Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (19 page)

As he had last night.

It seemed she was naught but an impostor, and she didn’t know herself anymore.

Her cheeks heated at the turn of her thoughts, and she averted her gaze.

He reached out suddenly, drawing her chin up with a finger. “Meghan, lass,” he whispered, much more soberly now, “why does it bother you so that I think you bonnie?”

Ashamed of herself, Meghan withdrew her face from his touch.

He stood there gazing at her, and she felt utterly exposed beneath his scrutiny.

“Can it be that you do not see what I see?” he asked softly.

She lifted her gaze to his. “I know what you see,” she assured him. “And I cannot—I am not—” She couldn’t find the words to make him understand.

“Yours is the most lovely face I have ever set eyes upon.”

He didn’t understand.

Couldn’t possibly.

She wanted to be
more
than a face and body, didn’t he see? She wanted to be a heart and a soul and a brain, as well.

Leith had always appreciated her mind, respecting and needing her counsel, but out of fear that she would leave them perhaps, he had made her ashamed of the face she saw in the looking glass. To please him, as a wee lass she’d worn rags and never a ribbon in her hair. Her brother Colin boasted of her beauty, but never cared to know her deeper thoughts. And though she was closest to him of all, she didn’t recall ever once, not once, having had a meaningful conversation with him about such things as life and death and God. It was a pitiful state of affairs when she could say such a thing. And while Gavin was concerned enough with her spiritual pursuits, he discarded her philosophies entirely, and Meghan was only too aware of how he viewed those women who succumbed to their vanities.

Meghan yearned for someone to accept her as she was—all of her, not simply in parts.

She was terrified that behind the shell of her face and body was a woman who just could not be what everyone believed her to be. She was afraid that if they looked deep enough they would not like what they saw. She had listened to suitors enough to know that they did not see her as she was, only how they wanted her to be. They looked upon her face and made her a graven image, sang odes to her beauty and threw petals at her feet... as though she were some pagan virgin being led to her sacrificial altar. They set her upon a sacred pedestal and refused to let her down, even when she screamed and begged and yelled.

“Meghan,” he whispered, and lifted her face once more. “Look at me.”

Meghan did and swallowed at the intimacy with which he gazed at her.

“I do not care if I feel a fool for speaking my heart,” he said.

Heart? Meghan thought. Hah! Like every other man, he spoke with the fickle fire of physical attraction. Heart, indeed.

“I have never,” he swore, “wanted anything as much as I do you.”

“Me?” she asked, tilting her head in challenge. “Or is it my body you crave, Lyon Montgomerie?”

He lifted a brow. “I’ll not lie to you,” he answered, and slid his hand along her cheek, cupping it gently.

Meghan shuddered in response. And like a wanton she responded by tilting into his caress. Och, but she couldn’t help herself. He slid his hands beneath her hair, then to her nape, curling his fingers about her neck.

For an instant, they merely stood staring at each other, while her heart beat a warning in her ears.

Deny him now, this instant, she told herself, before you no longer can. Deep in her heart, she knew he would not force her. Last night was evidence enough if she doubted her instinct. He had pleasured her, and then had lifted her up into his arms and laid her within his bed, never appeasing his own body.

Walk away, Meghan Brodie.

Walk away now.

“I want... more than anything... to love you, Meghan Brodie,” he whispered, and Meghan was lost in that instant. Her heart leapt as he drew her closer. Faltering in her step, she went to him, and he wrapped his arms about her, gently, so as not to injure her arm, and Meghan was at once defenseless within his embrace.

His arms were too warm... his hands too reassuring... the beat of his heart much too close...

His hand slid upward along her back, gently, though she could feel the trembling of his fingers as it joined the other hand at her nape. And then sliding them both at once to cup her face within his two hands, he lowered his face to hers.

Her breath left her. Her heart jolted. It occurred to her in the instant before his lips touched her mouth that he hadn’t kissed her at all last eve.

