Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (6 page)

He tightened his hold upon her waist, seeming to sense her rising fury, but answered calmly. “Certainly.”

“You did not mind the feud before?”

“Not particularly.”

“But now you do?”

“Aye.”

“And you wish to end it. Why?” she demanded once more.

He cocked his head, offering a waggish smile. “For the good of Scotia,” he answered evenly.

“I see.” Meghan gritted her teeth, restraining herself, though barely. “And when did it occur to you to be so noble?” She narrowed her gaze at him, casting daggers with her eyes.

His brows lifted. “Sudden inspiration, shall we say?”

Meghan lost her composure over that. She twisted wrathfully within his embrace, trying to little avail to free herself. If he wouldn’t let her go, she was going to see both of them toppled off his mount to the ground. “My sweet grammie said ye were all wolves, and ye are! Ravenous, gluttonous wolves,” she raged, maddened at feeling so helpless against his greater strength and unwelcomed good humor. “I’ll not wed with you, you thieving, conniving, lascivious, shallow-brained oaf of a man.” Och, he would not budge. “What are ye made of anyhow? Stone?”

No matter how hard she tried to free herself, he was faster, stronger. And he had the audacity to laugh.

“I do not see what is so blessed funny,” Meghan snapped.

He continued to laugh, restraining her with too-little effort, and Meghan, in her frustration, lunged at him, trying to find purchase for her teeth on his too-beautiful cheek, the knave.

He jerked away, laughing all the harder.

B
aldwin leapt
up and out of the fray. “I think you’ve gone as mad as the wench.”

“She’s mad as a fox, I wager,” Montgomerie declared, laughing still.

Mad as a fox.

Meghan ceased her struggles suddenly, hearing her grandmother’s voice as though it were a whisper in her ears.

“They think I’m mad,”
she’d said.
“I know they think I’m mad, Meggie dearlin’—and I am. I am! Mad as a fox.”
And she’d wink and cackle in amusement. And then more seriously she’d say, with a crook of her long, slender finger,
“You be the same, Meghan, dear, and with that face of yours you’ll possess the world in the palm of your precious hand.”

Grandminnie Fia had certainly had a way with people, as well as animals. Mad as they’d all thought her to be, she’d always seemed a step ahead of everyone, bending folks to her will. What would Fia do now? she wondered. What would she say to these English boors? How would she deliver herself from a situation such as this?

The little lamb bleated.

Meghan turned to see that the poor creature had retreated against the brush and was watching them warily. They had yet to accuse her outright of stealing the beast, which told her in truth that they weren’t entirely certain that she had.

She peered back at Montgomerie, gauging his expression. He was watching her curiously, waiting.

Mad as a fox… you be the same,
she heard Fia say to her.

The little lamb bleated again... and suddenly Meghan knew what to do.

She cast another glance at the lamb, trying not to smirk. So Baldwin thought her mad, did he? Well, it wouldn’t serve her to confirm the notion because he wouldn’t believe her then, but Meghan could certainly prove him right... if she tried.

She had mad auld Fia’s example to follow, after all.

It wasn’t easy to smother her grin, but she did so, thinking that surely Montgomerie wouldn’t wish to wed with her if he thought her mad.

She turned to face the wee lammie, and asked, “What did you say?”

“Not a thing,” Montgomerie answered, sounding suddenly nonplussed.

She cast him a glare. “I wasna speakin’ to you,” she snapped and turned again to the wee lamb.

The glade went utterly silent. It seemed that even the wind stilled in the treetops. She felt Montgomerie’s gaze hot upon her nape—Baldwin’s, as well. She prayed she could pull this off.

She waited for the lamb to bleat once more, and then replied, as though she were in actual conversation with the creature, “I cannot, Fia. I simply cannot. And you cannot make me.’’

Oblivious to her spurious indignation, the little lamb cried out again.

Meghan slumped her shoulders. “Nay,” she said, hoping she sounded perfectly disheartened, but respectful, “you never have.”

