The Lass Who Loved a Beast

by Lee, Caroline

  Lyon snorted softly, his head lolling back against the chair. He’d forgotten the warmth liquor could spread through him, but truthfully, he was pleased his brother had taken the brandy from him.

  Keith was right. He hadn’t had a drink since he’d beaten the laudanum addiction, and he wasn’t certain why it had seemed like a good idea tonight.

  Perhaps something to do with the hopelessness in Bonnie’s eyes.

  “So? Are ye going to talk to me about it? If she’s still breathing, what are ye in here mourning? The doctors said we wouldnae ken what to expect until she wakes up and—”

  “She woke up.”

  Keith jerked forward, spilling the brandy again, cursed, then slammed the glass down on the table beside him. “How is she, Lyon? Dinnae lie.”

  “She’s…” Sighing, Lyon closed his eyes. “She’s sad. She said her hearing and sight werenae affected, and I saw her move her limbs under her own power, so I think she’ll recover well enough.”

  “But her mood? Do ye think the pain, the injuries…?”

  Lyon understood what his friend was asking, so he just shook his head. “Nay, she didnae seem depressed to ken she’d lost her hair, and she handled the pain well.”

  “So what is it?”

  He remembered the way her beautiful blue eyes had looked when he’d told her the publishing house was gone. There’d been relief her manuscript was safe, and that she was safe, but her dream of publishing books for and by women was what had brought her to Oliphant Castle. It was why she’d pushed him until he’d finally opened up about Rose and her artwork. It was why he’d been able to get to know Bonnie and allow her to know him.

  It was why he’d been able to fall in love with her.

  And now, through no fault of her own, that dream had been destroyed.

  “For so long, she’d been hoping to own a publishing house, Keith. Her sister and Roland—and Phineas—made it possible, but now…” He exhaled and shook his head, opening his eyes to stare at the crackling fire. “Ye should’ve seen the pain and loss in her eyes when I told her the whole damn thing had been destroyed. She looked as if she’d lost all hope.”

  Keith leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. “Perhaps it was because of the pain from her injuries?”

  “Nay.” Lyon’s voice sounded rough to his own ears, and he knew he needed a drink.

  Of water.

  With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, pausing while he allowed the dizziness from the unfamiliar brandy to subside, then stalked toward the drinks niche.

  “Nay,” he repeated. “There was laudanum mixed with the water I gave her.” He stared down at the glass of liquid he’d poured himself. “She’ll sleep through the healing, thank Christ.”

  He threw back his head and allowed the cool water to slide down his throat, pushing out the toxins he never should’ve allowed himself in the first place. He didn’t need them. Not when he had to be strong for her.

  As he poured himself more water from the pitcher, Keith asked, “So ye think it was finding out about the publishing house?”

  “I think it was everything,” Lyon growled, as he carefully crossed back to his chair with the full glass of water. “Think about it. The last she kenned, she was dying, aye? Then she wakes up in terrible pain, only to learn that everything is gone.”

  Such a blow hurt.

  He should know.

  It was Keith’s pitying wince which made Lyon realize what he’d said, and he blew out a breath as he stared down at the water. “I remember it well,” he whispered.

  “I do as well,” Keith reminded him. “I was there when ye woke up. I was the one who told ye about…”

  “About Rose, aye.” Lyon held his brother’s stare. “I’ve never thanked ye for that. For staying with me.”

  “And ye’ll never have to.”

  The answer was immediate, certain, and Lyon appreciated it. He nodded gratefully.

  Keith took a deep breath. “I remember thinking I’d do anything I could to alleviate yer pain, but there was nothing. Drugs for yer physical pain, aye, but the pain in yer heart…?” He shook his head. “I watched ye struggle with the knowledge Rose was gone, and I watched it slowly eat away at ye, until ye had this backward notion it was somehow yer fault—”

  Holding up a hand to interrupt him, Lyon shook his head. “Bonnie has, at long last I believe, gotten it through my head Rose’s choice wasnae my fault.”

  The younger man’s eyes went wide, and he slumped back against the chair. “Well, bless me, finally. Was this when ye realized ye loved her?”

  Lyon’s lips twitched at the not-so-subtle hint. “Nay, it took her running into a burning building for me to figure that one out. But it was when she told me she loved me.”

  Nodding, as if he’d always known this truth, Keith’s familiar lopsided smile pulled up one side of his lips. “So the woman ye love is in pain, and ye came down here to drink away the fact ye cannae help her?”

  “Something like that,” muttered Lyon, lifting the water to his lips once more.

  His brother was silent for a long moment, studying him. Finally, he pushed himself upright and took a deep breath.

  “Lyon, have I ever told ye about the last time I got drunk?”

  Frowning, Lyon considered it. Now he thought of it, Keith drank as infrequently as he did, preferring to keep his body as pure as possible as they pushed themselves to extremes. “Nay, I dinnae think so.”

  “It was the day I told ye about Rose.” Keith nodded when Lyon’s brow rose questioningly. “We—me, the doctors, everyone—we kenned ye were out of danger and were improving. We thought it was time for ye to ken the truth of her death, so we started to decrease the amount of laudanum ye took until ye were coherent for longer amounts of time each day.”