The very thought of it... made her knees buckle beneath her. He caught her, and she cried out softly, not for the pain in the arm cradled between them, but because in that instant... his lips met her own, and it was the sweetest sensation she had ever known.

Meghan slid her arm about his neck, but she wasn’t certain whether her reaction was meant to support herself, or to clutch him to her lest he leave her wanting.

Closing her eyes, she savored the moment... never wanting him to stop.

“I want you,” he murmured. “I need you, Meghan.”

Meghan sighed softly in reply.

L
yon heard her
, felt her shudder in his arms

Heaven help him, it felt so right.

So good.

And in that instant, Lyon suddenly found what he’d been looking for all his life.

And it was a feeling unlike any he’d ever imagined.

Soul-deep contentment.

And to his surprise, more than anyone else’s, he’d found it in the arms of a woman, after all.

And her name was Meghan Brodie.

R
olling
white clouds feathered the heavens above, swirling across the blue sky like furls of spun silk.

Meghan had never imagined she could feel so free. She could scarcely believe she was lying in the middle of a meadow, in the arms of a Sassenach of all men, and relishing every moment.

For the first time in her life, she felt no shame in herself. She lay enfolded within his embrace, feeling his heart beat against her cheek, and felt only exhilaration at the sensation of lying so uninhibited within his arms.

He made her feel this way.

And she couldn’t help but smile.

She stirred, lifting her face from his chest, thinking they should head back, but he pressed a hand to her head, drawing her back to cradle her head against him.

“Stay with me,” he urged her.

Meghan wished in that instant that she could lay there forever, listening to the quickened beat of his heart. She wondered if her own still beat so fast.

“How is the arm?” He sounded concerned. “Did I hurt you, Meghan?”

“Nay,” Meghan assured him. He had done anything but that. In truth, he had been cautious to a fault. It was difficult, having been privy to his written words, because she couldn’t help but yearn for the unrestrained passion he had written about in his manuscript. He hadn’t been that way with her at all... He had been gentle and solicitous instead.

“Good.” He lifted her head gently from his chest. “I almost forgot,” he told her, “the reason I brought you out here, Meghan.”

Meghan had forgotten as well.

“Sit up,” he commanded her, and helped her to rise.

Meghan blushed as his gaze slid once again to meet her own. He curved his lips roguishly.

“What is it?” she asked, returning a demure smile of her own.

“Look about,” he commanded her, turning his head from her abruptly. “Do you see naught at all?”

Meghan did as he bade her, and saw nothing more than she had before: a meadow wide and green, resplendent with posies and heather. Colorful and bursting with life... except for a small plot of soil that had been freshly turned... a small bed of flowers replanted atop it.

She peered up at him, her brows drawing together in bewilderment.

“I hope you do not mind,” he said. “It was not my wish to make you sad, Meghan.”

“I dinna understand.”

“I buried Fia here for you.”

Meghan blinked in surprise. “You did?” She was staggered by the gesture. She hadn’t asked about the lamb, only because she hadn’t wished to know its fate, had assumed they would use the animal for its meat. Tears sprang to her eyes, though she knew it was foolish. It was naught but a lamb, she told herself. And his gesture... She didn’t know what to make of it.

She let go of him then and wandered as if in a daze over to the little mound.

He stared at her, seeming to be searching her face for answers. “I... I know how much she meant to you,” he said. “So I buried her. I hope you do not mind,” he said again, more than a little hesitantly.

Meghan shook her head, discomposed by his confession. She wasn’t certain what to think of a man who would bury a lamb, simply because she had claimed it was her grandmother, despite that he didn’t believe her.

Or had he?

Was he so willing to accept the body without the soul? As with Gavin, did her thoughts not matter to him? Her mind not at all?

Well, it didn’t matter at this instant, as she was overwhelmed by his kind gesture. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her.