She lowered her head in a moment of contemplative silence, and the little lamb bleated once more.

Both men were suddenly very quiet, Meghan noticed, and it was all she could do to strangle the laughter that bubbled up in her throat.

She straightened now, wholly aware of the grip that slackened upon her arms. She thought he might be a little bewildered.

“Well,” she said, sounding utterly resolved as she faced the lamb once again. “If ye really think so, I will, grammie. But I will not like it.”

Baldwin scratched his head. “Is she talking to that beast?” he asked, sounding appalled.

Montgomerie didn’t reply.

Please talk back, she pleaded with the sweet little creature. Say something...
anything
...

The lamb bleated.

God bless you,
she silently lauded the animal.

“I’ll do my best, Fia,” she responded, then peered back at Lyon Montgomerie. “Verra well,” she said, sounding exasperated. “I will do it.”

Meghan could have sworn she’d caught the man with his mouth agape, but he recovered quickly enough. “What?” he asked, his expression clearly unsettled. “What is it you will do?”

Meghan rolled her eyes. “Why, I’ll wed ye o’ course, ye silly dolt. What else?”

He blinked, and Meghan felt almost smug over the look of surprise that appeared in his stark blue eyes.

“You will?” Baldwin sounded nonplussed as well.

“Aye. I’ll wed with him—but I will not like it.” she assured them both.

Montgomerie narrowed his eyes. “And why the sudden change of heart?”

Meghan lifted a brow. “Who says I’ve had a change of heart, Sassenach?”

“Very well then, why the change of mind?”

“Because she’s mad, I tell you,” Baldwin persisted. “Can you not see that, Lyon?”

Meghan smiled inwardly. Now was the perfect opportunity, she thought, to introduce them to “Fia.” It was all she could do to keep the laughter from her voice as she informed them both, “Because Fia says so, o’ course.”

Montgomery frowned at her. “Fia?”

She gave him her most guileless look in response. “My grandmother,” she explained, and smiled fondly at the animal, waving at it as though it might wave back. “She never leads me astray. My grammie always knows best.”

His face screwed with what Meghan could only interpret as disbelief, and she had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from giggling.

He blinked. “You
are
speaking of the lamb?”

Meghan returned a frown, pretending ignorance, and prayed she’d not spoil the effect by laughing out loud. “What lamb?”

He didn’t answer at once. “
That
lamb,” he said after a moment, pointing to the beast in question.

Meghan gave him a glower of the sort she usually reserved for Colin. “That’s no lamb, ye knave.” She pretended to be insulted. “That’s my grammie!”

He scowled. “You cannot be serious?”

“Of course I am,” Meghan assured him, trying not to laugh at the outrageous lie.

“Of course she is,” Baldwin maintained. “Do you not recall she was talking to the beast when we discovered her?”

The lamb bleated. Perfect timing, Meghan thought.

“Och! Nay! I dinna think I can do it, Fia.” Meghan exclaimed, effecting a tone of defiance. “He’s a foul tempered beast.”

“I am?”

“He is?”

“Mercy,” Montgomerie exploded. “You cannot believe I would fall for such a ludicrous tale? That’s a bloody lamb you’re talking to.”

Meghan didn’t have to pretend outrage now. His very tone vexed her. “I don’t know what you’re saying, Sassenach, but dinna ye dare speak so rudely of my grammie.”

“You cannot be serious?”

“I can, and I am.”

Lyon studied her face for some indication of her lie.

Her expression revealed only her umbrage.

She was a very good actress, he decided.

“You would have me believe...” He pointed at the lamb just to be certain there was no mistake. “... that dumb beast is your grandmother?”

“I would have you believe naught at all, Sassenach. I dinna care what you think. I’d have you let me go. And I take it back.” She tried to shrug free of him again. “I will not wed a mon who’s so rude.”

The little lamb bleated.

She turned to the beast, and said vehemently, “You dinna ken what you’re askin’ o’ me, Fia. I will not wed this brute. Not for Scotland, not for my brothers, not for peace, or anythin’ else.”

