Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (15 page)

“I have none,” Lyon claimed, and was aware of David’s surprised glance.

“Ah, but you do,” the woman demurred.

“This tree root,” he continued, overlooking her remark, “it comes from a land where you have never been, and you claim it a cure for madness, though you have never seen it work?”

“You are not a believer of medicine, I take it?” she asked, cocking her head inquisitively.

He wasn’t a believer in anything at all, if the truth be known, except in life and in death. All else, according to his mind, was merely illusion. He lifted his brow. “I believe your nose scents gold, old woman.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Not precisely,” she yielded. “What I do scent is something far more valuable than gold.”

“And what makes you think I’ve anything of value between these walls? Look about,” he charged her. “Do you see the hole in my roof and the one in my floor? Tell me, does this strike you as the home of a wealthy man?”

“These auld eyes,” she said, “see more than you think. For instance, they spy the look in your eyes when you gaze at her.” She glanced down at the bed where Meghan lay, resting peacefully. “It is the look of a man who loves a woman.”

“Then shall I pluck out my eyes,” he asked acerbically, “and place them within your palms to pay for the potion? All for the love of a woman? Do you think me a fool who can be taken advantage of over some sentiment you perceive I bear?”

The light in her eyes faded.

She seemed disappointed.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” she said and turned away to make a few last-minute inspections of Meghan’s sleeping form. “She’ll sleep until the morn, I think. Dinna let her rest upon that arm, as it must heal exactly as I have set it. As for the wound upon her head,” she continued, “it bleeds, but it is not deep. Simply leave it be and it will heal on its own.”

Lyon watched her gather up her belongings—her potions, her needle, and her thread—and was grateful she had not had to use the needle upon Meghan’s lovely face.

“If she should need me,” she began, “I shall—”

“Wait,” Lyon urged her.

She spun to face him, the gleam in her eyes once more apparent.

“Are you certain it will work? This potion...”

She gave him a discerning glance. “Nay, there is never a surety. But the root is said to purify the mind and return its lucidity. It is said to make the weak mind strong, and to create genius in that which is already keen.”

“Very well,” he relented, “I shall pay your price, old woman. Work your sorcery.”

“But there is one last thing,” she apprised him, her eyes narrowing. “There is yet another price to be paid beyond that you will render to me.”

“Another price?” He gave her a deprecating glance. “More gold? Perhaps you’d rather have jewels or cloth?”

She smiled, flashing teeth that were far too white to be so old. “Nothing such as that,” she assured him. “Though this price is to be paid by her, as well.” She nodded at the bed where Meghan lay.

“And what price might that be?” Lyon persisted, his tone fraught with sarcasm.

“The potion is sometimes disfiguring.”

His brows collided. “Disfiguring?”

“Aye,” she said, giving him a knowing look. “To the face. There are those who form a reaction to it,” she explained. “Sometimes merely a pox... sometimes more... but you cannot know until it happens just who will, and who will not. If you think it more important to have a pretty face than a keen mind... dinna give her the potion. But... if she truly matters to you...”

Her implication hung in the air for him to ponder.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “And is that all? The potion is safe aside from that?”

She seemed pleased with his response, for her smile manifested now within her peculiar eyes. “Aye,” she answered, and then declared, “I have the root with me now, but ’tis useless to you without the elixir. I shall have it prepared by this eve. Have the gold in hand when I arrive,” she commanded him, and with that, turned and left, leaving him and David to stare at each other in wary contemplation.

Lyon turned to the woman lying so quietly upon his bed. The old woman had claimed he loved her.

Did he?

Could he?

He knew he wanted her, knew he craved her even.

But love?

Love was something he had never believed in.

So what was this strangeness he felt? This bond he shared with the woman lying there so still?

Obsession?

D
avid departed before eventide
, with the intent of paying the Brodies a visit.

It was their right to be informed of Meghan’s accident. Were the situation reversed, Lyon would appreciate the same courtesy. Right or wrong, however, he had refused them visitation, and David had agreed to uphold his decision, and to soften the blow of his refusal with a personal appearance. It was more than Lyon had a right to ask of David, since the Brodies surely would not accept Lyon’s decision so blithely.

Lyon was perfectly aware that he was being unreasonable, but he also understood that if her brothers came to see her... and Meghan asked to leave with them... he would look at her in the condition she was in...and he’d not be able to refuse her.

He wanted the chance to win her.

It had suddenly become crucial to his state of contentment. He didn’t understand what it was about her that drew him, but she did. Her very presence had somehow banished shadows from his life, like the morning sun, which dispelled darkness with naught more than its glorious appearance.