Gulping down the knot that rose in her throat, she gazed down at the tiny plot of soil, kneeling down before it. She laid her hand lightly upon the loose soil, closing her eyes and letting a single tear run down her perfect cheek. “When?” she asked him, lifting her sorrowful gaze to his. “When did you do this?”

“Yesterday… when I left you. I came here. I am sorry if it was not the right thing to do, Meghan. I simply thought—”

“Shhh.” Meghan lifted her finger to her lips. Never had any man done something so heartfelt for her and her alone. He knew Fia was but a lamb, he had to by now, and yet he’d toiled out here in the sun simply to put her heart, nay her mind, at rest. He’d given a lamb a beloved’s burial; a vicious lion he surely could not be. “Hush, Lyon Montgomerie...” she stood, placing her finger now upon his own lips, “ and kiss me again.”

She didn’t have to ask twice.

Lyon trembled as he drew her into his arms, and kissing the tears as they fell from her eyes.

“Be mine,” he begged her, and gently covered her mouth with his own.

Meghan’s lips parted in helpless surrender, though she refused him an answer.

How could she reply nay when it was already so?

And neither could she yield her heart so completely.

They spent the entire afternoon upon the meadow.

It wasn’t until late that Lyon returned Meghan to the hall, bidding her go upstairs and rest before it was time to sup.

Meghan could scarcely protest as she was weary in a way she’d never been in her life. And her arm hurt terribly, besides.

She didn’t wish to, because she didn’t like the drowsy way it made her feel, but Lyon had left the vial of medicine upon the desk for her, and she was in too much discomfort to care if she supped at all. She was going to go take some of the elixir and lie down upon the bed, for it seemed that every step she climbed toward his chamber left her all the more fatigued.

He had asked to carry her up, but Meghan refused to be coddled in such a way. Her will was as yet her own, and she was perfectly capable of climbing stairs on her own.

In her weariness, however, she was blind to the figure standing in the shadows of the corridor leading to Lyon’s bedchamber.

“Meghan,” came an anxious whisper as she reached for the door.

Startled, Meghan whirled to find the old man Cameron stepping from the shadows toward her.

He peered anxiously about. “Is he comin’ after you?”

“Lyon?” she asked him, startled.

“Aye.”

Meghan frowned at his strange behavior. “Nay, but he did not say where he was off to,” she informed him warily. “If you’re needin’ to speak—”

“Nay,” he replied. “ ‘Tis you I wished to see.” He held out a small cloth sack and pressed it into her hands. “This comes to you from Alison, lass.”

“Alison,” Meghan said, suddenly feeling more alert. “Is Alison here?”

“Nay, lass, but I met her in the woods. She bade me give you this, and to tell you that it was she who came to tend you after the fall.”

Confused, Meghan took the sack from his hands. “It was Alison? But they didna say so.”

He gave her a look of reproach, lifting heavy red brows. “Neither did he say your brothers came to see you… while he was out there wooing you? I’m sorry but I spied you together lass.”

Meghan’s face warmed. “Leith and Colin and Gavin came here?”

“Do you have other brothers?” he retorted. “Aye, lass, they came yesterday, but he would not let them see you. In any case, they didna realize it was Alison who came to tend you, as she came disguised as an auld hag.”

“But how—”

“When they asked me if I knew of a physician, I answered that I knew of a midwife. They sent me out after her, and I brought Alison.”

Meghan could scarcely believe that Lyon would fail to mention to her that her brothers had come to see her. He had to realize she would be concerned for them, and they for her. It didn’t make sense to her that he could be so generous about the lamb, and then so ruthlessly deny her brothers and herself.

“Alison has a good plan,” Cameron revealed. “Dinna fash yourself, lass, we’ll get you home to your brothers soon enough.”

Meghan was confused. How could he kiss her so sweetly, say such warmhearted things... and then keep something so important from her?

She shook herself free of her thoughts, of the memory of his touch, forcing herself to consider her brothers. “What sort of plan?”