Lyon blinked in the face of her ridiculous tirade.

She couldn’t be serious.

She certainly looked serious.

She was talking to the beast as though it could comprehend every word she was saying. And the animal turned away, looking for all the world disgusted with her reply. If Lyon didn’t know better, he might have imagined the two were actually communicating.

He frowned as he looked from one to the other.

What the devil was he thinking? They couldn’t possibly be conversing. It was perfectly inconceivable.

Unless she truly was mad?

Something about the way she peered up at him then, the shrewd sparkle in those beautiful deep-green eyes, gave him pause. She watched him expectantly, and seemed to be searching his expression. And it struck him of a sudden... she wasn’t talking to the animal. She was contriving. Cunning lass. She was using Baldwin’s insult to her gain.

Well, it wasn’t going to work, because he was suddenly resolved to his plan. He wanted peace and was willing to sacrifice for it—particularly so when the sacrifice would make such a lovely bedfellow.

“Very well,” Lyon exclaimed. “The more the merrier. We shall simply bring your grammie home, as well.”

It was her turn to blink in stupefaction, and Lyon could but grin at her startled expression. “We will?”

“Aye,” he said rather exuberantly. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for having insulted your lovely grandmother. She does indeed know best,” he declared.

She narrowed her eyes, and gave him a look of apprehension that made him smile. “She does?”

He winked at her. “Of course she does. I can tell she’s a very wise woman.”

“You can?”

“Aye, and only consider the good we shall accomplish, you and I, if we follow your sweet grandmother’s counsel.”

“We shall?”

Meghan blinked. Somehow, this plan had gone terribly awry.

“If you can but forgive my churlishness,” he continued, “and agree to be my bride... you and I shall put an end to this feud once and for all. Only think of it. No more fighting—peace to all.”

Meghan lifted a brow. She doubted that very much; men were born to fight. She furrowed her brow. Rot and curse him, he didn’t have to present it all quite so nobly. But it was true. If he meant what he said, she had the power to end the feuding and her brothers would all be safe. She would be doing Alison a favor besides.

Still, she wasn’t quite willing to give up her yarn. Not yet. “Fia can come too?” she asked with lifted brows.

He nodded. “I give you my word,” he said much too soberly. “I shall do my utmost to make your grandmother welcome in our home.”

Meghan’s brows collided. “You will?”

He didn’t have to be so blessed accommodating. It wasn’t very easy to dislike him this way. Nor was it easy to think when he smiled at her so engagingly.

His blue eyes flickered with amusement.

At her expense?

Meghan thought so, but was unwilling to sound the retreat as yet. Stubborn she might be, but there was much to be said for sheer determination.

“And what of my brothers?” Meghan persisted.

“We shall invite them to the wedding, of course,” he said blithely.

Meghan winced at the very notion. She could scarcely imagine her brothers being so conciliatory. “They would dine upon your eyes and feast upon your tongue,” she apprised with absolute certainty. “Even were I to agree to such a thing, my brothers would never concede.”

“We shall see,” he said, and then instructed Baldwin to retrieve his mount. Baldwin did as he was told without another word. “And don’t forget grammie,” Montgomerie called after him.

Baldwin gave him a harried glance, but turned and went after the lamb. If Meghan hadn’t been so distressed, she might have had to laugh at his man called Baldwin, clad in his shiny silver mail, chasing after a bald little lamb.

“You cannot simply
take
me,” she protested, when it seemed he was perfectly serious. “Not without giving me a chance to speak to my brothers. They will never agree to this.”

“Then we shall find a way to convince them,” he told her, and spurred his mount, drawing her firmly against him.

“Never,” Meghan vowed. “Never!”

“
Y
e can force
me to stand at the altar, but ye canna make me say the vows.”

Lyon merely smiled. “We shall see.” He hadn’t met a woman yet he couldn’t woo with pretty words and a few stolen kisses. Women were fickle creatures, or so it seemed, with pudding hearts and insatiable vanities; they said
never
all the while their hands reached out to draw his lips to their lovely, greedy mouths.