The old witch—it was how Lyon began to think of her—returned as David rode from the courtyard. She seemed to appear from the night mist: he was alone one instant, and not the next. She handed him a vial, dispensing instructions for the administration of its contents. She’d laced the potion with mandrake, she’d claimed, something for the pain, and he was to measure it out to her judiciously lest he poison her. And then she had demanded her coin forthwith. After wishing him well, she vanished as swiftly as she’d appeared.

Clutching the precious vial within his fist, Lyon climbed the stairs to his chamber. When she awoke, he wanted to be with her. When she first opened her eyes, he wanted to be the one she saw.

And if she did not awake this eve, he would be content to simply watch over her... as long as he knew she would open those beautiful green eyes eventually.

He entered the chamber, closing the door behind him, and went to stand before the bed. She looked so fragile lying there amidst his rent sheets and her own dried blood. The very sight of her made his heart wrench.

The torchlight cast dancing shadows over the bed, animating her face despite that she slept undisturbed. She was beautiful even now, though her poor face was bruised and wan. She looked more like an angel lying there so serenely, though he had to own he preferred the imp in her to the cherub any day.

The very thought of her temper and wit made him smile.

Guilt stabbed at him as he watched her.

He had no doubt she would recover, for she was strong and her wounds were minor, but he couldn’t help but feel responsible.

Had he not taken her against her will, none of this would have happened. She would likely, at this instant, be safe at home with her brothers.

And yet, he prayed that God would save his rotten soul, for he still could not find regret for his actions.

She stirred, whimpering softly, calling for Fia once again, and he frowned. Lifting up the vial in his hand, he contemplated its contents. It was entirely possible the elixir was a waste of time... that there was naught wrong with her at all... as he suspected.

But... what if he were wrong?

What if there were, in truth, some family madness she was cursed with, and he had in his hands the means to cure her?

He liked to think he was a better man than to sacrifice her sanity for the privilege of gazing upon a perfect face.

He watched her an instant longer, his heart sinking when she began to weep softly in her sleep. Curse him if he could be so shallow as to allow her to suffer for his pleasure.

His mind made up, he sat upon the bed beside her and proceeded to open the vial. There was enough within it for a sennight’s supply, the old woman had said. The results would be immediate, she’d claimed.

Well, the morning would bring answers enough. If he observed no significant difference when she awoke, he simply wouldn’t continue the treatment.

But if the differences were apparent... Well, then... he had the means within his hand to help her, and he would be selfish not to use it.

And with that resolved, he set about administering the potion.

M
eghan was
uncertain at what point her dreams became substance, but Lyon’s face was the first thing she saw when she awoke. He sat upon the bed, staring down at her, his expression concerned.

She’d been dreaming of him—strange dreams, pleasant dreams, but his was a constant presence—and she couldn’t say she was surprised upon opening her eyes to find him watching her.

“Welcome back,” he said quietly, his lips curving into a soft smile. His deep-blue eyes gazed at her with such warmth that it stilled her heart.

Surely she imagined the tenderness... He couldn’t possibly feel anything for her beyond those most superficial of desires.

Meghan tried to return a witty reply, but when she parted her lips to speak, only a moan of pain came from between parched lips. She lifted her head and peered groggily down at her arm. “W-what... happened?”

“Do you not recall?”

Meghan did, though she wished she didn’t.

Her arm? It hurt. It served her right. She averted her gaze to the bed, tears welling in her eyes. The entire ordeal made her feel both guilty and childish at once. It didn’t matter that she’d been pretending; he must think her a spoiled brat to have thrown such a wicked tantrum.

And her fit of fury had gained her what?

And what of the poor wee lammie? She was afraid to ask, but had to know. “W-where is...” she began, and choked on a sob.

“Fia?”

Her face burned with guilt, but she nodded, daring to peer up into his glittering eyes. His expression was softer yet, no condemnation there to be seen.

He shook his head. “I... am... so sorry, Meghan, but the la—Fia,” he amended, “she... is... gone.”

Meghan gulped back another heartfelt sob, feeling incredible shame.

“There was naught to be done,” he continued gently. “But know that it—that she did not suffer,” he offered in condolence.

Tears rolled down Meghan’s cheeks. She didn’t have to pretend grief.

“Poor, poor wee lammie,” she sobbed, bringing a hand to her mouth in remorse. “ ‘Tis all my fault.”

He shook his head. “Nay,” he argued.

“ ‘Twas not—” He narrowed his eyes. “Poor wee lammie?”

Meghan couldn’t bear that she’d been the cause of the poor animal’s death. If it hadn’t been for her tantrum... “Aye, it is all my fault,” she cried. “If only I hadna—”

“Nay,” he said quietly, though with a lingering frown upon his face. “It was not your fault, Meghan. You couldn’t possibly have known the floor would give way beneath you. If the fault lies with any, then it lies with me, as I knew the ceiling was weak and in disrepair. I should have fixed it long before now,” he said, and shook his head with a look of self-disgust.

