Meghan

Book 2, Sweet Scottish Brides

Tanya Anne Crosby &

Alaina Christine Crosby

Contents

Copyright

More In This Series

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Preview “Seana”

Chapter 1

Also by Tanya Anne Crosby

About the Authors

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

"Meghan" is the SWEET/CLEAN rewrite of "Lyon's Gift" by Tanya Anne Crosby for readers who prefer romance without strong language or sex. This is a clean read book.

COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

Published by Oliver-Heber Books

ISBN: 978-1-942820-30-7

Created with Vellum

More In This Series

Sweet Scottish Brides

Page

Meghan

Seana

Elizabet

Catrìona

Prologue

The forest was their sanctuary.

Meghan and her grandmother spent many a morning in the dimness of the woodlands, gathering herbs for her grandmother’s potions. Just now they were searching for sweetbriar on MacLean land, and Meghan was on her hands and knees, crawling at the forest’s edge, painstakingly inspecting foliage.

They were not supposed to be here, Meghan knew, as old man MacLean was apt to be angry if he discovered them again upon his land. Last time he’d accused her grammie of poaching, even though there had not been a whit of evidence in their sack. All they had borne away with them that day were weeds and little else. He did not know her grammie if he thought she would do such a thing; her grandmother would never eat an animal if she ever looked the creature in the eyes.

“Ye dinna have to look so carefully, Meghan,” her grandmother said. “’Tis not so wee a plant—more a shrub.”

“I remember, grammie, and you said look for pink flowers. So I’m looking, but I dinna see any.”

“Och, lass, ’tis because you’re crawling on your belly, like a viper. Get yourself up before you grind more dirt into your sweet knees.”

Meghan peered back at her grandmother over her shoulder, watching her an instant. The old woman was hunched over, scanning the plants, murmuring to herself as she scrutinized each one. Every so oft she would bend to pluck a sample and then crush it between her fingers.

“Oh! And be careful with the thorns,” her grandmother said, as she inspected a small branch of some plant.

“I will.” Only Meghan wished her grammie wouldn’t treat her like a wee bairn. She was all of eight summers now, and not so little anymore.

Oblivious to her complaint, her grandmother began to sing and dance.

“Wretched mon, why art thou proud,

That art of earth made?

Hide not behind your shroud.

But fore thou came naked.”

Meghan giggled at the sight of her sweet grammie, dancing so lively, and felt warmed by the old woman’s joy.

“Ta ta dum, da dum, da dum,” her grandmother hummed.

Meghan made to rise, but in that instant she spotted a face peering out at her from behind a wide oak and she gave a startled blink. The face was just about the size of her own, and the eyes were wide and full of fright. They were visible only an instant and then vanished behind the tree.

Her grandmother carried on.

“When thy soul have journeyed out,

Thy body with the earth covered over

That body that was so haughty and loud

Of all men is hated

Ta dum dee dum, dee dum

“Och, Meghan,” she called out suddenly.

“Aye?” Meghan replied. She turned to peer over her shoulder to see if her grandminnie had noticed the face as well.

“Never let a handsome smile turn your head and woo your heart, d’ ye hear me, lass?”

“Aye, grammie.” Ach, why was her grandminnie always so concerned with boys, when Meghan certainly wasn’t?

“Ye know Adam took that apple all on his own, d’ ye not? And then that knave blamed it on Eve because he dinna have the mettle to take the burden on his own.”

Having heard this tale more times than she could count, Meghan rolled her eyes.

“It serves him right,” she carried on. “Eve shoved that apple down his cowardly throat and he bears it still.”

“Aye,” Meghan said. She crawled closer to the tree, her heart pounding within her breast. But the face did not peek out again, even when Meghan neared the trunk, and she was sorely afraid they’d scared the girl off. Holding her breath, she craned her head about the tree trunk, and gasped at the sight of a wide pair of eyes as green as her own staring back at her.

“Oh!” Meghan exclaimed. “There you are. I feared you’d run away.”

The little girl said nothing, merely stared at Meghan and cast nervous glances over Meghan’s shoulder at Meghan’s grandmother, who was still carrying on behind her like a mad woman. Meghan turned to watch her grammie, seeing her through another’s eyes, and frowned. The old woman suddenly fell to the ground on her knees, cackling in delight at some new discovery she’d made. Meghan winced at the sight she presented.

Meghan turned back to the little girl. “She’ll not hurt you, I promise. She’s not mad, she’s just my grammie.”

The little girl’s face was frozen in an expression of doubt and her eyes shifted warily to Meghan’s grandmother.

“Och, Meghan,” her grandmother said, “I believe we’ve discovered something here.”

The little girl’s eyes widened in sudden fear.

Meghan shook her head. “Dinna worry, I willlna tell you are here.” Meghan smiled and then called out, “What is it, grammie?”

“Touch-me-nots!”

Meghan loved the delight with which her grandmother embraced all things great and small.

“What are they good for?” she asked, trying to keep her grandmother’s attention from turning to their unexpected guest.

Her grandmother cackled. “Not a thing. Have you ever seen such a thing, Meghan?”

“Nay, grammie,” Meghan said. She glanced again at the old woman who was now lying upon her belly on the bracken of the woodland floor. And she would have had Meghan get up off her knees? Meghan rolled her eyes again.

“Looky here. Ye touch the wee things and the pods burst with seeds.” Meghan watched her grandmother poke her finger at a few, and then listened to her laugh.

She turned back to the little girl. “I am Meghan. What’s your name?”

“Alison,” the little girl replied, still staring at the cackling old woman.

“We’re looking for sweetbriar,” Meghan said.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe for my grammie’s potions.” She realized belatedly how her disclosure must sound and winced.

“To turn people into toads?”

“Och! Nay,” Meghan said. “My grammie would never do such a thing. I have never once in my life seen her turn anyone into a toad—though I did hear her call my brother Leith a frog.”

The little girl tilted her head, looking as though she wanted to believe Meghan. “She wouldn’t turn me into a frog?”

“Of course not.”

The two girls sat peering at each other a long instant, and Meghan wondered if she dared ask. “Do you wanna be my friend? I have never had a friend so little as you.”

The little girl seemed to forget Meghan’s grandmother and her fear. “I’m not so much littler than you!”

Meghan grinned. “Perhaps. I’ve never had a friend ’cept for my grammie.”

Her grandmother shouted. “Meghan, listen. Do you hear them, child?”

“Hear who?”

Alison retreated behind the tree.

“Woodland sprites. I think they’re speakin’ to me, lass, although I canna be certain. Do you hear them too?”

“I hear nothing, grammie.” Meghan peered around the tree again. “She’ll not hurt you, Alison. I swear it on our friendship.”

“I did not say we could be friends,” Alison argued. “My da will not let me play near the auld witch—I mean your grammie.”

Meghan’s face fell, her hopes dashed.

Alison shrugged. “But maybe I can sneak away … if only you will too?”

Meghan thought about it less than an instant, desperate as she was for a friend. “Oh, yes! I will,” she promised. “So then are we friends?”

“Aye,” Alison said with a smile.

“Meghan, are you certain you did not hear them?” Her grandmother cocked her head to listen closer. “I know I do. Listen child.”

“I’m listening,” Meghan said, and turned again to her newfound friend. “I must go and help her now. Shall we play in the meadow this noon?”

“Aye,” Alison said, and nodded eagerly. “I shall meet you by the cairn.”

“Verra well, then.”

“Come alone,” Alison demanded.

“I will. Go now … before she comes to look for me.”

Alison nodded, and didn’t tarry any longer. She cast a glance at Meghan’s grandmother and then leapt up and hurried away.

Meghan watched her go, and felt as great a burst of joy at her own discovery as her grandmother had with hers. And then she turned toward the old woman to see what she had found. Crawling to where her grandmother lay, she sprawled there beside her on the ground and the two of them completely forgot about searching for herbs as they played with the little yellow flowers and green pods, poking at them and watching them explode. For long minutes, they giggled together on the forest floor. It was nice to have such a sweet grandmother, Meghan thought. But today was a verra special day for she’d also made herself a friend.

Chapter 1

“Twenty-seven,” Baldwin announced, marching into the room where Piers sat poring over his new survey.

It was a lesson Piers had taken from old King William: One could hardly rule a land unless one knew precisely what one held to rule. Following William the Conqueror’s example, the first thing he’d done upon receiving this fief was to survey his holdings, meager though they might be. And it was a good thing, as it seemed his stock was dwindling quickly. He might never have known until they’d been seriously depleted.

Thieving, conniving Scots.

“Twenty-seven!” he exclaimed. He didn’t know whether to be angry or amused. At last count—only yesterday evening—the sheep had numbered thirty-four. “When did those savages have the occasion to rob me yet again? I thought I told you to set a man to guard those mangy beasts?”

“The Scots?”

“Them, too, but I meant the sheep, Baldwin. The rotten mangy sheep. I thought I told you to set a guard for them?”

Baldwin’s ears reddened. “Well...” His face twisted into an abashed grimace. “I did set a man to guard them, you see… though it seems I set a wolf to guard the sheep’s pen.”

“A wolf?” Piers lifted both brows. He couldn’t wait to hear this one.

Baldwin winced. “I appointed Cameron,” he said, looking abashed. “He was already keeping watch over his own sheep, you see, and I—”

“Cameron!” Piers exploded. “The half-wit who refused to leave his parcel and hut?” He tossed down his quill in disgust. “Baldwin! Whatever were you thinking to put a thieving Scot to guard against his thieving kinsmen?”

“Well, I thought—”

“That he would give his loyalty to an Englishman over his own countrymen?”

Baldwin frowned. “Well, he did stay when the rest abandoned us,” he pointed out.

“Only because he’s a stubborn old man who refused to leave his land to a Sassenach. His own words, do you not recall? His behavior was certainly not born out of any sense of loyalty.”

“Aye, but it’s not what you think,” Baldwin said. “He merely fell asleep, is all.”

Piers sighed and slumped within his chair, smacking his head in exasperation against the high back of his seat. He rolled his eyes, then stared up at the ceiling, noting its rotten condition for the first time.

He frowned.

How had he missed that before now? His chamber was directly above. He was going to have to fix that crumbling ceiling soon, lest he plummet through the floor onto the table in front of him and find himself fare for the band of misfit Scots who had remained with this ruined demesne.

“My lord?”

Piers turned his attention from the rotting floorboards and eyed his longtime friend with a mixture of bemusement and displeasure. It seemed to him that Baldwin had taken to behaving less like a friend and more like an underling, and though this new manner of his wasn’t entirely without its merits, he was nevertheless uncomfortable with Baldwin’s unexpected attention to the proprieties. He much preferred the drunken companionability he and his men had shared in the years before his enfeoffment.

Truth to tell, he’d never expected to find himself lord—or laird, for that matter—and he’d certainly never aspired to it. It seemed wholly unnatural to him now to be fussed over as though he were some grease-lipped lord casting dinner bones to his dogs. He was a commander first and foremost. It had been his skill at arms that had won him this little piece of the Highlands, and he didn’t see the need to change what had served him so well for so long. His men worked well beside him because they were foremost his fellows. He didn’t want, or need, a bunch of knock-kneed lackeys running about according him undue honors.

“Sire?” Baldwin’s tone clearly revealed uncertainty over Piers’ mood. “What is it you’d have me do?”

“You might first cease to call me my lord,” Piers suggested, his tone unmistakably provoked. “And sire, as well, as I am not your accursed father either.”

Baldwin lifted his head in surprise. “What is it you’d have me call you... if not ‘my lord’?”

Piers thought the answer rather obvious. “What is it you called me before?”

Baldwin cocked his head a little uncertainly. “Lyon?”

Piers responded with a droll grin. He’d been given the name by his men after a particularly bloody battle; they’d said he’d appeared to them coming off the battlefield, with his long, gilt mane of hair and bloodied face, like a lion fresh after its kill. It wasn’t an honor he was particularly proud of, but he’d gotten used to the name after all.

Baldwin’s brows lifted. “But you don’t like that name?”

“I prefer it to my lord.”

Baldwin’s lips curved into a companionable smile. “If ’tis your wish...”

“It is,” Piers assured him. “I’m no different now merely because I have a parcel of land. Why should we resort to ceremony after all these years? I didn’t like the name before and you hounded me with it anyway. Why not still?”

Baldwin nodded, his grin spreading from ear to ear. “I am relieved to hear you say so.”

“Are you now?” Piers was relieved as well at having settled the matter once and for all. But now wasn’t the time for maudlin expressions, as he still had these annoying Scots to deal with.

And yet... strangely enough, though the Brodies had all but robbed him blind, it was a simple enough task to temper his anger against the thieving curs.

Why was that? he wondered.

As accustomed as he had become to the intrigues of court and the stealth of warfare, this matter of feuding seemed more like sport.

In fact, Piers could scarcely help but admire these Scots. They fought their battles fiercely, and by some strange code of honor that somehow appealed to him. They spat upon your boot; you drew your sword; they stole your goat; you stole their sheep; and so on and so on—though bloodshed seemed proscribed—and all of it done openly, as though thieving your good neighbor were the most natural and honorable thing to do. Thus far, not so much as a single beast had been harmed, although Piers had not enjoyed a moment’s peace since first he’d stepped foot upon these Highlands.

It was more than apparent that a bond of blood was as binding as a Scotsman’s honor would allow—that they defended kith and kin unto their dying breath.

It was also apparent that an outlander would always be just that... an outlander.

Well, Piers was perfectly accustomed to that. He didn’t need their approval. David of Scotia might, but he surely didn’t. He had grown up an outsider, didn’t they know; his father was a king and his mother a harlot.

And while his mother had slept in a different bed many a night, Piers had slipped away and curled beneath a pew in the chapel to close his eyes and dream of all the things he wanted in life. And he had wanted so much.

He had wanted to go away and study at one of those places he’d only heard speak of... He’d wanted to read until his eyes went blind... He’d wanted to learn things, and do things, and see things. He’d wanted to know why the sky was so blue and the grass so green. He’d wanted to know what stars were made of, and why they burned so brightly. He’d wanted to know why his veins were blue while his blood was red. He’d wanted so much more than a bed on a cold, hard floor and to stand alone behind invisible doors... watching other children at play.

Although, in truth, why should he have cared if the other children were outside playing and laughing? Thanks to his mother, he’d been able to study with the Archbishop of Canterbury and that had been no trifling thing. He’d had every reason to be grateful and no reason at all to yearn for something so negligible as dirty knees or silly games.

“Curse it all,” he exclaimed, lifting up his pen and rapping the quill’s end upon the wooden table. “We’re going to show these Scots that we can feud with the best of them.”

And enjoy it every bit as much.

That’s what it was going to take to win their alliance, he surmised.

Or not.

Either way, he would relish the sport.

Though at first he’d been taken unawares by their unanticipated raids, some part of him reveled in this honest form of warfare, where one’s enemy stood up to be counted, and one’s friends openly declared they’d as soon pluck out your eyes if they could profit from them. There was something particularly heartening in that unrelenting honesty.

Aye, he was perfectly pleased to play their games.

“These savages will not run us off this land,” he vowed. “You’re a witless fool,” he reprimanded Baldwin, but he knew his eyes didn’t quite conceal the smile he hid. “I should take the price of those beasts out of your hide, you realize?”

Color returned to the tips of Baldwin’s ears. “I wouldn’t fault you for it, Lyon,” he said, but neither did his smile vanish either. “So what would you have me do?”

“What else?” Piers grinned. “We steal the beasts back—and a few more for good measure.”

Baldwin smirked. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you were enjoying this.”

Lyon lifted a brow. “And you would be right,” he returned, rising from his seat and taking his sword from where he’d placed it upon the table before him. He slid it into his scabbard and winked good-naturedly at Baldwin. “Now, let’s go teach these Scots how to commit a proper thieving.”

Chapter 2

It was a raven, no mistaking it.

Its blue-black wings pummeled the air in obvious distress though it made not a peep as it flailed about the rafters searching for escape. Within the silence of the chapel its flight for freedom—like a soul fighting to be set free—was a struggle that stirred Meghan Brodie’s heart.

She had cast open the shutters to the bright summer day and the poor bird flew inside as though it had been anticipating her appearance at the window. It startled her, certainly, but Meghan wasn’t the least bit superstitious, else she might have considered this an evil omen.

Certainly, her Grammie Fia, would have claimed it to be so.

The last time she recalled a bird flying into their home—and it had been a sparrow that time, not even a wicked raven as this was—her dear grandmother had taken great pains to make it fly out the same way it had flown in, so that it might take with it whatever curse it had brought into their home. Else, old Fia had explained, the sparrow would die and the one who’d let it in would remain cursed for all eternity. In her quest to set the sparrow free, her grammie had blocked off every window and every door except for the one the bird flew in through, and then had stood speaking to the creature for hours, until she’d managed to coax it into her hand with breadcrumbs. And then, with blessings for peace and love, she had cast it back out the door.

Meghan hadn’t believed a word of it, of course. She’d thought her grandmother incredibly silly, while her brothers had simply thought her mad—as everyone else did. Superstition was, in Meghan’s opinion, merely a way of explaining away circumstances one could not comprehend. Nothing more. When it came to such notions she was truly quite unromantic. Her mind couldn’t embrace the mystical, although her grandmother’s tales had been useful for frightening wee grandchildren into good behavior.

The memory brought a wistful smile to her lips.

All that Meghan remembered of her dear mother was her sad, grieving face; she’d lived only until Meghan’s third summer. Her da she remembered not at all, as he’d died when Meghan was but a bairn. But her grandmother, the old lovable lunatic, had walked the halls of Meghan’s home until Meghan’s sixteenth winter, all the while talking to faeries and wraiths—at least that’s what Fia had claimed. Meghan suspected she’d merely been too abashed to admit she liked to talk to herself, as Meghan was wont to do—och, but she made no apologies for it. She liked her own company and that of animals so much more than she did people.

People, Meghan often thought, were entirely too fickle in their attentions, and never seemed to look beyond the mask of her face. It made her uncomfortable, and truth to tell, she must not see the same person in the looking glass, for she couldn’t conceive what it was about her face that made men daft in her presence and women loathe her at a glance. It seemed to Meghan that nobody cared one whit for the person behind the face.

Both her mother and grandmother had been blessed with loveliness, but Meghan hadn’t inherited their delicate beauty at all. Her cheekbones were much too prominent, her lips too full, and her auburn hair a riotous mess of curls that refused to remain bound. At least she hadn’t the tendency to freckle, although the sun colored her skin much too dark every summer.

Her most distinguishing feature, she thought, were her eyes. She had her da’s eyes, she’d been told. Betimes they appeared nigh black, but they were in fact the pure, deep shade of a forest glen. It was the same eye color her brothers shared, all but for Colin, whose eyes were the pale shade of a cloudless summer sky.

She lifted her gaze once more to inspect the chapel’s ceiling as the raven began to caw. Its blue-black wings beat the rafters in growing distress, and Meghan frowned.

The chapel had once been naught more than the ruins of an old stone temple built by the auld ones. Its ceiling had stood wide open to the heavens for most of her life, but her brother Gavin recently erected a sloping wooden shelter, and the new wood was sturdy and true, reinforced by beams that were braced along the stone walls. No amount of thrashing, not even from stalwart Mother Nature, was going to raise it.

The poor raven had nary a chance.

She stood there wondering how best to get the bird out of the chapel.

What might her grammie have done? Her sweet, mad grandmother had had a way with creatures that far exceeded what paltry influence Meghan thought she had.

Although Meghan had been raised by her three brothers, she’d spent the greater part of her childhood with her grandmother, either searching for herbs to make potions, or listening to tales of faeries who peeked out from behind trees in the woodlands. Och, but as loony as the old woman had seemed, Meghan missed her fiercely. She knew her brothers loved her well and truly, but it was a burdensome thing to be the only woman in a household of men.

Not to mention lonely.

If it weren’t for Alison, the MacLean’s daughter—her best friend—Meghan didn’t know what she would have done.

Leith, her eldest brother, was laird of their clan. He was sweet and good, even if he was entirely too overbearing and protective. With all his rules, he kept Meghan from living life just as surely as though he were a wall she could not pass. What he didn’t seem to realize was that she had her own little tunnel burrowed beneath those bulwarks, and the defiant thought brought a tiny smile to her lips.

Her brother Colin, on the other hand, was much too unconcerned with anything but women and drink. Blessed as he was with good looks, Meghan only wished he didn’t give the pursuit of his own pleasures such import above all else.

Poor, sweet Alison hadn’t a bit of a chance with him.

And then there was her dear brother Gavin, the only brother younger than herself. Gavin held another view entirely from both Leith and Colin. He was the one who disregarded the mind and physical beauty altogether, believing it a sin to worship the temple of the spirit and a complete waste of one’s time—a woman’s, at least—to ponder any of life’s mysteries. Alas, that was something Meghan was wont to do. Her youngest brother encouraged her incessantly to seek to purify her soul, lest she end like their mother and grandmother before her—mad and all alone.

But Meghan rather relished the thought of being alone, didn’t he realize? And if people thought her mad... well, then... She shrugged. They’d simply think her mad and maybe leave her be, wouldn’t they? And that was a good thing as far as Meghan was concerned.

She only wished Gavin would live a little more and leave off with the preaching, for his own sake, certainly not for hers. Meghan had no qualms about boxing his ears when he carried on too much. She loved each of her brothers dearly—as she knew they did her—and she’d do anything for them, anything at all, except listen to Gavin’s accursed sermons. Her poor brother, they were nearly as harrowing as the poor raven’s unrelenting cawing.

Mercy, but she had no notion what to do to help the accursed bird.

She stood, hands at her hips, before the open window, frowning after it as it flew about the rafters and finally lit upon one of the support beams. And there it remained. She could swear it stared down expectantly at her.

“Och now, I canna help ye all the way up there, don’t ye ken, ye silly creature.” Despite that she knew it was an absurd thing to do, she extended her hand to the agitated bird, and demanded, “Come down here now!”

The raven merely flapped its wings, and cawed at her.

Meghan crooked a finger at it. “Dinna speak to me so rudely,” she told the bird. “I canna help you if ye will not let me.”

The raven quieted and cocked its head, peering down at her curiously, though it didn’t move.

Had she expected it to? It was ludicrous to be nettled by the bird’s lack of response, but she was.

“I’d wager you’d come down for Grammie Fia. Foolish auld bird,” she scolded the creature. “Stay, then, if ye—”

“What are ye doing, lass?” a voice interrupted at her back.

Meghan shrieked in startle, casting up her hands. She turned to face Colin. “Och, ye scared me, ye ill-bred oaf.”

Her brother merely grinned at her, and cocked his head, in much the same manner the bird had, and Meghan narrowed her eyes at him. “Did no one ever teach you any manners?”

“Ye know the answer to that, Meghan, love,” he said. “I learned my good manners from the same place you did.” He winked at her and chuckled. “Only it seems to me ye learned a few more lessons from daft auld Fia than I did. What do ye think you’re doing, talking to that witless bird? You don’t think it understands, now do ye?”

Meghan’s cheeks flamed. She peered up at the bird, and then lifted her chin as she faced her brother, her hands going to her hips once again. “Of course not. I was merely trying to help the silly thing is all. It flew in through the window,” she explained, undaunted by Colin’s amused expression. “And now he canna seem to find his way back out.”

Her brother smiled benevolently at her. “Meggie, dearlin’, ye have a good heart, lass, though you’re wasting your sweet breath. That bird does not ken a word you’re speaking and you’d do better to smack your bonnie head against a wall for all the good you’re doing.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Meghan frowned up at the bird. “Ungrateful creature.”

Colin’s lips curved into a roguish grin. “Of course I’m right.”

“Och, though I hate it when you are, wicked gloating knave.”

He lifted a brow at her. “That’s another thing you learned from auld Fia, and I’m here to tell ye, ’tis a foul thing to hear you speakin’ like a mon. I’ll warrant you’ll never find yourself a mate with that rotten tongue o’ yours.”

“Good, then, silly oaf. What would I be wantin’ with a mon, when I’ve my hands full with the three of ye already?”

Colin’s smile turned ribald and Meghan lifted a brow at him in censure. He was the only one of her three brothers who would speak so frankly to her of matters between men and women, but she didn’t particularly want to hear it.

“I could think of a few things,” he said plainly, “though if I told you then I’d have to box your ears for listening. And then I’d have to kill the fools who fell prey to your curiosity.”

“Nay, ye would not,” Meghan said with absolute certainty. Her cheeks burned with chagrin. “Because there’s not a mon under God’s heaven I’d care to burden myself with long enough to appease any such curiosity.”

“Well,” Colin countered, shaking his head as though she were no more than a wee misbehaving child, “as I said... you’ll never have to worry over such things, anyhow—not with that foul mouth.” He peered up at the squawking bird, his cheeks turning suddenly pink as he said, “Anyway... I only came to tell ye something...”

Meghan’s brows lifted. “Something?”

“Aye. Alison awaits ye in the meadow.”

“Alison?” Meghan’s brows lifted higher in surprise, and then she narrowed her eyes at him, scrutinizing his expression. “You saw her?”

He nodded, his hands going to his hips. “I did, Meghan, and dinna look at me like that. I didna say a bloody thing to the wench.”

Meghan narrowed her eyes at him. “That is precisely the trouble,” she enlightened him. “How could it possibly hurt ye to sit and visit with her for a wee bit, Colin? She likes ye so verra much—though for the life of me I canna see why.”

“Why thank you,” he said, looking offended.

“You’re not verra nice to her, Colin.”

Colin’s face twisted into a grimace, and his cheeks turned, if possible, a deeper shade of red. “Och,” he protested. “She’s sweet, Meghan, if only she didna have those crossed eyes.”

Meghan gave him a disgusted look. “There is naught wrong with Alison’s eyes.”

“It makes me uncomfortable to look at her.”

“Arggghhh!” Meghan shook her head in disgust. “To think I share the same blood with ye, Colin Mac Brodie. I canna believe ye would be so cold and cruel to a poor lass merely because her face does not suit ye.”

“Cruel?” His hand went to his chest as though affronted.

Meghan pleaded with him. “If ye would merely sit and talk with her just once, Colin, ye would see how verra sweet her heart is—and how very smart! Alison MacLean would make any mon a fine wife. Ye should feel fortunate to have her devotion—even undeserving as ye are.”

“Och, now,” her brother objected, meeting Meghan’s gaze with his sad soulful eyes. “Dinna be so fierce with me, Meggie.” His gaze lowered unhappily. “I would never hurt the poor lass. I merely dinna wish to wed with her is all, and I canna see the point in misleading her. I have ne’er been mean to her.”

“Never?” Meghan eyed him shrewdly. “Swear it upon your manhood, Colin. May it fall off and rot like a worm on the ground if ye’ve made her weep yet again.”

He cast her a pained glance, grimacing. “Meghan! You’re cruel to be sure.”

“Swear it,” she demanded of her brother.

“All right! I swear it,” he declared. “Although I canna be certain she was not weeping already,” he amended quickly.

“Colin!”

He held up both his hands in protest. “I dinna do anything, Meg. She came about and found me with Suisan. I canna be faulted for that.”

His hand went to his groin—an unconscious gesture, Meghan realized, and she suppressed a grin. He did have a point, she was forced to confess. He couldn’t be faulted for that.

And he was right; it would truly no one at all—most of all not Alison—for Colin to lead her astray. Alison was not like Meghan. Her feelings were entirely too tender.

“Can ye not see that I canna be false to her?” Colin asked, his brows lifting in supplication. “It would not be right, Meggie.”

Meghan frowned. “Aye,” she conceded, though grudgingly. “I do, ye miserable wretch. I only wish—”

“I ken what ye wish, Meggie. And you’re a good soul, to be sure, but I dinna want a wife, anyhow.”

Meghan understood that better than anyone.

“And if I did,” he added, speaking honestly, “the MacLean’s daughter is not the one for me.” He made a gesture at his breast that made Meghan blush. “I’ll be wantin’ more from a lass,” he said. “Not merely a bonnie face, but more if you know what I mean?” He lifted his brows.

Meghan shrieked in protest and covered her ears. “I dinna wish to hear such things!”

“Well,” he continued, lecturing her now, “you should know that a pretty face is not all a lass needs in order to win herself a mon. She must have a pleasin’ body, as well.’’

Meghan narrowed her eyes at her brother.

He nodded. “And ready laughter.”

“And I’m supposing she must know how to cook and mend and wash and—”

“And make healthy bairns,” Colin agreed with another nod.

“Argh,” Meghan shrieked again, and leapt at him in outrage, pummeling his chest.

Colin yelped in protest.

“You’re incorrigible, Colin Mac Brodie.” She smacked his arm, and made to go around him. “You’re such a mon,” she declared, as though that were the worst thing he could possibly be. “And I’ll not be listening to ye any longer.”

“And you’re a bloodthirsty lass,” he returned. “We’ll be having to pay a mon to take you and your temper off our hands.”

“Nay, ye will not,” Meghan argued, swinging about to face him as she reached the chapel door. “You will not, because I’ll not be a wife to any mon. You’re stuck with me, the lot of ye, don’t ye know?” And with that she pivoted about and made to open the chapel door.

“Thank heaven for that,” Colin swore at her back.

She swung about to face him again. “What did you say?”

“I said heaven help the lot of us, Meghan Brodie.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “Heaven help you is right,” she agreed, and turned, jerking open the door.

From the rafters above, the raven let out a terrible shriek of protest, and Meghan froze in her step. Frowning, she turned slowly to look at Colin.

“What?” he asked, reacting to the harassed expression upon her face. “What is it I’ve done now?”

Meghan shook her head as she gazed up into the rafters. “Not a thing,” she said, and with a harried sigh, she made her way toward the chapel’s single window.

There at the window, she threw the shutters wide and peered down in exasperation. It wasn’t that far a drop to the ground, but it annoyed her that she should feel compelled to adhere to some silly bit of superstition only because her grandmother would have done so. She tossed a leg over the sill, all the while vexed with herself for succumbing.

“Meghan lass?” Colin sounded bewildered. “What the devil are ye doing?”

Meghan turned to look at her brother and snapped, “What does it appear I am doing, ye daft mon? I’m climbing out the window.”

“Och, Meggie. I see that you’re climbing out the window, but why are you climbing out the window?”

“Because I feel like climbin’ out the window, Colin,” Meghan answered peevishly. She cast him an annoyed glance. “Doesn’t everybody now and again?”

He answered with an exasperated shake of his head. Meghan ignored him.

“You’re going to be as mad as auld Minny Fia one day,” he announced with certainty.

Meghan thought it might well be true. Only a mad old Brodie would feel compelled to climb out a window in order to revoke a nonexistent curse.

Rotten bird.

Colin came to the window and peered down at her while she hung by her fingers from the sill. Meghan glowered up at him as she tried to locate the ground with her toes. He merely stared at her, unaffected by her threatening look, and watched.

A knowing grin unfurled across his handsome face. “Um, Meghan,” he said, as she dropped to the ground, “If I recall correctly, you were supposed to make the bird fly out the same way he flew in, not go out that way yourself.”

“Ouch,” she exclaimed as her food twisted in the drop to the ground. She bent to massage her ankle, and peered up at her brother, nettled that he felt compelled to point out that minor detail just now—or that he should even remember, for that matter—and worse, that she should feel compelled to heed such a silly ritual in the first place.

“I tried,” Meghan explained quite reasonably. “But he would not listen to me, so I did the next best thing.” She slapped her hands together, ridding them of grime from the windowsill, and straightened. “Anyhow,” she informed him baldly, casting a wily smile up at him, “superstition is naught but silly nonsense. And I dinna believe a word of Fia’s ravings.”

“Nay?” He chuckled. “Silly wench.”

“Nay,” she answered pertly, and turned to go, limping away.

“Alright, Meggie. Go on with ye, then, before I change my mind and make you stay. Leith would peel the skin from my backside if he knew I’d let you leave, with all the trouble brewing with that idiot Sassenach.”

“Tell him you tried to keep me, but I escaped.”

“I’ll tell him, instead, that I never saw you,” he shouted after her. “If I wanted to stop you, he knows verra well that I could.”

“Only if you sat on me,” she called back. “But I wadna suggest it,” she apprised him, “unless you’re certain ye never want to conceive yourself a bairn.”

“Impertinent wench,” her brother shouted after her. And then: “Be careful, Meghan. See Alison, then hie thee home at once.”

“Dinna fret, Colin. I will be fine.” She turned to wave him away from the chapel window. “Go on now, and get that bird out for me,” she demanded.

“Alison awaits you by the old cairn in the meadow just beyond the forest,” Colin apprised.

“I’ll hurry back,” she promised, limping backward toward the woodlands, shading her eyes from the brightness of the noonday sun. She grinned impishly. “And I’ll be sure to gi’ Alison your love when I see her,” she teased.

“Do that, brat,” he warned, crooking a finger at her, “and I’ll take a switch to your backside when you return.”

Meghan laughed. “Dinna even try it, Colin Mac Brodie. Dinna even try.”

And with that, she turned her back to him and hobbled into the cool shade of the forest.

Chapter 3

She didn’t think she could do it.

Alison, youngest daughter of Dougal MacLean, sat fretting upon a boulder, the noon sun glaring down into her face. She sat unblinking as she contemplated the dilemma at hand: How was she supposed to face her best friend and explain that it was her own guile that had instigated the feud between King David’s English Lyon and Meghan’s brothers? Whatever could she say to make amends?

I’m sorry, Meghan, but I did not wish to wed the awful brute, so I stole his goat and blamed it on your kinsmen?

The very thought of such a confession made her miserable.

The truth was that she had never meant to blame it on Meghan’s kinsmen; it had merely worked out that way. Her plan had simply gone awry. She nibbled anxiously at her thumbnail.

Terribly, terribly awry.

Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.

Horribly awry.

She’d intended, in fact, to initiate a feud between her own kinfolk and Montgomerie, not the Brodies and Montgomerie, except that the evidence had strayed upon Brodie land and Montgomerie discovered their rotten little goat in the wrong hands.