“The sort that will work, I think,” he said, and bent to whisper it quickly into her ear.

S
taring
at the manuscripts that were spread before her, the small vial of medicine clutched within her fist, Meghan sat transfixed at the little bedside desk.

It was, in fact, an ingenious plan.

If she had ever wondered about Alison’s shrewdness, and which of them had the keener mind—and she had not, she had always known Alison was the cleverer of the two—she certainly didn’t wonder now.

Meghan could never have conceived such a cunning scheme on the spur of the moment. As Cameron relayed it to her, she was to use the potion primarily for the pain, and the pouch of face powders and colors to validate the outlandish tale Alison had woven for Lyon’s benefit. She was to disfigure her face, make herself as unappealing as possible with the powders, until he no longer recognized her so well, so that when Alison came to replace her, he’d not suspect the two of them were different women.

With their hair and eye color so similar, and her own face covered with a veil, along with the doubts placed within his head by Alison’s shrewd tale, Lyon was certain to believe it.

Aye, it was a perfect plan.

Even if it failed, Meghan had every faith Lyon would simply let Alison go, as he wasn’t a cruel man. The worst that could happen would be that they would be discovered and they would have gained naught by it.

Meghan would remain with Lyon, and Alison would be sent home to her father with a scolding.

Not so terrible a thought to remain with Lyon, if the truth be known.

And if it worked... well, then... with Cameron’s help, she would be home with her brothers soon enough. And when Meghan was safely away, Alison would simply remove her disguise and slip away with no one the wiser.

The question was... did Meghan truly wish to leave?

She considered that a long and anguished moment and decided that it didn’t matter what she wanted. She owed it to her brothers to go to them. And if Lyon respected her enough to court her properly, then Meghan was certainly willing. No matter whether he held her heart or not, this was not the right way to go about it, she knew. Her brothers would never accept him this way, and she loved them all too much to choose between them. If Lyon wanted her truly, if he cared for her, if he loved her—aye, she dared to hope—then he would want her to come to him of her own free will.

As for the deception...

She set the vial of medicine down upon the desk.

If Lyon wanted her for more than her body, well then, this was the way to discover that, too, and Meghan refused to feel guilty for simply trying to find her way home.

And less so for attempting to learn the truth about the man who would have her heart.

With that decided, she opened up the little pouch, tugging the ribbon loose with her teeth, cursing her bad hand that she could not do this properly. That done, she set the pouch down upon the desk and removed a few items from it—a small piece of looking glass, a tiny box secured with ribbon, and a little bottle filled with a substance that appeared to be fine-ground meal.

To begin with, these would be enough.

Casting a glance first at the door, she struggled with opening the small bottle, popping the cork with her teeth at last. She poured a small amount of the flour upon the desk. Keeping her attention upon the door, she powdered her hand and then her face, making certain to blend it well. That done, she lifted up the small box and, with her teeth once more, she untied the ribbon that held the lid secure. She set it down then and lifted the tiny lid to find a substance like black ash within. She lay the mirror flat upon the desk, and dipped in a finger, bringing it to her eye, giving herself ghastly circles beneath. She was generous with the ash, but blended it well, and when she was through, she looked more like the living dead than a living, breathing being.

Scrunching her nose at the sight of herself in the distorted little glass, Meghan inspected her handiwork with a critical eye. Then she dipped her finger within the ash once more and added it to the powder upon her face, blending it well, and then dabbed on more powder to soften the effect.

When she was finished, the sight of herself within the tiny mirror was enough to make her grimace in disgust.

Deciding she had used more than enough for the first time, she re-covered the box, blew the remaining powder from the desktop, replaced the stopper within the bottle, and then placed the items once more within the small pouch. With her injured arm it was impossible to bind the box again, and so she did not even attempt it. She lifted the pouch carefully, so as not to spill anything, and then bent to place it carefully beneath the bed. When it was still visible from where she sat, she went to her knees upon the floor to better push it out of sight. No sooner had she done so when the door burst open.

