearned for knowledge and virtue?

I doubt now his existence, as no trace of him seems to remain.

Meghan paused, inhaling a quivering breath, her heart aching for the man whose words spilled like lifeblood upon these brittle pages. She caressed the bound parchment... feeling it beneath her palm... wishing it were the sweet face of that little boy of whom he spoke so distantly. She heard the confusion in his chosen words, the condemnation, too, and wanted to tell him that no man who agonized so, no matter how wrong his choices, could be so wicked as he believed.

She took another deep breath, her heart pounding, and continued...

If one must conclude that happiness is associated with the fulfillment of one’s nature, as Socrates suggests... then I should be well sated... and yet I am driven here once again to pour my words upon these pages in hopes that I should find that part of me which remains absent from my soul.

While I cannot deny the physical pleasure my body receives in these vices, the satisfaction is fleeting. And I sit behind my papers now... knowing only too well that next time it will take so much more to bring back the trice of contentment which Eros brings.

It makes me weary to think of it only.

Plato, I think, claims Eros to be passionate rather than calm, and thus demanding, irrational, and even obsessive, and Protagoras observes it as one of the impulses that may overcome one’s knowledge of good. On this I can agree wholeheartedly, as I have experienced the above in full. But Eros defined it as the desire for the beautiful? I’m afraid this I must dispute, though my eyes and actions might call me a liar.

In truth... I have wallowed in beauty like a swine wallows in cool mud, surfeited my body in ways to be delineated in this very text, shocking though the experiments might be, and it is my contention that Eros is far more than a desire for merely the beautiful.

It is a desire for something more, as well... something which my soul understands, but my heart has yet to see.

It is that which drives me from bed to bed, I think... and compels me again to leave.