His gaze met hers once more, and Meghan recognized the regret in his deep-blue eyes. He didn’t have to ease her own burden of guilt, she knew, and yet he was attempting to do that. Meghan appreciated his efforts, though she knew full well that she had to accept much of the blame. She should never have used the lamb so selfishly. It had been cruel enough that she had forced it to remain locked within the room with her. She simply hadn’t considered the animal’s feelings and needs.

She swallowed the knot in her throat and averted her gaze; the look upon his face was making her entirely uncomfortable.

Och, he couldn’t possibly be so bad as his essays would have her believe. The man who gazed at her now with such compassion over the loss of an animal was certainly not the same man who had proclaimed himself able to shed blood so easily for the mere price of gold.

“Well,” she said weakly, and it was the best concession she could make to the man who had stolen her against her will, and was now trying to steal her heart, “you could not possibly have known you would abduct me and lock me away in your chamber, now could you?”

He smiled a little at that. “Of course I could,” he countered. “Did you not realize that all men are base and weak of will?” He winked at her. “I saw your face and simply could not resist.”

Meghan had to quell the urge to roll her eyes at his proclamation. She tried to lift herself from the bed, and grimaced as pain shot through her arm.

“Do not move,” he commanded her. “Rest, Meghan.”

She seemed to have no choice in the matter.

Meghan felt, after that small effort, so weak. Even had she wished to refuse him, she couldn’t have. She was too weary to fight.

He produced a small vial from within his hand.

“What is that?” she asked him.

“Something for the pain.”

A faint sheen of perspiration moistened her brow, and her body trembled still from the meager effort of trying to lift herself from the bed.

“How long did I sleep?” she asked him. “It seems an eternity, and yet I would sleep again.”

“’Tis the drogue,” he explained, lifting the vial as though to inspect its contents. He was quiet a moment, and then turned to study her.

Under his scrutiny, Meghan felt a bit like a fly in a spider’s web.

“Though your arm was not broken, Meghan,” he said, “it was displaced and had to be reset. It’ll plague you for some time, I think. But this—” He lifted the vial to show her. “—should ease it.”

Meghan winced, and lifted her hand to her forehead, to the ache there. Her entire face felt bruised. Her cheeks hurt, and she had a headache, besides. Her entire body hurt, in truth. It was the least she deserved, she told herself.

Dear grandmother would be sorely disappointed had she lived to see that Meghan had had so little regard for a wee creature’s life.

“Your face remains unharmed,” he assured her, “all but for that wound upon your head.” He reached out then, parting her hair gently, inspecting the wound for himself, and Meghan flinched at his touch. “You’ll not be able to see it when it is healed, hidden as it is.”

Meghan glowered at him. Why did his reassurances make her feel bitter, rather than relieved?

“Pity,” she replied, before she could stop herself. “Were my face scarred, you would have little reason to keep me, now would you?”

He withdrew his hand then. “Is that what you believe?”

“Aye,” Meghan answered without doubt. “You said yourself it was my face that drew you.” And wanted to add that he’d kept her despite the possibility that she might be mad—so it wasn’t her mind that interested him, in any case. She had no doubt he would discard her if her face no longer appealed to him, but she didn’t say as much, because saying such a thing would imply that the notion disturbed her, and she certainly didn’t care whether she appealed to him or nay.

At least he had the decency not to deny it.

He merely stared at her without answer.

Her gaze was drawn once more to the little desk, to his manuscripts lying there. His essays confused her. The man sitting before her now, tending her so gently, speaking to her so kindly, could not possibly be the same who wiped blood from his sword without remorse.

She didn’t know what to think of him... what to feel.

L
yon
, equally bewildered, contemplated her accusation.

He couldn’t deny it, though he wanted to. But neither was he so certain of it as truth. There was something about the woman lying within his bed... something other than the perfect face and body... something in her eyes that beckoned to him... challenged him.

In truth, he was no longer certain that her face alone had motivated him to begin with... and yet... neither could he put his finger upon the attraction. He could scarcely claim he knew her mind and loved her for it. Nor could he profess to adore her heart, though he saw evidence of her goodness in the tears that stained her face over a mere beast of the fields—it didn’t matter whether last night she had thought the animal her grandmother or not; this morn he saw lucidity in her eyes—potion-induced or not—and he knew without doubt that she understood her true relation to the animal. And still she wept.

He also knew he would administer the rest of the vial to her.

The old witch had claimed she’d laced it with something for the pain, as well, and he could see the strain of Meghan’s injuries in her every expression, her every move.

She was watching him, he realized, and seemed to be waiting for a response.

He lifted his brows. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to deny it?” he asked her, and popped open the vial. “When I only admitted as much.”

“Nay,” she returned, “we both know what it is you want of me.”