Of course, she regretted her fouled plan wholeheartedly, though she knew it was entirely too late for regrets. What was done was done, and it was up to her to make amends. Somehow, she had to set things right.

The rope within her hand jerked, recalling her attention to the gift she’d brought for Meghan and her brothers—her own pet lamb, paltry compensation although it might be for the loss of an entire flock. She tugged the wee lammie within arm’s reach and patted its newly sheared coat as she considered her options.

She could go to her father and reveal to him what she’d done, but he would blister her rear and then make her marry the loathsome Englishman anyhow.

Or...

She could confess to the loathsome Englishman, wed him as she was supposed to do, and then die of a broken heart—if, in fact, he didn’t murder her first for her duplicity.

Or...

She could continue to wait for Meghan here upon the meadow, tell her the truth, beg her forgiveness, and then help her rectify the situation. Meghan always seemed to know what to do.

Why, oh, why couldn’t she be more like Meghan? Meghan was pretty and kind and brave and intelligent. She was all the things Alison wished she could be, and more.

Beauty alone was not enough recommendation, she realized. Her eldest sister, Mairi, had been beautiful beyond words, but not so very intelligent, and certainly not so kind. Mairi’s beauty hadn’t gotten her anywhere but dead. And although her father had blamed Iain MacKinnon for Mairi’s death, Alison knew very well that her sister had always had a tendency toward melancholia.

Her sister hadn’t loved her husband; she had chosen to kill herself rather than share her life with him. As dour as Mairi had always been, the prospect of living with a man she couldn’t possibly love must have proven such a terrible burden for her to have committed such an atrocious sin. It made Alison heartsick to think her sister had been so unhappy. The last thing she wished to do was to end like Mairi.

Nay, she couldn’t wed Piers Montgomerie—she just couldn’t. She didn’t love him. Alison had been so relieved when her father had refused Lagan MacKinnon’s offer of marriage. As flattered as she had been that a man such as Lagan would take interest in a girl as plain as herself, her heart was already pledged to another. And if she couldn’t bear the thought of wedding Lagan, less could she bear the thought of wedding some English vulture, who preyed upon their lands.

The faintest smile curved her lips at the thought of Colin Mac Brodie. His very name made her quiver. His face made her sigh at the mere sight—och, but it was the sort of face that tied a girl’s tongue into knots and made her heart leap like an exultant dancer.

And his voice... it was the voice of an angel... soothing like warm honeyed mead. It made her belly flutter and her heart ache with longing. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to hear him whisper in her ear.

Resting her chin upon her hand and her elbows upon her knees, she thought about Colin’s eyes... clearest blue, they were... like the reflection of a bright-blue summer sky upon a glass pond.

Aye, Colin Mac Brodie was a beautiful, beautiful man...

But he didn’t know she existed.

Her wistful smile faded.

She’d come upon him here this morn in the arms of another woman, the two of them stealing kisses and laughing together. And oh, how it had made Alison’s heart ache to watch them. How she wished it could have been her.

But alas, it was not.

She sighed heavily, knowing very well that Colin had a great fondness for women of all kind; it was obvious. He was with a new one every time she saw him. Usually, it didn’t bother Alison so much, because she hoped he would take his fill of them all, and wished with all her might that he would someday see her as someone more than simply Meggie’s little friend. But this morn it had been different. Alison hadn’t yet been able to dispel the heaviness from her heart over seeing the two of them together. It had taken all her resolve to approach him and ask after Meghan with the two of them laughing and carrying on so.

Perhaps it had been harder than ever because she knew Colin was like to loathe her once he discovered what she’d done—she couldn’t bear that.

She stared at the lamb, wishing there were more she could give... more she could do... but there must be something...

The Brodies still had possession of the original goat she’d stolen from Montgomerie, but she could scarcely count that a boon. That rotten little beast had prompted Montgomerie to steal two of the Brodies’ sheep before the spring shearing.

To which the Brodies had responded by thieving his cow.

To which Montgomerie had responded by thieving a horse.

To which the Brodies had responded by taking four more goats.

And then Montgomerie had taken two more cows.

Alison sighed wearily at the thought of so much stubborn male pride.

The Brodies had then stolen seven of Montgomerie’s sheep—and Montgomerie had responded by thieving them all back, and then some. In fact, he’d left them with none at all. And this one poor lambkins wasn’t nearly enough to compensate for the loss of so many beasts.

What did she think she could possibly say to the Brodies to set things right?

In truth, there was nothing at all.

She could confess to Meghan, aye. But what could Meggie do?

Nothing, and then her dear friend would surely feel compelled to tell her brothers—Colin included. After all, how could they possibly think to put an end to a feud without having someone else to blame for it?

That someone would be Alison.

And then her father would discover her perfidy and take a strap to her bottom.

And the English Lyon would feast upon whatever remained of her thereafter.

And worst of all, Colin would know everything. And he would cast her hateful glances instead of looking right through her as he did right now. While she could scarcely bear his present disinterest, the thought of his enmity was entirely tragic.

She nibbled contemplatively at her thumbnail as she deliberated the possible consequences of coming forward.

What should she do?

Stay and confess to Meghan?

Or go?

Her sense of obligation vied with fear.

What to do... what to do...

Och, she should simply let these silly men carry on their feud. To fight amongst themselves was what they loved to do, after all. Although what would be its conclusion? She’d heard of these things outlasting even the memory of their origin.

Foolish men.

Would the Lyon feud with honor? she worried.

Or would he resort to bloodshed? Mercy, she hoped not. She had to believe he would not. But he was an Englishman after all.

She should speak up and put an end to the escalations once and for all, she knew. All she had to do was step forward and take responsibility.

Right?

She tapped a nail against her teeth, considering what she should do... What precisely would confessing accomplish? As she’d very likely still have to wed the Englishman, after all—and truth to tell, the Montgomerie-Brodie feud had reached a level to which her simple confession of stealing a single Montgomerie goat was like to make no difference at all. Too much had passed between them already, she reasoned.

So, then... all Alison could truly hope to accomplish with her confession was to make everyone angry with her—and that simply wouldn’t do.

Springing up from her think-place upon the boulder, she hurriedly tethered the lamb to a nearby bush.

All of a sudden, she didn’t wish to wait for Meghan, because Meghan would know intuitively that something was wrong. And if she should happen to ask, if she merely glanced at Alison with that canny way she possessed, Alison would be forced to confess everything. She would never be able to keep anything from Meghan, she knew—and truth be told, she didn’t wish to confess anything at all.

The only thing worse than having Colin Brodie angry with her, she determined, was to have everyone angry with her.

Abandoning her gift for Meghan to find, she hurried away from the meadow as fast as she could go.

There was no sign of Alison when Meghan entered the clearing—only a wee lamb tied to a bush near the old cairn, where Colin had said Alison should be waiting for her.

Meghan’s brows drew together into a frown as she contemplated the bleating creature. Either her dear friend had left in a terrible rush, abandoning her charge, or this was some cruel joke of Colin’s in order to make clear his feelings toward Alison MacLean. But she didn’t think Colin would be so cruel. It had to be that Alison had hurried away for some reason. But... unless Alison were in danger... why would she leave without taking her sweet little lamb?

Meghan’s gaze scanned the meadow for some clue as to her friend’s sudden disappearance, but there was no sign of disturbance at all: the hillside meadow seemed as serene as ever. The posies swayed with the afternoon breeze, like little dancing folk with painted faces.

In the distance the birds chirped merrily from the lush green treetops of the forest.

All was as it should be.

Shrugging, Meghan made her way to the little lamb, intending to set it free. She stroked it gently while she untethered it and then wrapped the lead rope about her wrist. “Poor wee lammie,” she commiserated with it. “How could anyone abandon such a sweet little thing as yourself?’’

The lamb bleated shyly and peered up at her with bright trusting eyes, and Meghan smiled as she drew upon the lead rope, prompting it to follow.

“Let’s go now,’’ she urged. “You’re comin’ home with me. Findings, keepings.” she announced. Och, but why would anyone bind an animal and then leave it? she wondered.

Unless the owner planned to come back for it later?

“Poor wee lost lammie,” she said, coaxing it to follow.

She scanned the meadow once more, still finding nothing and shrugging, and started away. The lamb hesitated, and then followed, and Meghan smiled down at the beast. Well, then, it was her wee beastie now, she determined. They could use the livestock after having been so thoroughly raided by David’s English lackey. And this was Brodie land, after all. It made little sense that someone would abandon their animal here, whether they were returning for it or not. And furthermore, they didn’t deserve the poor animal if they could so cruelly leave it to bake beneath the hot afternoon sun.

Unless...

She faltered in her step. Perhaps it belonged to Alison and she’d had to abandon it suddenly—though what Alison would be doing with a single lamb this far from MacLean land, Meghan couldn’t possibly know. Her brow furrowed.

Could Alison be in danger?

The tiny hairs at the back of her nape prickled.

Perhaps she shouldn’t leave so hastily?

She halted again, and the little lamb stopped, as well. Meghan peered down at the wee thing, frowning, and then once more looked around.

What, indeed, if Alison were in danger? What if Meghan left and forsook the opportunity to help her dear friend?

And yet what could Meghan do alone?

Suddenly, she wasn’t certain what to do.

“What do you think, wee lammie?” she asked. “Do we stay or do we go?”

The lamb bleated and stared up at her, its expression blank.

“Ye dunno, ye say?”

She unwrapped the lead rope from her wrist and stared pensively at the frayed end, brushing it absently with her thumb.

There weren’t any signs of a struggle here in the meadow, as best she could tell, but Alison was nowhere to be found. The best thing she could do, she decided, was to get her brothers to order a search. And suddenly... she was beginning to feel a bit uneasy—as though someone were out there... watching.

“Well,” she concluded, frowning, “I dunno either, though I’m supposin’ I should take you home.” She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, and told the wee lamb, “Come along then.” And she led it toward the forest path from whence she’d come.

It wasn’t the safest way home, but it was certainly the quickest, and since she’d only just come that way and had encountered nothing amiss, she decided it was the best route to take. She didn’t particularly care to take the long way home with the sun bearing down upon the meadow as the poor lamb was enervated already.

The shaded forest path, although it meandered in and out of Brodie and Montgomerie land—the latter being filled with thieving, conniving Sassenachs—was well worn by Brodie feet and little-traveled by anyone else. It sat at the far, far edge of Montgomerie land—land that had once belonged to the MacLeans until King David of Scotia had requested it from Alison’s father.

The very thought made Meghan glower.

As she understood it, Alison’s father had agreed to give it, only so long as Alison wedded the lumpish, greasy English beast—well, Meghan didn’t know if he was lumpish or greasy, precisely, because she’d never set eyes upon the man, but she certainly knew he was greedy.

Alison, poor lass, was of a different mind entirely, as she didn’t wish to wed Montgomerie at all—and Meghan couldn’t blame her.

It seemed to Meghan that the rotten Sassenach had no sooner set foot upon Scots soil when he was already ravaging and pillaging his good neighbors—greedy, misbegotten cur that he was. And in truth, she might not hold him in such contempt, for she was no stranger to reiving, but he’d thieved from her own kinsmen and without provocation.

Well, her brothers were sworn to set him to rights, and if Meghan knew them at all, they wouldn’t stop until they did exactly that. Meghan only hoped it would end without bloodshed, for these were not Scotsmen they were dealing with, and she was afraid her sweet brothers had forgotten that fact.

“Englishmen have no honor,” she told the wee lamb as they entered the shade of the forest. “Nor have they any hearts.”

The lamb walked silently at her side.

“Their mothers eat them when they are wee bairns, ye see,” she explained, feeling wicked. “And those who dinna end in their mother’s bellies, ’tis because they are full o’ piss and vin aigre.”

The lamb peered up at her, as though in disbelief, and then its gaze shied away.

“’Tis the truth I’m tellin’ ye,” she persisted. “They’re trying to bring Scotia to her knees, and if ye ask me,” she told the lamb in no uncertain terms, “I believe David is a fool for trusting those he calls friends,” she said, as though the lamb cared one whit what her opinion was—but why should it care when no one else seemed to think she had a brain to think with either? “Rotten Sassenachs dinna ken the meaning of the word friendship,” she said crossly.

Chapter 4

“Lyon was determined to keep his borders defended.

After the last raid, he wasn’t taking chances. Those Brodie brothers were as devious as London thieves, and nearly as bold, raiding in the broad light of day. This last round had been his victory, and he was going to keep it that way.

He swore they must sprout limbs and leaves, playing like trees to his face, and then, when he turned his back, they scurried away, like rats with their stolen cheese.

They were good, very good.

Only, he intended to be better.

He and Baldwin were now appraising his land to determine the best course of defense.

“Well now,” Baldwin exclaimed, sliding down the flank of his steed after another failed attempt to mount. “Do you see what I see, Lyon?” He shielded his embarrassment behind a mask of interest and stepped away from his horse in order to better see through the lush foliage.

Lyon had spied the approaching woman long before Baldwin had turned his attention from his struggles, and her presence did, in fact, engage him, but his concern for his friend overrode his curiosity for an instant. “I do indeed, see her,” he answered. “But do you realize these savages would have easily overtaken you just now?”

Baldwin’s ears turned red.

“I’ve given you leave to ride free of your armor,” Lyon said. “I think it best under the circumstances. These Scots do not battle as we do; they fight free of the restraints of armor. What good will your mail do you if your movements are so sluggish that they’ve a blade to your throat long before you can manage to mount your horse?”

Baldwin set his jaw stubbornly. “It took me years to earn this armor, Lyon,” he said, facing Piers.

Lyon understood what the small defiance cost him, for Baldwin was ever dutiful, ever faithful. He would badger Lyon on occasion, as any longtime companion might do, but when it came to matters of war, he obeyed Lyon’s every word.

“I shall practice, but do not ask me to cast away my honors,” Baldwin begged.

“As you will.”

Baldwin smiled. “I shall exercise more,” he swore. “You have my word.”

“I’ve little doubt.” Lyon offered a reluctant smile in return.

“Thank you, Lyon.” With that settled between them, he once again peered out through the covert, watching the woman make her way toward them down the narrow path. “I wonder who she is,” he remarked as she came into clearer view.

“I’m certain I’ve no idea,” Lyon replied, bending low over his mount to peer beneath the overhanging limbs. With his height, he was afforded a clearer view, but the forest was overgrown with vegetation. “She’s coming from our direction, so it seems.”

“From our land, do you mean?”

Lyon didn’t answer; his attention was completely engaged now by the approaching woman.

His first impression of her was of willowy limbs and shimmering hair: she was tall and thin, with a lithe, slim form that swayed with feminine self-assurance as she walked. And that hair—a wanton mass of coppery ringlets—ignited like the biblical burning bush as she passed through a nimbus of light from above.

And then she neared enough for him to see her face, and his breath caught.

She was an angel incarnate.

That face... it was a face he would have imagined belonged to Helen of Troy... or to the Aphrodite of legend.

Her delicate features were nothing less than perfection—her nose not tiny and upturned, like that of a child’s, but straight and lovely.

And her eyes... He could not see their color at this distance, but they were almond-shaped and exotic like those of the Saracen women he’d encountered along his travels.

And her mouth... it was full and pink... A mouth that demanded to be kissed... A mouth formed by Eros himself... It stirred his imagination.

As jaded as he’d become, his heart’s response to the woman surprised him—rather pleasantly, as it had been much too long since something so simple as a glance at beauty had sent his heart beating out of his chest—a misfortune of his upbringing, no doubt.

Growing up as a harlot’s son had definitely had its downfalls. It was a label that had found him feeding his high-minded peers a mouthful of his fist more oft than not.

And yet, he’d certainly relished some of the inherent benefits, shameless libertine that he was. Like mother, like son, so they’d claimed.

And so he was.

It was certainly true enough that he loved women, as his mother had loved men. And there didn’t seem to be any point in denying the obvious. At least he knew this much about himself. And it was precisely the reason he’d not pursued the life of a monk, for while the pursuit of knowledge and reason had been his mind’s greatest desire, he was innately weak to pleasures of the flesh.

And yet it had been a long time since he’d taken simple pleasure in any woman.

He lamented this, but not as much as he regretted the course his life had taken—resorting to brute force for gain. It befouled his personal philosophy despite that it had been the way of his life since the moment of his birth. He’d gained naught, accomplished naught, save through the might of his arm. That he’d clung to his erudite ideals so long was a matter of stubborn pride. But though his conventions negated his convictions, he still believed the mind was a more powerful tool than the body—knowledge more effectual than mere brute strength. His body might fail him, but his mind would always see him through. However, if the mind failed... well, then... what good was a body of any sort?

He took a deep breath, and cast a glance at Baldwin to find that his friend and confidant was just as entranced by the woman as he had been, and he frowned at the discovery. It provoked him, in fact. Not immensely, but enough.

Baldwin whistled low. “Bones of the saints, she’s exquisite, Lyon.”

Lyon said nothing, merely watched the woman’s approach with growing interest. It was only belatedly that he realized she wasn’t precisely alone.

“Lyon,” Baldwin began, his attention to detail scarcely more timely than Lyon’s was, “she has a lamb with her. What do you suppose she’s doing with a lamb?”

Lyon’s frown deepened as he watched the animal tangle its lead rope about the woman’s legs.

“And she’s coming from our land,” Baldwin felt compelled to point out yet again.

Lyon reconsidered that particular fact as woman and animal made their way toward them.

“What do you suppose it means?”

It was rather self-evident, Lyon thought. Then again, much that was apparent was also misleading, especially in these parts.

The lamb lagged behind, and the woman slowed to allow it to catch up. It meandered about to her other side, tangling the lead rope further about her long, lean limbs. She didn’t seem to notice.

“And she’s talking to herself,” Baldwin added. “Do you hear?”

“Nay.” Lyon cast a narrow-eyed glance down at Baldwin’s back. He refrained from pointing out that he could scarcely even think over Baldwin’s prattle. How could he possibly hear the wench?

“Do you think she’s daft?”

It was quite certainly a possibility, but Lyon hoped not. He rather hoped she was as quick-witted as she was beautiful. Anything less would dull his interest, and he didn’t particularly wish it to be dulled.

“Baldwin,” Lyon whispered.

Baldwin peered up at him, murmuring in return, “What, Lyon?”

“Shut up.”

Baldwin smiled a little sheepishly and ducked his head beneath the branches to spy at the woman again.

“Well,” the woman exclaimed, near enough to be heard now, her brogue soft and lyrical. She peered down at the bewildered-looking beast. “If Lyon Montgomerie knows what’s best...”

“Lyon,” Baldwin began, “she’s—”

“Shhh,” Lyon said, not wanting to miss a word of her discourse with the animal.

“... he’ll thrust that Sassenach tail of his between his puny legs,” she haughtily informed the beast, “and hie himself back to his England. We dinna need another rotten Englishman about to plague us.”

Lyon raised his brows at her declaration.

Baldwin turned to him, grinning. “Puny?” he said low. His shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.

Lyon glowered down at his friend’s back.

He’d been called many a thing in his time, but never puny. Even as a lad, lanky though he might have been, none but one would have dared call him such a thing to his face. And then never again.

Impudent woman.

He’d like to show her puny.

The mere thought of that quickened his pulse, and the response took him once more by surprise. Provoked him, as well—curse it all, why should he feel annoyed over her disparaging remark, and feel compelled to prove himself like some too big for his boots lad with his first chin hair?

“Do you think she stole the lamb from us?”

“Why would she steal a single lamb?” Lyon asked, and found himself wondering whether she was wife or daughter—or mayhap both. Women of her beauty rarely went unspoken for.

She was nearly upon them now, and Baldwin whispered lower. “Do these Scots ever need a reason to steal?”

Lyon responded with a wry twist of his lips. The truth was that they didn’t seem to. He certainly hadn’t instigated the raids between them.

“Lyon!” the woman spat, successfully recapturing their attention. “Pah!” She cast a downward glance at the lamb ambling along beside her. “He’s no lion,” she declared. “Merely a cowardly milksop skulking about in the dark of night.”

Coward?

“Milksop?” Baldwin said, and his shoulders once again began to quake.

Lyon ignored him.

“Why, he cannot even face us—hah! Worm is more the like.”

Lyon scowled. Cannot face who? The Brodies? He couldn’t imagine who else she might be speaking of, though he hadn’t noticed that they’d made any particular efforts to face him, either.

“Steal from my brothers, will he?”

Brothers.

His brows lifted with comprehension. Baldwin turned to look at him then and nodded. It seemed she had a reason after all, bootless though her raid might have been.

Although she’d nearly passed them by now, Lyon restrained himself still, contemplating his best course of action. She was merely a woman, and hardly a threat, but he didn’t think he should simply allow her to walk away with his livestock. Then again, what retribution could he possibly deliver against a hapless woman? It was from her brothers he desired satisfaction.

If she were in truth their sister, why didn’t he know of her? He’d made it a point to learn all that he could about his new neighbors.

Then again, he reminded himself, other than the fact that the MacLeans had a long-standing feud with the nearby MacKinnons, these were said to be peace-loving clans, and that certainly hadn’t turned out to be so. These Scots were all liars.

“Well, now,” she continued, sounding particularly vengeful now, “he shall know soon enough what it means to deal with Brodies!”

Would he now?

He suddenly didn’t feel so charitable. And he’d heard quite enough, besides. Without warning, he spurred his mount, startling Baldwin.

“Where are you going, Lyon?”

“To put an end to this feud once and for all.”

Never mind that only moments ago he said he’d reveled in it.

Meghan was so immersed in her discussion with the lamb that she heard the voices much too late. Without warning, the foliage parted and the path before her was suddenly barred by a most fearsome sight.

She froze in mid-stride.

For an instant, she couldn’t speak, so stunned was she by the horseman’s sudden appearance. She could merely stare at the devil. No man had ever stood so tall in his stirrups. As it was, she had to crane her neck up at a painful angle in order to see his face. And what a face it was! In truth, he looked more like an angel than a devil.

Although swarthy, his skin appeared to be as soft as her own. And his flaxen hair was the richest gold, but she couldn’t tell its length for it was bound at the back of his neck. His cheekbones were high and well-hewn, but it was his eyes that held her transfixed: uncanny blue, they bore into her very soul. And he wore blue, but a blue so dark it was almost black—blue tunic, blue breeches, black boots. The tunic upon his chest was emblazoned with a blood-red lion rearing back upon its beastly little legs—no mail as the English were wont to wear, but he certainly had no need of mail to look invulnerable. Were her legs not so tangled within the rope she held so firmly within her fist, she would have turned and fled.

She swallowed convulsively, and stammered, “Who... who are you?”

“Who are you?’ is the better question,” he countered, his tone furious. “And what are you doing on my land?”

Meghan gulped back a wave of panic. “Your land?” she asked, trying to sound as calm as she might while her heart seemed bent upon pummeling its way out of her chest.

He leaned forward over the horse’s withers, and enunciated slowly and more clearly, lest she mistake him, “My land.”

Meghan swallowed the knot of apprehension that rose in her throat. It was Montgomerie—Henry’s Lyon in the flesh, King David’s accursed mercenary baron.

It suddenly occurred to her—had he left her a trap with the lamb?

But Nay, why would he do such a thing? she reasoned. He had nothing to gain by it. Och, but he would do it, because he was a greedy, deceiving Englishman. That was why!

“What business have you upon my land? And what are you doing with that lamb?”

Meghan tried to remain composed, but she fidgeted under his scrutiny. Her heart hammering fiercely, she searched around for some means of escape, and her heart lurched as she spied a second man emerging from the thicket. This man was dark-haired and burly, with eyes that assessed her quite rudely. Her panic increased tenfold.

“Well,” she said, fumbling for an answer, “I—I was walking, ye see...”

“Walking?” Montgomerie asked much too pleasantly, but with an unmistakable note of suspicion to his voice.

“I believe ’tis what I said, Sassenach.” She was becoming vexed with his annoying echoing of her answers. Nor did she appreciate his tone any more than she did his companion’s snickers at nearly everything the brute said. He spoke as though he thought her an idiot or a liar, neither of which was acceptable to Meghan.

“Did you really?” he asked, with that same unmistakable air of suspicion.

“Do you not have eyes to see with?” she asked, losing her temper. She jerked up the lead rope to display the evidence, but jerking up the lead rope turned out to be the wrong thing to do. Tangled as it was between her legs, Meghan tripped herself and promptly fell upon her rear.

“Rotten rope!” she railed, tossing it down in a fit of fury. “See what you did?” she hissed at the animal knowing it wasn’t the poor lammie’s fault. And still she couldn’t quite help herself. Taking comfort in the fact that the poor beast couldn’t possibly comprehend what she was spouting in anger, she railed, “Och, I should have left ye there in the meadow.”

It was all Montgomerie’s fault, she assured herself, and glowered up at him, her cheeks burning with chagrin and no small amount of ire.

“So you found the lamb in the meadow?” He mocked her still with his tone.

“Will you stop, please?”

“Stop what?” He arched a brow, as though he thought her completely witless. Meghan bristled.

His gaze unsettled her. Those cool blue eyes focused upon her too intensely. “Repeating everything I say, you ill-bred oaf. I’m no half-wit. Nor am I deaf.”

“Not mute either—more’s the pity,” his friend answered blithely.

“Nay,” Meghan agreed, her face heating with indignation, “not mute, either, you contemptible boor.” That he’d professed no more than her brothers had long since lamented was of very little consequence. He was an ill-bred churl to have said such an insulting thing to her, particularly since he didn’t know her.

Montgomerie smiled darkly. “Now that we’ve established as much... tell me, do you make it a habit to walk and talk with animals?”

Meghan blinked, a thought suddenly occurring to her. Had he overheard her talking to herself? Did he realize who she was?

She bit down upon her lip, and fretted. That’s what she got for being so like her grandminnie—walking about talking to herself like a loon.

He nodded in her direction. “Give her a hand, Baldwin,” he commanded his companion.

“No thank you,” Meghan declared at once, “I already have two.” She glared up at Baldwin. “Keep yourself away from me, ye boot-licking toad.”

“Impertinent wench,” Baldwin proclaimed, and came after her anyway. “I’ll show you who’s more the fool.”

Meghan scrambled to her feet. “I may be a fool, but I vow I will shriek until your ears bleed if you lay a hand on me.” He continued to advance upon her. “Dinna touch me, you... you...” She could think of nothing terrible enough to call him. “Englishman!”

Montgomerie had the audacity to chuckle. “Leave her be,” he said to his lackey, and the man halted at once.

Scowling fiercely at both of them, Meghan brushed the dirt from her hands, and made ready to flee if the opportunity arose.

“Curse it all, Lyon,” Baldwin protested. “I’ll warrant the wench is in need of a good spanking, and I’m in the mood to give her one.”

Meghan gasped. “Dinna even think it.”

“She’s in need of something, of a certain,” Montgomerie agreed, ignoring her protest. “But I think I have just the thing.” His eyes fairly gleamed, and Meghan bristled.

“Och,” she exclaimed, and clenched her fists at her sides. Who did they think they were? These Sassenachs—discussing her as though they had a right to. If they thought themselves unaccountable for their actions simply because they were David’s champions, they were in for a rude awakening, as King David was not well favored in the Highlands. Whatever fear she’d been harboring dissipated in the face of her outrage.

“Greedy rotten braggarts.”

Baldwin broke into a wide grin, casting his hands into the air. “She’s all yours.”

“I am not his,” she informed them both at once.

The arrogance of men. How dare they discuss her as though she were a wayward child in need of a good strapping. Not even her brothers treated her so disrespectfully. “I belong to no mon,” she assured them both.

Montgomerie’s brows lifted as he turned once more to face her, and Meghan had the sudden impression that for once, she ought to have held her tongue. Something in the way he regarded her made her grimace at her choice of words.

Chapter 5

“Have you no husband?” Lyon’s tone held no small measure of surprise.

She took a step backward, her delicate brows drawing together into a lovely frown. “Why should you be concerned with that, Sassenach?”

Lyon tried not to laugh at her sudden show of wariness. Not even when he’d appeared so suddenly to block her path had she regarded him so suspiciously—anxiously, aye, indignantly, certainly, even a bit fearfully, but not so guardedly.

“Mere curiosity,” he answered truthfully, and watched her expression with keen interest.

“Aye, well…” She gave him a narrow-eyed glance and an admonishing nod. “…you know what they say about curiosity.”

“Nay,” Lyon said, unable to keep himself from baiting her, wicked as his mood was. “I’m afraid I don’t. Tell me what they say.”

He grinned when she glowered at him, but that only seemed to vex her all the more. “Och! I’ve no idea what they say. Who cares anyhow? But no good e’er comes of it, I can assure you that.”

Lyon chuckled. He couldn’t seem to help it; her fit of temper amused him. She was strong-willed, like his mother, aye, but with one intriguing exception. His mother had expressed herself with words alone, softly spoken but deadly in earnest. The harridan before him spoke with every inch of her lovely body: her eyes, her face, her hands, her very stance bespoke her every emotion. She was as easily read as was Mother Nature in her change of seasons, and as irrepressible and vivid in her expressions as a burst of spring wildflowers. Mercy, she was a beautiful little termagant.

And she had no husband.

Suddenly, Lyon didn’t wish to fight any longer; his fun was spoiled. How could he battle against her brothers when he coveted their lovely sister? He’d much rather be wooing her... kissing those delectable lips.

The problem was... how was he supposed to get her brothers to leave off now that they’d come so far in the feuding? He wasn’t naive enough to think it would cease simply now because he wished it to be so.

Unless he married the lass.

His gaze settled upon the long-legged harridan standing before him. With arms akimbo she stood watching him warily, her beautiful face a testament to God’s artistry. Even scowling she was exquisite. It made him yearn to coax a smile from those sweet lips. He could do it, he was certain. How many pouty mouths had he cajoled into smiles? More than he could count.

She had no husband.

The thought reared once more, and he suddenly knew what he needed to do to end the feud. David had given him a piece of Scot soil in hopes that his skill at arms would provide unity and peace for Scotland, but Lyon had a far more useful talent to apply toward David’s cause. ’Twould be a sin to leave his experience to waste.

He grinned.

Seeing his smile, she took a step backward, seizing her skirt in her hand as though she would flee. “Why are you looking at me so strangely?”

“Because,” he answered, grinning still, “I believe I have the perfect solution to end this feud.”

He turned to Baldwin, nodding in her direction, commanding him without words to seize her. Baldwin lifted his brows, understanding at once, and then smirked at the girl. Lyon felt a sudden unreasonable stab of protectiveness toward her.

She took another step backward, seeming to sense the exchange between them. He and Baldwin had been together so long words were seldom necessary between them.

“Solution?” She cocked her head adorably. “What sort of solution? What are you talking about, Sassenach?”

Lyon didn’t answer at once, and she continued to move backward, instinctively placing the lamb between herself and any imminent threat.

It wasn’t going to do her any good, because Lyon was suddenly determined. Knowing her gaze was focused primarily upon him, he spurred his mount to the left of her, blocking escape in that direction. He hoped Baldwin had his wits about him just now, because he’d need to be quick to catch her unawares. The woman was shrewd; he recognized the canny gleam in her deep green eyes. Careful not to glance in Baldwin’s direction—the last thing he wished was to remind the nymph of his presence—he drove her toward Baldwin. He didn’t give her time to think, because she would doubtless realize his intent. He feigned an advance to the left, forcing her toward Baldwin—only Baldwin was no longer there. Baldwin had dropped back to remove himself from her field of vision. Lyon waited to spy Baldwin’s face behind her now, not daring to give her time to look about, and then charged after her. She turned instinctively and fled into Baldwin’s waiting arms, shrieking in outrage.

“Insolent wench,” Baldwin exclaimed. “Who’s more the fool now, eh?” He dragged her toward the bushes behind which he’d tethered his mount.

“Nay! She rides with me,” Lyon announced.

Baldwin made the mistake of turning to question him. “Are you certain, Lyon? She’s a wild one.”

Lyon didn’t have time to respond.

“I’ll not ride with either of ye,” she swore vehemently, and to Lyon’s surprise and Baldwin’s misfortune, she twisted like a snake within his friend’s embrace, catching his wrist firmly between her teeth. She bit down. Hard. Lyon could almost hear the crunch of Baldwin’s flesh and bones and he cringed, though was too awed by her mettle to do anything but watch the scuffle.

Baldwin howled in pain, and spat a few of his favorite expletives, but she didn’t let go.

“Wench!” he yelped, sounding distressed now. “Take her, Lyon! Arggghhh! Take her! Aaaeeeeyyahhh!”

If he didn’t stop her, Lyon realized, she was going to kill the poor fool.

She reached back to seize a handful of Baldwin’s hair when he didn’t at once release her, and then suddenly seemed to change her mind and reached beneath his mail to catch the unfortunate Baldwin between the legs.

Lyon’s eyes widened in alarm, but not wider than Baldwin’s.

Cunning vixen.

Baldwin’s yelp betrayed shock first, then pain. He went pale as parchment. His wild-eyed gaze met Lyon’s. “Please,’’ he managed to squeal. “Pleeeeeeeze!”

Lyon shook himself from his stupor and spurred himself to Baldwin’s rescue, plucking the girl’s writhing form up from Baldwin’s limp grasp. It was more than apparent as he lifted her who had hold of whom, and Lyon couldn’t smother a chuckle of disbelief. Poor Baldwin staggered as she released him.

“How dare you treat me this way,” she railed at Lyon, kicking as he lifted her. She seemed entirely unconcerned over the thud of Baldwin’s burly body as he fell limply onto the ground.

“Judas, woman. You’ve killed him.”

Deciding that he couldn’t afford to attend Baldwin until his own private matters were safely guarded, Lyon scooted backward and settled her before him upon his mount. As a matter of self-preservation, he forced her arms to her sides and lifted his thighs over her legs, allowing his weight to pinion her.

