Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (11 page)

M
eghan 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…

G
iven
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.”

I
t 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.

L
ike 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.