“Do we?” She couldn’t possibly know what it was he wanted of her, as neither did he.

But he wanted her, that much was certain.

“I’m not stupid,” she told him.

He cast her a glance. “Perhaps not,” he conceded. “Now, however, I want only your tongue.”

“You’re just the same as every other mon,” she accused him then, narrowing her eyes. “Why do you want my tongue?”

“Why else?” he asked, and smiled slightly. “I wish you to take your medicine, is all.”

She was silent for a moment.

“You want to know what I think?”

“Depends,” he answered, “but I’m certain you’re going to tell me.”

“I think you’re not so wicked as you like to think you are,” she informed him baldly, and thrust out her tongue to receive her dram of medicine.

Lyon blinked, merely staring for an instant at the tender flesh she offered, imagining what it would be like to kiss her once, fully upon the mouth.

His jaws tightened.

“Nay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

He had to shake himself free from his thoughts in order to tip a few drops upon her waiting tongue.

She swallowed, and he licked at his suddenly dry lips.

“Nay,” she answered, and her gaze moved once more to his desk.

Lyon couldn’t help but note the direction of her eyes.

His manuscripts remained just as he’d left them, and yet... why did he feel she knew their contents?

It was highly unlikely, as he didn’t know many men or women who could read or write their own names, much less read a manuscript of its nature. He was well aware that it was onerous reading at best, interspersed as it was with both Latin and French. One thing he could scarcely claim to be was an engaging scribe. Much of the text, in fact, was incomprehensible as there were pages and pages of fragmentary ruminations—left so on purpose, for much of its content would gain him little more than persecution—interspersed with unclear references to the second manuscript.

His scribblings were naught more than the discourses of a man attempting to comprehend his own life’s purpose.

What was it going to take to bring him peace?

He hadn’t ever truly experienced contentment—satiation perhaps, but not contentment. And yet, though he’d never experienced the one, he understood the difference innately. It was a far, far different thing to satisfy the body than to satisfy the soul.

His body had many times known the gratification of a daring caress...a lurid kiss, but his soul had always been left wanting.

He watched her as she stared at his manuscripts, watched the expression upon her face...and knew.

She’d read them.

And yet... had she read them all... she couldn’t possibly make such a claim as the one she’d only just made to him—that he was not as wicked as he believed.

He
was
wicked

The evidence was manifested now within his chest. Even wounded as she was, the sight of her lying within his bed sent his heart through the roof.

How far had she read into his manuscripts?

Did she know his darkest desires... his fantasies?

The notion that she might... that she knew... and yet would still claim such a thing made his heart pound fiercely.

How far had she read?

“I’m afraid I
am
as wicked as I think,” he told her, feeling compelled to warn her. He smiled softly then, feeling quite predatorial, despite that she lay helpless within his bed—or perhaps because she lay so helpless within his bed.

That was the nature of the beast... the darkest side every good man fought to deny. But Lyon understood his beast all too well; it was not defeated by turning his back upon it. Nay, but you had to stare it in the eye, know it well in order to master it.

“You see,” he reasoned, “you cannot possibly know how wicked I think I am, therefore you cannot begin to suppose whether I am, or not, so wicked as I think. I could think myself only slightly wicked,’ he told her. “In which case you are safe enough lying there in my bed. Or... I could think myself absolute evil... and you cannot possibly conceive which of the two is true. Can you now?”

She sucked in a breath, instinctively understanding his challenge, causing her to wince, drawing his gaze once more upon her face. She swallowed.

His gaze lingered.

“I—I think I can,” she answered a little breathlessly.

“Though you cannot be certain, Meghan.” He cast a glance at his papers, wanting her to know that he knew... needing to know how far she’d gone. “Do you read?” he asked her casually, though his look was anything but that.

She followed his gaze to the desk. “A-aye,” she answered hesitantly. “I—I do.”

“Do you?” His gaze returned to her face.

Meghan’s breath snagged at the intensity within his deep-blue eyes.

“Aye.”

His eyes slitted, and her heart quickened its beat, tripping painfully.

He knew.

He knew she’d been reading his essays. Was he angry?

She thought not... and yet... the look in his eyes was anything but harmless.

“I think I need not ask how far you’ve read,” he said low, his voice softening to a mesmerizing note. “Because if you’d read far enough, Meghan Brodie, you would scarce claim any such thing to me... that I am not so wicked as I think. I am,” he advised her once more. “And you’d do well to remember it.”

Meghan suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

Her heart pounded like thunder in her ears.

Though she knew instinctively he’d not harm her—he hadn’t as yet, though she’d given him ample cause—she sensed the truth in his threat. She would do well to remember. Somehow, she had forgotten the tales told of this man. She’d forgotten how he’d won this little piece of Scotia. She’d somehow, from the very first, forgotten to fear him, when she’d had every reason to.