Lyon's Gift (26 page)

“
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 to doing with his tongue. Och, she wasn’t
ignorant in the ways of men and women, but she had never dreamed a
man would wish to do such things to a woman’s body!

That he could crave the taste of her?

The very notion sent gooseflesh rippling over
her.

The way he was staring at her now made her feel as
though he did.

“
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?

Was she more like his mother than some virginal
Highland lass whose brothers had kept her sheltered from greedy
eyes and hands?

Was that why she was as yet unwed?

Was she deflowered and impure for the marriage
bed?

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 her body had been explored by unknown hands and eyes before this
day, because they were untouched as yet by his own. And if he had
his way, there would be naught of her left to his imagination. And
when he was finished with her, there would be no memory remaining
of another man’s hands upon her delicious body.

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 body tautened 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... taste her sweet mouth... wanted to slide his tongue
between those luscious lips and drink of her nectar.

“
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 at
the implication. 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 bed... in his arms... lying
beneath him... or whether she would bend his will to her own, wield
her power over him, reduce him to naught more than a lover grateful
for every soft touch his darling bestowed.

“
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. Jesu, but 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. 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 things
he’d done... 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?”