Startled, Meghan sprang up at once, smacking her cheek against the corner of the desk in the process. “Ouch,” she cried, and bounded back up into the chair. It sorely seemed she was determined to kill herself in this place.

“Meghan?” Lyon said as though he didn’t recognize her. His brows drew together as he stared.

Meghan tried to appear unaware of his careful scrutiny. “Aye?” she answered, clearing her throat.

“Are... are you well?”

“Certainly,” she said brightly, and cast a glance down at the little desk to be certain the telltale powder was gone. She brushed away the last remaining traces and lifted her gaze to the door where he stood. “Why should I not be?” she asked, and then for good measure, lifted the vial of medicine within her hand to show him. She held her breath as he entered the room, closing the door behind him. He faltered in his stride as he approached her, and was frowning still as he sat upon the bed beside the small desk, scrutinizing her.

She lifted the vial once more and said a little nervously, “I—I thought I’d broken it.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. And he wouldn’t stop staring. Meghan’s heart thundered in apprehension.

Had she not blended the powders well enough? Was it so obvious what she had done? Did he think her hideous now? And would it matter to him if he thought her less than lovely?

He reached out and fingered the air before her face, almost as though he were afraid to touch her, and Meghan held her breath.

He cursed softly.

“What is it?”

He had only just left her.

How could this be?

Lyon’s gaze fell to the small vial Meghan held within her hand, and then he lifted his eyes once more to her face, scarcely able to believe the changes that had come over her in so swift a time.

“You have a welt upon your cheek,” he informed her, forcing himself to touch her at last, uncertain what else to say.

“Oh,” she answered, lifting her hand to the flesh that was even now beginning to bruise, “that? I bumped my face upon the desk when I bent to retrieve the vial.”

“I see that.”

M
ercy
, it appeared she’d bruised the rest of her face as well.

In fact, she looked much like she’d been beaten to death, buried, and then exhumed. He wanted to ask about the rest of her face, not merely the bruise, but didn’t dare. He wanted to ask if it hurt, but couldn’t find the words to speak. His gaze returned to the vial she held.

“You... uh... took your medicine?” he asked, swallowing the knot that rose in his throat, knowing she must have.

It was all his fault.

He had done this to her.

“Aye,” she answered, smiling, her eyes even now beginning to glaze over with that bleary-eyed stare the medicine seemed to give her—her gaze slightly askew, slightly unfocused.

He reached out to take the vial from her. “I do not think you need that any longer,” he said, but she jerked her hand away, placing the vial behind her back, out of his reach.

“Aye,” she asserted crossly, “I do.”

He scowled at her. “Why?”

“It lessens the pain in my arm. Is that not what you gave it to me for?” She tilted her head, gazing at him as though to read him.

Lyon had no answer.

She turned from him, and he continued to stare at her profile, aghast. And yet, even with her complexion so deteriorated, there was a loveliness to her features that could not be diminished. She reminded him of the
bean sidhe
—the sort of apparition who haunted a man by night, who stood within the shadows of the forest and wailed for his soul.

“I was reading,” he heard her say.

Lyon blinked. “My manuscripts?”

“Aye.”

He tried to focus upon her words and not her appearance, but seemed to be failing miserably. What had he done to her? “And what conclusions have you drawn?” He tried to sound casual.

“Only that these essays have a single theme among them.”

Her appearance forgotten for the instant in his curiosity, he lifted a brow. “And what might that be?”

“The pursuit of happiness.”

Lyon was struck with wonder at her conclusion. It was, in fact, the driving theme behind his efforts. All of his essays, though disguised behind a thousand other questions, amounted to little more than a simple quest for contentment—that was all. Though he understood what drove him, the answers eluded him still. In her arms he had come closest to experiencing that elusive fulfillment of the soul. And yet... now that it was done... and he sat before her... he felt content no longer.

He felt only discomposed.

