Lyon's Gift (31 page)

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.

“
Christ and be damned!” 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.”

God’s bloody teeth, 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.

Christ.

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 in God’s name
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 satyric 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 bloody 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 bastard, 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 sure as hell 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? God’s bloody 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 breasts 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.

Warmth spread through his loins, hardening him
fully.

Need clawed at him, and he felt a surge of
satisfaction in the return of his body’s fierce hunger.

“
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, his body taut with anticipation as he lifted her hand to
the laces of his braies.

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 the bloody hell 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 bloody 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 bloody 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.

Christ, but 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?”