Baldwin groaned, but didn’t stir.

“Let me go, ye rotten Sassenach. He’s not dead, can’t you hear him weeping? Serves him right!”

Lyon was certainly relieved to see it was true, but he wasn’t stupid enough to release her.

Peering up with glazed eyes, Baldwin announced, “Aye, then… she’s riding with you.”

Lyon answered with a hearty chuckle. He still wasn’t quite certain what his plan was, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. He wouldn’t mind waking up to a heavenly face like hers every morning, though, at the very least, perhaps her brothers could be coerced into returning his livestock at the prospect of seeing their sister safely at home once more.

“She’s a menace,” Baldwin said, his voice yet to return to normal.

Lyon couldn’t disagree.

He grinned down at his old friend, holding her more firmly when she twisted before him, and said, “I rather noticed.”

His grin widened when Baldwin scowled up at him.

Meghan watched both men incredulously.

How dare they simply sit there conversing so blithely—as though he weren’t ripping her arm in two with the force of his grip. “You’ll let me go if you ken what’s good for you,” she warned.

Montgomerie loosened his grip, but he didn’t release her. He slipped one arm firmly about her waist and leaned to speak low into her ear. The warmth of his breath made her cheek tingle and sent a quiver down her spine. “Mayhap I don’t know what’s good for me,” he suggested, his voice much too whispery to be soothing.

Meghan reared back and slapped his face for taking such liberties, and resisted the urge to yelp when she managed to push his face against her own in turn.

He glared down at her, looking more startled by her slap than angered.

Meghan was startled by her reaction as well, if the truth be known, though she certainly wasn’t going to show it. She rubbed at her own cheek in dismay. Her temper was surely going to be the death of her one of these days. She peered at Montgomerie with narrowed eyes. “Trust me when I tell you that it hurt me more than it did you, Sassenach.”

“That woman’s mad,” Baldwin declared, staring openmouthed from the ground below.

“Hurt you more?” Lyon sounded bemused. He raised a hand to his face, stroking where she’d slapped him. “That’s precisely what my mother used to claim when she would rap me on my head.” Even as Meghan watched, her handprint manifested itself upon his cheek. Guilt pricked at her, but she ignored it. There was no way she was going to feel remorseful for defending herself against these mercenaries. “Somehow,” he went on, “I cannot think so.”

“Of course it hurt me more,” Meghan persisted. “I managed to strike myself as well, didn’t ye see?”

His brows twitched. “What a pity,” he said, his mouth quirking, and Meghan was no longer certain whether he was angry or amused.

Surely not amused?

“I say we let her go,” Baldwin announced. “For her own sake,” he explained. “If you don’t strangle the insolence out of her, Lyon, I surely will.”

“Nay, you’ll not,” Lyon proclaimed in deadly earnest. “You’ll accord her the respect due her as your mistress.”

“What?” The outcry came at once from both Meghan and Baldwin together. Their gazes collided, and then each turned to stare in disbelief at Lyon. He smiled at her, and she knew he must be mocking her. “What did you say?” she and Baldwin asked again in unison, and then turned again to glare at one another.

“Will you stop?” Baldwin snapped. “I’ve no need of an echo!”

“I have a right to speak, you graceless oaf,” Meghan replied, wholly undone now. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly. She narrowed her eyes at Baldwin. “By the by,” she added, “I think you look like a quivering fish flopping about in that silly mail. Why dinna ye worry yourself about gettin’ up, and mind your own affairs while you’re at it.”

His ears turned bright-red, Meghan noticed, and she smiled with satisfaction. He turned to Lyon. “She’s mad, I tell you. No woman I’ve ever known speaks to a man so disrespectfully. She’s no lady!”

Meghan would have cast herself at him to slap his face had Lyon not restrained her. “Mayhap because you Sassenachs dinna ken a true lady when ye see one. Ye like your women bloodless as cadavers with all that paint on their milksop faces. And spineless as slithering slimy worms.”

“Judas! She’s not only mad, but she’s bloodthirsty,” Baldwin declared. “And a thieving Scot, to boot.”

Meghan gritted her teeth. Och, she was going to murder the rotten Sassenach. “Why, you!” She tried to kick out at him, but couldn’t move her legs with Montgomerie’s blasted ten-stone thigh draped over her limbs. “I’m no thief. You’re the thieves. You’re the ones who’ve robbed everything but the teeth from my brothers’ mouths.”

He had nothing to say in his own defense, Meghan noticed. Instead he turned to Montgomerie.

“Whatever are you thinking, Lyon?”

Montgomerie had remained entirely too silent during their furious exchange, Meghan realized suddenly, and she turned to face him, only to find him grinning at her.

“I’m thinking the two of you are going to need keepers, is what I’m thinking.” His blue eyes twinkled with mirth.

Meghan blinked at their brilliance. Up close, they were bluer, even, than her brother Colin’s, and as luminous as sapphires.

“You cannot be serious?”

“Why not?” he answered, grinning still.

Meghan couldn’t begin to conceive what he could possibly find so amusing. “Ye canna simply wed with someone against her will,” she apprised him as calmly as she was able. He was making sport of her now, she realized.

“Of course I can,” he teased. “’Tis quite commonly done.”

Meghan stared at him in utter disbelief.

“’Tis the perfect solution, as I’ve said.”

“Solution to what?” Meghan replied, only to find herself with an echo once more.

Baldwin, the idiot, was still lying upon the ground, staring up at his lord as though he thought he’d gone utterly mad. “Solution to what?”

“To end the feud, of course,” Montgomerie replied. “I grow tired of sparring with children.”

Meghan screwed her face in disbelief as she turned toward him. “You canna believe forcing me to wed with you will end the feud, ye daft mon. My brothers would sooner see me a widow!”

“You want to end the feud, Lyon?” Baldwin sounded nonplussed by the notion. “But I thought—”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Montgomerie said. “Get up, Baldwin.”

“You’ve changed your mind?” Meghan repeated, apprehension rearing.

She peered from one man to the other, not liking what it was she was hearing. “What do you mean you’ve changed your mind?” She narrowed her gaze at Lyon.

“Nothing less, nothing more. Simply that... I’ve changed my mind.”

Meghan went wholly still before him.

The wretch.

“You mean to tell me you only now have suddenly decided you no longer wish to feud with my brothers?”

“Something like that.”

“Why?”

He had the decency at least to appear a little chagrined by her question.

He might have said she looked like a cow, and she wouldn’t have taken such offense. He could have told her she was mad as a loon, and she might have agreed. He should have admitted to anything but this, because Meghan was suddenly insanely furious. She inhaled a breath, and said when her temper was restrained enough to speak, “Let me be certain I have this right, Sassenach.”

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.

Chapter 6

Baldwin 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!”

Chapter 7

“Ye 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?”

“Chin hairs?”

Meghan could hear the incredulity in his tone. She sincerely hoped she was driving him as mad as she hoped he thought she was.

“Aye,” she said. “Grammie Fia certainly thinks they are.

Chapter 8

The woman was incorrigible.

She was enjoying herself, Lyon was certain of it.

But she’d managed to pique his curiosity despite the fact that he knew she was baiting him. “What curse?” he pressed her.

She peered coyly back at him. “Och, now, surely ye dinna believe in curses, Sassenach? Not the almighty Lyon?”

Vixen.

He could tell by the sparkle in her eyes that she was mocking him. And quite well, besides. Well, two could play at this game.

“You are correct, of course,” he relented. “Never mind. I’ve no longer any desire to know about your curse.”

She went still before him, and quiet too for an instant. Lyon smiled.

“Well truly ’tis naught more than silly babble at anyway,” she said after another moment’s silence.

“Yes, I’m certain.” He suppressed a grin.

They came from the forest into the bright afternoon sun. Lyon could make out the pounding of hammers and the clamor of voices in the distance, and the sound made him feel a fierce sense of pride unlike any he’d ever experienced. This was his land, his home: his men were at work rebuilding, and there was something incredibly rousing about bringing this particular woman into his demesne. Something about the occasion made him sit a little straighter in the saddle... compelled him to suck in a breath.

The scent of wild heather permeated the air... laced now with a more elusive and intriguing scent. His gaze returned to the woman sitting before him. Aye, something about her inspired him in a way he hadn’t been inspired in much too long.

She made him feel alive.

Nay, she made him feel.

All of his senses were heightened.

He leaned closer, unable to keep himself from it, inhaling the sweet scent of her beautiful hair once more. Marrow, was it? The mere thought made him smile. Nay... what he scented was the faintest trace of rosemary... and sunshine.

There was nothing ostentatious about the woman sitting before him, nothing embellished. She was earthy and honest, and while there was nothing naive about her, she had an air of innocence that was decidedly refreshing. Unlike the women he’d known in his life, her eyes did not speak of seduction all the while her lashes fluttered with affected innocence.

But she seduced him nevertheless.

She sighed audibly and Lyon felt the breath leave his own lungs. How was it that she affected him so keenly?

What was it about her that made him so attuned to every breath she took and every word she uttered?

“Och, I shouldn’t have said anything,” she lamented.

On the contrary, he thought, he relished hearing her voice. Somehow it was the embodiment of both woman and child at once—her tone both sweet and alluring. It bewitched him, made him yearn both to coddle and to kiss her both at once.

She sighed again, and he smiled to himself, knowing it was torturing her not to be able to elaborate, and he decided to put her out of her misery once and for all. “Though I suppose now that you have,” he prompted, smiling, “you’ll expound?”

“Well,” She relented quickly. “If you insist!”

Lyon’s grin widened.

“But if I tell you, ye must not believe it,” she said quite firmly. “Swear it.”

“How can I promise such a thing, lass, when I’ve no idea how your disclosure will strike me? Tell me your tale and I shall tell you quite frankly whether I believe it or nay.”

She seemed to consider that an instant. “Fair enough,” she replied. “’Tis wholly untrue, of course, and unfairly said, but they claim we Brodie women are cursed.”

He sensed where she was leading with this, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing. “How so, wench?”

“Well,” she continued, “’tis rumored that madness runs in Brodie blood—but I swear it isn’t true.”

Lyon had no doubt.

“And quite unkind to say… dinna ye think?”

“I’ve never heard such a thing,” he said. He wondered if she could possibly be speaking the truth, and decided that probably not, as she was clearly enjoying this far too much.

“Ye haven’t?” She sounded so disappointed that he had to reconsider. “Oh,” she said, sounding deflated.

She was certainly a very good liar. Lyon tried not to laugh, but his shoulders shook with mirth. He couldn’t answer at once, and was relieved when she continued of her own accord.

“The truth is that my mother was hardly mad,” she went on, “mayhap a bit... emotional. And my grammie... well, she was only eccentric.”

This sounded more like truth, but then he realized she spoke of her grandmother in the past tense. Lyon’s brows lifted. “Was?” he asked, catching her slip of the tongue, and unable to keep himself from baiting her in return. “She was eccentric? And what is she now?”

She peered back at him, her brows drawn together into a frown. She didn’t seem to catch his meaning at first, and then she did. “Is,” she amended at once. “Is, of course!”

This time he couldn’t contain his chuckle. “’Tis good to know as I wouldn’t wish to bring a madwoman into my home.”

“Oh?” she answered, and managed to instill a note of hope in the single word.

Lyon waited for her to suddenly spout some confession of her own madness, but he waited for naught. She was much too shrewd for that.

‘I wonder what is keeping them?” She sounded worried.

Stubborn siren.

He couldn’t believe she would persist in this absurd charade. He supposed she was hoping he would change his mind, but she was hoping in vain, because the longer he considered this as a solution, the more convinced he was that he was doing the right thing. It was perfect for all concerned.

She turned to search the path behind him, and Lyon was at once intrigued by the flush high upon her cheeks. Not only was he going to wed her, he vowed, but he was going to wed her of her own accord. He delighted in the challenge. Arrogant though it might be, he was perfectly confident in his... powers of persuasion. And he was feeling quite merciless just now, quite the Lion circling his prey.

She brought out something primordial in him—something much more than lust. The need to hold her close was overwhelming.

“They’ll be along,” he assured her, and had to restrain himself from leaning forward and brushing his mouth across the warmth of her cheek. He imagined the feel of her skin against his lips... and it sent a jolt of pure sensation through him.

She seemed to have little notion of the tempest that raged within him. If only she realized, he was certain she’d be kicking and screaming now, instead of employing such sophistry against him. He swallowed with some difficulty as his mouth was becoming quite dry, and said, “’Tis more than likely Baldwin may have—”

“There they are!” she exclaimed. “’Tis about time.”

Lyon turned to find Baldwin emerging from the woodlands some ways behind them, dragging the little lamb in tow.

She shrieked suddenly, startling the devil out of him. He had to reach out and snatch her back before she was able to leap from his mount.

He jerked the reins, halting at once.

“Are you mad?”

Meghan didn’t have to pretend outrage for her grandmother’s sake.

Her temper erupted at the sight of Baldwin dragging the poor lamb behind him. How dare he treat the poor creature so cruelly? She wanted to leap at Baldwin and snatch the hair from his head. Mounted upon his horse, he held the lead rope in hand, and was dragging the poor beast behind him, not bothering to slow when the confused animal resisted in fright. He was all but strangling the poor sweet baby.

“How dare he,” she exploded.

“How dare who what?” Lyon snarled, scowling at her.

She didn’t care if he was angry with her just now. “Stop him,” she said in outrage. “Let me down! How dare he treat her so unkindly?” Meghan glared up at him. “Tell him to lift her onto his mount, Sassenach, or I’ll not go with ye.”

“The lamb?”

Meghan cast him daggers with her eyes. “Fia,” she countered. “Her name is Fia. Tell him to let her ride, or I’ll not go with ye.”

His jaw clenched, and he seemed vexed that she persisted.

Meghan didn’t care.

“Does it seem you have a choice?” he had the nerve to ask her.

How dare he think she did not? “This is not England, Sassenach. Aye, I do have choices, and ye shall find yourself cold in your bed one morn if ye dinna think so.”

His brows lifted. “Do you mean to threaten me, lass? Must I bind your hands behind your back each night?”

Despite the implied warning, his face revealed little more than impatience, and Meghan clenched her teeth.

“Take it as you will,” she countered. “But I stand my ground. Tell him to let her ride.”

His eyes slitted, gleaming oddly. Meghan’s belly lurched. Mayhap it was a mistake for her not to fear him?

He was Henry’s infamous Lyon, after all, champion of the highest bidder—reputed to have spilled the blood of Englishman, Frenchman, Scotsman and Saracen alike.

And yet she didn’t seem to fear him at all.

In truth... he made her feel... curiously excited. Particularly now when they were face to face, so close . . . clashing wills.

She was acutely aware that his fingers remained tight about her arm, restraining her, lest she leap from his mount.

Meghan refused to cower before him. “Tell him to let her ride,” she persisted. “Or—”

“Or what?” He tightened his hold slightly upon her arm, not enough to injure, just enough to remind her of his superior strength.

Meghan thought about it an instant, well aware that they were near his manor, and that Baldwin approached them still.

“Ye say ye wish to wed me for the sake of peace? Is not that right?”

“Aye ’tis what I said.”

“Wouldn’t it be a pity for everyone to see you carry me across the threshold against my will—kicking and screaming? I wonder what my brothers would do did they discover you’d treated me so brutishly?”

“More threats?”

“Mayhap,” Meghan admitted.

He lifted one brow and cocked his head at her. “So, then, let me understand... are you saying you’ll agree to wed me... if I simply make Baldwin carry the beast in his arms?”

Meghan shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not... You’ll have to wait and see, will you not?”

He smiled wickedly, revealing gleaming white teeth, and Meghan felt her heart quicken within her breast. And yet she wasn’t about to relinquish her one advantage: the question of her will.

She returned his smile, hoping she appeared as merciless as he. And then she opened her mouth and began to scream.

“Judas!” he exclaimed, slapping a hand over her mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound.

Meghan didn’t bother to struggle, merely continued to scream at the top of her lungs, ceasing only when she needed a breath. He released her when she stopped abruptly, and she gulped in another breath and launched into an ear-piercing screech.

“All right, curse it all,” he relented. “Cease! Cease, already! Baldwin, put her grandmother on your horse.” he commanded.

Meghan stopped screaming and smiled.

Baldwin’s eyes widened. “I cannot mount with—”

“Do it,” Lyon demanded.

“Thank ye,” Meghan said sweetly, and tried not to laugh at the flustered expression upon Baldwin’s face. “Fia will appreciate it, I assure you … because you see, she has the—”

“Gout, I know,” Lyon replied.

Meghan fluttered her lashes at him, giving him her most ingenuous look.

Chapter 9

Alison fled the meadow in panic and sequestered herself within her bower for at least an hour’s time before realizing that she didn’t like herself very much for what she’d done. Meghan Brodie had been her very best friend since the day Meghan had discovered her spying on her and her grammie in the woods. From her father, Alison had heard naught but horrid things about the auld woman, and Alison had been watching like a coward from behind a big fat oak. Curiosity had kept her rooted to the spot. Meghan never exposed her to her grammie; instead she’d crawled over to Alison’s tree on her hands and knees and had peered around it at Alison, and said in such a dulcet tone, “She’ll not hurt you, I promise. She’s not really mad, she’s just my grammie.” And she’d said it with so much love and such hope that Alison had at once felt contrite for every tale she’d ever listened to about the auld woman.

Now she sat in Meghan’s brothers’ hall, waiting while they searched for Meghan. It was dusk now. Outside, the lavender sky darkened ominously. And with every passing minute the Brodie brothers were away, Alison’s unease intensified.

What was taking them so long?

She was beginning to have the most terrible, horrible feeling about it all.

Something had gone terribly awry, and once again it was all her fault. Her shoulders slumped dejectedly, though she straightened at once when Meghan’s eldest brother, Leith, entered the room.

“Did you find her?” Alison asked anxiously, and then she spied the expression on his face and her hopes fell.

“Nay.” He frowned. “Colin and Gavin are still searching, lass.” He approached the table where Alison sat, and perched himself upon it, his expression tense but his demeanor remained composed and deliberate. He crossed his arms, and seemed to be considering the situation. With his tall, lanky frame, he appeared no more than a boy, but in his face, Alison could see the wisdom of his years... and more.

She had never spoken much with Leith, for she’d always been cowed by his sober intensity. It had always been difficult to tell whether he approved or disapproved of her friendship with Meghan. Although Alison couldn’t think of a single reason he should disapprove, neither had he ever been entirely friendly to her—cordial certainly, but never particularly warm. Today, however, she appreciated his staid demeanor, for while he didn’t seem particularly pleased with the circumstances, neither did he seem to blame her. Of course, she hadn’t precisely revealed everything as yet, and she feared now she was going to have to. She wished with all her might that she didn’t have to confess under such circumstances, and then reproached herself for being such a selfish dolt that she would consider her own wellbeing over that of Meghan’s.

Where could Meghan possibly have gone off to?

It wasn’t like her to simply wander away.

Well... perhaps it was, though not for long. Besides, they were usually together, she and Alison. But this time, she was out there alone…

Gavin entered the hall, looking graver still. Leith peered up at him, but Gavin shook his head. “Naught,” he announced.

“Did you search the chapel?” Leith asked. “Colin said she was there this morn, fretting over some bird.”

Gavin continued to shake his head. He peered down thoughtfully at the floor, looking troubled.

Alison listened to their conversation with growing trepidation and no small measure of guilt.

“’Twas the first and again the last place I looked,” Gavin disclosed. “She’s not there, Leith.”

A few oaths fell from Leith’s mouth. “Where could she be?” There was a note of panic in his voice now.

“I’ve said before that if she spent more time at prayer, and less at—”

Leith raised his hand, silencing him. “Cease, Gavin. I cannot hear this now.”

Gavin seemed determined to make his point. “Now is when you must hear it, Leith. If not now, when?”

“This has naught to do with your perceived notions of Meggie’s irreverence, Gavin.”

Colin entered the room in that moment. “Meghan has a right to believe whatever she will.” His expression was angry. He didn’t acknowledge Alison, though he rarely did straightaway.

“It has everything to do with Meghan’s irreverence,” Gavin persisted, igniting Colin’s anger.

“Shut your mouth, Gavin, unless you can open it to help instead of making things worse with your sermonizing. You’re gettin’ on my nerves.”

Alison had never seen him so furious.

Gavin glared at Colin. “Why, you—” His body tensed though he remained seated.

Alison held her breath at the sight of the brothers sparring. She had never seen them so at odds before. They were usually the most mild-tempered men, and she had always envied Meghan’s easy relationship with them.

“Why me, what?” Colin fired back, standing with his fists clenched at his sides. “Say it like a mon, Gavin, or dinna say aught at all.”

“Shut your mouths, both of you,” Leith commanded.

Gavin and Colin obeyed at once, although both of them were physically bigger than their eldest brother. Leith was tall, certainly, but Gavin, though he was youngest, was taller yet. And Colin, though he was of goodly height, was by far the most muscular.

“This is no time to be locking horns. This is about Meghan, remember?” He cast a pointed glance at Colin.

Colin’s jaw tautened, but he nodded.

“Gavin?” Leith prompted.

Gavin nodded as well.

“We are all concerned here,” Leith added. “It will serve no one to battle each other.”

“I should never have let her go,” Colin lamented. “I knew not to let her go. I had this feeling, Leith.”

“This is not the time for regrets either, Colin,” Leith said. “I would have forbade her myself, but you and I know perfectly well that Meghan would have done what she pleased.”

“That’s precisely the point I was trying to make,” Gavin interjected.

“Make it another time, Gavin,” Leith commanded. “Not now, I said.”

Colin’s eyes met Alison’s suddenly, and they were full of rancor. It was clear to her that he blamed her more than anyone.

What would he think of her once she told them everything?

“I ought never have told her that Alison awaited her in the meadow,” Colin persisted.

Alison lowered her head. “’Tis my fault, I know,” she offered.

“Nay, lass,” Leith assured her. “It is not. Colin is simply angry with himself.”

As much as it pained her to confess it, she knew she must. “Aye,” Alison insisted. “It is my fault.” She met Leith’s gaze, not daring to face Gavin or Colin. Somehow, it was easier to do this if she pretended those two were not listening.

“Nay, lass,” Leith argued.

“Aye, but it is,” Alison asserted, straightening her spine. “Because I stole the goat.”

Leith’s brows collided. His expression clearly revealed his confusion. He uncrossed his arms. “What the devil are you talking about, lass? What goat? What has a goat to do with Meggie’s disappearance?”

Alison’s lower lip began to tremble, but she faced Leith bravely. “Montgomerie’s goat.”

“Montgomerie’s goat?” Leith was clearly stunned by her proclamation.

“You mean the goat?” Colin asked, his tone one of disbelief.

Alison nodded and kept her gaze fixed on Leith. “Aye,” she replied.

“The goat?” Colin repeated, his temper obviously rising. Alison cringed, though she didn’t dare look at him, for fear of what she would see in his eyes.

“Montgomerie’s goat?” Gavin asked again, as though to be certain they were all hearing correctly. Alison turned to face him and nodded, still avoiding Colin’s gaze.

“What would make you go and do a thing like that?” Leith sounded dumbfounded.

Gavin exploded, and both Leith and Colin looked at him in surprise.

Alison couldn’t help it; tears pricked at her eyes, as she’d never heard Gavin curse—not ever.

“Explain,” Leith demanded, turning once more to face her.

Alison’s eyes welled with tears. “I dinna intend for Montgomerie to blame you. I meant only to keep from wedding him, you see.”

“By stealing his goat?” Colin asked, aghast.

Alison faced Colin then, and wished at once that she had not. His expression was undeniably full of disgust.

And fury.

“I simply did not want—”

“You should be pleased to wed any mon at all,” he told her cruelly, shouting now.

Alison flinched at the tone of his voice. “I dinna mean to... I only thought that if he and my da could be at odds... I dinna mean for him to believe—”

“I do not want you, Alison MacLean! I do not know how to make it plainer than that,” Colin announced.

Tears spilled over Alison’s lashes and streamed down her cheeks. “But… it’s not that—I only did not wish to wed with him,” she explained once more, pleading with Colin to understand. He had to understand how she felt about him. “I cannot love him, don’t you see?”

His eyes glittered with anger. “If anything happens to my sister because of your foolish little-girl notions, I will never forgive you,” Colin swore, and the contempt in his tone, more than his words, cut like a blade to her heart. “I will not forgive you, Alison MacLean.”

Alison gasped for breath; she couldn’t seem to catch one.

“Enough,” Leith demanded.

“Leave her be, Colin,” Gavin entreated. “She dinna mean to.”

“I’ll leave her be all right,” Colin announced. “I’m going out to look for my sister. The two of you can stay and play nursemaid if it please you.” And with that, he pivoted on his heels and stalked angrily from the hall. Alison kept her eyes on his back until he was gone from the door. All the while, tears streamed from her eyes.

She loved him madly.

He hated her truly.

Leith came about the table to where she sat. Alison watched his approach with hazy vision. She peered at Gavin and saw the pity in his gaze. She couldn’t bear it, and, leaning forward, she rested her head upon the table and cried even harder.

She felt Leith’s hand upon her back, soothing her. “Colin does not mean it,” he swore.

“I’m going to look for Meghan as well,” Gavin said. “Mayhap she merely lost track of the hours.”

“Go on,” Leith agreed as he knelt beside Alison. “Be certain to check the shortcut from the meadow. I know she favors it though I’ve asked her not to take it.”

Alison was acutely aware of Gavin’s heavy footsteps as he left them, but she continued to sob, unable to face even Leith in her shame.

Leith continued to soothe her. “Now, now,” he said tenderly. “I know you dinna mean to, Alison.”

He leaned awkwardly toward her, and Alison, desperate as she was, turned into his arms, grateful that he was here to reassure her. Colin hated her. Gavin pitied her. And her very best friend was in trouble—and it was all her fault, she just knew it.

“We will find her,” Leith reassured, and Alison wanted so desperately to believe him. She clutched at his tunic, sobbing against his shoulder.

“We both know our Meggie... she’ll turn up on the doorstep, I’m certain. If not on her own,” he said with a faint smile, “then whoever has taken her will dump her there directly—wicked tongue and all.”

Alison gave a reluctant chuckle. Och, but it was true; Meghan certainly spoke her mind well enough.

“That’s it, now,” Leith crooned. “Wipe the tears from your eyes, lass. We must work together in this.”

Alison did as he bade her and stopped weeping. She peered up at him, sniffling. He was right, she knew. And she had to be strong. For Meghan’s sake.

“Now,” he proposed, “why don’t you tell me everything, lass... start from the beginning...”

Chapter 10

“Get off the horse, lass.”

“Nay,” Meghan replied. “I’ll not. Ye canna tell me what to do.”

He stood before her with his hands upon his hips, looking at her much as though she were a wayward child he’d like to toss over his knee and spank. To his credit, he did no such brutish thing. He merely raised a brow at her.

“We had a bargain, do you not recall?”

Meghan shook her head. “You perhaps had a bargain,” she reminded him. “I merely suggested it would be a pity for everyone to see ye carry me in against my will.”

Meghan was well aware that they were drawing an audience, but she didn’t care. Let them watch. They should see that their new lord was naught more than a ruthless barbarian.

“Have it your way,” he said, and reached out to pluck her off the horse. Meghan squealed in surprise, and she expected him to toss her over his shoulder, but he surprised her by cradling her within his arms like a wee bairn. It flustered her so much that she forgot to scream. “What are you doing?”

“What does it seem I am doing? I’m carrying you over the threshold.” He had the audacity to wink at her. “A loving husband and his blushing bride.”

Meghan glared up at him. So much for her plan to show him for the barbarian he was. “You’re not my loving husband,” she assured. “Nor I your blushing bride.”

He lifted her up to whisper into her ear, his breath warm and sweet against her face. It sent gooseflesh down her arms and legs. “Perhaps not, but that’s what my people will see.” He drew away and grinned down at her and Meghan suddenly ceased to breathe.

She couldn’t find her thoughts suddenly, so discomposed was she by the intimacy of his embrace... his whisper... his tone...

What was happening? Her body was reacting curiously. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

He seemed to realize what having his arms around her did to her, because his eyes were twinkling. “Go ahead, scream if you like,” he dared her.

The rat—he’d understood her intent, and had thwarted her so easily. Meghan wished she could scream. But truth to tell, she couldn’t. She could only stare at his lips, vaguely aware that he bore her through the courtyard past the prying eyes of his people and over the threshold of his door. He carried her up the stairs then, and into his chamber. There he dumped her unceremoniously upon the bed and walked away.

The cad. He intended, she surmised, to remind her of her place. Well, she hadn’t wed him as yet, and neither was she going to. Let him think so, if it pleased him. Her brothers would come for her soon enough, and then she’d have the last word. Rotten misbegotten knave. Until then, she was perfectly content to play his little game.

“You cannot simply lock me away, ye know,” Meghan announced, before he could close the door behind him.

He stopped and turned to peer within. “Of course I can,” he replied and smiled coolly at her.

His arrogance both infuriated and intrigued her. But how could that be so?

He grinned. “Watch me.”

Meghan wasn’t certain whether to be angry or amused by his response. No one had ever been so impervious to her. It seemed to her that no matter what she said, or what she did, he would do as he pleased with a smile on his face. She was certainly accustomed to despotic men, but somehow Lyon Montgomerie was different. It was more than evident in the way he looked at her and in his actions—that he was not indifferent to her appearance. Unlike other men, however, he was not reduced to babbling when she spoke. Nor did he seem particularly inclined to oblige her every whim. To the contrary, she’d never met a man who seemed so little concerned with her opinion of him. In fact, he didn’t seem to care whether she approved of him or nay. And more, he seemed amused by her apparent disregard of him.

The two of them seemed, in truth, to be engaged in some strange battle of wills and wits, and Meghan, for one, didn’t intend to lose.

He turned once more to go, and Meghan said quite deliberately, “If you’re not going to stay and abuse me... would you mind terribly sending in my grandmother to keep me company?”

If Meghan had hoped for a reaction from him, she’d hoped in vain, because he simply smiled tolerantly and said without hesitation, “Of course. I shall send her directly.”

Meghan smiled sweetly at him. “Thank ye.” She batted her lashes coyly.

“You never cease, do you?”

Meghan’s brows lifted. “Whatever do ye mean? I’ve no notion what you’re speakin’ of.”

“Of course you do… I can see it in your eyes. You know precisely what it is you are doing, and it’s not going to work.”

“What’s not going to work?” Meghan asked in her most innocent tone. “I’ve no idea what you’re referring to. ’Tis merely the least you can do. If you’re going to keep us both prisoners here, you might as well be kind enough to let us serve our gaol time together.”

“Prisoners?” He lifted a brow. “Do not think of yourself so,” he bade her. “You’ve my word you shall be given all due respect as my wife.”

Meghan cocked her head at him, giving him her most willful glance. “I dinna remember agreeing to such a thing, Sassenach. Although if it pleases you to think so... have yourself a merry time with the notion. You can go now,” she said dismissively. And with a sigh, she laid back upon the bed, stretching out upon it as though it were her own and his presence of little consequence.

Lyon watched her make herself at home upon his bed, and experienced an immediate reaction to the sight of her lying there. She lounged upon it as though she had nary a care in the world... as though she were a loving wife waiting for the return of her lover.

His mouth went dry, and although he’d planned to go, to prepare messages to send to David and Dougal MacLean, he suddenly didn’t wish to leave her.

Most particularly because she seemed to wish him to go.

Or did she?

He closed the door and smiled when her head popped up at once to peer at him. Her surprised expression at finding him still present shifted at once to that already familiar expression of bored disdain she had perfected so well. Their gazes locked and held as he approached the bed. The room went completely silent but for the sound of his own footfalls across the creaky wooden floor.

“I shall tell you what pleases me,” he said, leaning over her.

“What?” She blinked, but held his gaze.

Lyon could see the question in her eyes. She wasn’t so dauntless as she would like to have him believe. And yet she faced him squarely, her delicate chin lifting in challenge—tilted at a perfect angle so as to meet his lips... did he but lower his mouth to hers. And what lips she was blessed with... full and pouty, perfectly shaped... He imagined them to be soft and luscious...

Her chest lifted with another soft gasp, and his gaze fell for an instant in thought before returning to her face. It was all he could do not to bend for a kiss upon those sweet lips. The scent of her rose to taunt him...

“Seeing you here upon my bed,” he whispered. “That pleases me.”

She smiled softly in answer, and he could see that her own reaction shocked her, for it registered there upon her face with a startled blink.

He wanted her as his wife.

And yet he wanted her willing.

He wanted more than her body.

He wanted her to whisper his name in goodnight in the dark of night... and to think of him the first instant her long lashes lifted from sleep in the morn. He wanted to see the longing in her deep-green eyes. He wanted her to sigh with contentment as she rested in the safety of his arms.

She did that to him somehow... this woman whose name he did not even know. This woman who looked at him askance, and pretended an indifference she couldn’t possibly feel with that look she now wore in those beautiful eyes: a look of pure virgin innocence mingled with uninhibited curiosity. He sensed she hid a passion as deep as his own. Heaven help him, if it was the last thing he did... he was going to win her heart. And he was going to employ every device he knew to keep her there with him.

He was going to bind her to him for always. That he vowed as he stared down at her lovely face, flushed now with color.

He moved closer, savoring the heat between their bodies, hovering above her mouth, until the warmth of her breath teased his lips.

Meghan held her breath as he stared down at her.

Never in her life had she been kissed by a man—never had she desired it.

And yet... somehow she could think of little else but the way his lips would feel upon her own. She swallowed convulsively.

Poised above her as he was, with his beautiful lips so near, and his vivid blue eyes locked with hers, Meghan felt utterly dizzy.

That look he wore... she wasn’t so naive that she didn’t comprehend what it meant. She’d seen Colin gaze that way at women much too oft to mistake it.

“You’re like all the rest,” she murmured huskily.