That was his experience.

Not even his mother had been so different: all the while she’d claimed her independence from men, she’d been a slave to her pride. And she was, in truth, a beautiful woman—even now in her later years. At two score and two years, his mother still commanded her choice of men. They gave her jewels and fine cloth and anything her heart desired... until she grew tired of them and discarded them for another. They even mourned her when she was gone. Lyon could easily count upon his two hands—and then some—the many men whose hearts his mother had collected.

And yet his mother was not hard-hearted. She was kind and generous and good-natured to a fault. And if she never returned her suitors’ affections, she treated them well. She lived her life without concern for anything but the present. Lyon admired her for that. It was something of a mystery to him that most people either remained so entrenched within the past, or lived entirely for the morrow, that so few remembered to live for the moment. And he was as guilty as any.

Not today... not this moment. He was following his greatest impulse just now, and didn’t care one whit about the the consequences. It had been too long since he’d followed his gut.

His mother had cosseted him in his early years, encouraging him to follow his heart’s desires. She’d sacrificed to see him well educated. She’d made compromises for his sake when she would never have done the same for herself. Lyon’s greatest regret was that he had forsaken his own institutions. He’d relied all of his life upon his size and brawn to survive amongst peers who’d viewed him as little more than a castoff, a poor relation. Though never acknowledged by his father, he’d grown up amidst the elite of Henry’s court. And it hadn’t been long before he’d discovered that might and sword brought respect in his cast-off world. And with little hope of ever earning his own fief or pursuing his own life, he’d resigned himself much too early to a mercenary way.

He’d compromised his convictions.

For what? A fistful of jewels and a bloody sword.

Women had come and gone from his life during that time, but he had regarded them as little more than passing fancies—a mutual perception, he was well aware—for he’d had nothing to offer them, nothing to give of himself. From the time he’d been a lad, he’d known he was destined to be alone. As a boy he’d stood apart from his peers, an observer, his hours spent in learning with the clergy. When he became a man, others trod lightly in his presence. It was the most he could have expected.
Respect.
Even if they didn’t quite see him as an equal, they’d respected him at least.

And that had been enough.

“What do you wish to be when you grow up?” David of Scotia had once asked him as a young child, in gratitude for Lyon’s defense of him.

Piers had thought about it an instant and had shrugged and answered simply, “It matters not so long as I am happy.” And he had meant it.

“That’s all you want?” David had asked in surprise, cocking his head and staring at Piers as though he were a two-headed calf. “Well,” he’d announced importantly, “I intend to be king. And when I am king,” he’d promised, “I shall give all my friends whatever they wish for. If you wish for happiness, Piers of Montgomerie, I shall find it for you and then wrap it up in golden fleece and hand it to you upon a silver platter. What do you think about that?”

Piers had thought it a generous if pompous gesture, but decided he had best find happiness for himself, as the eighth son of a king—any king—was like never to sit upon any throne at all, except the one in his own garderobe. But he hadn’t said so, however. He’d simply smiled his appreciation at his friend.

Imagine the turn of luck; David of Scotia had won his throne, after all, and he’d given Lyon the next best thing. He’d favored Lyon with land: good rich Scot’s soil, upon which he could build his own legacy. And suddenly, he was free to dream and plan.

The woman sitting before him was a new beginning. An alliance with her brothers would bear him roots upon this land. He wanted that.

He wanted her.

It wasn’t merely that she was beautiful, although she was. Wildly so—with her luscious red hair and cool green eyes, a man could lose himself in those eyes. Aye, though she was more... she was the first brick in his foundation.

“You are quiet,” he said at her back.

She stiffened before him, and her reaction made him smile. She might not particularly like him, but she certainly wasn’t indifferent toward him, and that knowledge pleased him. Love and hate were not so disparate emotions that one could not be manipulated into the other. They, at least, were extremes of emotion, while indifference was another matter altogether; it was the lack.