Which drove him to wonder... was he truly so frivolous that he could love only beauty? Was he so shallow that only beauty could appease him? From past experience, he understood only too well how fleeting that form of pleasure was.

But there was no denying the way he felt this instant as he sat before her.

Confused.

Troubled.

Unfulfilled.

The feeling had begun the instant he’d left her late this afternoon and had spoken to Baldwin, for her brothers had returned once again, demanding to see her. Baldwin had sent them away, per Lyon’s instructions, and truth to tell Lyon was beginning to feel like the villain in some satiric play.

She peered up at him, and he focused upon her lovely eyes. The torch flame flared in the silence that fell between them. Its light flickered against her face, flashed within her eyes. He grimaced, for it gave them a slightly demonic gleam.

“What else?” he asked her, glancing away. “What else have you found?”

“That you are still searching.”

She brought her hand from her back and set the vial down upon the desk between them, luring his gaze to it. Lyon resisted the urge to seize it and smash it against the wall, lest it damage her further. He let it be, however, respecting her wishes, though he wanted more than anything to warn her what it was doing to her. And yet, to tell her such a thing he would need to reveal the true reason he had given her the potion to begin with, and the old woman’s warning, as well. And how could he tell her such a thing? That he’d thought her insane and meant to cure her? He was certain she would appreciate that not at all.

His lips twisted in self-disgust.

What was he doing to her? Greedy scoundrel, he was.

“Am I?” he asked. “Still searching, Meghan?”

She nodded, her eyes fixed upon his face.

“And do you know where I might find it? This happiness.” As he surely did not.

“Nay,” she answered, and then added, “But I know where you lost it, Piers Montgomerie.” It was the first time she’d ever used his given name, and he might have savored the sound of it upon her lips, but sensed a point to her use of it.

Lyon lifted a brow. “You know where I lost it?” How could she possibly, when he’d never possessed it at all? He studied her face. What was it she had gleaned from his words? “And where is that, Meghan Brodie?”

She shook her head, and answered simply, “
That
you must discern for yourself.” She gazed at him sadly, and in that instant, Lyon knew that she truly did know. How was it that he had searched all these many years, poring over his books, studying them meticulously, and this woman sitting before him could read his manuscripts and discover, in the span of mere days, what he had been searching for all his life?

Was it the potion, he wondered, that gave her such insight? If that were truth, perhaps he should take it himself.

“If I tell you…” She shook her head, “… ’twill be naught more than words.”

His jaw tautened as he nodded, understanding. Averting his gaze from her face to her hand, he noted it was stained black. Reaching out to pluck it up, he inspected it closely. Gasping softly, she jerked it back from his scrutiny.

“I smeared ink upon myself,” she said, seeming embarrassed by his study of her hand. “I hope you dinna mind, but I scribbled a bit upon your papers.”

Had she? In his curiosity, he reached to lift up the manuscript.

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Nay,” she exclaimed. “Dinna!” She stayed his hand.

He drew his brows together in confusion.

“Later,” she begged him, and he was acutely aware of the delicate way her hand lay upon his own.

The beat of his heart quickened at the warmth of her touch.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because!”

“Because why?” he persisted, and his gaze was at once drawn to her mouth. Perfectly formed. Sweet lips that were made for kissing...

He could scarcely help but recall the way they had trembled so sweetly beneath his own.

“Because,” she answered, and seemed to note the direction of his gaze... the turn of his thoughts... for her breath caught as he stared. Her tongue darted out to moisten lips gone dry, and they seemed to pinken before his very eyes.

He wanted to feel those lips upon his flesh... suckling... wanted to know what they felt like wrapped about him in the most intimate way...

His heart thundered within his chest.

“Do you not realize,” he told her, “what those lips of yours do to a man, Meghan Brodie?”

She didn’t respond, merely stared at his own mouth, her chest lifting with her inhaled breath. Her fingers curled about his hand, and the feel of them made him swallow the knot that formed in his throat.