He shook his head and was so close that Meghan imagined she felt the brush of his lips against her own.

Or had it been real?

“Nay,” he assured her. “I am not, siren, and do not make the mistake of thinking so.” His eyes gleamed wickedly, and Meghan immediately sensed that perhaps he spoke the truth. Perhaps, as with the others, her face had caught his eye, but his response to her was anything but familiar.

“You canna force me to wed with ye,” Meghan said a little breathlessly. “And I will not. You canna make me.”

Was she trying so hard to convince him?

Or herself?

“Quite true,” he agreed, smiling. “I cannot force you. But you will…in time.”

Meghan narrowed her eyes at him. “Dinna be so certain of yourself, Sassenach. I’m not some foolish lass who sighs after every handsome lad. You will not win me with flattery.”

His smile deepened. “You think me handsome, do you?”

Meghan’s face burned. “I didna say such a thing. Dinna put words in my mouth, Sassenach,” But she was surely thinking it. Never in her life had a face appealed to her more. It was the face of a man, not that of a boy. And yet Meghan could very much spy the devilry of his youth in his every expression. He was a man who relished his pleasures... and it was obvious to Meghan that his pleasure at the moment was… her.

“I would not dare put words in your mouth,” he assured her. “Not when there is something else I’d so much rather do with that lovely mouth of yours.”

Meghan shivered at the silky tone of his voice.

Never in her life had a man looked at her so. He was a man who knew what he wanted and was used to getting it, she realized. And she was certain there was more there than the intent to kiss her that was so apparent in his eyes.

Meghan lay there, blinking. Was he going to kiss her now? It seemed to her that he meant to, for his eyes slitted and he tilted his face, as though to lock his lips with hers.

She held her breath in anticipation.

Would she let him?

Should she?

“One day,” he vowed, “you will ask me to love you.”

“Nay—”

“Shhh...”

His breath blew warm and sweet upon her lips. Meghan closed her eyes for an instant, letting the sensation brush over her. She felt defenseless against this form of seduction. She knew how to deal with men who leered, men who vowed their love after first setting eyes upon her, and overeager beaus, but she didn’t know how to deal with this man at all—nor with the strange way he seemed to speak to her heart. It answered to him like a slave to its master... no matter that her head said nay.

He withdrew a little, giving her space to breathe, to think.

“I think you will,” he said and offered her an incorrigible grin.

“Nay, I’ll not,” Meghan assured him, with far more certainty than she suddenly felt.

“Then prove me wrong,” he challenged her, rising from the bed abruptly. Meghan blinked in confusion at his unanticipated answer, at her own keen sense of disappointment. He abandoned her, leaving her to stare after him, dumbfounded, as he walked away.

“You will wish to wed with me,” he said, “because you know I speak the truth. It is the most obvious solution to our little dilemma.” And then he closed the door behind him.

What in heaven’s name happened?

Had she wanted him to kiss her?

Surely not.

Then why was she so disappointed that he had not?

And why should she feel rejected, when he’d made his intentions and his desires perfectly clear from the first?

Because for once, she hadn’t been the one in control, Meghan realized.

And truth to tell, it galled her that he had been. The knave…How dare he simply walk away and leave her this way!

Chapter 11

It had taken every ounce of Lyon’s will to leave the girl lying upon his bed.

He’d wanted so badly to kiss those lovely lips, to worship them with his own, but he wanted something else so much more. Aye, she might have kissed him back in the heat of the moment, but he understood that it was too soon. She would have regretted it after. And then, too, it had provoked him that she would compare him to all the rest of her swains.

Had she kissed many men? Is that what he saw in her expression when she looked at him?

The thought both disturbed and intrigued him at once. He didn’t like to think of her with another man, but the possibility that she would know how to kiss a man’s lips appealed as well.

He was a man of passion, he realized. He wanted a woman who was bold enough to share in it. He wanted it to be the woman now lying upon his bed.

No other would do.

And that brought him to another matter entirely...

He had no notion how he was going to deal with Dougal MacLean over the matter of his daughter.

Lyon had met her only once, but she hadn’t appealed to him in the least, and he scarcely recalled what she looked like now. And yet part of the understanding in his accepting this land from Dougal MacLean was that he would agree to give it back by virtue of an alliance. He’d put off the betrothal so long because after meeting MacLean’s daughter, he hadn’t been in any rush to marry. And now that he was, it wasn’t Alison MacLean he wished to be with.

It was... whatever her name was up there. He frowned at that. She was as stubborn as they came. He wasn’t going to glean her name easily from her, only because he desired it, and she knew. Well, he was simply going to have to write the missive to David without it. He would just name her as Brodie’s sister.

He barreled down the stairs, into the hall, and headed directly toward his table at the dais, ordering his pen and parchment from a lad who sat cross-legged on the floor, petting a mangy cat. In his haste, he had forgotten to bring his writing implements with him. The lad bounded up and ran to do his bidding, and Lyon stepped up on the dais and rounded the table. He drew out a weary breath along with his chair and sat to wait, trying to determine the best course of action to be taken. Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair.

Accursed Scots.

He was going to have to word this precisely right, he knew, else he was going to end with yet another feud upon his hands.

Alison MacLean wasn’t precisely ill favored, it was merely that she lacked spirit. She’d sat there before him, her expression ranging from disinterest to horror at the prospect of wedding with him. At least that he didn’t feel badly about. He had no doubt that she did not share her father’s enthusiasm for the alliance. So he hadn’t to worry about disappointing her. And yet he certainly didn’t wish to wound her tender feelings.

He tried to conjure her face to his thoughts, but all that came to him were those crossed eyes... that nose... the miserable expression she’d worn. She sat there beside her father, looking entirely wretched, while her father had babbled on about the rewards of their proposed alliance, completely oblivious to his daughter’s distress. Lyon had been aware of nothing but. How could he wed her anyway when it had been perfectly clear to him that MacLean’s daughter came into the bargain wholly unwilling?

Baldwin entered the hall. “Where’s the wench?” he asked, looking bedraggled and a bit surprised to find Lyon alone. Lyon didn’t think his old friend was ever going to forgive him for having to mount the lamb upon his horse. As long as Lyon lived, he didn’t think he would ever forget the sight of Baldwin trying to mount with the rotten little beast in his arms. He’d finally managed only by straddling the animal over his saddle and then mounting behind it.

“I stink to high heaven,” he complained, casting his arms out in disgust.

Lyon chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”

“I hope you’re happy,” Baldwin said sourly. “Where’s the mad wench?”

“In my chamber.”

Baldwin nodded. “Of course.”

“And where is Fia?”

“Where do you think? I gave her to Cameron to place with the others.”

“Well, you’ll have to get her back,” Lyon charged him, and couldn’t help but laugh at Baldwin’s harassed expression. “She wishes to see her grandmother.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Deadly in earnest,” Lyon said. “She’s something, is she not?”

Baldwin muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he approached the table. “She’s something else all right,” he agreed. “Are you insane, Lyon? Whatever do you want with a lunatic wench?”

Lyon raised his brows. “What do you think I want with her, Baldwin?”

“Bloody cad,” Baldwin said.

Lyon merely laughed.

“I’m telling you, she’s more trouble than it’s worth,” Baldwin warned.

Lyon arched a brow. “I shall be the judge of that.”

Baldwin sat upon the table. “She’s quite insane,” he said with conviction.

Lyon was tired of hearing it. “Nay,” he disagreed, “I assure you she is not.”

“But what if she is?” Baldwin persisted.

“She’s not. She’s simply a cunning little nymph, is all.”

“And you seriously mean to do this?”

Lyon ran his hand over his jaw. “As serious as I can be.”

“You are…” Baldwin gave a low whistle, and shook his head.

The two remained silent an instant, considering the gravity of Lyon’s decision.

“And what of MacLean? What will you say to him? He’ll not be pleased, Lyon.”

Lyon leaned back in his chair. “I know.”

“He is counting upon this alliance, I do not have to tell you.”

Lyon’s lips twisted. “Well, we’ll simply have to find the proper compensation for him, will we not? Every man has a price, as they say. As for David,” he continued, “I am not so dim-witted that I do not understand why he gave me this land to begin with.”

Baldwin nodded.

“He needs me here, else he’d never have risked the displeasure of these Highlanders to begin with—not when he is trying so desperately to win them over. Nay, he did not barter land from MacLean simply to reward an old friend. He’s too shrewd for that. He placed me here because I’m good at what I do.”

“This is true,” Baldwin affirmed. “No one is better at commanding degenerate men.”

Lyon leaned forward in his chair and over the table, peering up at Baldwin. “He also realizes that while I want this—and I do—I’d as soon leave it all as to sell myself any longer. I’m through with all that, Baldwin. I’ve gold enough to do as I will. Life is too short,” he concluded.

“That it is. What can I do? How can I help?”

Lyon smirked up at him. “You can get your butt off the table I eat on, to begin with.”

Baldwin laughed.

“And then you can take Fia up to see her granddaughter,” Lyon added with a note of wry humor.

Baldwin shook his head and hopped off the table, though, to his credit, said nothing more.

“Thank you,” Lyon added as his friend turned to go. “I realize this has the potential to make life difficult for the lot of us. Not only me.”

Baldwin smiled. “You have done far more for me. Supporting you is the least I can do. Anything else you need just now?”

“One more thing,” Lyon said. “Get her name for me, will you? I would like to have it before the evening meal.”

“Very well,” Baldwin said, and started away just as the young boy returned, bringing Lyon his quill, inkwell, and parchment.

Lyon took the items from the boy’s hands and then sent him on his way with a ruffle of his dark hair and a word of thanks. And then he set about writing the necessary letters: one to Dougal MacLean, one to David of Scotia, and one to her brothers as Lyon was certain they’d be wondering over her whereabouts just about now. It served little purpose to keep them in suspense. They were going to be brothers by law, after all.

In fact, while he was at it, he thought he might simply make it a wedding invitation and remind them to bring their own ale.

The little lamb was growing weary.

Meghan could tell by the way it seemed to wobble on its wee legs. And yet she knew the poor creature couldn’t possibly make itself at ease enough in this strange place long enough to fall asleep on its own.

“Poor wee thing,” she cooed, and lifted the creature upon the bed, commiserating with it.

Weary as it was, it dropped down beside her, and she sat stroking its head while it grew still, listening to the sound of her voice. She’d always had a great love for animals—something she’d indubitably inherited from Fia. And having spent the entire day with this one, she was beginning to grow quite fond of the little beast. They seemed to have a natural affinity between them. In truth, strange as it seemed, she was even beginning to think of it as her Grammie Fia.

She lay upon the bed, contemplating her prison as she stroked the animal’s newly sheared coat. It wasn’t a large room, nor was it precisely small. It was really quite unremarkable in every aspect, save for the gaping hole in the ceiling on the far side of the roof. It was growing dark; Meghan watched the gloaming sky fade to night before her eyes.

She knew her brothers had begun to search for her by now. She also knew they would worry, and felt a stab of guilt for putting herself at risk to begin with. She should never have taken the shortcut through the woods.

And Colin, she realized, would blame himself most of all because he’d been the one to let her go.

Despite that Colin was the most indulgent of her brothers, he was quite protective of her still. He merely allowed her a little more freedom because he valued his own so very much. And yet, if it weren’t for the fact that she knew they were home fretting... or out searching and thinking the worst... in truth she might not be wholly regretful of her circumstances at all.

Why was that, did she suppose?

No matter that she told herself she was content to be alone, she was fiercely lonesome, and this union might at least give her children some day.

“You know what?” she asked the wee lamb, now resting peacefully at her side. And seeing it so at ease in her presence made her feel a sense of achievement. “The Sassenach is right,” she continued, speaking low lest someone overhear her. “This might be the perfect solution, were I to wed that brute,” she reasoned. “What do you think?”

She stared at the animal’s serene face and thought of Fia when she’d slept. It brought a smile to her lips. How many mornings had she gone tiptoeing into her grammie’s room, only to find her stretched out upon her bed, lying so still, looking as though she had passed in her sleep during the night. Meghan would approach Fia’s bed with wide-eyed apprehension and a valor that she’d hardly felt. She’d stand there, watching her grammie’s breast for some sign of life. But Fia always slept much too peacefully, and Meghan would wave a hand before her nostrils to feel the warm breath leave them in order to reassure herself. And then Fia would startle the life from her, coming awake abruptly.

“Och,” she would complain. “Canna an auld woman rest in peace?”

Meghan would gasp in fright and then sigh in relief, and then feel wracked with guilt over waking her dear grammie.

The memory filled her with sorrow. Fia had been her sole companion, and Meghan had lived in fear of losing the one person who had truly understood her. Her mother had been too brokenhearted to think of anyone, ever.

But Meghan didn’t fault her mother for that, because it had been so apparent by the look in her eyes that her grief had been real. After her father’s death, her mother’s pain had been so great that it had seemed easier for her not to feel at all. She had spent hours alone simply staring out from her window—and long nights weeping in her bed. Meghan knew that, somewhere in her heart, her mother had loved her as well, but her guilt and her pain had been too great for her to express it. Her father’s jealousy had carried him to his grave, and her mother had never forgiven herself for her wayward smiles. Nor did she ever forget Meghan’s da until the day she last closed her eyes. As for Megan’s brothers, they were all too involved with their own lives—Leith with his duties to the clan, Gavin with his God, and Colin with his women—to spend time enough with Meghan.

After Fia died, Meghan felt as though she’d lost her mooring, for while Alison was as true a friend as any could have, Meghan was more a mother figure to her in so many ways; Alison had often shared her woes with Meghan, though Meghan never felt comfortable doing so in return. It had always seemed to be Meghan’s duty to be the strong one. And she’d felt so alone for so very long.

She peered hard at the lamb’s face and wished with all her heart that she could live such a simple life... a silly thing to wish for... but she did.

Oh, to be more plain, like Alison...

Alison was lovely from within and it radiated without. Alison would someday find herself a man who would look past the flaws in her face and would love her for her beauteous soul.

Meghan’s own face had always been a curse. Women rarely received her warmly because of it, and men only wanted to possess her for it.

Now that Fia was gone... nobody seemed to care enough to know the heart within her silly body—not even her brothers. And Meghan had long since resolved herself to solitude. She’d learned from Fia’s example how to tend her own gardens behind the stone walls that sheltered her heart. And if she kept those walls strong, it was only because somewhere within she feared no one would like the imperfect soul behind the perfect face. She’d learned the importance of being content with herself and embracing even her flaws—particularly her flaws—as it was foolish to place her happiness into someone else’s hands.

Och, but she knew it was foolish to hope for unconditional love.

Aye... so this might well be the perfect solution after all... except that Piers Montgomerie was no different from the rest.

Meghan was well aware of and none too pleased by the fact that peace between their clans was not his true motivation. Like all other men, Piers Montgomerie was driven by beauty. He wanted perfection, and little did he realize that Meghan was a fraud. Her face might be pleasing, but her soul was fraught with flaws. She was not sweet and well-tempered like Alison—nor was she patient and warmhearted.

She was not perfect.

Never had been.

Never would be.

Chapter 12

It was the wee hours of the morn when the torches were once again returned to their sconces upon the walls.

They had searched the woodlands, the meadows, the loch’s edge even, and still there was no sign of Meghan.

Leith Mac Brodie slumped behind the table where MacLean’s daughter sat, waiting, with her head cradled wearily within her arms. Her lovely copper tresses pooled about her on the table. He resisted the urge to reach out and see for himself whether it was as soft as it appeared.

She peered up when he sat, looking as frightened as a wee rabbit startled by a pack of wolves. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks stained with tears. His heart wrenched a little at the sight of her, and his conscience pricked him.

They had yet to take her home, and he knew it would bear its own consequences come the morning, but it could scarce be helped. He could not spare a single man to see her safely to her father—could not spare them from the search for Meghan. And neither could he simply let her go, not as a matter of principle, and certainly not in light of Meghan’s disappearance.

He averted his gaze, rubbing at his temples, unable to face the lass as yet, as he knew she was like to have considered the consequences of her having spent the night unchaperoned in his home.

Troubles never ceased.

“You did not find her?” Alison asked apprehensively, though hopefully, peering up at him, her eyes wide.

Leith met her gaze, shook his head, and sighed. “Nay, lass. We didna.”

“And you searched the meadow?”

Leith nodded.

“And the woodlands?”

“Aye, lass,” he answered. “Colin and Gavin are still searching as we speak.”

“Poor lads,” she said, her expression full of woe.

Leith knew she must be thinking of Colin; he recognized that forlorn look upon her face. He couldn’t understand why Colin did not see the good in her. He couldn’t perceive how his brother placed such weight upon the fickle face, and so little upon the heart. Alison MacLean was possessed of a beautiful heart and even lovelier soul. It was discernible in her eyes and in every expression that graced her sweet face.

And that hair, the color of Meghan’s, it was her most remarkable feature. Even her eyes, crossed as they were, were much like Meggie’s... The two were not so dissimilar, he thought. As children they had looked naught alike, though it seemed to Leith that as they’d grown up together, the two had begun to resemble one another, like married couples in their auld years.

He stared at her, thinking that a man could do much worse than to look into those bonny eyes before he closed his own to sleep at night.

“Did you find the wee lamb, perchance?”

He cocked his head at her. “Lamb?”

“Aye,” she replied. “Do you not recall I told you I left a lamb for Meghan to find?”

“Oh. Aye,” He straightened in his seat. “No sign of the lamb either,” he told her.

Her brows knit. “None at all?”

“None.”

“It seems to me,” she said, thinking aloud, “that there should have been some sign of the animal—hoof marks perhaps—something to show the path it took away from the meadow. Don’t you think so?”

“The ground is dry,” he pointed out.

Alison nodded, frowning. It was only then, with that small defeat, that he recognized the dread in her expression. Her face grew wan. Her eyes met his, and they were so full of fear that Leith once again had the most incredible urge to hold her... to fold her under his arms like a mother bird did with her hatchlings.

And it struck him then that she had yet to voice any concern for her own situation. He knew she had to have considered the consequences of her remaining unchaperoned in his home. How could she not have? With every moment that passed, she was compromised all the more. As it was, dawn was quickly approaching, and they had not even sent a messenger to her da, letting him know of her whereabouts. As much as he loathed the thought of doing so—weary as he was, concerned as he was for Meghan—he knew he had to rouse himself once more... for Alison’s sake.

“I came to take you home,” he told her.

She seemed to take in a fretful breath, but nodded bravely. “Verra well, then... I am ready to go.”

Guilt pricked at him once more. “I’m sorry we did not take you sooner, lass.”

“I understand why you didna,” she assured him, though it didn’t help to soothe his conscience. “I could not have expected you to do so.”

Leith nodded, as he didn’t know what to say to her. She was right, of course; Meghan was his priority now, though he knew her da well enough to know that she was not going to be well-received.

She seemed to understand what it was he could not say, for she told him then, “I came knowing it would be so, Leith Mac Brodie... Dinna fash yourself o’er it, please.”

Compelled to speak his mind, Leith reached out and took her chin within his hand, lifting it so that her gaze would meet his own. “You’re a good lass, Alison. Dinna think otherwise. My imbecile brother does not deserve you.”

She smiled softly, and the sight of it lifted him at once. But he wasn’t simply saying so to make her feel better. He believed it with all of his heart. Aye, MacLean’s daughter would make some man a fine, fine wife some day.

“Come now,” he urged her, “let us go deliver you home.”

She didn’t come down for the evening meal, and Lyon thought it prudent to leave the girl be, as she needed time to think about his proposal. No matter that he’d threatened to force her hand, he would not, he knew. He might not need her compliance, but he wanted it nevertheless, as he was well aware that forcing her to wed would not bode well for peace between their clans.

Nay, it was best to allow her some time to think.

And it was just as well that she’d not appeared, for it had taken him long hours to compose his letters. He returned to them directly after supping, and only completed them once the hall had fallen to silence for the evening.

His chamber was dark when he finally returned, and he stood in the doorway, allowing his vision to adjust to the blackness before entering.

The only light that filtered within the room was that from the gaping hole in his ceiling. The shutters were nailed shut as they had been in peril of falling off when he’d moved into the manor a mere month before, and he’d thought it better, for now, to keep them closed rather than have them not at all. At least they were now secure.

There was much work to be done, and so little time. His chamber had been left to repair last, as he had only so many men to spare, and the entire manor had been in disrepair when he’d acquired it. It made no difference to him, at any rate. He had slept in worse places than this—hard cold stone floors and bare ground.

To him the bed was an indulgence.

And the woman within it a mystery.

Peering up at the yawning hole in his ceiling, he gauged the night sky. The stars were clear and the moon was high, but it was hardly bright enough to illuminate his way across the room.

No matter, he knew his way well enough.

Having accustomed himself enough to the darkness, he made his way unerringly across the creaking wooden floor, stopping when it seemed to sink beneath his feet midway across. He frowned, testing it, and then looked up again at the hole in the roof, shaking his head in disgust of the condition of the place. There was no telling how long the hole had been there, or for that matter, how much snow and rain had already dampened the floors.

Sighing, he made his way to the small desk that occupied his bedside. Upon it he kept his most prized possessions: his personal treatises. Placing the quill and inkwell down upon the desk, he slumped within the chair, wishing now that he had carried up a candle to write by.

Tonight was one of those nights he knew sleep would elude him... like a veiled lover whose face he craved but could not see.

His gaze was drawn to the shadow stretched upon his bed.

He tried to make her out, but could not. The room was entirely too dark, and his eyes too weary from staring so long at his scribblings. He’d had to word the letters just so. He knew how important it was to convey a precise message. And he was pleased with the outcome. He planned to dispatch the letters first thing come morn.

David would feel thwarted, he knew, for he had his well-laid plans and liked to see them carried out exactly so, and yet Lyon also knew that his longtime friend and king was smart enough to adjust when the need arose.

David hadn’t come so far as he had by being so inflexible.

As the eighth son of Malcom Ceann Mor, David had, against great odds, come to Scotia’s throne. But neither had he come empty-handed, and that in itself had been a tour de force. He had, in essence, ruled most of southern Scotia already, Cumbria, and also Huntingdon and Northampton by virtue of his marriage. He was, in truth, one of England’s most powerful barons as well as Henry’s brother by law. And he hadn’t come so far so fast by making stupid decisions... or by turning his back upon his allies.

The first thing David had done, in fact, upon his return to Scotia was to reward his friends—de Brus, FitzAlan, de Bailleul, de Comines, and Lyon among the many. Though Lyon was well aware that while David was sincere in his desire to reward those he favored, he’d also chosen his beneficiaries with a particular purpose in mind. It was his intent to bring the Highlanders under his yoke, and truthfully, if anyone was capable of doing so, David surely was the one. He had placed his friends shrewdly, understanding well their strengths as well as their faults. Lyon had been granted the most ungovernable bailiwick. And he knew precisely why.

Nay, David would not oppose him.

MacLean, on the other hand, could prove to be a problem. But Lyon didn’t think so. The greedy old lecher had only agreed to yield this wasted slice of land in the hopes of gaining favor with David. Ultimately, that was MacLean’s design, Lyon realized, although he’d claimed it was the return of his land and an alliance with Lyon. Still, an alliance with Lyon was an alliance with David, and Lyon was betting that MacLean would not risk David’s disfavor to challenge him. All these things he’d pointed out to David in the letter, as well.

As for the Brodies...

Lyon sighed at the mere thought of them.

He had understood long before he’d ever set foot upon this land that they, along with Iain MacKinnon, would be his greatest challenge—MacKinnon, by far, being his greatest concern. The Brodies, however, were certainly no small undertaking. They, like MacKinnon, comprised David’s staunchest opposition. Men like these were not easily won, as they had no susceptibility to bribery. They chose their alliances with their guts, and fought their battles with their hearts. They were not blinded by gold, nor were they seduced by power. They clung to freedom and the right to their own will. They fought for their kinsmen, and did not fear death in the pursuit of their cause.

Simply put, Lyon respected them.

Pesky Scots.

They were men after his own heart, and yet Lyon, in his mind, had not the right even to lick their boots for he had compromised every value he had ever set for himself in the pursuit of personal gain. And if the truth be known, it had, like a sliver under one’s flesh, begun to fester within his heart. He did not like himself very well for the decisions he had made in his life. There was so much that he had aspired to, and yet he had pursued all that he abhorred instead. He sat back within the small chair and stared at the bed.

She could give him something to fight for.

She could give him a reason to change.

But he had to win her first... and then convince her brothers.

The mere thought of her filled him with something exhilarating... something compelling. She stirred his thoughts, aye... but more, so much more... she stirred his heart, as well. She was cunning and brave, and she spoke her mind freely, revealing the convictions of her heart.

She made him yearn for more.

She made him hunger for far more than those luscious lips that must taste like warm summer rain.

Meghan.

Her name was Meghan.

He smiled, thinking about the tales Baldwin had returned with. He didn’t believe a one of them... She simply didn’t have the look in her eyes. Nay, Meghan Brodie was no more a madwoman than he was a saint.

He sat there, wondering whether he should spend the night in the chair, or whether he could trust himself to lie next to her upon his bed. The thought of her lying beside him pleased him in a deep sense, and so he decided that, for that very reason, it was prudent he stay where he was.

That settled, he pried off his boots with a foot in an attempt for comfort. He meant to merely shrug them off, but with one miscalculated shove, one very stiff boot flung across the floor and was met with an equally stiff door.

Chapter 13

“Who goes there?”

Meghan awoke with a start to the most ungodly sound, like that of a frightened, shrieking beast.

A shadow leapt from the bed and pranced wildly about her head, kicking her in the mouth.

“Ack,” she cried, and shielded her face with her arms.

If she remained here any longer, she was going to end up trampled to death.

“What is that animal doing in my bed?” Lyon Montgomerie shouted from somewhere in the darkness of the room.

It took Meghan a full moment to comprehend what must have happened, and then she couldn’t help herself, she burst into laughter.

She heard him storm across the room and swing the door open. By the light of the open door, she saw the frightened lammie stumble from the bed to the floor. Montgomerie walked out, leaving only for an instant before entering the room once more, carrying a torch from a sconce in the hall. He stood there in the doorway looking as wrathful as some pagan god, and Meghan’s laughter faded abruptly.

The sight of him took her breath away.

Standing in the open doorway, the torchlight illuminating him fully, he was extraordinary—a feast for the senses. She had certainly seen men before—she had three brothers, after all—but his silhouette was magnificent beyond words.

His hair flowed down his back, like the lion he was named after, gleaming gold by the flame of his torch. His chest was broad and brawny in the torchlight, and his legs were long and lean…

Meghan couldn’t tear her gaze away.

She blinked, mesmerized by the sight of him.

Her gaze lifted to his face... to his eyes, to find that they gleamed with unholy satisfaction.

Heaven help her, but she was as guilty as he for the thoughts that flew through her head. She was no more immune to beauty than were all of those silly men who babbled like loons before her. And he seemed to know it. He seemed to read her thoughts, for the look in his eyes was all too revealing.

Would she have considered his proposal at all if he weren’t such a beautiful man? she wondered. She liked to think she would, but she knew better.

Och, but she was, indeed, a foolish lass who sighed over any handsome face, and the very prospect plagued her sorely.

How could she be guilty of the very thing she most disdained?

Their gazes held, locked, sparred.

The expression on her face was almost more than Lyon could bear.

Women had gazed at him with that particular look of appreciation many times, but never had it given him such a fierce satisfaction as it did this instant. She was sitting upright upon the bed—his bed—her hair mussed and wild from sleep, her eyes fixed upon his face.

She was lovely—truly she was—and even the likelihood that she smelled like sheep was not enough to keep his blood from singing through his veins.

If he’d doubted her attraction to him before, he certainly did not now. It was there in her eyes for him to see, raw and undisguised. He savored it, like a well-earned victory. Her gaze widened, and he smiled fiercely.

“Care for a closer inspection?” he asked, feeling utterly wicked under her scrutiny.

Her gaze flew up to meet his in surprise.

“Och,” she replied. “Dinna think it.”

“Think what?” he asked with false innocence. “What is it you would forbid me to think?”

Shuttering her expression, she laid down upon the bed and assured him quite pertly, “You’ve little enough I’ve not seen before, Sassenach.”

“Then you’ll not mind if I remain here, at my desk?”

“Why should I?” she replied, sounding unconcerned. “’Tis your home, your chamber, and you can do whatever you please.”

Could he now?

He had to assure himself that no, he could not. Because what he wanted to do just now was to walk over to the bed, pull her close, and kiss her until the sun once more illuminated her radiant locks.

A slight smile curved his lips as he closed the door and started across the room.

“Do not mind if I do, then,” he said as he rounded the bed, walking into her line of vision once more, forcing her to acknowledge him.

To her credit, she merely peered up at him and raised her brows slightly when he stood by the bed directly before her. He placed the torch within the sconce above the desk, wholly aware of what lay amidst her field of vision. And then he sat upon the chair by the bed, casting her a glance to find that her eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

His lips curved with the knowledge that she wasn’t quite so unaffected after all. His smile deepened at the sight she presented—so like a little girl blocking her sight, as though to hide from him. Such a delightful contradiction she was.

Her eyes remained closed while he arranged the items upon his desk. He pushed the inkwell aside, placed the quill beside it, and then opened one of his bound volumes, aware that she had yet to reopen her eyes. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, and her cheeks were adorably pink.

“Are you certain this is not disturbing you?” he asked roguishly.

Her eyes flew open. “Who? Me?”

“You perchance see someone else within this chamber?” His gaze was drawn to the movement in the corner, to the wee cowering lamb, and he waited to see how she would respond.

“Of course not.”

Precisely what he suspected, and he was relieved to hear her say so.

Scheming little vixen.

She flipped once more upon the bed. “As I said, as this is your chamber; do what you will. However,” she amended almost at once, sounding startled as she spied the lamb and seemed to realize what she’d unknowingly confessed to him, “you should know you are distressing my grandmother.”

Lyon pursed his lips, trying hard not to laugh.

“You are only now recalling her presence?”

“Of course not.”

He tried not to sound amused, though his shoulders shook with mirth. “So I am distressing her... but not you?”

“That’s right,” she replied at once. “You’ve driven her into the corner away from the sight of you, can’t you see. Mayhap you should leave, after all”

“I see,” Lyon said and chuckled softly.

He decided to put her out of her misery once and for all and sat down to replace his boots upon his feet, intending to head for the door to spend the evening with his men.

“Tell your grandmother I am leaving,” he reassured her.

“You tell her,” she countered. “She’s standing right before you, after all.”

“I thought you said she was deaf?”

“Uh... well... she is.” He could hear the grimace in her voice.

“At any rate, I think she already knows,” he told her, “as she’s staring. And she doesn’t appear particularly upset to me.”

“Well,” she snapped. “I can assure you she is.”

He grinned as she stepped into his trap. “I thought you said your grandmother was blind?”

She lapsed into silence a long moment—thinking, he knew, trying to remember her lies.

“And yet she’s offended by the sight of me?”

Silence was her response.

He surely wished he could see her face.

She lay there stretched out upon his bed, and he had to remind himself that it was far too soon.

Meghan chewed her lip, trying to think of a way to save her lie.

She could hear the sounds of his boots scuffling as he pushed them once more upon his feet behind her and was grateful he was complying. She just couldn’t look at him and keep her wits about her, nor could she sleep knowing he was in the room with her.

“W-well,” she stammered at long last, “you did wake us by throwing your accursed boot against the door, did you not?”

“Good save, Meghan,” he commended her, like the rogue he was.

She turned in shock at hearing her name upon his lips and demanded, “How did you know my name?”

He was grinning down at her, one half of his face illuminated by the torchlight, the other remaining in shadow.

He stood there, lacing his boots, looking down upon her, and Meghan shivered at the knavish look in his eyes. “Perhaps your grandmother revealed it?” He winked at her.

Meghan frowned up at him. He was toying with her, she knew. He didn’t believe her charade any more than she believed his claim.

And still she wasn’t about to confess.

Not yet.

Perhaps she could convince him as yet...

“Did you speak with my brothers, perchance?” she asked him. “Are they worried?”

“What?” he mocked her. “Do you not believe your grandmother Fia told me your name?”

“Oh,” Meghan said, smiling up at him, “well, I would, of course... save that Fia has been here with me all along. How could she possibly have revealed anything to you at all?”

“You have a point,” he allowed. “And so Fia was not the one.”

Once he was through lacing his boots he sat upright once more behind his little desk—one very much like the one Gavin used to study his manuscripts—and Meghan dared to stare at him in profile. She could scarcely help herself.

Och, but he was a beautiful man.

She stared at his lips, unable to keep herself from wondering how they might feel upon her own.

“I did not speak with your brothers,” he said, relenting. “But ’tis not as though your name not known in these parts, Meghan Brodie.” He cast a glance at her, lifting a brow. “In fact, it seems your reputation precedes you.”

“My what?” Meghan narrowed her eyes at him. “Just what is it you’re implying, Sassenach? What do you mean, my reputation?”

“Naught at all.” He winked at her once more, then returned to perusing his blasted papers, vexing her with his evasiveness. Och, but he couldn’t leave it at that. He couldn’t simply tell her she had a reputation and then not explain what he meant.

“What sort of reputation?”

He turned the pages of his manuscript, seeming wholly engaged with the volume, and Meghan wondered if he was ignoring her on purpose.

Wretch.

At the very least he was prolonging her distress.

“Only that I was warned that Brodie women are all mad, and that their mates all end up dead.”

“Me?” Meghan gasped in surprise, lifting her head up from the pillow. “I am mad?” It was one thing for her to say it, and another entirely for it to be said of her. “They think I am mad, as well?”

He turned to her and winked again. The infuriating misbegotten wretch.

“Who would say such a thing?” Meghan demanded.

She wasn’t witless; she knew her mother and grandmother had oft been fodder for gossip, but she’d never imagined they would think such a thing of her as well. The prospect disheartened her at the very least.