“And how would you have me sit before you?” she snapped, not bothering to peer back at him. “You’re a contemptible Sassenach who’s taking me against my will.”

Nay, he thought, she definitely wasn’t indifferent toward him, and that pleased him immensely. Challenged him, even. Her animosity was like a gauntlet tossed at his feet. He couldn’t walk away. Nor did he wish to, as he sensed the prize was unparalleled.

Nor had he lost a match as yet, and that knowledge gave him satisfaction as it never had before. He didn’t fight unfairly, but neither did he give any mercy. He fought to win.

If it was the last thing he accomplished, he was going to inveigle the little harridan sitting before him. He’d once been told his tongue wove words of gold. No woman was immune to praise. He gently lifted a strand of her hair in his hand. She didn’t seem to feel it... or perhaps she simply allowed it.

Soft.

His fingers reveled in the texture, silky and thick. He brought the strand to his nostrils and inhaled its scent. He knit his brows. “Lovely,” he told her. “Quite lovely. But the scent eludes me.”

She didn’t thank him for the compliment, nor did she seem to take the bait.

“I like it,” he continued.

“I noticed,” she answered, flippantly. “I can tell by the way you’ve buried your nose in it like a mindless hound. Enjoying yourself?”

Lyon couldn’t help but chuckle. She had a smart-mouth. He moved closer, drawn to the softness of her tresses like a lodestone to metal. “Mmmmm,” he murmured, “it rather seems I am.”

She shrugged away from him. “Do ye mind not doing that?” she asked, sounding vexed now. “If ye must know ’tis a rinse made from marrow. That’s what you smell. I use it betimes after washing my hair, else I canna comb it. It’s one of my grandmother’s recipes. And it seems to have that same effect on all animals—dogs in particular.”

He had to crush the urge to laugh. Was she calling him a dog? Certainly an animal, at the very least.

“Does it now?”

“Aye,” she declared, turning and jerking her hair from his grasp. “It does.” She turned her back to him once more, leaning away from him, so as not to touch him.

Lyon grinned. She was not going to be an easy victory, that was plain to see. But then... something worth having was certainly worth fighting for. He’d raised his sword enough times for lesser things. And he was certainly going to enjoy this particular battle. It thrilled him as nothing had in a very long time.

Perhaps she would appreciate a more direct approach? “I beg to differ,” he said at her nape. “’Tis you who has that effect upon me, not your hair rinse.”

He felt her shiver, and was satisfied.

Amazing how her simple reaction to his words could warm his heart and heat his blood, when it had begun to take so much to stir him at all in the past years. It elated him.

He’d become rather jaded in his tastes. But she was different somehow. Even her barbs seemed to enchant him.

He bent nearer, savoring the sweet scent of her flesh. “Tell me, lass... shall I simply call you ‘lass’? Or do you have a name of preference?”

She turned and glowered at him. “Of course I’ve a name, Sassenach, though you can call me lass if it pleases ye.”

“So you’ll not tell me?” He gave her his most wounded look.

She merely smirked, unmoved. “Seems not.”

He lifted his brows. “I could ask your grammie,” he proposed, certain she wouldn’t carry on the charade any longer as it was a lost cause. He planned to have her, will she nill she.

“Go on, then,” she answered, mocking him in return. “She’ll not tell ye, unless I give her leave to, Sassenach, and I shall not give her leave to.”

Stubborn Scot.

“Somehow,” Lyon replied sardonically, “I guessed not.”

“That’s because Fia,” she told him quite pointedly, “respects the wishes of others. Unlike some people I’ve encountered.”

Lyon ignored the barb, determined to woo and win her. “Pity you won’t say...”

“Isn’t it?”

“Aye... a beautiful lass could only bear a beautiful name.”

She turned to cast him a wicked glare. “I should warn you, Sassenach. I am not some empty-headed wench that flattery will fill my head so easily. You will not sway me with pretty words.”

Cunning vixen, though he didn’t believe it. All women loved adulation.

