Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (9 page)

She was not perfect.

Never had been.

Never would be.

I
t 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.”

S
he 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.

“
W
ho 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.

T
he 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.

M
eghan 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?”