What had she ever done that anyone should think her mad?

Then again, what had her mother and grandmother ever done? Her mother had grieved over a dead husband a little too devoutly, and, well, they’d simply never understood her grandmother.

“How dare they say such a thing,” Meghan exclaimed, and despite the fact that she wouldn’t have to try so hard to convince Lyon she was mad if he believed the rumors, her feelings were hurt. “Well, it does not seem to keep them away,” she said, and knew she sounded petulant.

He frowned at her. “Keep who away?”

She glared at him. “Men. Silly creatures—singing odes to faces and slobbering all over themselves at the mere mention of a woman’s curves.”

He lifted a brow. “And when do you mention a woman’s curves?”

“Och,” Meghan exclaimed. “I have no need to talk about curves when I have my own.”

He lifted his fingers to his lips and Meghan knew he was trying not to laugh. Well, she didn’t particularly find this amusing.

“Well, maybe they’ve a death wish?” he suggested. “The rumormongers swear all men married to Brodie women end up with cocked toes.”

“What silliness,” Meghan replied. She studied him, searching his face for his thoughts. She couldn’t read them.

What did he want from her? “And what of you?” she asked baldly.

“What of me, Meghan?”

Meghan wished he would stop saying her name so; the mere sound of it upon his lips sent quivers down her spine.

“Have you a death wish, too, Sassenach?”

“Not particularly,” he answered, “though I vow I would die a happy man after a single night in your arms, Meghan.”

Meghan’s heart jolted.

Their gazes held.

Something stirred deep within her at his words… over the way he looked at her.

Dare she reach out... remove a single brick from the wall encircling her heart?

“Why?” she demanded.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said simply.

“Mere flattery,” Meghan replied and glowered at him. Why did that answer seem to make her heart sink to her toes? “You men are all alike,” she vowed, and laid her head back down upon the pillow, disappointed.

He stared at her a long instant. Meghan lapsed into silence, and he returned his attention to his papers. It wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of her and she asked, “What are those?”

“Papers.”

Meghan rolled her eyes. “I can see that verra well.”

He didn’t reply.

“What sort of papers?” she persisted.

He set them down upon the desk, his expression harassed, and assured her, adding insult to injury, “Naught of interest to you, Meghan.”

“Oh, really,” Meghan clenched her teeth. “And how would you possibly know what interests me?”

He cast her a look that reminded her of Leith’s barely tolerant glances. “Because they are merely dull treatises, that’s why, and naught of significance.”

“I see,” Meghan retorted, gripping the pillow within her fist. “Naught a silly woman could possibly comprehend? Is not that right?”

“I did not say that.”

Meghan glared at him. How could she possibly care what he thought of her? She scarcely knew him. And yet she did care. She wasn’t certain who she was angrier with—herself for caring, or him for patronizing her. “Aye, Sassenach, but you did. I heard you verra clearly.”

“Meghan, dear, I did not mean to offend you,” he said gently.

“Of course not,” Meghan exclaimed. “Why should I be offended simply because you’re an overweening mon?”

He lifted his brows. “If the light bothers you,” he said, “I shall put it out.”

“Oh, nay,” Meghan replied, incensed. “I am merely a prisoner here.” She turned over, facing away from him. “And a silly, brainless female at that. Dinna concern yourself with me.”

She had a few other choice words for him as well, but held her tongue and drew the pillow angrily over her head.

Arrogant man.

Chapter 14

“She’s ruined,” Dougal MacLean raved. His fury boomed through the hall, unsettling even the dogs who rose prudently and slunk away with their tails tucked between their legs.

Alison wished she could join them.

“How dare you deliver her to me compromised, Mac Brodie?” her father raged.

Alison winced at the anger apparent in his voice. He’d been ranting more than an hour’s time now and still his tone had not softened in the least. She wholly dreaded the moment when Leith took his leave because she thought her da might very well wield his strap against her bottom. The very thought of it pained her already, and she cowered at the thunder in his voice.

Poor Leith had taken the brunt of his furor with nary an angry word in return. Alison watched him, admiring his self-possession. His expression was neither belligerent nor diffident, but rather stoic, and the set of his wide shoulders resolute.

“I have already explained the circumstances,” Leith said once more. “And I have offered to make amends in whatever manner I may. I do not know what more I can say.”

Her father’s face was florid. He slammed his fist down upon the table, and Alison flinched at the sound of it. “She is ruined,” he shouted once more. “There is naught you can do.”

“There is little need to belabor the point, Dougal. I am well aware of the circumstances,” Leith leaned forward in his chair, trying to make her father comprehend. He cast a solicitous glance at Alison. “But it could not be helped, I tell you. My sister is missing,” he reminded him once more. “She is still missing, Dougal. And Meghan is my first responsibility, as she is my sister. Can you not understand? I could not leave the search to bring Alison home.”

“My daughter had no business there to begin with, Mac Brodie,” her father countered, shaking his jowls furiously.

“I-it was my choice to go,” Alison interjected, speaking up at last, startling them with her avid declaration. In the heat of their discussion, they seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely. Both turned to look at her now.

She peered at her father, beseeching him. She simply couldn’t allow Leith to take all of the blame. “Meghan is my friend,” she said. “She would have done the same for me, Da.”

“I dinna care,” her father roared, slamming his fist yet again.

Alison winced, but didn’t cower this time.

“You had no business staying until the wee hours of the morn, daughter of mine. You should not have come home at all after that.”

Alison straightened her shoulders, a little wounded by his implication. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Would you rather I had made my way home alone, Da? Even after what happened to Meghan?” Never in her life had she spoken so disrespectfully to her father, but she couldn’t seem to help herself just now. “Is that what you would have preferred?”

Her question seemed to startle him as much as her angry outburst. He didn’t seem to know how to respond; he looked at Leith and then down at the table. “Did you not think I would worry?” he asked Alison after a moment’s silence. And his eyes were suspiciously moist when he met her gaze once more.

Alison blinked at his unexpected response. “You were worried about me, Da?”

His brows collided. “Aye,” he said bearishly and peered down at the table again, suddenly unable to face her.

Alison felt like weeping at his admission. She wished so much for the nerve to embrace him, but didn’t dare move from where she sat.

It was not her father’s way, she knew.

“I didna mean to make you worry,” she told him. “I was only thinkin’ of Meghan, Da. I did not consider the consequences.”

He shook his head. “You should have come to me first, lass. You should have come to me.” He continued to stare down at the table, scratching the wood with his ragged nails.

“I was afeared to, Da.”

His gaze flew up to meet hers. “Afeared? You were afeared... of me, Alison?”

Alison swallowed, and nodded.

His brows collided and his eyes grew moist once more. “How could you be afeared... of me, daughter?”

“I—because—”

Leith slammed his hand down upon the table suddenly, startling her. “Alison, you dinna have to say it,” he told her. “You dinna have to.”

Her father glared at Leith, suddenly furious once more. “Aye, Mac Brodie. She does.”

And for once, Alison had to agree with him. “My da is right, Leith.”

Leith’s gaze sought hers, held hers, reassured her. “Are you certain, lass? I swear you dinna have to.”

Alison nodded. “Aye, but I do, Leith Mac Brodie,” she said, “but I thank you for protecting me, anyhow.”

He nodded, seeming to understand, and she turned to her father and said, “Da... I had to go to them, you see... because I had a confession to make.” Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. All of this was her fault and it was time to make amends.

His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her. “Confession? What confession would you have to be makin’ to a Brodie, Alison? And why didn’t you come to me instead?”

Alison lowered her head, unable to face her father, unable to speak for the shame.

“You’re a good lass,” she heard Leith whisper at her side, and it gave her the strength she needed to lift her gaze once more to meet her father’s glare. “I stole the goat,” she blurted.

Her father’s face contorted. “What wretched goat, Alison? What are you speakin’ of?”

Alison took a deep breath and then proceeded to confess all. Everything, from her unrequited love for Colin Mac Brodie, to her stealing the goat that started the feud, to her reasons why, to her failed attempt at making amends and her desire not to wed Piers Montgomerie. All of it, every last degrading detail.

Her father listened to the story quietly, his normally florid face turning the color of new parchment. He shook his head gravely when she finished, and said after a time, “Och, Alison... what have you done... what have you done?”

“I followed my heart,” Alison said despairingly, wanting desperately for him to understand—not to condone, but simply to understand. “I followed my heart, Da. I didna wish to end like Mairi, you see.”

He licked his lips and raked a hand over his thick jaw, then raised a hand to his breast, looking as though his heart were aching him. His eyes grew red-rimmed and welled with tears. Of all things she might have said to him, Alison knew this one made his heart bleed, for Mairi had been his favorite daughter, and he missed her so. She could never seem to measure up even to beautiful Mairi’s memory. And yet, knowing she would fail, she had never even tried.

Her sister had wedded the MacKinnon against her will and on the night she had borne him a son, she had taken her own life, plunging from the highest tower window onto the rocks below. Her death had been a terrible blow.

“Well,” Dougal began when he could speak once more, “you need not fear wedding Montgomerie, daughter of mine. I doubt he would have you now. All is lost,” he murmured. “I dinna know what to do, Alison. All is lost.”

“I’ll wed her,” Leith announced.

Alison lifted her gaze to his in shock. He couldn’t possibly wish to…

“You?” her father asked, sounding as aghast as Alison felt. “Why should you wish to do such a thing, Leith Mac Brodie? I dinna mean to disparage my own daughter, but you only just heard her tell us that she loves your own brother. Why would you wed with her knowing that?”

Leith held Alison’s gaze, assuring her without words that he meant every word he uttered. “Because I have great affection for Alison,” he said quietly.

Alison’s heart began to pound as it became clear to her that he was perfectly serious. “You do?” she asked him, bewildered.

“I always have.”

He’d never once led her to believe he’d even noticed her. She had always thought he’d considered her naught more than Meggie’s little friend.

“I... I did not realize,” Alison whispered in wonder.

“Och, lass... because you only had eyes for Colin. But if you will have me as your husband, I would be pleased to have you as my wife.”

Her father straightened within his seat. “Perhaps all is not lost as yet,” he proclaimed. And then he sobered at once, peering at Alison and shaking his head, seeming to temper his excitement for her sake. “Though if Alison will not have you, I cannot force her to wed where she will not,” he said, staggering her with his proclamation.

Tears pricked at Alison’s eyes. She understood what he was doing, and it warmed her heart, filled her with joy.

His gaze softened as he looked at her. “What say you, daughter of mine?”

Alison turned to face Leith. Leith smiled at her, and she knew the right thing to do.

“Aye,” she exclaimed. “I will wed with you, Leith Mac Brodie. If you truly want me—if you truly do...” She shook her head, scarcely able to believe that he would. “... it would be my honor to be your bride.”

“I do, lass,” he assured, and her father leapt up from his chair with a whoop of delight.

“Curse Montgomerie,” he proclaimed. “Curse David of Scotia, too. We’re going to have ourselves a wedding the likes of which these Highlands have never seen. But first things first,” he said, nodding at Leith respectfully. “Let us gather ourselves together and search for Meghan. And we’ll not stop until we’ve turned every last stone.”

Lyon awoke at his desk in the wee hours of the morn, and his eyes were at once drawn to the bed. She’d completely distracted him from his intentions to leave with her wicked wit and he’d fallen asleep in his little, uncomfortable chair, content beyond measure listening to her slumbering breath.

Pale morning light filtered in through the hole in his ceiling, suffusing the room with a sweet glow. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t stir, didn’t dare wake her as yet.

He wanted to watch her sleep.

She looked more like an angel than any mortal had a right to…

She slept like an infant, he thought, upon her belly, with her hands extended as though embracing the bed, like a wee bairn clutching its mother’s bosom, her palms open and caressing the sheets, her face turned to one side and her long lashes pressed like ebony silk against her cheeks.

He stared, unable to keep himself from it, watching her sleep so peacefully. In slumber, her features were perfection... her lips full and perfectly formed, her lashes long and soft against high exotic cheekbones, her nose perfectly aquiline, and her hair a luscious copper mass of shining ringlets spread over the pale sheets.

He hadn’t dared to crawl in next to her... determined as he was to do this right. He could have seduced her, no doubt. The look in her eyes had assured him as much. Beneath that deliberate facade she wore, she hid a passion as fierce as his own.

He recognized it, and craved it.

The way she’d gazed at him when he’d sat here before her…

The mere thought made his blood simmer and burn. In truth, he wanted Meghan Brodie like he’d never wanted any woman in his life... not even in his youth had he been so driven by a pretty face or a sharp tongue.

And there was something more than her face that drew him... something he could not put his finger upon. A pretty face alone had little to recommend it, and he’d walked away from many a bed for lack of interest. Particularly so in the last few years.

This time was different.

Through the years, his desires had grown darker, and it had taken more and more to whet his appetite of late. He’d begun to think himself a little bit depraved that innocence no longer drew him as once it had. He remembered a time when a simple smile had been enough to make his heart thunder in his chest. And many had done so. He was a harlot’s son, after all, and it drew the sort of attention every lad craved from the moment he could turn a woman’s head.

His first suitor had been an earl’s wife. She’d been two and twenty to his ten and eight. He hadn’t been able to walk away from her, though he’d understood the peril to his soul.

His second had been a chambermaid who’d boasted to him that she’d loved his father as well.

And the third... well, she’d been a sweet infatuation of his... a lass three years his senior whom he’d dreamed of kissing for weeks until he’d finally taken the chance. And then she’d gone away and married her baron, and her memory was only a smear now upon his memory.

They were all a blur after that.

And now... he remembered not the faces, so much, but the appetite that had enslaved his very soul. He’d been so long a prisoner to his desires, and nobody but him had known. He could never condemn his mother, for he understood her only too well.

And then one day he simply hadn’t been interested any longer. The hunger that had consumed him body and soul had simply abated, and he’d found himself walking away from intent knowing glances that would have once set his heart to pounding and his blood to thrumming within his veins.

Nay, it had been a long time since a pretty face alone had been enough to stir him.

And though Meghan Brodie’s face was sheer perfection, it was the look in her eyes that tempted him and set his heart to pounding once more. She’d roused his hunger, and it had awakened hard as stone. He’d scarcely been able to think of anything else since the moment he’d first laid eyes upon her.

She made him feel alive as he hadn’t felt in far too long.

He wanted her, aye, but more than that... he wanted to know what thoughts stole through that engaging mind of hers. He wanted to know what stirred her heart and made her burn. There was something bewitching in those deep-green eyes... something compelling... something that drew him... something he wanted to know as intimately as one would a wife.

He wanted to be her husband. He’d never been more sure.

He lifted his head from his arms, watching the way she stirred.

And then he spied the lamb shivering in the corner, and frowned. How could they have forgotten the wee beast?

The poor animal probably needed to relieve itself—and was like to be half-starved, as well. He rose quietly from the desk, paused to take another long look at the woman lying so serenely within his bed, drinking in the sight of her... and then he set about taking her grandmother out to wee.

Chapter 15

Meghan awakened to find herself alone.

Not even Fia remained to bid her good morn. She hoped Lyon had taken the poor little beast out to the meadow for a bit. She was certain it wasn’t in the animal’s best interest to keep it confined within a room all hours of the day. And yet it hadn’t seemed so distressed while she’d been alone with it. Still she felt a stab of guilt for having gone to sleep without concerning herself with its needs. She had been so weary. The day had taken its toll on her, mind and body.

She’d lain awake for some time after their discourse, too aware of the man sitting there at the little desk. She’d lain with her eyes closed, wondering about the papers that held his attention—distracted him from her—until exhaustion had overcome her and she’d slept at last. But though she’d slept deeply, she didn’t feel particularly refreshed this morn.

Nor did she feel especially benevolent toward Lyon Montgomerie.

Her brow furrowed. She wasn’t certain why she felt so provoked by him, but she certainly was.

She had dared to hope…

What?

That she might be wrong about him? That he might be different? That he might see her as something more than a pretty face?

Meghan yearned so much to spill her heart... to someone... to reveal every dark part of herself and every flaw, to be unveiled in the light of day... and to still be loved despite her flaws.

Piers Montgomerie, like all the rest, merely wanted a vessel.

The problem was that her heart was riddled with fissures. And her soul was exploding behind it, bursting to be set free. If she let them... the bricks in the wall surrounding her heart would come tumbling down so easily.

And if she revealed herself... and he were to be repelled by what he saw?

She couldn’t take that chance.

And still... if she managed to bring peace with this union, all was well that ended well.

Right?

Then, too, she would be saving Alison from a marriage she surely did not want. Alison was her best friend, and Alison wanted Colin, Meghan knew—desperately. If Meghan wedded Lyon Montgomerie, it would buy Alison time at least to win her brother’s fickle heart. Meghan was certain Colin could be content with Alison if he but gave her a chance. Alison might not be the fairest of women, but her heart was sweeter than honey and purer than gold.

Still and all, Meghan couldn’t simply surrender herself so easily.

Pride would scarcely allow it.

She dared to want more.

She might concede to this union for the sake of peace, but Piers Montgomerie was going to get more than he bargained for, she vowed. He was going to learn not to judge a soul by the mask it wore, of a certain.

He wanted a face to wed, did he... Well... he could have the face, but not the heart.

And Meghan was looking forward to teaching the rogue a lesson he’d never forget.

Her gaze was drawn toward the desk... and curiosity seized her.

She didn’t care if it might be wrong to pry. ’Twas certainly the least he deserved for so rudely locking her away within his room... and for leaving his mysterious papers out upon the desk.

A little peek couldn’t possibly hurt anyone.

She went resolutely to the desk and found two thick, leather-bound manuscripts sitting upon it. Turning over the first, she saw that it was untitled. Opening it revealed scribbled notations... pages and pages, all written in Latin to the best she could determine. Her brows knit as she tried to make out the words. She recognized a few, but she had never really learned Latin. Her mother had been familiar with the language of the church, but Fia had not. Only her brother Gavin knew the tongue well enough to read script. The best Meghan could make out, by perusing the headings of each notation, was that they were entries taken from the writings of others: Aristotle and Augustine, Boethius and Anselm, and many more... too many to name—all dated, she assumed, to the year they were written.

Meghan’s curiosity was piqued... and yet, she could hardly sit down to read the texts when she could not understand them. Frowning, she dropped the first manuscript down upon the desk, and turned over the other.

This one also was untitled. In the bottom right-hand corner was written... Piers Montgomerie.

Lifting a brow in surprise, Meghan drew out the chair and sat down before the little desk. She turned to the first page.

It was titled Spiritualitas vs. Carnalis.

But the script was written in the English tongue and that she understood very well, for Alison’s mother had been an Englishwoman and had taught her daughter well. Alison, in turn, had taught Meghan.

Much too engaged to walk away now, she laid the manuscript flat upon the desk and began to read…

Given that Lyon had only this morning dispatched his letters, David of Scotia was the last person he expected to find in his courtyard so soon.

David arrived with a retinue of five, looking harassed as he dismounted before Lyon.

“Tis a surprise. You must be foreknowing.”

David’s answering scowl was a testament to his mood. “What are you speaking of?”

Lyon arched a brow. “Only this morn I dispatched you a letter, and here you are.”

“So I am,” David replied, his tone curt.

Lyon slanted him a knowing glance. “What brings you to these parts?” he said. “Naught good, I suppose.”

David shook his head ominously. “Naught good,” he agreed. “Misbegotten Highland rogues.”

Lyon slapped a hand upon his shoulder, his expression sober. “Come, then,” he urged, “let us converse within.”

And the two made their way toward the hall.

“I’m afraid I bring distressing news,” David disclosed.

“I gather as much.”

“Lyon, old friend, I believe I’ve just made your charge here all the more complicated.”

“I see,” Lyon answered. “Well, that makes two of us, then, as so have I.”

David cast him a curious glance.

“I shall explain within,” Lyon assured. “We can argue over who shall go first over a tankard of ale. What say you?”

David’s look darkened. “I’d say if you need to ply me with ale, Lyon, something tells me I’m not going to like this one whit.”

“Then we are even,” Lyon replied. “Because something tells me that if you felt compelled to stop and tell me about something you’ve done, neither will I.”

“You always were a canny rogue,” David told him. “And nay, you will not like this, I think. I hope you have something more than bog water to drink. I’m not in the mood to grind my ale between my teeth.”

“The ale is fine,” Lyon said. “Just do not sit beneath the rotting ceiling or you’ll get splinters in your cup—and then find yourself plucking slivers from your tongue the rest of the eve.”

David’s brows lifted. “That bad?”

“Aye,” Lyon replied with a nod. “That bad.” And then he grinned. “But better than having rats crawl up your leg while you sleep any day.”

David chuckled. “I’m certain,” he said, and shook his head. “Accursed Highlanders. I’d rather be mauled by a pack of rats any day than to deal with a single one.”

“That bad?”

“That bad,’ David assured him as they entered the hall. He flung off his mantle and cast it over his arm. “Whatever possessed me to want to be king?”

Lyon answered without pause. “Because you love it, and you were always better at chess than anyone.”

David laughed. “Even you?”

“Aye, you canny rogue, even me.”

It was getting late.

Squinting as the letters blurred before her eyes, Meghan set the manuscripts down. The texts, she’d discovered, were both a personal memoir and a corresponding treatise, with references to passages within the first volume.

It began with a rather poignant account of Lyon’s youth, his days spent in study under the Archbishop of Canterbury. And it seemed to Meghan that though these had been his most uncertain years, years spent sequestered from his peers, they were also his most contented years. Though he’d questioned his soul, he’d seemed focused and certain of his life’s ambition. While he’d studied beneath the tutelage of the clergy, his ambitions had been of an academic sort; his enlightenment, while spiritual in nature, hardly adhered to the teachings of the church.

In fact, Meghan thought some of his beliefs quite heretical, even for her. Gavin would have apoplexy were he to read them, she was certain. He was nigh ready to tie Meghan to the pulpit for simply suggesting that her sanctuary was the woodlands, and that God’s sermon came to her through the creatures of his creation. But these essays questioned the very existence and nature of God.

Within his first essays, he had explored in great detail his quest for spiritual truths and had been quick to dismiss the import of materialistic pursuits. It was very clear to Meghan, here, that his ambitions had been of a noble sort.

His next essay had been a little less conclusive and a little more discomposing.

Though he did not elucidate, something had happened to change his life’s direction. He had by now abandoned his former aspirations to an erudite life and had resigned himself to a more... at first defensive... then offensive perspective. His objective seemed to be the pursuit of justice.

She was almost finished now with that particular essay though not completely, and though she wasn’t certain she should continue—it felt a little as though she were peering through a looking glass at his soul—she couldn’t seem to help herself.

The account drew her as much as did the man who’d written it.

She had no notion how long she’d sat reading, but knew that it had grown dark outside by the dimness of the room—not that there had been much light to begin with, as the only window that graced the chamber was nailed shut from within. The afternoon light was beginning to fade, and last night’s torch had gutted itself sometime during the night. The remains of the supper they’d brought her were left almost untouched.

Now it was growing too dark to read.

Frustrated, for the treatise had grown ever more fascinating, Meghan rose from the desk and went to the window to examine the shutters, to see if there were some way she could brighten the room.

She found the shutters nailed firmly so that they could not be pried open, and no matter how hard Meghan tugged at them, they would not budge. She wondered who would do such a thing. Surely not Lyon Montgomerie? What manner of man could compose such a brilliant memoir and then board a window shut rather than simply fix the shutters?

As she struggled with the shutters, she came aware of voices outside and below the window, and ceased her struggles in order to try to make them out. She thought she would recognize Lyon’s voice most anywhere, but the other she could not make out—not Baldwin’s, she was near certain.

Searching for a knothole or a crack to peer from, she listened, but in vain, and then could suddenly hear the echo of voices carry up from the hall below.

Meghan rushed to the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. She frowned at the discovery, though it should have pleased her. He hadn’t locked her in, after all. What was wrong with her that she should forget to try something so simple as the lock upon a door? She’d wasted entirely too much time sitting within his room, prying into his papers and his past, when she should have been making some attempt to get home.

Aye, it was entirely possible that a union between them would be advantageous to all, but Meghan didn’t appreciate being coerced into anything. It would suit her much better were she to go home to her brothers and discuss with them the possibility of wedding Lyon Montgomerie. And if Lyon wished to wed with her, he could ask for her hand in matrimony, rather than tell her she was going to wed him will she nill she.

Pah! She hadn’t even drawn a comb through her hair, she remembered suddenly, but didn’t care. And having slept in her dress, it was rumpled and even slovenly—och, she must appear every bit as insane as she would have him believe she was.

Making her way cautiously down the stairs, she examined her surroundings, and determined that it had been far too long a time since the manor had been in good repair. As the stairs creaked noisily beneath her careful steps, she didn’t wonder any longer why the shutters had been boarded shut. She could perfectly understand why the very thought of repairing them might seem overwhelming. And yet, someone had to begin the repairs somewhere with something, or the entire place was going to crumble down upon itself.

She spied them upon the dais as she descended the final steps—Lyon and his guest. At least Meghan assumed it was a guest, because he didn’t look like one of Lyon’s men-at-arms.

In fact, this man was dressed in finer garments than Meghan had ever set eyes upon in her life, and his bearing was anything but common. She knew at once that this was someone of import—someone who had the power to help her if he chose. And having determined that, she straightened her shoulders, and made her way resolutely to the dais.

Like a wolf scenting his mate, the instant she’d descended into the hall Lyon sensed her presence, and his gaze lifted to find her watching discreetly from the foot of the stairs. And suddenly, he could hear not a word David was speaking to him, his attention wholly taken by the woman standing in the shadows.

“So it seems I misjudged MacKinnon,” David disclosed, somehow oblivious of their audience. He had erroneously chosen to kidnap the Laird of the MacKinnon’s son, hoping to hold him as a ward of the court so that they could better control the MacKinnon’s interests. It had been a mistake. MacKinnon had not only retrieved his son, but he’d absconded with the daughter of an English noble and had promptly made her his wife.

But Lyon was no longer listening.

Something like birds took flight within his gut, and his breath strangled within his throat as Meghan’s gaze settled upon him, her beautiful eyes slitting. Her chin tilted defiantly and she pushed away from the banister and marched toward them. His heart jumped.

“I can see now that it was a mistake to involve his son,” David continued, “but what has been done cannot be undone.”

Lyon nodded absently.

Meghan Brodie captured him as no woman ever had. She roused him... made his soul yearn for something... more.

He shook his head, trying to cast off the spell she wove over him. “Misjudged who?”

“Lyon?” David said, sounding vexed. “Have you not listened to a single word I’ve said to you?”

Lyon didn’t see the point in lying.

“Nay,” he admitted, but his eyes remained fixed upon Meghan’s lovely face as she marched toward them, her expression foreboding. Even ungroomed as she was, looking every bit the part of a madwoman, he thought her beauty unparalleled. Whatever else she was, whether mad or simply shrewd as the devil, she was unshrinking as well, and Lyon braced himself, expecting the worst. There was little worse to bear than the lash of an angry woman’s tongue.

David’s gaze followed his.

“You have a guest?” he said with some surprise, and then as she approached, undaunted, with fire flashing in her glorious green eyes, he turned to Lyon and asked, “Lyon... who is she?”

Lyon cast his friend a sheepish glance. “She,” he replied with some hesitation, “is the complication I was speaking of.” And he shrugged.

Chapter 16

Meghan decided she would appeal to the man’s sense of loyalty. If he were countryman, she had some chance, at least, of gaining his support. If he were an English toad, then she was simply out of luck. It was impossible to tell by his manner of speech as he spoke like an Englishman, with only the merest trace of a brogue.

“Are you a Scotsman, sir?” she asked, meeting his gaze as she approached the table. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

He cocked his head at her in puzzlement. “Aye,” he answered, casting Lyon a wary glance. “Why do you ask, lass?”

“Verra good,” Meghan exclaimed. “Because I wish to go home.”

The man turned to Lyon, looking all the more confused by her vehement demand. “What is this?” he asked. “What does she mean, Lyon?”

“Uh,” was all Lyon Montgomerie could think to say.

Meghan turned to glare at him, and was pleased to see that he had the decency to flush at the prospect of an explanation.

She wasn’t about to let him explain, however, because he would no doubt find some way to justify his actions. “He abducted me,” she charged, pointing an accusing finger at Lyon.

The man’s brows lifted higher. “Lyon?” he said. “Is this true?”

Lyon had the good grace not to deny it. He nodded with lifted brows and an abashed grimace. “Afraid so,” he admitted.

The man exploded with fury.

“I was going to tell you as soon as you were finished,” Lyon assured him.

“What a pair we are,” the man declared. “Why would you do such a thing? Who the devil is she anyway?”

“I am Meghan Brodie,” she announced, wholly annoyed with their apparent comradeship. “And I dinna know who you are, sir. You dinna sound like any Scot to me, but my brothers will not be pleased to hear this, I assure you.”

The man turned to Lyon once more. “Lyon, I anticipate you had a better reason than to simply warm your bed. Her very demeanor curdles my blood.”

Meghan gasped in outrage at his remark, and her face heated.

Lyon chuckled softly. “I cannot claim I did to begin with,” he said, “but in my own defense, I must say she was somewhat more appealing last night.”

The man chortled, and Meghan bristled. She gritted her teeth and clenched her hands at her sides. “I dinna see what precisely is so amusing,” she assured them both and narrowed her eyes at the arrogant stranger. “Who are you, sir?” she demanded of him.

He regarded her a moment, and then proclaimed matter-of-factly with an arrogant lift of his chin, “I am David of Scotia.”

Meghan blinked in surprise. “King David?”

“Aye, lass.”

“Son of Malcom Ceann Mor?”

“None other.”

Meghan tilted her head at him in disdain. “You dinna look like a king to me, sir,” she accused him. “You look and sound like a rotten Sassenach.”

He merely smiled at that.

“Och,” Meghan exclaimed, and was disheartened.

Or was she truly?

“I dinna suppose I can persuade you to send me home?” she asked the man without hesitation, but also without expectation. There was little chance of it, she knew, when he was the reason Lyon Montgomerie was in Scotia to begin with. The two were in league together. Bedfellows.

“Give me a single reason I should question the judgment of one of my most valuable men,” he answered.

“Because I dinna wish to wed with him is why,” Meghan said, lifting her chin.

His gaze flew to Lyon’s in surprise. His brow arched imperiously. “Wed, Lyon?”

Lyon seemed to brace himself. He nodded. “Aye,” he answered simply.

“You cannot wed with her,” David argued.

“That’s precisely what I have been trying to tell him,” Meghan interjected, pleased to see he was finally seeing her point.

“What of MacLean?” David asked, ignoring her.

Meghan bristled at his apparent dismissal.

“What of him?” Lyon replied mildly. “I have already dispatched him a letter of explanation, as I did with you. I assure you I’ll not be wedding Alison MacLean.”

“Lyon,” David urged him, “consider what you are saying.”

“I’ll not wed her,” Lyon answered quietly, but tersely, and Meghan wasn’t certain who she was more incensed for—herself, or Alison. Did no man know to look behind a silly face?

“The poor lass appeared as though she might cry did I simply breathe upon her,” Lyon said by way of explanation. “I cannot wed a girl who will not have me.”

There was an immediate soberness between them as they stared at each other, seeming to be sparring without words.

David’s expression was an unreadable mask but for his eyes, which flashed forbiddingly.

“Do you recall,” Lyon said, “what you once claimed you would give to me upon a silver plate?”

David turned away, his jaw tautening. “I do,” he replied.

Lyon’s expression was every bit as firm. “This is not the way.”

Meghan watched the two, considering their curious exchange. By the expression upon David’s face it became quite apparent that Lyon would hold his ground, that David would relent.

What hold did Lyon have over this man?

It was also apparent by the look in David’s eyes that he was unused to being opposed, and yet she knew instinctively he would yield.

“If you will not, you will not,” David relented, “though I cannot and will not condone a marriage without consent. Lyon, you have not even her brothers’ blessings in this.”

Meghan held her breath.

“I will have hers,” Lyon assured him.

Meghan inhaled a breath. “Nay, you will not,” she swore, enraged by his arrogance.

David peered at her then, looking suddenly annoyed with her presence. Well, Meghan didn’t care. This was her life. And she was certainly not going to stand idly by while two strangers decided her fate.

He returned his gaze to Lyon and yielded, “Are you so certain of this, Lyon?”

Lyon smiled. “What do you think, David?” He lifted a brow.

In answer, David arched a brow as well. “I think if anyone can, you certainly may, but if you do not gain consent, I cannot, as I said, condone it.”

Meghan could scarcely believe they were bartering the matter of her life right before her so arrogantly.

“Very well,” David said, “I can give you a fortnight to convince her, after which you must agree to release her if she remains opposed.”

Lyon was silent, unresponsive, and Meghan, knowing this was the best she was going to get from David of Scotia, lifted her chin and challenged Lyon, “Unless you are not so certain of your self, after all?”

Lyon met her gaze and his lips curved softly, his uncanny blue eyes flashing with seductive interest.

“I will agree if you will agree,” she boldly invited him.

He turned abruptly to David, looking suddenly quite satisfied with the arrangement. A quiver raced down Meghan’s spine. Recalling the way he had left her upon his bed, ready to yield to him for want of a simple kiss, she wondered whether she had somehow made a mistake in challenging him so.

“You were ever the negotiator,” he said to David.

David gave him a look that told Meghan he was hardly feeling a victor in this settlement.

“Fair enough,” Lyon said. “I shall agree to a fortnight, after which, if she does not agree to be my bride...” He peered at Meghan, and his smoldering blue eyes stole her breath. “I shall personally escort her home.”

“Very well,” David announced, and Meghan had the immediate impression she had made a terrible mistake. Something in Lyon’s expression told her she had lost already. And somehow, she got the feeling she’d played directly into his hands.

The image of him as he’d appeared standing in the doorway last night accosted her then, and her heart began to pound traitorously, thundering in her ears.