“Idiocy,” she assured him, “does not course through Brodie blood.”

“But madness does?”

Meghan opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it again, uncertain how to reply to that particular remark.

He was baiting her, she realized by the tone of his voice. It was quite clear he did not believe her little tale. But all was not lost.

Of course, it had been said that madness cursed Brodie blood. It wasn’t true, of course. It was just that no one understood her mother or her grandmother. The truth was that her mother had simply been aggrieved by lost love, while old Fia had been a bit eccentric... and still the rumor had been spread... and Meghan could possibly use it now to her benefit. Though she must be careful in answering... if she truly wished Montgomerie to believe her little fabrication. And she certainly did.

Surely he would let her go if he thought her insane? No man could willingly wed a woman who was mad.

Would he?

How now to plant the seed without being so obvious in her intentions?

And suddenly it came to her.

No need to sweeten her tone, as it would merely stir his suspicion. “Do ye always believe everything you hear?” she asked, her tone as snappish as she could manage. Ire was as good a defense as any against the sound of his voice.

Heaven help her, the tone of it sent shivers down her spine... The feel of his breath against her nape sent gooseflesh racing across her skin.

He was silent for an instant, and then answered, “What precisely is it I am to have heard?”

Meghan smiled to herself, pleased that he should fall so easily into her snare. “Well no matter, it isn’t true.”

“What isn’t true?” Confusion was manifest in his tone.

“They’ve no idea of what they speak,” Meghan assured him, well aware that she was confusing him all the more and thinking she was enjoying this entirely too much. Och, but since when had she enjoyed telling a lie so very much? What devil had gotten into her? And why did this suddenly seem more a challenge of wits than a clever machination to save herself from an unwanted marriage?

“You’re confusing me, lass,” he announced quite frankly.

Meghan tried to sound perfectly innocent. “I am?”

“You are.” He sounded too distracted to be precisely angry. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“There is no curse on Brodie blood,” she swore. “’Tis all a rotten lie.”

“I never said there was.” He truly sounded befuddled now.

“Oh,” Meghan exclaimed, and hushed again, waiting.

He said nothing more, and she pretended an interest in the woodlands as they passed through them.

It had been a long time since she’d ventured this way. The MacLeans had owned this adjoining land and she and Alison had explored it all at some point or another. She and her grammie had as well, though old man MacLean had never taken quite so kindly to Fia’s foraging. Meghan vividly remembered the verbal warfare the two frequently engaged in—MacLean calling her a crazy old hag, and Fia calling him a mean, selfish, fat old loon. The memory made her smile.

How she missed her sweet grammie.

Fia had never cowered before anyone in her life—most certainly not to Meghan’s brothers, nor to auld mon MacLean. Not Leith, or Colin, or Gavin had ever understood their grandmother in the least.

Meghan secretly wished she could be her.

“What curse?” Lyon asked suddenly.

Meghan bit the inside of her lip. “Oh... never mind,” she answered evasively. She peered back to gauge his expression, then pretended an interest in Baldwin’s whereabouts. She bit her lip with feigned concern. “I wonder if my grammie will fare well enough with that daft mon o’ yours.”

“I’m certain she’ll be just fine.”

“She has terrible gout,” Meghan elaborated.

“Does she?” He sounded quite skeptical.

“Oh, aye,” Meghan said. “It pains her terribly.”

“Does it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I have to wonder,” he said, “just why it is you would lead your
grandmother
about with a rope.”

Meghan thought about that an instant before replying. “She’s half-blind, o’ course.”

“So she has the gout and she is blind, as well... Anything else?”

Once again, Meghan bit the inside of her lip, trying not to smile at their ridiculous discourse. “Well, she’s a wee bit deaf betimes, so you have to scream, or she may not hear you.”

“You don’t say. Anything else?”

“Let me think,” she said. And then, “Nay... I think not.”

“Are you certain?”

“Oh, I think so,” Meghan said, and smiled to herself. “Unless ye consider chin hairs an affliction?”