Wasn’t it enough she had to vie with Lyon Montgomerie? Was she going to have to battle her own treacherous body, as well?

She had never thought herself so susceptible to the wiles of any man, but there was little use in denying the way this one made her feel—despite that she knew him to be as shallow-minded as the rest of his gender.

Well, she hadn’t lost as yet, she reminded herself. And she wasn’t very good at losing, besides. Lyon Montgomerie might win after all, Meghan resolved, but she was going to make certain he looked thrice at his prize.

It probably wasn’t the wisest thing Alison had ever done, but she had to speak with Leith. She had to tell him how much she appreciated what he was willing to sacrifice for her sake, but she had begun to feel the weight of her conscience ever since he’d taken his leave the other night. She knew he couldn’t possibly love her, and she couldn’t allow him to surrender his own chance for happiness with some other woman of his choice.

She found him in the courtyard with both Colin and Gavin, their heads together in solemn discussion. Gavin and Colin had evidently only just returned from yet another search, for Gavin still held the reins of his mount firmly within his hand. Colin had abandoned his own mount entirely, and it stood dutifully by, as Colin listened to whatever it was Leith was saying to him. Her heart twisted a little at the sight of him, but she told herself she was a fool. He had never shown her the least regard. Why should she care so much for a man who refused even to look her in the eyes?

Alison had to know, too, whether they had word of Meghan, as she was tormented with worry for her friend’s sake. She couldn’t bear the wait any longer; she had to know.

And yet, she waited still, unable to face Colin.

When both Gavin and Colin had taken their leave, and Leith turned to go as well, she ran after him, calling his name.

He turned to face her at once, his brows lifting in surprise. “Alison!” He reached out and seized her hand when it seemed she would stumble into his arms.

“Och, forgive me for intruding.” she beseeched him a bit breathlessly. “But I had to know. I had to know of Meghan. Please dinna be angry with me for coming yet again.”

“Dinna be silly,” Leith said. “I understand, Alison.” And he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

Alison clutched his arm hopefully. “Is there news?”

He shook his head. “None at all, I am afraid.”

Alison frowned. “I am so worried.”

“So are we, lass, so are we. But dinna ye fret. We will find her soon.”

“I do hope,” she said, and took a deep breath. “Leith,” she began, peering up at him bravely. “I also came for another reason.”

His brows lifted. “What is it, Alison?” he said with a look of concern.

Alison suddenly could not find the words to speak. “I... I... wished to say... well, you see,” she stammered, “I feel a bit that you were forced to ask my father... ”

He clasped her hands gently, seeming to understand what she was trying to say. “Alison sweeting, I was not forced to do anything at all, dinna ye see?”

Alison shook her head. “I cannot believe you would wish to wed with me,” she told him. “I know that you feel sorry for me, and I wanted you to know that I will not be crushed if you dinna wish to take me as your wife. I do not need a man to feel sorry for me, and I dinna wish to make you unhappy.”

He smiled down at her. “Look at me, Alison MacLean... Does the prospect of wedding you seem to distress me?”

“Well, nay, but—”

“Nay, but naught,” he said, hushing her. “Come with me a moment.” And then he drew her aside for privacy behind a horse and cart. “Will you do me a favor?” he asked her.

Alison nodded, so grateful to him that she would have fallen at his feet and kissed them with her lips.

“Listen to me with your heart just now, Alison,” he said, and then drew her into his arms.

Alison gasped in surprise. Her heart began to hammer within her breast as he turned her face up to his and bent to touch his lips to her own.

She felt dizzy with shock as he kissed her sweetly, gently upon the mouth—just a tender kiss, but it was the first kiss Alison had ever had in her entire life.

No man had ever, ever done such a thing to her.

No man had ever even expressed the desire to do so.

It confused her, startled her so that she merely stared up at him in bewilderment as he lifted his face to peer down at her. She blinked in surprise.

“Did you hear that?” he asked her, his voice tender.

Alison could not find her voice to speak, nor did she find the will even to nod.

“Listen to me, and listen to me well, Alison MacLean,” Leith told her with certainty. “I want you to go home now,” he directed her, “and think on what I have just said to you with my heart. Think about what you desire. Consider carefully whether you would have me as your mon. My offer stands as it was made, but I dinna wish to force you, either, lass. Go home, then, and think of this, and decide if you will have me as your husband, because I would be honored to take you as my bride.”

Alison shook her head and opened her mouth to speak.

“Shhh,” he bade her. “Dinna say a word until you have passed the night in thought. Do me the favor of that. Will you?”

Taking in a breath, before she should swoon at his feet with the shock of it all, she nodded.

“Good, then,” he said, and drew her out from behind the cart into open view once more.

He had to drag her out behind him because she would have remained there, so shocked was she by what he had said and done. She placed her fingers in bewilderment to her lips.

The messenger came as she stood there staring up at Leith Mac Brodie in bewilderment. Alison was scarcely aware of him, even, for he handed the missive to Leith and practically turned and fled whilst she stood there contemplating what had only just happened between them.

Leith broke the seal, and stared at the parchment. He turned it sideways, and then his face colored a bit. “Alison,” he said. “Gavin is not here, and I cannot read this. Will you do me the honor?”

Alison nodded, taking the parchment from his hands at once. She gazed at the paper without seeing the words for an instant, and then blinked and read.

“Lyon Montgomerie has her,” she said, stunned. “He has Meghan.”

“What?” he thundered, and tore the parchment from her hands.

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...

“Lyon!” 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.

She’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.

Lyon had spotted her already, she was pleased to see, but David was in the middle of his discourse and didn’t appear to notice. Until she placed the lamb before them upon the table.

“Good evening,” she bade them. “We’ve come to join you at table.”

She smiled at David as he turned to peer at her with a bemused expression that nearly made her laugh aloud.

“We?”

Meghan smiled sweetly and nodded. “Of course.”

David eyed the lamb warily. “I usually prefer my mutton well done,” he told her with lifted brows.

“Och! Mutton!” Meghan exclaimed, sounding perfectly affronted at his declaration. “This is not mutton,” she informed him brashly. “This is Fia!”

She saw that Lyon rolled his eyes, and tried not to appear pleased by his reaction.

David turned a questioning glance to Lyon.

“Humor her,” Lyon urged his liege.

David turned once more to face her. “Fia?” he dared to ask. “What is a fia, might I ask?”

Meghan sighed in exasperation. “Why, yes, Fia is my grandmother, of course. Have you no eyes with which to see, sir?”

The lamb began to bleat as it trampled a dish near David’s trencher. David slid his chair backward across the dais in alarm. He stared at the creature, aghast. “This lamb is your grandmother?” he said, repeating her outrageous claim as though he could not believe his ears.

“Och! Not you too?” she complained and rolled her eyes. Her hands flew to her hips. “What did he tell ye?” she demanded, casting Lyon a vexed glance. “I don’t know why he should think her a lamb.”

“Perhaps,” Lyon interjected, his tone mordant, “because she is a lamb.” He was frowning at her now.

So let him frown. Meghan resolved. She hoped he was humiliated.

She glared at him in turn. “I told you, Sassenach. This is no lamb. This is my dear sweet grandmother. And you have insulted her quite enough.”

She turned to David once more, narrowing her eyes at him. “That brute you would have me wed,” she informed him pettishly, “is a verra poor host, I should tell you. Why he tossed my grandmother out in the meadow yesterday morn.”

She stared at David expectantly, as though anticipating he should do something about her complaint. “Have you naught to say about that?” she demanded when he did not respond, and tried not to laugh at the harassed expression he wore.

“Lyon?” David said warily, turning to face Lyon again, clearly taken aback by her behavior.

Meghan lifted her chin as she too turned to face Lyon Montgomerie, tilting a victorious look at him.

She was either a very shrewd actress, Lyon decided, or she was deadly in earnest.

He could no longer tell, and he frowned.

The beast was dressed in a wimple. And he didn’t care to look so closely at what she’d formed it of, because the cloth looked entirely too familiar, and he hadn’t as yet had the opportunity to procure more.

David turned to glare at the bleating lamb. “Let me get this aright,” he said, addressing Meghan once more. “This lamb, you claim, is your grandmother?”

Meghan nodded, lifting her chin. “Of course,” she persisted.

Lyon tried not to laugh at the blatant challenge flashing in her green eyes as she met David’s gaze once more.

“I see,” David remarked calmly, turning again to Lyon. He lifted his brows. “Lyon, you would wed this woman?”

Lyon was uncertain how to respond: while he did not wish to impugn her before David, neither did he enjoy being made the fool.

“Where might we sit to eat?” she persisted, seeming entirely too pleased over the havoc she’d wreaked. “Or did you plan on starvin’ us as well?”

“Meghan,” Lyon said softly in warning, through now playing games.

“You said you would make us both welcome,” she reminded him pertly. “And so far you’ve not. Are you a liar as well as a thief?”

Lyon eyed the bleating lamb in growing frustration. He cast a glance at David, who was staring now, quite displeased, and for the first time in his life, his face burned with chagrin.

“Meghan,” he warned, clenching his jaw.

If she was serious, he determined, then she was truly mad... and if she was not, then she was undermining him before his friend and his liege. Feeling obliged to take the situation in hand, to save his food if not his face, he stood and lifted the noisy beast from his table, placing it at his feet.

“My pardon if it offends you, Meghan, but your grandmother is not welcome at my table.”

“How dare you?” she exclaimed, and sank to her knees at once, unfazed by his growing ire. Lyon peered down in trepidation to find that she was crawling beneath the table to reach the wee lamb, shoving at David’s knee. “Get out of my way,” she demanded.

She was mad.

Of a certain, she was a beautiful lunatic.

“What is she doing, Lyon?”

“There, there…poor Fia,” she cried out, and then peered up accusingly at Lyon from under the table. “How dare you?” she declared once more, crawling out from under the table at last. “You will not win me like that,” she swore, and having said that, she stood, brushed herself off, and quite rudely reached between him and David, seizing a loaf of bread from the table. “If Fia is not welcome, then I am not welcome,” she proclaimed, and reached down to snatch up the lamb into her arms, as well. “Hmmph,” she said, and gave them her back. And without a by your leave she left them, hurrying toward the stairs, with her grandmother and his food in tow.

David stared after her, bemused. “What was that?”

Lyon sat staring after her as well. “Naught more than stubborn Scot pride, I think,” he answered, and his brows drew together as he watched her stomp her way up the stairs to his chamber. His face contorted. “I hope.” And then, “Pardon the interruption... what were you saying?”

“Never mind,” David declared. “I’ve changed my mind. I should think twice were I you, Lyon. That woman might be beautiful, but she’s daft besides. You’d be better suited to wed Alison MacLean.”

Lyon wasn’t willing to concede. “I respectfully disagree,” he said. “And I’ve already made clear my reasons why. Aside from that, Alison MacLean is entirely too—”

“Sane?” David interjected. “What has come over you, Lyon?”

Meghan Brodie.

Meghan Brodie had come over him.

A stubborn-as-the-devil miss with flashing green eyes and a temper as fierce as the Highlands that had bred her.

He frowned. “How should I know?”

The slam of his chamber door reverberated throughout the hall. Lyon could hear her stomping across his room, bearing the weight of the lamb within her arms.

“As a friend, not your liege...” David began.

The floorboards creaked ominously. Lyon peered up, making a mental note to fix them soon. He could hear her muffled ravings and her subsequent tantrum, designed specifically for his ears, he was well aware.

She continued to stomp, punctuating her every rant with another stomp, bringing an unwilling smile to his lips... until he heard the first crack...

David continued ominously. “... I beg you, think with your head and not—”

It happened so fast, Lyon hadn’t time to react. “Meghan,” he shouted.

The floorboards gave even as he surged from his chair.

She came crashing down through the ceiling.

David leapt up and out of the way barely in time.

The little lamb gave an unholy shriek as it followed her down.

Meghan landed with a crash, smashing trenchers and cracking her forehead upon David’s tankard.

The lamb landed upon the floor with a sickening thud.

Meghan murmured, “I—I decided to j-join you a-after a-all.” And she closed her eyes as her head landed in a plate full of mutton.

For an instant, Lyon was too stunned to move.

The hall fell into a stupor.

David stood beside him, staggered.

She lay before him much too still.

He turned to David. “Find me a physician,” he snapped, dispensing with formalities for Meghan’s sake, and reached out to scoop her at once into his arms, his heart pounding with fear.

Chapter 17

Lyon bore her up the stairs, barking orders to his men: one to bring water, another to bring rags.

She was bleeding somewhere on her beautiful face, but it was too soiled with food

and blood for him to tell precisely where she was injured.

He kicked open his door with an urgency born of fear.

She began to murmur unintelligibly within his arms. “Fia,” she whimpered.

His heart twisted a little. He carried her to his bed and laid her gently down upon it. What was he going to say to her? How could he tell her? “Shhh,” he urged her.

She opened her eyes, and stared up at him with a dazed expression upon her face. “W-where is Fia?” she persisted.

“Sleeping,” he lied, and winced as a vision of the animal’s twisted form flashed through his head.

She closed her eyes. “Not dead...”

“Shhh...”

“Sleeping,” she murmured. “Dinna mean to wake her,” she whispered, drifting off once yet again.

David came into the room as she lost consciousness, his concern evident in his eyes. “They say there is only a midwife to be found,” he said. “ ‘Tis the best we could do. I sent one of your men to fetch her. How does she fare, Lyon?”

“She spoke,” Lyon said gravely, peering up at his longtime friend. “She asked after the lamb.”

David shook his head. “Poor creature,” he said low. “I ordered the carcass lifted.”

Lyon nodded, and then muttered an oath beneath his breath. “Where is the water to wash her? Mercy, I can see naught for all the blood.”

David placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“I should have fixed those floorboards,” Lyon said in self-reproach. “I should have fixed them.”

“You could not have foreseen this.”

“Nay. I saw their condition days ago,” Lyon confessed. “I should have fixed them.” He shook his head in self-disgust. “I should have fixed them.”

“And I should never have interfered in MacKinnon’s affairs,” David countered, much too calmly for Lyon’s state of mind. He could scarcely think, yet alone reason, and David would speak to him of politic matters?

David’s voice was drowned in a torrent of his own thoughts. Where was she cut? Was she hurt elsewhere besides? And what was he going to tell her about her poor lamb?

His beautiful, spirited Meghan; she was bleeding too much.

“I should not have taken his son,” David continued, his voice grating upon Lyon’s nerves. He couldn’t think. “Because of me Lagan MacKinnon lies dead. I should not have interfered in the MacKinnon’s affairs, and because I did, your task is made all the more difficult.”

At the moment, Lyon didn’t care.

“And my goal lies all the more distant,” David added as well.

“I cannot think of this just now,” Lyon said, and thrust his hands into his hair, maddened by the wait, feeling helpless but to stare.

“What good does it do me to regret?” David persisted.

“None,” Lyon answered impatiently, understanding David’s meaning at once.

These were all things he knew, of course. And yet...

“Precisely,” David said. “What is done is done.”

Lyon grit his jaw stubbornly. “Now is not the time for lectures, David. Help me with these sheets,” he demanded, spying the shredded linen she had used for Fia’s scarf. “They are taking too long.”

Seizing the cloth in his hand, he ripped it in half, handing the bigger piece to David. He tore a smaller piece for himself and began to clean the blood from her face—gently, lest he hurt her more. He found the wound near her temple, within her hair, and pressed the cloth to it in an attempt to staunch the flow.

David continued to tear the linen. “’Tis not as though you purposely left the floor to rot.”

Lyon gently pushed the blood-soaked hair from her face.

“She truly is lovely,” David remarked.

“Aye,” Lyon agreed, watching her face closely for some sign of lucidity. At the moment, beauty didn’t concern him, only that she would be well.

His men arrived bearing water and rags.

“About time,” Lyon snapped as he was handed a rag already soaked with water. He ordered them all from the room, and began to clean her face once more. “Send the midwife in the instant she arrives,” he commanded them before they went.

“It appears to be the single cut,” David said, watching. “Allow me to hold the rag. You inspect the rest of her to be certain there is no other wound.”

It was precisely what he intended to do.

Lyon released the blood-soaked rag into David’s hands, and did as suggested.

David lowered his voice. “And what shall you tell her about... the lamb?”

“I’ve no idea,” Lyon admitted, and proceeded to remove her soiled clothing, leaving her in her shift.

She stirred, moaning softly as he undressed her, and he peered at her face expectantly. She didn’t reopen her eyes, and he stared at her, contemplating what he would say when she awoke. At worst she believed the lamb to be her grandmother. At best it was a beloved pet. Either way she was going to be aggrieved.

At the moment, however, he was too concerned for her to feel anything more than sorry for the animal.

He removed her sleeve, drew it down, and his heart wrenched to find that her arm had been twisted in the fall. It was swollen about the elbow, already turning an ungodly shade of crimson-blue.

“Heavens above,” David exclaimed. “I think she may lose the use of that arm.”

Lyon cast him a black glance.

Not on his watch, he vowed, and at once set about untangling her from her gown.

Leith had insisted he bring her home.

He’d kissed her once more, a gentle peck upon the lips before bidding her farewell, and Alison had yet to walk inside. She stood in the shadows of her father’s home, watching him go, her fingers pressed to her lips in something akin to awe.

Leith Mac Brodie wanted to wed with her.

Her?

She still could not believe it, though he had sworn it with his heart in his eyes. She had never thought a man would ever look at her so.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, but he was long departed when a voice startled her from her reverie.

“Alison?”

Alison saw the man coming from the woodlands, and she turned and walked quickly toward her father’s hall, ready to shriek for help, and horrified at her own stupidity for waiting so long like an idiot to watch Leith go. It had been a stupid thing to do.

“Alison MacLean,” the man called out.

Alison lifted up her skirts to flee, but he shouted out, “Wait, I mean you no harm. I bring news of Meghan.”

Alison spun to face him, responding instinctively to the note of alarm in his voice. “Meghan! What of Meghan?” she demanded.

He came near enough so she could see his face, and then she recognized him. “Cameron!”

“Aye, lass, you remember me,” he said. “ ‘Tis Meghan,” he hurried on. “There is no time to speak long. You must come.”

“Come?”

“To Montgomerie’s.”

“Me?” Alison asked in surprise.

“She has had an accident, Alison, and I dinna know how to say it, but they told me she didna look so well when I left there. They sent me for a midwife, and I know you spent much time with her and her grandmother. I didna know where else to go for help. She needs you now, lass.”

“Oh, no,” Alison exclaimed, and her heart nigh leapt from her chest in fear. “But how shall I go? He would know me,” she said doubtfully. “I think he would know me. Will he let me tend her?”

The old man suddenly seemed to share her concern. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“Wait,” Alison said. “I know what to do. He shall not recognize me when I am through, and he’llna turn me away if he does not know me. Wait here for me, and I will return in a trice,” She clutched the old man’s arm. “Thank you. Thank you for coming to fetch me. Wait here now, if you will, and I shall be back anon. Wait,” she begged him, and raced into the hall, taking care that her father did not see her, as he believed she was still within her room.

Meghan needed her now, and she would not fail her dear friend—she would not.

Meghan awoke to the sound of voices.

She couldn’t seem to gain her bearings.

She heard everything, was keenly aware of her surroundings in the oddest sort of way, but her lids were too heavy to lift. Nor could she move. It was as though she were sleeping still and could not awake.

“I have reset the bone,” said a woman’s voice from somewhere beyond the haze. Meghan faintly recognized it. She tried in vain to open her eyes, to look upon the bearer of it. “’Twill need time to heal,” the woman continued gravely. “Dinna let her use the arm, and if you must... bind her to the bed until she awakes.”

“I shall remain with her,” she heard a familiar male voice say in a low tone. “How long will the drogue last?”

“Until the morrow,” came the woman’s reply.

Drogue.

They’d given her a drogue... like the ones her grandmother sometimes used... Her heart lifted with hope.

“Fia?” she murmured.

Shadows descended like a shroud over her senses.

“Fia?” she persisted.

She sensed more than felt the hand at her brow... not a small one with calluses on the tips of fingers raw from pulling herbs... but a large one... as gentle as it was coarse.

“Hush now, Meghan,” the man’s voice commanded, though not unkindly, and the familiar sound of it reverberated through her very soul.

Lyon?

Meghan heard herself whimper softly, and was surprised by the distance of the sound. Strange, it didn’t sound like her at all, didn’t feel like her, though she knew it was.

What was wrong with her?

And why did her arm hurt?

And why had they drugged her?

“Och, you really should bind her to the bed,” the woman said, concern in her voice. “You dinna want her to injure the arm any more.”

Meghan shook her head. She didn’t want to be bound to the bed. She whimpered, trying to tell them nay.

“Poor wee thing,” the woman lamented, and once more the familiarity of it struck her.

Who was the woman?

“Fia...”

The woman let out an audible sigh. “Crazy auld Fia has been dead nigh on two years now,” she said. “The two were inseparable; where you spied the one, the other was not far behind.”

It wasn’t Fia.

Fia had been dead nigh two years now. Meghan’s heart fell as she remembered that. It wasn’t Fia.

Who was it?

She heard weeping again and wondered if she were the one sobbing.

She felt so weighty, so dizzy... so insubstantial...

“Fia... Fia is her lamb, as well,” Lyon confided to the woman.

The lamb.

Meghan groaned as slices of memory began to return to her. She’d been holding the wee lammie within her arms, dancing with it across the room—with a few well-placed stomps for special effect—so happy that her plan had gone so well.

“Aye, but she seems to think the lamb is her grandmother,” another man’s voice disclosed.

Silence.

“Och,” exclaimed the woman after a moment. “Poor wee thing, but it does not surprise me,” she said grimly. “She comes from verra bad blood, you see. ‘Twas merely a matter of time before Meghan Brodie succumbed to the madness as well.”

“She seemed well enough to me.”

“So were her mother and grandmother in the beginning,” the woman pointed out sadly. “And then it came over them, twisting their minds. Och, but ’tis a shame, too, as Fia understood the magic of the woodlands well.”

Naught had come over her mother and grandmother, Meghan wanted to scream. They had simply been misunderstood. Who was this woman who would befoul her mother’s and grandmother’s names?

“I’m afeared she’ll end like them if something is not done—and soon.”

She wanted to speak up and tell the woman that she was wrong—all wrong. It wasn’t true. But she couldn’t open her mouth to speak. Nor could she lift her lids. What had they given her? The heaviness seemed to be dragging her down into oblivion.

Meghan fought to stay awake... fought until finally, the will to sleep was too great...

“What can be done?” Lyon asked the old woman.

“I have a potion,” she answered, and those vaguely familiar eyes began to gleam with the color of gold, though in the dimness of the room, it was difficult to tell their true color. “I am something of an apothecary,” she disclosed. “But the price of this particular potion is high,” she cautioned him. “And you will not relieve me of it for less than a handful of gold.”

Lyon wasn’t entirely certain it was necessary to do anything at all to cure Meghan’s so-called madness, but if the old woman’s medicine was harmless enough, he might consider the prescription, no matter the cost. “What sort of potion, woman, would cost me a handful of gold coins?”

She smiled, a brilliant smile that seemed to smooth the wrinkles from her brow, making her appear much too young. Her hair was covered with a scarf that concealed much of her face, as well, and was tied entirely too tight about her chin besides. He wondered that she could bear it.

“A powerful potion,” she assured him, eyeing him first, then casting a glance at David. “Made from roots.”

“I have never heard of such a thing,” David interjected.

“Of course not,” she replied, drawing back and peering at him, obviously insulted by his challenge. “It is the root of a tree found in the Far East alone.”

“You have been to the Far East?” Lyon persisted, at once doubting her claim.

“And you have seen this tree with your very own eyes?” David added.

“Och, nay,” she confessed, “but I do have the root with me even now.”

“But you have seen it work its magic?” David inquired, saving Lyon the trouble of asking.

“Nay. You will need to take my word.”

“’Tis rather convenient a tale, I should say.” Lyon eyed her speculatively. “And you just happen to carry with you this root of an unknown tree—”

“Do you not also carry upon your person your most valuable possessions?”

“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?

David 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.

Chapter 18

Meghan 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.

Lyon, 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.

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.

Chapter 19

“Tell 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.

Meghan 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.

The truth is that I have yet to find true contentment in pleasure.

Does that state of true contentment known as happiness exist beyond the realm of human imagination?

If so, it is certain that pleasure and happiness are not equal as argued, for the separation is easily measured within the confines of the soul. And knowing as much... I cannot, in good conscience, return to another’s arms.

This descent into intemperance has left me deplete of desire.

Her heart pounding fiercely, Meghan paused once more for breath. In reading, she’d entirely forgotten to breathe, so entranced was she by his heartfelt words.

This was by far the most personal of his essays. None of the others had been nearly so revealing, nor had he spoken of himself in such a forthright manner.

Why did he wish her to read this essay?

Meghan would have buried such a manuscript ten feet under after writing it, in fear that anyone would know her most personal thoughts.

Why had he simply handed it over to her so easily? Even dared her to read it?

Was he trying to frighten her away?

Surely not—not when he’d made so little pretense about wanting her for his own.

What was it he wanted her to discover in these pages?

She nibbled her lower lip, contemplating.

Perhaps if she continued reading, she would learn the answers.

Below the passage she’d read was a reference to works she had no knowledge of—by men called Plato and Socrates. Some of their arguments, it appeared, he’d copied into the second notebook, and were therefore impossible for her to read, as she did not understand the Latin text.

She prayed God would have mercy upon her wicked soul, she could not stop now, no matter that she knew what next she would read...

Chapter 20

Lyon hadn’t meant to stay away so long.

But neither had he been able to face her, lest he feel obliged to confess what he’d done. Sending her brothers away when they must have been worried sick after not seeing her for three days and then discovering she was hurt was certainly not the proudest moment of his life.

Why had he done such a thing?

Had he fallen so far into iniquity?

It was just that... for the first time in his life he wanted something so sorely.

Meghan Brodie.

Her name alone made him burn.

She was becoming an obsession.

It seemed he could think of naught else but her. In the time he’d known her, he’d abandoned his promises to old man MacLean, disappointed his sovereign, and now turned away worried kinfolk for fear they would seize her from him. What was happening to him?

He’d spent the morning alone digging a grave for a lamb named Fia. And then had remained by the grave after burying the animal, swilling his ale under the high afternoon sun. His skin was blistered now, but the burn upon his flesh was nowhere near that which smoldered when he neared Meghan. The mere thought of her there... lying within his bed... reading his manuscripts... made his heart thunder and his blood blaze through his veins.

He thought about his words and wondered if she would be shocked by them, repelled—wished he could see her face when first she’d set eyes upon them.

Would she be appalled?

Amused?

His heart hammering as it had not in years, he climbed the stairwell to his bedchamber, wavering a bit in his drunkenness. He’d returned from the gravesite and had remained within the hall below, swilling more ale whilst he’d stared at the hole he’d had boarded within the floor of his chamber... trying to imagine what it was she was thinking behind the upstairs door.

What it was she was doing?

His breath quickened at the thought of seeing her once more.

He swallowed the last of his ale as he reached the top of the stairs and hurled the empty tankard down the stairwell, listening to it clatter on its way down, uncertain whether it was a warning to Meghan or a self-recriminating gesture.

It didn’t matter. He was too besotted to care.

He opened the door, and stood wavering upon his feet, acclimating himself to the dimness of the room. His eyes were drawn at once to the lone taper lit upon his desk. The tiny flame illuminated her face and little else, and his breath caught at the sheer beauty of her profile.

She was lovely.

Meghan heard the warning clatter beyond the door, but had no time to leave the desk before the door swung open to reveal Lyon standing there.

Her heart leapt against her chest, and she dropped the quill upon the desk, afraid he would catch her penning her own words upon the pages of his manuscript.

Despite the fact that the room had grown dim and she’d had to squint to see the pages, she’d scarcely been aware of the passage of time.

And now he was here, filling the doorway with his presence.

He came into the room, swinging the door shut behind him, and her heart quickened.

“Is that fear I spy in your eyes, Meghan?”

Meghan couldn’t find her tongue to speak, so expressive was his look. After having read his essays, the brightness of his gaze took on an entirely new significance. Och, but she could hardly look him in the eyes without wondering if he thought of her in those ways he had written about.

“Have you changed your mind now after reading those pages?”

Meghan’s breath caught as he approached her.

She didn’t know how to answer. Certainly, she should be shocked by their content, but she wasn’t. And perhaps she should think him wicked, too, but she couldn’t—because if he were so wicked then so, too, was she, because his private thoughts made her feel... warm... and his presence now made her heady with anticipation.

She closed his manuscript before he could spy her scribblings, and guiltily pushed it aside.

He came to stand beside her.

Meghan’s heart thundered as he lifted up the manuscript and held it, inspecting the binding. He didn’t open it, merely stood there holding it, and she prayed he’d leave it closed. She wasn’t certain whether he’d be incensed by her boldness... or merely amused that she should think herself learned enough to add her own observations to his. He would read them soon enough, she was certain, but she was afraid it would be now, when her musing was as yet incomplete and her thoughts too scattered to form into comprehensive words.

“Answer me, Meghan.” He tossed down the manuscript and Meghan let out a sigh of relief.

“Nay.” She averted her gaze, staring at the bright-yellow flame as it danced atop the burning taper.

“Nay?”

She held her breath as he knelt beside the desk, and cast him a glance but didn’t dare look him full in the face.

How could she ever again when now she knew what he was thinking?

When she shared his thoughts?

She couldn’t forget his words... or his drawings... Couldn’t keep her heart from hammering as he stared so expectantly at her.

“Nay, you will not answer me?” he asked, his voice no more than a husky murmur. “Or nay, you do not think me wicked, Meghan?”

Meghan’s face heated. “Nay...” She turned to look at him then, and the intensity in his eyes seized her breath. “I—I d-do not... th-think you wicked,” she told him, and sucked in a breath.

He cast a glance at the arm she had cradled before her within her lap. “Does it pain you?”

Meghan nodded. “A bit,” she confessed. Though in truth, she’d not thought of it overmuch whilst she’d read through his manuscripts—nor whilst she’d sat writing at his desk. Her thoughts had been so immersed within the manuscripts that she’d forgotten her physical pain.

He produced the same small vial he had once before from his belt, and opened it. The sweet scent of herbs tickled her senses. “Give me your tongue, Meghan,” he urged her, and the silken sound of his voice sent a quiver down her spine.

Meghan stared at his mouth, recalling all the wicked things he had confessed. Och, she wasn’t ignorant in the ways of men and women, but the very notion sent gooseflesh rippling over her.

“Give me your tongue,” he demanded once more.

Meghan swallowed convulsively and did as he bade her. She hugged herself, cradling her injured arm, trying to still the trembling of her traitorous body as he moved the vial over her tongue, dripping medicine into her mouth. The liquid tickled her buds. Meghan blinked as he withdrew the vial. She swallowed, her eyes drawn once more, against her will, to the manuscript that sat upon the desk between them, its leather cover illuminated by the candle’s twisting, flickering light.

His command was softly spoken. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Meghan’s gaze returned to his face.

Their gazes locked, held.

She swallowed once more, no more capable of revealing her own thoughts than she could cease thinking of his.

“Have you been reading all afternoon?”

“Most,” she confessed, and her voice was soft and low, strange to her own ears.

Her confession thrilled Lyon.

The blood hummed through his veins. He wasn’t certain what he’d hoped to accomplish by having her read his manuscripts, but he was pleasantly surprised.

Relieved.

Intrigued…

By the look upon her face.

Was she not what he had supposed?

Why was it that she was as yet unwed?

All these thoughts and more poured through his mind. He wasn’t certain how the answers should make him feel, but one thing was certain, he didn’t care this instant—couldn’t care less if she’d been wooed by unknown men, because she had yet to be wooed by him. And, if he had his way, when he was done there would be naught of her soul left to his imagination. When he was finished, there would be no memory remaining of any other man’s hand in hers.

The taper’s flame began to fade as it burned down the wick, the only evidence of the passing of time, for the air grew still between them, the tension as delicious as anticipation should be. The room was left deep in shadows but for the almost nonexistent glow from the candle, and what muted light came from the hole in his ceiling. The flame was a soft illumination upon her lovely face, casting a buttery-yellow light upon her pallid cheeks. And the flicker of the flame was a glimmer in her eyes—eyes that were hardly wicked as his own must seem, but hardly innocent either.

He had to know...

How innocent?

His own heart fluttered at the mere scent of her flesh.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, his voice thick with hunger.

“M-my arm…”

He wanted to hear that she did not think him depraved.

He wanted to take her beautiful face into his hands... kiss her sweet mouth...

“I have something that will ease it...”

The candle flickered between them, making it appear her dark-green eyes widened a bit in fear, but it was a trick of the candlelight, he hoped, for in the next instant they were filled only with a curiosity he wanted more than life to satisfy.

“If you will trust me,” he added.

She seemed to understand that his meaning was deeper, because she hesitated before nodding. And yet she nodded and it sent his pulses leaping.

He reached down, holding her gaze, and separated her kirtle from her undergown. Watching her face, he gathered it within his fist and jerked it, renting a strip from it. She gasped, but her gaze never wavered. Lyon’s heart thundered within his chest. Not knowing his intent, she trusted him still, allowed him his will. He tore his gaze away long enough to examine the strip he’d rent, and then folded it and rose to his feet.

“Extend your arm a bit,” he bade her. “Just a bit... I know it hurts, Meghan.”

Once more she did as he asked her, and he slid the strip about her arm so that it cradled it comfortably and then he lifted it about her neck to secure it. He couldn’t help but wonder if she would be so compliant in his arms...

“Lift your beautiful hair for me,” he urged.

She did, gathering the strands with her good hand, and he slid his hands about her neck, reveling in the feel of her warm silken skin beneath his touch. He tied the sling at her nape.

His hands lingered... his fingertips caressing lightly...

Meghan’s heart beat faster.

Swallowing, her breath quickening painfully, she released her hair so that it fell and covered his hands.

And still he did not remove them.

He wrapped his fingers about her nape, then, and slid his thumb beneath her jaw, gently turning her head up to look him full in the face.

“I said you were lovely, Meghan Brodie,” he whispered fiercely, “and so you are.”

Meghan gulped back the retort that came naturally to her lips. Heaven help her, she did like the way he looked at her.

No matter that she told herself she did not. Och, but her heart seemed to blossom when he gazed at her so. It made her feel... wanted... cherished...

And yet she needed so much more.

She wanted him to gaze at her and think her beautiful within as well. Because someday, someday... Meghan knew she’d no longer have beauty to fall back upon. Someday, as with Fia... she would lose her youthfulness and then they would all call her mad and view her as though she were some curiosity to be hidden away. Even her brothers had been guilty of it with Fia; they had felt nothing but shame for the woman who had raised them.

Aye, beauty was but a curse.

Her father had been driven to his own demise in obsession over beauty, and her grandfather had all but discarded her grandmother in pursuit of it once Fia’s own beauty had fled her.

Aye, Meghan was afraid to embrace his words, afraid to take pleasure in them, lest she end like her mother and grandmother before her.

Alone.

She wanted him to accept all of her. She wanted him to see that she was more than the sum of her parts. She wanted him to look into her eyes and know that there was a brain behind her silly face... and thoughts... and feelings.

She wanted him to hear her words and respect them.

She wanted him...

She wanted him to kiss her...

His fingers tangled within her hair. Goose-flesh erupted over her flesh yet again. Meghan held her breath as he looked down upon her, his eyes glittering with the reflected light of the dancing candle flame...

And with something else... something that truly was a little wicked...

Meghan averted her eyes to the desk, to the manuscript lying there.

“Look at me, Meghan,” he demanded.

Meghan did, and her heart skipped a beat. It was wholly impossible to look into his eyes and not imagine the women he’d wooed... the desire he made no effort to hide. A delicious shiver raced down her spine.

“Look me in the eye,” he commanded her, his voice naught more than a husky whisper, “and tell me, Meghan Brodie...”

The sound of her name upon his lips sent another quiver down her spine.

“Do you think me wicked now?”

Meghan blinked.

How to respond? She inhaled a shuddering breath.

Did she tell him aye, and accuse him, when she knew in her heart that she was as wicked as he?

Or did she deny it and let him think her wicked too?

She could not find her voice to speak. Her lips parted but no words came.

“Tell me, Meghan.”

“I—I dinna think... I don’t know,” she whispered.

“I think you do,” he murmured and bent, brushing his lips softly against her brow. She moaned softly at the sweetness of the gesture, tilting her head back, melting beneath his lips, and he moved lower, kissing the bridge of her nose. Meghan held her breath, closing her eyes, and he then kissed each of her lids. She ceased to breathe at all as the warmth of his mouth descended toward her lips.

But he didn’t kiss her. The scent of ale accosted her... ale and man... and something more...

“I d-don’t know,” she swore, and expelled a breathy sigh.

And she truly did not. She had no notion what to think, what to feel, what to do... He was stirring her senses as though he were a master weaver and she the silken thread upon his golden loom.

She was suddenly so warm... and so... hot... heady... dizzy... It seemed as though a veil fell over the room.

Meghan wasn’t certain but it seemed she wavered a bit in the chair...

And the candle flame... seemed to dance away before her eyes, teasing her vision.

The pain in her arm faded along with the clarity of the room. The only thing she was acutely aware of... was the hands that cupped her face so tenderly... the lips that drew away from her own, leaving her mouth yearning... the eyes that watched her so intently...

She blinked, peering into his face, feeling intoxicated by his very presence.

The drogue was taking effect. She willed it away, not wanting it to dull her senses.

“Do you think me wicked?” he asked once more, and Meghan could scarcely breathe for his nearness. His blue eyes gleamed as they scrutinized her, scattering her thoughts.

She shrugged. “I cannot...” She swallowed. “... cannot make such a judgment.”

His eyes slitted, piercing her. “Cannot or will not, Meghan?”

“Cannot,” she whispered. “I dinna know you well enough, Lyon Montgomerie.”

“I beg to differ... you know me better than anyone else upon the face of this earth, Meghan Brodie. I poured my soul into those pages.”

Her face burned. She tried to look away. “I... I didna read them all,” she lied, unable to look him in the eyes after having such intimate knowledge of him. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure he must hear it as well—was sure that in the silence of the room it was amplified.

He forced her gaze back. “How much?” he pressed. “How much did you read?”

“I... I dinna remember.”

He lifted a brow. “You do not remember?”

Meghan shook her head.

He released her suddenly, and stood once more, looking down upon her. Her heart hammered as he slid aside the candle upon the desk. Without warning, he reached down, plucking her up from the chair. Meghan gasped in surprise as he sat her upon the desk, and then seated himself before her.

“Shall we rouse your memory, then?” he suggested, and reached down, sliding his hand beneath the arch of her foot. Meghan’s heart leapt into her throat at the intimacy of his caress.

“W-what are you going to do?”

“Shhh…”

His gaze never left her face as he began to massage her bare foot, stroking the arch and caressing her skin gently.

“Do you remember what I wrote of this, Meghan?”

Meghan’s breath quickened at the question. She nodded as his fingers massaged her foot, gently lacing through her toes. And then he raked the seat backward from the desk and Meghan thought she would swoon as he lifted her foot to his beautiful mouth, watching her face all the while as his lips alighted upon each of her toes in tender, sweet kisses.

A shudder flew through her.

Feeling paralyzed with uncertainty, and dizzy with anticipation, she watched as he kissed along the arch of her foot, where his fingers had caressed. And then her heart leapt against her ribs as he released her, easing her foot back to where it rested before and drew her closer, gently, hugging her to him with a tenderness she’d never known before.

“I want you for my own, Meghan Brodie,” he said without ceremony.

“You want my beauty,” she answered breathlessly, scarcely able to think for the way his arms were making her feel.

He didn’t want her. There was a difference, Meghan understood. She fought to remember that through the haze of pleasure.

“Aye,” he whispered, his voice low and husky with a desire he didn’t attempt to conceal. “I’ll not deny it. I do,” he confessed, and fell to his knees before her.

“I want your beauty, Meghan,” he whispered. “but I wish to know you too...heart and soul…”

His heart hammering, Lyon closed his eyes and concentrated not on the burn of his skin, but on her breath as he held her once again, attempting to share her every breath…attempting to truly be at one with the woman in his arms.

He could see in her eyes that she was not completely lucid, and so he didn’t wish to take this any further.

Nay, this time it would be different.

Because she was different.

Deep in his soul, he sensed that in her arms he would find all his answers—all the revelations he sought were hidden behind the mirror of her gaze.

He craved them madly.

Answers.

Aye, he was well aware she was drugged... that she might not have allowed him so much liberty otherwise, but he’d never confessed to moral restraint. He’d never intended mercy in his pursuit, nor did he play fairly.

He played as he fought as he loved...

To win.

When at last she slept...

When at last she dreamt...

When she awoke in the morn...

He wanted her to remember this feeling.

He wanted her to think of naught else but him every waking hour of the day—as he did with her.

She was in his blood.

Who would have thought after all this time without a woman... he would find such pleasure in such simplicity, but he did.

He held her, taking thorough gratification in every beat of his heart against its cage.

Aye, this time was different, he assured himself, and he didn’t care if she was mad or not—if she was mad, let him be mad with her—he wanted Meghan Brodie for the rest of his life.

Chapter 21

“Bless you, Cameron,” Alison MacLean said, and bent to kiss the old man upon the cheek. “Thank you again for coming to fetch me when Meghan fell. And bless your true Scots heart for doing this for me now.”

The old man blushed fiercely, his face mottling with color. “’Twas naught,” he replied. “Dinna thank me, lass, as I didna want the mon upon my birth land, anyhow, and I dinna appreciate the way he takes what he wills—arrogant Sassenach.”

“I know.” Alison agreed. “But I could not do this without you, Cameron, so I can thank you if I please.”

The old man nodded. “You were a brave lass,” he said, “going in there like that to help your friend.”

“How could I not?” Alison declared. “Meghan Brodie is my verra best friend. She would have done the same for me.” And Meghan would, she knew. It had twisted Alison’s heart to see her friend lying there in so much pain. If she could have lifted her up and carried her from that wretched place, she would have. As it was, she’d had to tend Meghan and then hurry away lest he recognize her face.

Cameron nodded again in agreement, and Alison went on, “I was so worried. I had to see with my verra own eyes that she was well.” In truth, she’d not thought up her plan until King David had sounded so uncertain of Meghan’s sanity. It had startled her, as Meghan Brodie was the sweetest, smartest person Alison knew. But Alison had taken advantage of David’s uncertainty and had formed this hasty plan. She hadn’t known how well it would go, but it was worth a try. “Anyway, Montgomerie did not recognize me so all is well. But I cannot risk myself again so soon, if I am to go back and trade places with Meghan later. So, then, be sure to give her this,” she instructed, and pressed a small sack into the old man’s hands. “’Tis verra important. And you tell her just what I told you, all right?”

“Aye, lass, I remember it all.”

“Verra good, and this is for you.” She held out a few gold coins.

“For me?” He peered up at her in surprise.

“Aye,” Alison smiled brilliantly. “For you. And thank you again, Cameron of the MacLeans, and go on with ye now. I’ll need you soon enough if my plan is to work. Run now to Meghan and tell her to follow my instructions precisely.”

The old man smiled as he took the coins from her. “Aye, lass. I’ll give her the sack the instant she is alone, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Alison said with feeling, and threw her arms about his neck in appreciation. “You’re a sweet auld mon,” she said and drew away. “Go quickly now,” she urged him.

“No sooner said than done,” he promised, and turned on his heel.

Alison watched him wend his way through the forest until he was gone from her sight, and then she turned and hurried home. There was much to do before her final performance, she knew.

She had colored her face with a thin layer of mud, not enough to make her appear grimy, but enough to dry her skin and give her the appearance of wrinkles, and she had been thankful for the dim light of his chamber that he could not make out her eyes, for though she’d met him only the once, she knew they were revealing, crossing as they did so oft.

She didn’t worry he would suspect her later, because by the time Cameron snuck her in to trade places with Meghan, he would be ready to believe anything. And her hair and eye color were close enough to Meghan’s that, as long as she kept her face concealed, it would give them more than enough time to sneak Meghan out and carry her home. And then Alison would simply slip away herself, remove her wimple and makeup, and leave with none the wiser. Meghan would be home and safe and just in time to see her wedded to Leith.

She smiled at that, certain that Meghan was going to be surprised with the turn of events. Alison could scarcely believe it herself, but Leith Mac Brodie had been so kind to her. And if she’d initially believed his proposal one of mere pity, she no longer thought so. He sent her gifts, one each day, and Alison was beginning to wonder what it was she ever saw in Colin Mac Brodie. A handsome face alone was not nearly enough to recommend a person, she knew, and Colin Mac Brodie had never treated her kindly. How could she have been so blind to Leith? How could she have done to him what Colin had done to her? She’d nearly discarded Leith without a second glance merely because his face was not as comely as Colin’s.

“You should be ashamed, Alison,” she berated herself. And she certainly was.

And that brought her to another thought entirely...

Could she have misjudged Piers Montgomerie as well? She knew what she’d spied in his eyes—the way he’d looked upon Meghan as she’d lain so still within his bed. It seemed to Alison that he had gazed upon her with genuine distress. And perhaps it was no more than he should rightly feel, as it was his fault Meghan was insured to begin with.

And yet... Alison could have sworn there was something more in his eyes when he gazed upon Meghan.

And he had purchased the potion at an exorbitant price—one she had set only to make him think her greedy. As far as Alison was concerned, Meghan had a right to choose her own husband. If Lyon Montgomerie wished to woo her once she was home, then that was another thing entirely. Let him court her properly as would any self-respecting man.

And with that decided, she lifted her skirts and ran the rest of the way home, not wanting to be discovered, not even by her father, lest he forbid her to do what she knew she must. For once in her life she was doing something that mattered, and Alison didn’t care what the risks were.

Meghan needed her.

The fact that she could make a difference so exhilarated her that she wanted naught more than to run home and share the news with her father. She wanted to run and tell Leith what she’d done and what she planned, but she didn’t dare, lest the two of them, in their silly male pride, forbid her to help and insist upon saving Meghan themselves. Nay, she wasn’t about to tell them. Male pride had gotten them thus far, and it was time to use their wits, not might.

Foolish men.

With the morning sun upon her face, Meghan lay wholly afraid to open her eyes.

The very thought of Lyon’s arms around her heated her cheeks.

Last night, though she’d been content and drugged besides, she had lain there, unable to sleep. And even now, this morning, the memory of their embrace made her belly stir with feelings she hardly could deny.

But she could scarcely sleep forever, no matter that the drogue kept her weary enough to do so.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes to the bright light of morning.

Lyon Montgomerie’s face was the first thing she saw.

He was kneeling by the bed, watching her. Meghan started, blinking in surprise.

“I mean to steal your heart, Meghan Brodie,” he said, and Meghan’s heart leapt.

She feared, somehow, he already had.

Her heart quickened its beat. “H-have you been watching me all morn?” she asked hesitantly, feeling both flattered and distressed all at once.

She had dreamt of him, his lips upon hers… And in her dream... she had awakened to find his head cradled in her lap….her fingers running through his hair. In her dream, he’d peered up at her, grinning lovingly, his eyes flashing with an unmistakable gleam as he’d taken her hand, whispering, “It’s only me.”

Meghan shuddered at the memory.

“Time to get up,” he said, avoiding the question. “I have something to show you.”

Meghan gave him an exasperated glance. “You are a despotic mon,” she said, taking comfort in her pique. “Do you never tire of ordering people about?”

“Never.” He grinned roguishly at her, his look much too boyish to be anything but engaging. It spoiled her ill humor.

Meghan grimaced as she tried to rise. He moved to help her.

“I can do it myself,” she exclaimed. “Stop being so nice. I dinna wish to like you,” she said honestly. “Don’t you realize?”

He chuckled at that. “And yet you do?”

Meghan gave him a withering glance. “I didna say such a thing.”

“But you are thinking it?”

“Och, but you are arrogant, too.”

Lyon merely shrugged at that.

“Then I shall resolve to be less so,” he vowed, and inhaled a breath at the sight of her.

He could scarcely keep himself from staring.

He couldn’t seem to get enough of her.

He’d fallen asleep with a smile upon his face. And this morning he’d felt himself scarcely able to leave her, though he’d had matters to attend to. He’d left her only long enough to see them well in hand, and then had rushed back to her side.

What was wrong with him?

He felt as reckless as the boy he’d once been, eagerly chasing every skirt that passed him by.

Only he no longer wanted the rest.

He wanted this one.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

“I have told you, Lyon Montgomerie, I dinna want you to be so accommodating. Move out of my way,” she demanded, ripping the tattered bedsheets off and sliding her legs over the side of the bed.

Lyon sucked in a breath as her movement placed him kneeling before her once more.

She seemed to realize this belatedly and her brows lifted in surprise. Her gaze flew to his and her cheeks flushed.

He merely smiled at her, wholly satisfied with her reaction. He understood women only too well, and knew how to please them. He certainly wasn’t going to waste his God-given talents when he wanted this more than he wanted to breathe.

He lifted a brow. “Are you asking for a kiss?”

“Och,” she gasped in playful outrage. “You are a wicked knave. I’ve changed my mind. I do know you well enough to make such a judgment. You are wicked.”

“Aye,” he murmured, and he bent to plant a swift, but chaste kiss upon the bridge of her nose.

Her hand flew to her face at once, her fingers touching her nose where he had kissed her. “Why did you do that?” she asked, seeming confused by the innocence of the gesture.

“Because you are adorable,” he answered simply. “Come, let us go.” He rose, drawing her up with him by her good arm, though gently, lest he hurt her. “There is something I wish to show you this morn, and I hope it pleases you.”

He insisted she close her eyes as he led her along behind him, taking her to some unknown place.

Meghan had no choice but to follow, as her curiosity was too great to deny.

When he bade her open her eyes at last, they were in the meadow, with no one else in sight. The bright sunlight, after being secluded so long within his chamber, made her squint. She had difficulty focusing enough to see anything at all, and then, she only saw Lyon standing there before her, gazing at her expectantly, as though he were awaiting her response.

Her brow furrowed. “I thought you wished to show me something. I see naught.”

He was grinning at her.

She tilted a glance at him. “Why are you looking at me so?”

He lifted his brows, and his eyes shone with a boyish gleam that snuck its way into her heart. “Because,” he said playfully, “’tis not oft one beholds both the sun and the moon together, Meghan Brodie.”

Meghan tried not to roll her eyes at his exalted praise, and was thankful for his shameless cajolery as it helped her to keep him at bay. Accustomed as she was to men’s empty flattery, it no longer stirred her heart to hear it.

Except when Lyon Montgomerie spoke it, it seemed.

Her heart quickened.

“You are both the fiery brilliance of sunlight, Meghan, and the bewitching serenity of moonlight.” His ardent tone managed to seep into the cracks of the wall surrounding her heart—despite that Meghan sat behind it, casting mortar at every fracture.

“And you, I fear, have missed your calling, Lyon Montgomerie. You should have been a troubadour begging entrance at every manor.” She eyed him sharply. “You are a shameless flatterer. And I have told you I am unmoved by pretty words, and still you persist—why?” she demanded.

He stood there, looking entirely too beauteous for Meghan’s peace of mind—his smile too radiant, and his words entirely too blithe—and she wanted to loathe him for making her yearn for more.

“Because you’ve turned me into a besotted lad,” he answered unrelentingly, “who would do anything for merely the favor of a smile from his darling.”

Meghan frowned at him. “I am not your darling, lest you forget.”

She eyed him circumspectly. He wore a deep-blue tunic that brought out the vivid color of his eyes, with a strip of green and blue plaid about his waist and black braies that hugged his long lean legs. He stood tall before her, with his long hair stirring like silk in the breeze. It shimmered like spun gold beneath the mid-morning sun.

Och, but if ever a man could be called beautiful, Lyon Montgomerie was fiercely so.

And yet there was naught about him that made one doubt his masculinity. He was as hard and as beauteous as the hills that surrounded them.

And it didn’t help much to see that he seemed at ease here upon the land she loved so passionately. It was as though he’d been carved from the very stone, in fact, as those ancient cairns that bedecked this soil of her birth.

Despite her claims to the contrary, he was stealing her heart—curse his rotten soul.

His pretty words confused her—made her sigh for more.

But how?

When she knew better.

Was she so feckless that she would abandon her convictions so easily?

Were all her principles naught more than chatter?

Her condemnation for those who would not search beyond a face nothing more than hypocrisy?

Meghan only knew that his words of adulation made her heart beat faster and her knees melt like wax beneath a flame.

And och, she was as guilty as any man with covetous eyes, for she stood wholly entranced by the mere sight of him. When she looked into his gleaming sapphire eyes... her breath caught at what she saw there within their beautiful depths. And when she lowered her gaze to his mouth, which smiled at her with such sensual promise, she wanted to open her arms and beg him come to her once more.

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.

Lyon 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.

Chapter 22

Rolling 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.

Chapter 23

Staring 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.”

Mercy, 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.

“Nay,” she answered at last, lifting her chin slightly. “But you told me once that I would ask... so show me,” she bade him, her eyes flashing with invitation.

His heart hammering, Lyon stood before her, holding her gaze before kissing her deeper and fuller than ever before.

Chapter 24

The next morning, the vial was missing from the little desk.

Meghan didn’t bother to search for it. She knew where it had gone. There was little doubt in her mind that Lyon had confiscated it from her. It didn’t matter; her arm was better and she could continue the scheme without the potion. She had her powders and that was all that was needed.

She painted her face the instant she awoke, taking the pouch from its hiding place beneath Lyon’s bed only long enough to make use of its contents before putting it back. This time, however, rather than simply using the powders Alison had sent, she pulled out the wimple and veil as well. Using the little mirror once more, she fastened the headdress as best she was able. She knew he would wonder where she had procured it, but she would simply tell him that she had borrowed it. If he pressed her for a name, she would tell him the first that came to mind. He couldn’t possibly remember the name of every one of the wives who had remained upon his land.

When she was done, she sat once more at the little desk, and opened his manuscripts to read.

And to wait...

There must be a way to reverse the effect of the potion, Lyon had determined. He’d sought out Cameron at first light and sent out a handful of his men to find the midwife who’d tended Meghan.

Cameron, the daft old fool, however, seemed to be leading them upon a merry chase. Either the old man was truly decrepit, or he was purposely keeping them from the old witch. He had quite conveniently forgotten her name, it seemed, though he had remembered it easily enough the night of Meghan’s accident. Neither had it seemed he’d had much trouble locating the woman that evening, for she’d come to Meghan quickly enough. And yet now he could scarcely remember the direction of her woodland hut.

Lyon couldn’t imagine why he might contrive to keep the old witch from him.

Neither could he help but wonder what Meghan was doing, as he’d left her within his bed looking a bit like a cadaver with her sunken eyes and bruised face. He hadn’t dared even to touch her, much less wake her, as she was sleeping so peacefully thanks to the rotten medicine she had ingested.

He reined in his mount, growing impatient with the search, and fell back to ride beside Cameron. “Tell me once more, old man. Was this hut upon my land? Or does it sit upon someone else’s?”

Cameron screwed his face, as though to consider the question, and then peered up at the sun, as though to gauge it. He shook his head. “I dunno,” he answered after a moment.

Lyon gritted his teeth to keep from howling in frustration. “Why not?” he demanded.

They had long since ridden from any woodlands and now were well into the moorlands. The terrain was hillier here and generously marked with chiseled stones.

The old man shook his head. “I dunno,” he said again.

Lyon cursed beneath his breath and spurred his mount to where Baldwin rode beside yet another Scotsman he’d managed to inherit. Only this lad was younger and seemed more eager to please.

“Duncan,” he called out tersely. “Have you any notion where it is we are, lad?”

Duncan peered about, then turned to him, and nodded. “MacKinnon land,” he announced without doubt.

Lyon eyed him incredulously. “MacKinnon! Have we ridden so far?”

“Aye, my laird,” Duncan replied.

That was all he needed—to deal with Iain MacKinnon just now. He swore an oath beneath his breath, and decided that he was desperate enough to pay MacKinnon a visit anyway. Cameron had been leading them all afternoon to no avail, and they hadn’t gotten anywhere but lost.

“Do you know where lies his manor?” Lyon asked Duncan. “Is it near?”

Duncan nodded, and pointed toward a gently sloping, heathered hill in the distance. “Chreagach Mhor,” he disclosed. “Over the rise, upon the cliff.”

“Lead me there,” Lyon commanded the lad.

The youth protested, saying, “But we are only four!”

Lyon narrowed his gaze at the boy. “Do you tell me that MacKinnon will not greet us even-handedly?”

“Nay, but—”

“Because that is not what I have heard,” Lyon assured him. “I understand his position here in these Highlands,” he said, “but I have heard he deals fairly with his neighbors, and what am I but his neighbor?”

“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “But you dinna understand, my laird.”

“I understand quite well,” Lyon said. “You think he will greet me with his blade simply because my blood is English?”

Duncan shook his head. “’Tis not usually his way, no, but his son was stolen by King David and given to the English as ward. MacKinnon has only just now returned from retrieving the boy. He cannot be pleased, and I dinna wish to face him if he is angry.”

“So David told me,” Lyon countered, angered, “and yet MacKinnon has already faced David squarely. I cannot see that he would accord me any less courtesy when I come in the name of peace.”

Baldwin frowned. “Lyon... are you certain you wish to?”

Lyon was unused to having his authority questioned.

“I am quite certain I wish to,” he said, his tone clipped. “If any of you are man enough to follow, then do so. If not, then take your good-for-nothing corpses back to the manor, pack your belongings, and get out of my sight, as I do not want or need craven men in my company.” He spurred his mount toward the hillock, leaving them to follow or not at their own discretion.

If they chose not to, however, they had better not be waiting for him upon his return.

As well as Lyon knew David, he was surprised to find that his friend had returned to see Iain MacKinnon. He was not so surprised when he learned why.

It seemed the MacKinnon was getting married—wedding his English love.

Lyon nearly interrupted the ceremony and was glad he had calmed himself before riding in. As it was, Iain MacKinnon was well aware of his presence, but he seemed to realize at once that Lyon’s visit was not one of ill bodings. MacKinnon eyed him, nodded to acknowledge him, but dismissed him as he returned his attention to his bride and exchanged with her his vows. Spotting David within the crowd, Lyon joined him and watched the couple.

“I did not realize,’ Lyon said, “that I would be intruding.”

David turned to him, looking surprised. “Lyon! Neither did I, until the messenger came to invite the Brodies. They, of course, did not come, but I thought it prudent to pay my respects.”

Lyon smiled. “Quite beneficent of you,” he said. “And did he receive you well?”

“Cordially,” was David’s response. “Cordially, but the wily Scot does not show his appreciation so well. If he found my presence an honor, he has yet to reveal it.” Despite his words, he chuckled. “You have to admire a man who will not be cowed. Curse the rotten knave.”

Lyon chuckled softly.

“That is also what I like about you, Lyon.” David smiled at him. “From that day so long ago when we were both naught more than whelps.”

Lyon shook his head at the memory, then turned his attention to the wedding couple. The ceremony was over and they were locked within an embrace.

“You were never a man to act against himself,” David added.

Lyon looked at his friend and liege in surprise. David couldn’t know him that well if he thought so, but Lyon said nothing.

“I am honored, Piers, to have you at my back.”

Lyon nodded his thanks. “It is my pleasure to do so,” he told David.

“And more,” David added, “as my friend. I count myself a fortunate man.”

Lyon didn’t know what to say. Instead he gazed at the MacKinnon and his bride. “Thank you,” he said finally, uncomfortably.

David seemed to understand for he changed the subject at once. “She’s a lovely thing, is she not?”

“That she is,” Lyon agreed. “Who is she?”

“Page FitzSimon,” David said. “Her father is the man to whom I entrusted Iain’s son as ward until Henry could take him, as he was both mine and Henry’s vassal.” He too watched the couple; they were both smiling and basking in the adoration of their people. “It seems there is no reason to regret my actions, is there? All is well that ends well. Have you ever seen two people more in love?”

Lyon considered that question, and had to ask himself, What is love?

What did he feel for Meghan?

Certainly he thought of her every moment of every day—wanted to be with her every instant he could. The very image of her made his heart beat a little faster, and the thought of spending the rest of his life with her made him smile.

And she was bright. The simple fact that she could read had amazed him. She’d read his papers with an open mind, without condemning him for his thoughts—not once had she thrown his words back into his face. Nay, she’d read them with an open heart as well.

And then she had given him everything.

He wanted to take care of her for the rest of her life. He wanted to wake up with her upon a morn and look into her beautiful eyes. He wanted to kiss her, and to laugh with her, and to show her things, to see her nursing his babe at her breast, to see her hold him to her and look down upon him with loving eyes. He wanted to wake up and lazily draw her into his arms, set his mouth against hers and nuzzle gently for the rest of his days.

When he thought of her, he felt both a flutter in his heart, as though it sprouted wings to fly, and a glorious warmth that cocooned him unlike anything else he’d known in his life.

For the first time ever, he felt a communion of spirit with another living soul.

So then, was that love?

If so, then he surely loved Meghan Brodie.

And he wanted to have with her what he saw in the couple making their way through the celebrating crowd. Shouts and laughter surrounded them.

Now MacKinnon and his bride were coming toward him. MacKinnon grabbed his wife by the arm, dragging her after him, and, laughing, she followed.

“If you return in peace, then welcome,” Iain MacKinnon said to David, eyeing Lyon cautiously.

“That I do,” David assured him. “I came to see with my own eyes that Page FitzSimon is content.” He nodded at Page, and she smiled and blushed prettily.

“I am,” she told David, and her smile deepened as she tilted a loving glance to her new husband.

Lyon felt a pang of envy at the sight of them together.

So happy.

“Your father will not trouble you here, lass,” David swore. “Be well, and be happy.”

“I shall be very well,” she answered shyly, and once again smiled up at her husband.

The two of them shared a secret look together—one that was warm and unmistakably intimate, and Lyon’s breath faltered at the thought of Meghan looking at him in such a way.

A grin spread across Iain MacKinnon’s face. He turned to David abruptly, tearing his gaze away from his bride, though clearly with reluctance. “And so I have your blessing in this?” he asked David. “If FitzSimon returns I can be sure to know where you stand?”

David nodded. “You may at that, MacKinnon. And I can see very well that your bride is happy.”

Page blushed even more fiercely, then looked at Lyon, meeting his gaze.

Lyon smiled down at her, thinking her blush as sweet as her smile. He added his own felicitations, and then said, “And you may count upon me as well, as David’s position is mine, too.”

Iain thrust out a hand in welcome. “Iain MacKinnon, as you know.”

“Piers Montgomerie,” Lyon said, grasping the other’s hand.

“Aye, then,” MacKinnon declared, grinning. “I knew that. Make yourselves welcome.” He turned to Page. “Gentlemen, today my wife has made me a verra happy mon.” And then he turned to David and thrust out his hand once more. David grasped it, and MacKinnon said, “We begin anew. While I cannot be happy for the matter of my son, I have gained so much more.”

“’Tis good to know,” David said, nodding.

MacKinnon turned to Lyon and smacked him companionably upon the shoulder. “Eat! Drink! Make merry with me and my bride!”

“Da! Da!” came a little voice below. Lyon peered down in time to see a child scurry between his legs.

“Get yourself up from your knees, Malcom,” Iain demanded of the boy.

“Aye, but Merry is swillin’ the ale from the vats as fast as Glenna pours them an’ she is gettin’ mad, mad, mad!”

Lyon chuckled.

His father did as well. “Is she now? Well then, you go and tell her I am on my way, and find Broc and tell him to fetch his dog.”

“I will go,” Page offered, and made to leave. He dragged her back against him, embracing her.

“Nay,” he replied, “you are comin’ with me.” He lifted her up into his arms, unconcerned by the presence of their guests.

“All right, Da,” the boy said to his oblivious father, and bolted away.

Page was squealing and laughing. “You truly are a savage Scot,” she declared, and Iain MacKinnon merely chuckled at her accusation.

“So you have said, wife,” he told her and kissed her swiftly upon the lips. He started to carry her away, stopping only to turn toward Lyon and David once more. “Stay,” he invited them, “and we shall share a toast together for my bride once I’ve salvaged the ale from that greedy dog.”

David laughed, and so too did Lyon.

“We shall,” said David. “And we thank you for your hospitality, Iain MacKinnon.”

“Aye, well,” Iain responded, grinning almost stupidly with his joy, “you caught me on a good day, I suppose.” And he winked at them and turned away, bearing his giggling wife with him.

Their laughter trailed after them as they disappeared into the crowd.

Meghan had fallen asleep waiting.

She awoke to a dark room: no torchlight, no taper, only the light from the hole in the roof to orient her.

“Meghan,” came a whisper, and she lifted her head from her arm to peer groggily through the shadows, wondering if she were dreaming still, so confused was she from the drogue still coursing within her body.

“Meghan!”

Her eyes focused upon the door, where it seemed the sound emanated.

The door was closed, and she could make out the figure of someone standing before it, arms outstretched as though to bar it.

“Where are you, Meghan?” the voice said a bit in panic.

She recognized the voice suddenly and bounded up from the chair. “Alison,” she exclaimed. “Here!” Stumbling over herself in her sleepy state, Meghan made her way around the bed. Alison spied her at last and came rushing to her.

“How is your arm?” Alison asked at once. “And how do you feel? Did Cameron give you my message?”

“Well enough,” Meghan assured her. “And I am tired, but well. Aye, Alison, he did.”

“I had to set the arm, but you would have been proud of me, Meghan,” she rushed on to say. “I didna even wince when the bone snapped into place.”

“I am proud of you,” Meghan said, and she was. She had been from the instant Cameron had revealed to her what Alison had done. Her dear friend had been brave even to show her face here in Lyon’s home. “How did you get in tonight?” she asked. “And where is Lyon?”

“He’s yet to return,” Alison replied hurriedly. “But we must hurry, as I’ve little notion how much time we have before he does. Cameron’s wife,” she revealed to Meghan. “She let me in. Cameron was supposed to sneak me in, though he’s not returned as yet either. Iona led me in, instead. She awaits you in the corridor, even now, and will take you to her brother Angus who will see you home.”

“And what of you?” Meghan asked, suddenly disinclined to go.

“Dinna worry about me,” Alison assured her, and reached out to remove the wimple and veil from Meghan’s head.

“Ouch,” Meghan cried. “I will remove that. You take the sling from my arm, instead.”

Together they worked under cover of darkness, removing veils and exchanging clothing, dressing quickly.

“Oh! and I have a bruise upon my cheek,” Meghan told her. “Dinna forget to blacken it well.”

“Never you mind,” Alison said as she slipped the sling about her arm. “I will. But what shall you do about your arm,” she fretted, “if I am to wear this?”

“Dinna fash yourself over it,” Meghan said. “My arm will be fine in the short time whilst I find my way home. Oh! The pouch you sent me is under the bed,” she added.

“I came with my face already painted,” Alison disclosed. “But aye, I will find it as soon as you go, and color a bruise upon my cheek at once.”

“Och, Alison.” Meghan said, and peered at her friend through the darkness. “Are you certain you wish to do this?” And she held her breath, part of her hoping the answer would be nay.

“I am sure and certain.” Alison replied. “And now you’ll do me the favor of hurrying home.” She led Meghan to the door, and opened it without ceremony. “Iona?” she called out.

“I am here,” the woman answered from the corridor. “Hurry now.”

“Go,” Alison directed Meghan.

Meghan’s feet would not move.

She forced herself to walk into the corridor. “Alison,” she began, “I don’t know...”

“Come now,” Iona directed. “We haven’t time for farewells.”

“I shall be fine, Meghan,” Alison swore, but she didn’t understand. Meghan didn’t want to go.

Iona dragged Meghan away, clutching her by her good arm, and led her away down the stairs perforce.

“Do me one favor,” Alison called softly after them.

“Anything,” Meghan exclaimed and halted, shrugging free of Iona’s grip and turning back up the stairs. “I knew this would frighten you,” she told Alison. “You dinna have to do this.”

“I want to,” Alison asserted. “I simply want you to tell your brother that not only will I wed him, but I will wed him with all my heart.”

“Colin?” Meghan said in surprise. “You mean Colin?”

“Nay, Meghan Brodie,” Alison corrected. “Leith. Go and carry him my message, now, and tell him to please tell my da where I am.”

Meghan stood there upon the steps in stunned disbelief.

“Leith?”

“Aye,” Alison answered, and Meghan could spy her brilliant smile even in the darkness.

And this time when Iona dragged her away, she was entirely too dumbfounded to protest.

Chapter 25

Weary to his bones, Lyon climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, eager to see Meghan, yet anxious to discover whether she had worsened during his absence.

While he’d taken the potion from her this morn, there was no guarantee that what she had ingested already would not cause further damage, for she’d been consuming it for days now.

He only hoped he was not too late.

He’d not found the old witch, and neither had MacKinnon or any of his kinfolk ever heard of her. Glenna, of MacKinnon’s own clan, was the only midwife his people knew. It was as though, given the old witch’s sudden appearance and disappearance that eve, she was formed of mist and to mist she had returned. They had encountered no woodland hut, and there was not even a name he had to go by to search for her.

Carrying a taper before him to light the way, he entered his chamber, quietly lest he should wake her if she slept. At this late hour, it was entirely likely that she did.

He spied her lithe form upon the bed and went to the bedside, impatient to see her, but she was lying upon her belly, as she was so oft inclined to sleep, and her face was hidden from his view. He couldn’t help but note, however, that she was wearing a wimple, and his heart sank to see it. He had not told her of the changes that had come over her face, and so she must have discovered them for herself.

His heart ached for her.

He wondered how she’d learned, and wished he could have been there with her to ease her distress. He should have told her himself, but he was a craven swine—and he’d dared to accuse his own men of such a thing.

It was a simple matter to face the enemy with a blade in his hand, but another entirely to look Meghan in the eyes and face his own truth—that he was a greedy man who would stop at little to have his own way. He’d fought his battles for his own personal gain—for mere gold, he’d thought, would buy contentment.

But gold, he’d discovered all too soon, was a cold bedfellow.

Disgusted with himself, he turned away from Meghan’s sleeping form, and made his way about the bed to the little desk. Setting the candle down upon it, he sat within his chair to contemplate the day.

He’d ridden into MacKinnon’s home only to find everything he’d ever wanted staring him right in the face.

Far from discovering a man in mourning or bitter in his ale, he’d interrupted a wedding celebration of the sort he could hardly imagine sharing with Meghan.

Nay, if he were to wed Meghan now, it would be perforce, and what satisfaction was he going to gain from that? Did he truly want her, even unwilling?

Or did he want her smiling beauteously... as MacKinnon’s bride had done with her husband... with such adoration in her eyes to make a grown man weep.

Lyon had paid his respects and drank a toast to the new bride and groom, and another, and another, and all the while his heart had been heavy with guilt for the woman he had locked away within his chamber.

He had stolen Meghan and brought her home perforce—as though she were some beast without a will of its own.

What honor was there in that?

And he had turned her brothers away when they had come to see only that she was well. All they had asked of him was simply to set eyes upon the sister they adored.

And Lyon had refused them.

Why?

Because he was afraid she would leave him.

He’d heard tell, time and again, at MacKinnon’s wedding, how Iain MacKinnon had set out to mend his wife’s broken wings, shielding her all along from the knowledge that her father had repudiated her—and then had been willing to let her go when her father had come after her at last. Knowing how much it had meant to her, he had given her a choice. He loved her enough to set her free.

It was a heroic tale, and despite that he and MacKinnon were destined to have differences between them, Lyon had to respect the man for his integrity.

He had much to learn from the man, in truth.

His gaze fell to the manuscript upon his desk, and he flipped absently through the pages, considering his options.

Meghan’s neat script caught his immediate attention and he began to read her entries one by one. Her first observation was within the first essay, written cleanly beside the paragraph where he’d first bespoken his love of academia. Beside where he had so carefully explained his reasons for abandoning it—his rationalizations and justifications—was written merely First instance.

He lifted a brow.

What that meant, he didn’t know.

Drawing the taper closer, he turned the page, reading the places where she had marked Second instance and Third.

All of them were times in his life when he had expressed some regret, some departure from his convictions.

Turning the pages he found many more, and read them all. Dozens of them. One after another.

He was beginning to see the point.

On the last page, he found her final observation. In her careful script was written: What profited a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?

It was a biblical passage, one he was surprised she knew.

He looked up, staring at her, his heart pounding, at the sight of the woman lying so serenely within his bed.

She was incredible.

Through her eyes, he saw everything so clearly now.

She was brilliant, and he was a wretch and an imbecile.

The answer was so obvious, and yet like a blind man he had not seen it when it had been there before his very eyes all along.

All his life, he had been searching for something beyond himself when he should have simply returned to that place within himself he had abandoned so long ago.

He wasn’t going to find contentment.

It had been there all along for the taking, and he had simply to accept it. Every time he had compromised himself—every instance he had gone against his own convictions—had taken him yet another turn down a long and winding road toward discontent. And the further down the road he had traveled, the harder he had searched, even going so far as to put his words upon paper to study and mull over. His manuscript had been at times naught more than a journal he’d kept simply to remind himself of every turn he’d made in the proverbial road—because at times it seemed he’d taken so many, he no longer recalled which he’d traveled and which he had not. He had grasped at every prospect for gratification, and explored every inclination in search of it.

And he had ended up empty-handed.

Until now.

Rising from the desk, he abandoned the manuscript and went to sit upon the bed, swallowing hard at what he knew he must do.

And he had to do it now, before he changed his mind.

Because he could not.

This woman was a gift.

His gift.

Lyon no longer knew for certain if there was a god, but if there was, he had seen fit to favor him with this last chance to save himself.

He felt it way down deep in his bones.

In forcing her to wed with him, in keeping her from her brothers, he compromised himself one last time.

And if he forced her to wed with him, she’d suffer the consequences along with him.

And he would watch her suffer, and slowly die.

He couldn’t bear that.

He reached out, wanting to run his fingers through her beautiful hair, but didn’t dare. They hovered above her head, as though to caress her, but he was afraid to touch her yet.

He could see her... see himself years from now... if he forced her... She would resent him. And her brothers would too. And by virtue of the fact that he would be her husband, he would be forcing her to choose between them.

He couldn’t do it.

Now was the time to let her go.

Now before her reputation was sullied.

Now before she no longer had a choice.

If she would choose him... it would have to be of her own free will.

Aye, Meghan Brodie was his gift all right.

And now he was going to give her one in return: her freedom of choice.

He laid his hand upon her head. “Meghan,” he whispered and shook her gently. “Meghan!”

She turned to look up at him, sleepily, and his heart jolted.

He had to blink at what he saw.

Though her face was covered with a wimple, he no longer recognized it. Aye, the hair and eyes were the same, but her beautiful eyes crossed as she peered up at him. She didn’t seem able to focus, or mayhap it was his imagination, a trick of the candlelight, as he seemed to recall her bruise being upon the other cheek, as well. The swelling had diminished but the bruise had darkened, and the bruises upon the rest of her face had darkened, as well.

He stared at her face, incredulous at the changes that had come over her, disgusted with himself for the way it repelled him.

It was his fault, he reminded himself.

“Meghan?” he whispered, his voice uncertain and shaky.

“Aye,” she answered softly, almost too softly to be heard, and he shook his head.

“I... I...” But he could scarcely find his voice to speak. How could he send her away after what he’d done to her?

And then again, how could he not offer her her freedom? She had the right to live her own life.

“I... I’ve come to a decision,” he managed at last.

She cocked her head up at him, looking confused, and Lyon’s brow furrowed at the skewed way in which she looked at him. His stomach turned.

“I... I’ve decided to send you home.”

Her eyes widened incredulously. “You have?”

“Aye! But get up! You have to go now,” he told her firmly. “This instant, before I change my mind.” And he bounded from the bed, intending to fetch Baldwin before he could chance to settle in to sleep. He couldn’t take her himself, couldn’t look upon her any longer, couldn’t look into her eyes, filled as he was with shame.

Never had a walk home through the forest felt so depressive—nay, for this had been Meghan’s and Fia’s place and she knew and loved it well.

And now, more than ever, she wished Fia were here to keep her company rather than stone-faced Angus. The man had spoken nary a word since they’d left Lyon’s manor, and the silence was beginning to grate upon Meghan’s nerves.

Neither did she know what she was going to say to her brothers when she faced them.

Och, not only had she given her body to their enemy, but she’d given her heart as well.

In truth, with every step she took, every twig she snapped beneath her feet, even knowing that leaving was the right thing to do, she wanted to turn about and fly back to him.

Was he home yet?

And was sitting now upon the bed peering at a horrified Alison?

Meghan knew how much Alison disliked him. She could scarcely believe her friend was doing this for her, scarcely believe how difficult it was to take each and every step away from Montgomerie land. To think, only a short time ago, she had gone kicking and screeching in the opposite direction.

So much had happened since that day.

It was as though a lifetime had passed since, and Meghan only wanted to be once more within Lyon Montgomerie’s arms.

There were so many things she hadn’t said to him—she wanted him to know that he was not so bad, in truth, as he thought himself, wanted him to know that she admired the way he had been so brutally honest within his papers.

She wanted him to know...

That she was in love with him.

That he had, indeed, managed to steal her heart.

She wanted him to know that for the first time in her life she didn’t look at herself in the mirror and loathe the woman she saw. She wanted him to know that she loved seeing herself through his eyes, and that she loved the way he held her... loved her.

Och, but her heart felt near to bursting with anguish, and with every faltering step she took, it felt all the more burdened.

Whose life are you living anyhow, Meghan Brodie? she heard Fia’s voice ask.

It was so real to her in that moment that she had to peer over her shoulder to be sure it was not Angus who had spoken to her.

Och, but she truly was going mad.

She narrowed her eyes at Angus. “Did you say something to me?”

Meghan felt more than saw that he shook his head at her in the darkness—and why had she thought he would speak? She had to wonder, even, if the man had a tongue to speak with.

“I didna think so,” she said peevishly, and returned to walking beside him in silence.

They continued onward without another word spoken between them, and Meghan, clutching at her sore arm, began to consider once more what she would say to her sweet brothers.

Would they be disappointed in her?

She knew they would be, because she had, indeed, let them down.

Well, she just wouldn’t tell them everything. In fact, she would tell them naught at all. All they needed know was that she had snuck away from Lyon. If Lyon came after her, she would deal with that then.

And if he did not... Well then, she would keep her secret until the day she joined Fia in her grave. Then she would spill her tears upon Fia’s shoulders. Fia was the only one who could possibly understand—the only one who ever had.

Meghan was wholly uncertain what to expect when she arrived home, but the very last thing she expected to discover... was Alison MacLean.

They arrived at the break of the new day, and Meghan froze at the sight of her friend there within the courtyard, escorted safely home by Baldwin and surrounded by her brothers.

And Lyon Montgomerie was nowhere within sight.

Chapter 26

Lyon sat at his bedside desk, poring over the manuscripts by candlelight until the wee hours of the morn, reading Meghan’s notes. He sat there, brooding, his head within his hands, watching the candle burn down to its quick.

He couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t think.

Why did things still feel so wrong?

He’d done what he’d thought he was supposed to—set her free. He’d taken MacKinnon’s example and had accorded her choices. But now he couldn’t forget the look in her eyes as he’d bade her good-bye and walked away, leaving her to Baldwin’s care with that look of utter confusion upon her face.

And then the unspoken fury in her crossed eyes as she’d realized he was truly setting her free.

What had he done to her?

And how could he simply leave her now?

He read her notes once more, drinking in her wisdom, hearing her cheeky voice, seeing her smile as he’d peered down into her face, and slammed his fist down upon the desk. He couldn’t just walk away.

So what was he doing sitting here, brooding like a sullen boy?

When in his life had he wanted something and not gone after it?

Never, that he could recall.

Certainly he was going to this time.

He surged upward from the desk, knocking it over, spilling his manuscripts in his haste to go after her.

He had done the right thing, he realized—except for the fact that he’d let her go without telling her what was in his heart. And it was not too late for that.

Meghan could scarcely believe the anger she felt.

“And he woke you, took one look at you, and sent you off?” she repeated, enraged by Alison’s tale. She was weary from her long walk home, her arm hurt, and her heart ached all the more. “You didna have to e’en ask?”

Alison shook her head, and her own eyes were full of fury for Meghan’s sake.

“Sassenach blackguard,” Colin spat, though he did not understand the half of it.

Meghan clutched at her arm, heartbroken.

“Och, Meghan, here you go,” Alison said, removing the sling from about her own neck. Hanging it about Meghan’s, she helped her to place her arm within it.

She felt like weeping.

She felt like screaming.

She merely stood there, allowing Alison to tend her arm, though her heart felt mortally wounded.

So much for her hopes that he would love her for more than her face.

So much for his love.

Then again, he had never claimed to love her, Meghan reminded herself. He had only said he wanted her. And that he wanted her heart. Wanting was a far different thing from vowing his love, and that he had not.

Foolish girl, she berated herself.

She held back the tears, telling herself that it was better to learn the truth now, rather than later.

Alison reached out to embrace her. “Now, now,” she crooned, “dinna cry, Meghan.”

Meghan gulped back a sob, unable to restrain it, and returned Alison’s embrace with her good arm.

“Och, but you look horrid,” Alison said, breaking into tears. “I’ve never seen you look so ugly.”

Meghan didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “You look horrid, too,” she cried, unable to hold back her sobs any longer. “And you put your bruise on the wrong cheek.”

Colin and Leith and Gavin all exchanged awkward glances with each other.

“Daft women,” Colin said, shaking his head. “All right now, Alison. Enough. Let someone else hug her too.” And he moved in to hug Meghan as Alison released her.

She wept upon Colin’s shoulder, and then Leith’s, and then Gavin’s.

“Welcome home, Meghan,” Gavin said softly. “We’ve missed you, lass.”

“Enough to spare me your sermons?” Meghan asked through her tears.

Gavin chuckled. “Well, that I don’t know. We shall see, I suppose.”

Meghan choked on her laughter. “’Tis good to be home.”

“’Tis good to have you home,” Leith said. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, to be sure.”

“I am so sorry. I should never have risked myself so.”

“’Tis not as though you did so apurpose, Meghan,” Leith replied.

“It’s my fault,” Colin interjected. “I should never have let yet go alone to meet Alison.”

“How can you say such a thing, Colin? It was hardly the first time I’d gone into those woods alone. What will you do, silly mon? Escort me everywhere I go for the rest of our lives?”

Colin frowned, at a loss for words, and she went on.

“I dinna think so. I can just imagine what all your women would say then, you silly fool.”

“Aye,” Gavin put in. “Precisely what they should be saying anyway—nay!” He spoke with such heartfelt conviction that Meghan felt at home immediately. One thing everyone could count upon was Gavin’s piety in the face of anything at all. He was unswerving in his faith.

Colin cast Gavin a pained glance, and Meghan laughed, telling him, “Dinna say such a thing, Gavin. He will die else wise.”

Leith and Colin both chuckled and so too did Alison.

“And Meghan,” Leith continued, “I’ve something to tell you...”

Meghan looked up at her eldest brother to see that he had moved behind Alison, and she suddenly recalled her friend’s message.

“Oh! And I you,” she exclaimed. “Alison asked me to tell you, Leith, that not only will she wed you, but she will wed you with all her heart.”

Leith peered down at Alison in surprise. “Is this true?” he asked her, his hands going to her shoulders. He turned her to face him.

Alison smiled shyly up at him, and Meghan was so happy for the two of them—so happy she could cry. With a heartbroken sob, she cast herself between them. Alison took her once more into her arms.

“Rotten, heart-stealing, lying, conniving Sassenach wretch,” Meghan cried out. “I’m so happy for you, Alison.”

“Och, now,” Alison said, patting Meghan’s back, soothing her. “I know you are, Meghan. Just think... we’re going to be sisters now, in truth,” she said cheerily.

“I’m so happy,” Meghan exclaimed, and wept as though her heart would rent in two.

“Alison,” Colin said, his tone contrite. Alison turned to look at him, continuing to pat Meghan’s back. “Thank you for risking yourself for Meghan,” he said. “That was a brave thing for you to do, lass. We owe you a lot for it.”

Alison smiled brightly at him. “You owe me naught for that, Colin Mac Brodie. But thank you anyhow.”

“Och, now who could that be?” Leith said suddenly.

Meghan was so busy weeping, burying her face against Alison’s shoulder, that she didn’t see the approaching riders, nor did she hear them, until Colin exploded with anger.

“Curse and rot him,” her brother said.

“How dare he show his face here?” Leith said angrily. “English swine.”

“It’s Montgomerie,” Gavin said, aghast.

Meghan froze.

She peered up to see Lyon and his men approaching quickly.

Seated high atop his destrier, with his golden hair flowing behind him, he rode toward them, his look wrathful and full of purpose.

“Och!” Meghan exclaimed, coming to life as her brothers drew their swords and went to greet him. She seized Alison by the arm. “I cannot face him, Alison. Come with me.”

And she dragged Alison toward the chapel.

Chapter 27

He didn’t bother to deal with her brothers.

Meghan knew he must have spied her, for the rumbling of hooves reverberated throughout the sanctuary as he reined in before the chapel doors. His voice was an echo within the stone building as he commanded his men to remain and guard the door.

Meghan heard her brothers’ furious voices beyond the chapel doors. Threats passed between the men, and she prayed they’d not come to arms.

“I merely wish to speak with her,” Lyon assured her angry brothers. “And I shall go once I have said my piece.”

Meghan scarcely had time to return the sling to Alison and to replace her veil. No sooner had she hid herself behind a pew when Lyon came bursting into the chapel.

Meghan gasped at the sight of him and lay down on the floor upon her belly in a desperate attempt to conceal herself from his view.

She couldn’t face him just now. Couldn’t look into his eyes. And she definitely didn’t care what he had to say—didn’t wish to hear a word of it.

“Meghan!” His voice thundered within the tiny chapel. It bounced off the walls and battered against her heart. Her heart racing madly, she shimmied beneath the pew, desperate to conceal herself from his eyes.

Watching breathlessly as he approached Alison, his stride full of purpose and his expression stem with determination, she shuddered at the sight of him. He wore the same tunic and braies he’d worn yesterday, with the plaid belted at his waist, and his eyes seemed to glitter like the blue of a hot flame.

Och, but he was beautiful—beautiful but treacherous to her defenseless heart, for her arms cried out to hold him still, despite his falseness.

“Meghan,” he said with feeling, taking Alison by the shoulders and turning her about to face him.

The breath left her lungs as Alison cried out softly. Meghan felt ashamed for putting her friend once more in such an untenable position. And yet she just wasn’t brave enough to confront him herself.

He fell to his knees before Alison, and Meghan blinked in surprise as he took her gently by the hand.

“I read your notes upon my papers,” he disclosed, “and sent you away because I thought it was the right thing to do. Forgive me, Meghan.”

Alison remained silent, and Meghan bit her lower lip to keep from crying out that he was a lowly snake, and that she would never forgive him—not ever.

Did he want her absolution now for being such a shallow-minded knave?

“You see,” he continued, “you were right. I have been searching all my life for something I should have discovered within my own self long ago. And it took you, Meghan Brodie, to open my eyes.”

A fine way he had of showing his appreciation, Meghan thought bitterly.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

Never.

Alison stood frozen, staring down at him, and Meghan knew she was afraid to speak. Not Meghan. If she were standing there before him, she thought she would rear back and slap his much-too-bonnie face.

“Meghan,” he said, staring up at Alison’s veiled face. He shook his head. “All those years I searched for contentment in the arms of so many women...”

Meghan felt nigh to bursting with outrage at hearing that. How dare he remind her of such a thing just now. How dare he rub salt into her wounds.

“And I never found it,” he confessed. “Not until you…”

Meghan blinked in confusion.

Me? she thought, and mouthed the word, stunned by his revelation.

Me?

“Aye,” he answered, as though she’d spoken the question aloud. “Not until you,” he repeated, and then said, “Do not look so surprised, my love.”

My love?

Shock reverberated through her as surely as his voice echoed within the church walls. Meghan’s heart pummeled her ribs as she lay there upon the cold wood floor, listening to his confession.

“I love you, Meghan Brodie,” he declared fiercely. “I love you from the very depths of my soul.”

Meghan’s heart tripped a painful beat. Tears welled in her eyes, and a sob caught in her throat.

“You do?” she thought she’d asked, but it was Alison’s voice that echoed through the chapel and not hers. She couldn’t have spoken in that instant had she tried.

“Aye,” he answered with feeling. “I do not care what you look like. You could have warts upon your eyelids and hair upon your chin. You are my precious gift,” he told her. “And your heart is more precious to me than gold. And your smile,” he continued, “makes my heart sing. And your words... I wait with bated breath but to hear them. And your eyes... I would give the sparkle from every jewel I own simply to see its glitter for even a single day more. And your wisdom... I love you, Meghan Brodie. And if you will have me, I would be honored to have you for my wife. And I swear that I will love and adore you until the day I last close my eyes.”

Meghan’s heart blossomed with joy. Tears slid unchecked down her cheeks. She could scarcely believe her ears.

She held her breath, watching Alison and him together. The sight of him kneeling before her, pouring out his heart to her, was the most romantic thing she had ever beheld in all her life. It was the sort of thing troubadours sang of and bards wove their tales over. And his words were all for her—and she was hiding under a rotten pew.

Och! Say something, Alison! Tell him I love him too.

His blood pumping like fire through his veins, Lyon held his breath and waited for Meghan to respond. But she simply stood there, staring down at him as though he were a viper curled before her feet.

And then he happened to note the hand he held within his own, and his brows drew together in confusion. It was her left hand, not her right he held. And yet she had injured her left arm. How could it be that he was holding it now?

He peered up into her face.

Her crossed eyes gazed down at him in confusion and in fear. And his frown deepened as he noted once more that her bruise was on her left cheek and not the right. Where had it been last night when he’d sent her away? He’d been so weary and so preoccupied with his guilty conscience that he hadn’t taken the time to consider what it meant. But now that he did, he was more than certain she had injured her right cheek, and not her left...

And then his gaze fell once more to the hand he held, for he knew without a doubt that it was her left hand she had injured and that was precisely the hand which he held within his own just now.

Something was definitely amiss here.

He released her hand and stood, his body taut with growing suspicion, and stared into her face, his anger mounting.

The silence within the chapel was a roar in his ears.

His heart sank as he studied her eyes... They were familiar to him, certain enough, but though they were the same color, they were not Meghan Brodie’s eyes.

He ripped off the veil and was at first startled at the face that peered back at him.

And then his face hardened with fury.

“I see I have been played for a fool,” he said tautly, and nothing more.

Meghan thought she would weep at the look upon his face as he turned to go.

Tears coursing down her cheeks, she tried to crawl out from under the pew, but with her injured arm she was not fast enough.

“Nay,” she cried out. “Wait!”

He stopped and turned to face her, but didn’t see her, and Meghan waved from under the pew.

“Wait,” she exclaimed, wriggling as fast as she could out from under her wooden prison.

He saw her at last, and his expression was wholly unreadable for an instant as he stared down at her. Meghan stilled, her heart thumping wildly. She held her breath, lest he spit down upon the floor in disgust and leave her before she could chance to speak her mind.

“I do love you,” she cried out. “I do!” And she muttered an oath in sheer frustration. “But I am stuck beneath this accursed pew. Help me!”

“You do?” he asked, and came to her at once.

“I do,” she swore, and was vaguely aware that Alison stole away, leaving them alone to speak.

“Mercy, woman, what the devil are you doing beneath there?”

“Och! You daft mon,” she said. “I was hiding from you, of course.”

He dragged her out and took her into his arms, kissing her lips fiercely.

“Ah, Meghan,” he said. “Come home with me, my love?”

Meghan wrapped her good arm about his neck. “Aye,” she answered. “I want to go.”

That was all Lyon needed to hear.

He lifted her up into his arms and carried her out of the chapel, commanding his men to get out of his way.

Her brothers all shouted warnings, fought to reach her, swords drawn.

“Let her go,” Leith demanded of him.

“Not a chance,” Lyon refused them.

“Sassenach,” Colin shouted, and Meghan laughed.

“Tis all right,” she told them, announcing to one and all, “ ’Cause I’m going to wed the scoundrel, after all.”

Her brothers fell silent. They stared at one another in shock.

Lyon chuckled at her choice of words, but didn’t feel the least bit offended by them, and this time, as he stole his wife away from her brothers, she filled his ears with laughter and his heart with joy.

“Ah, Meghan,” he whispered. “You’re going to make me a very happy man.” David had not lied to him after all, it occurred to him as he looked back at the chapel, remembering the childhood promise. He’d found happiness and then had it all but handed to him upon a silver plate.

“As you will me,” Meghan assured him. “As you already have.”

And so he had.

And so she did.

Preview “Seana”

Book 3, Sweet Scottish Brides

Chapter 1

Seana, Sweet Scottish Brides, Book 3

Colin Mac Brodie was surrounded by laughter.

People were drawn to him—as Seana was—as everyone couldn’t help but be.

Watching from a safe distance, under the shade of an old elm, Seana sat nibbling on a tart she’d snatched from somebody’s window where it lay cooling. She felt guilty, but hunger had driven her to it.

Just now, the children were all ooohing and awwwing over some new dagger Colin’s da gave him. The boys were envious and the girls all properly impressed while Colin swaggered before them—as only Colin could—beaming as he sheathed the knife, then drew it from his belt.

Much as Seana would have liked to see it too, she knew better than to join them.

Sudden jeers and laughter caught her attention and she peered up to see that Lagan MacKinnon was looking in her direction. She froze. Seana didn’t like Lagan. He had cruel eyes that were full of anger and envy. And just now, they were filled with hatred, directed at Seana.

“Thief!” he shouted and threw a pebble in her direction. It skimmed the dirt and smacked the tree behind Seana and her heart beat faster.

She wasn’t afraid, she told herself.

“Ugly lame witch!” Lagan persisted.

Seana willed herself to remain calm.

They would have their fun and it would pass—as always it did. Lame in one leg as she had been born, Seana was used to the jeers. People seemed afraid of her because of her limp leg, although she didn’t precisely know why.

She held her breath as Lagan stooped to pick up another stone, for it seemed this was far more cruel than usual. She braced herself as he threw it at her, hitting her in the shoulder this time. She didn’t cry out, but tears pricked at her eyes, and she swallowed the wave of grief that rose to choke her breath away.

“Colin doesna like ye!” he said, “Go away, witch!”

Seana felt like sinking into the ground. She didn’t respond, didn’t dare.

They all turned to Colin, teasing him suddenly... about Seana.

“Marry her, Colin!” Lagan taunted, laughing cruelly as he pushed at Colin’s shoulder. “Go on and wed the ugly witch!”

Colin pushed Lagan back, and cast Seana a harried glance.

Seana swallowed.

They were only teasing him, she knew as she had oft seen them do, but she realized Colin must not like it.

“She stole that tart from your minny!” one of the girls said to Lagan, casting Seana a disgusted glance.

Lagan’s eyes narrowed upon her. “Thief!” he said. “Hobbling wart-faced hag!” He seized Colin’s dagger suddenly, and threw it in Seana’s direction, snickering maliciously. “Go and get it, Colin!”

The dagger barely missed Seana, landing at her side. She blinked, thinking it might have had her eye out.

“Damn, Lagan, ye arse!” Colin said.

“Go on—get it!” Lagan taunted. But Colin merely stood there, looking at Seana, his expression one of frustration.

Seana’s heart hammered as she met his gaze and held it... och, but he had the most beautiful blue eyes.

He was afraid to come and get his dagger, she realized. But there was no hatred in his eyes, only fear.

Were they afraid that the weakness in her leg was contagious? Seana didn’t understand, but she felt—as she had countless times in her near eleven years—like some vermin to be stamped out.

Swallowing her own fear, she reached out, taking Colin’s dagger into her hands. Amidst laugher and more jeers she stood, though it took some effort to rise to her feet. She straightened her shoulders, faced them, and then took a fortifying breath and walked toward the throng of kids, keeping her gaze fixed upon Colin for strength.

“Look, look!” another boy shouted. “The cripple can walk!”

Seana ignored the laughter and walked straight up to Colin, her cheeks stinging with warmth and her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. She handed him his knife. His companions all gibed him fiercely, shoving him.

Colin snatched it from her.

“Where did ye get the tart?” someone asked. “Did ye steal it from Lagan’s minny like Edith said?”

Seana tried to ignore them.

They began to sing: “Colin and Seana kissing in a tree!”

“Go away!” Colin shouted at her suddenly, buckling under the pressure. “I dinna like it when you follow us, do ye hear! I dinna like you, Seana!”

Seana flinched at his cruelty, but her feet would not budge. She kept her gaze affixed to his, though she didn’t know why. Her heart felt as though it were breaking.

“Go away!” he shouted again when the din grew louder. He gave her that look—that look she couldn’t bear to see—so filled with loathing and revulsion.

This time Seana turned and fled.

“And dinna come back stupid thief!” he shouted at her back.

Seana tried to run faster, but her bad leg would not allow it. Tears coursed down her cheeks. All at once rocks began to fly at her back, but she didn’t dare turn to see who had cast them. One hit her in the back of the head, and she cried out, more in fear than in pain. Stunned, she did turn to look then, and met Colin Mac Brodie’s gaze. He was standing there with a strange expression upon his face.

Why?

How could ye do it?

She had only dared to love him—as everybody else did.

His companions all laughed at her, shouting names, but he simply stood there, looking at her, and in that instant, Seana believed she hated him.

She turned and fled again, running until she could run no longer... running until she heard her name on the wind.

“Seana!”

She turned to see Broc Ceannfhionn had followed her. Seana stumbled to the ground, tripping over her bad leg. Frustrated, she sat and wept... and Broc came hesitantly and sat beside her.

Broc Ceannfhionn was older than she was, older than Colin as well, though she didn’t think by much.

“He didna mean it,” Broc defended his friend. He was not the least out of breath like Seana was. “’Twas Lagan’s fault to be sure.”

Seana didn’t care. She began to sob in earnest.

“Och,” he exclaimed, and reached out awkwardly to hug her. “Dinna pay Colin any heed, Seana. He isna so bad.” He wiped away her tears. “Dinna cry,” he begged her.

For Broc, Seana tried not to cry, but if she lived a thousand years, she didn’t think she could ever forget that look upon Colin Mac Brodie’s face... the sound of his laughter. If Broc were to look at her that way, as well, she thought she would die.

She peered up at the awkward giant and he smiled down at her. Seana wiped her face with her sleeve.

“Ye know how it is when you’re with friends,” he tried to explain, giving her a sympathetic look. “He didna mean any of it, Seana.”

Seana shook her head. “I have no friends.”

“Aye, ye do,” Broc said. “Ye have me.”

Before today, the two of them had rarely spoken.

Seana blinked, and he nodded at her, as though to assure her it was true.

“You will be my friend?”

He nodded again, more resolutely. “And if ye should need me, only call,” he said. “Dinna suffer their taunts any longer. Come and tell me, Seana, and I’ll give them a bloody nose for their efforts.”

Seana smiled. “Truly?”

He nodded. “Truly.”

He was the only one who had ever dared call himself her friend. “You will not regret it, Broc Ceannfhionn. I swear that one day I will find a way to repay you!” She threw her arms around him, daring to hug him with gratitude.

“Och, Seana, ye dinna have to repay me.” He pried her away, chucking her beneath the chin. “That bonny smile is thanks enough.” He winked at her.

Her heart quickened and her cheeks heated, but she smiled shyly up at him. And in that instant, Seana truly thought she loved him. Someday, she swore to herself... it didn’t matter that he said she did not have to... someday... she didn’t know when or how, but she was going to find a way to show Broc Ceannfhionn how much this meant to her.

Someday...

Also by Tanya Anne Crosby

The Highland Brides

The MacKinnon’s Bride

Lyon’s Gift

On Bended Knee

Lion Heart

Highland Song

MacKinnon’s Hope

Guardians of the Stone

Once Upon a Highland Legend

Highland Fire

Highland Steel

Highland Storm

The Medievals Heroes

Once Upon a Kiss

Angel Of Fire

Viking’s Prize

The Impostor Series

The Impostor’s Kiss

The Impostor Prince

Redeemable Rogues

Happily Ever After

Perfect In My Sight

Sagebrush Bride

Kissed

Anthologies & Novellas

Lady’s Man

Mischief & Mistletoe

Married at Midnight

The Winter Stone

Romantic Suspense

Speak No Evil

Tell No Lies

About the Authors

TANYA ANNE CROSBY’S novels have graced numerous bestseller lists including the New York Times and USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She lives with her husband, two dogs and two moody cats in northern Michigan.

ALAINA CHRISTINE CROSBY is the daughter of New York Times bestselling novelist Tanya Anne Crosby. After acquiring her major in English and film studies from the College of Charleston, Alaina went to work as a copywriter and editor while raising her two boys and pursuing her own writing career. Alaina lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband and children.

For more information:

- @tanyaannecrosby

- tanyaannecrosby

www.tanyaannecrosby.com

tanya@tanyaannecrosby.com