  He took another deep breath and stared down at his hands. “When I told ye Rose was dead and long buried, there was such pain in yer eyes, in yer voice, that I kenned I’d do anything to take it away. Only…” He shook his head and met Lyon’s gaze. “I couldnae. She was gone, and nothing I could do would bring her back. So I came down here, and I finished one of yer bottles of whiskey.”

  “Did it help?” Lyon asked quietly.

  “I puked my guts out and stayed abed for two days.” Keith’s lips twitched. “So nay, it didnae help.”

  Scowling, Lyon gulped at the cool water. “Ye’re saying I shouldnae have poured myself that brandy?”

  “I’m saying the situations arenae completely similar.”

  Lyon finished the water and carefully placed the glass beside the spilled brandy. “Speak some sense, before my head starts to ache too much to understand.”

  “I would’ve done anything to help ye, but there was nothing I could do. Is that how ye feel about Bonnie’s pain? She’s lost her dream, and ye said that’s what’s caused her sorrow?”

  Slowly, Lyon nodded. “Aye,” he drawled, considering the words. “And I suppose that is why I poured that drink. Because I couldnae take away her pain. Her dream literally burned around her.”

  “Her dream was owning a publishing house, Lyon. No’ necessarily that publishing house.”

  “What are ye saying?” Lyon growled.

  Keith’s freckled cheeks pushed upward as his smile bloomed. “I’m saying, Lyon, that ye live in a great bloody castle. With a huge, unused open space downstairs, just waiting to be filled.”

  Lyon pushed himself straighter as he began to understand his brother’s idea. “Filled with what, exactly?” he whispered, already guessing the answer.

  And Keith’s smile seemed to grow. “Do ye, or do ye no’, have a portfolio of sketches of new printing presses in the top drawer of yer desk?”

  He did.

  He’d been researching the new designs because the advances made in the last decade in mechanical designs were just fascinating. Lyon had several books on the concepts, and he’d been trying his own hand at some sketches.

  But instead of letting Keith know h
ow hard his heart was pounding, he pretended to scowl. “And how in the hell would ye ken that?”

  “Who do ye think tidies up yer desk each night, ye wee dobber?” Keith shook his head in amusement. “The little people? The paperwork fairy? The housekeeper?”

  “Mrs. Oliphant—”

  “—hasnae stepped foot in yer study since ye yelled at her about rearranging yer ledgers when she dusted,” Keith finished triumphantly. “I’m the poor bastard who cleans this place up.”

  Lyon hummed. “How much am I paying ye?”

  “No’ nearly enough,” the younger man cheerfully informed him.

  “Remind me to increase yer salary tomorrow.”

  Keith nodded. “Since I’m also in charge of household expenses and ledgers, how about I just double it?”

  For the first time in a long while, Lyon felt like chuckling.

  Bonnie was alive, and her manuscript was safe. And Lyon, thanks to Keith’s prodding, had an idea to bring her dream back to life.

  “Fine, do that,” he snapped. “But first, pour me some more water, and then fetch those sketches.” He pushed himself to his feet, feeling stronger than he had since before he’d taken his heart in his hands and traveled to Inverness.

  “And where will ye be?”

  Lyon’s lips twitched. “I’m going to fetch the manuals on printing presses. We have a great hall to renovate!”

  Chapter 10

  “In retrospect, perhaps the fire was a bit much.”

  “I thought ye said ye didnae plan it?”

  “I didnae. But the poor lassie is miserable, and she’s missing her hair. I’m thinking of bringing her some of that squash soup she said she liked so much.”

  “Broca, her hair is not that important. The purpose of the story is to teach everyone, including you apparently, that appearances are not the most important thing in a relationship.”

  “Nay, it’s looooove.”

  “Ye’re doing it again, Grisel.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Sighing like an idiot.”

  “Wheezit hab!”

  “Seonag’s right. Maybe Grisel is an idiot.”

  “Well, I’m no’ claiming I’m a genius, but—”

  “Look. Shut up, all of ye. This is my story, and we’re so close to the end, and I just want to see it through. Then I’m taking a long vacation.”

  “You can’t, Broca dear. You have two jobs now, remember? You’re a godmother and—”

  “—a cook, aye. But at least at Oliphant Castle, they appreciate my squash!”

  * * *

  Was there anything worse than being an invalid, especially when Bonnie was absolutely certain she didn’t have to be in bed all the time?

  Well, aye. Ye could be dead.

  Put like that, it was hard to complain.

  But still, as the days passed, and it became clear she wasn’t going to be allowed out of the guest room she’d been given, Bonnie’s irritation at the inactivity grew. Of course, at first, she was only awake for an hour or two each day—long enough to attend to personal tasks with the maid Lyon had hired for her.

  But no matter how much the laudanum affected her, and no matter how much her head hurt, Bonnie had the same dream each night; Lyon, holding her carefully in his arms.

  It took a fortnight before she realized it wasn’t a dream.

  They were both fully clothed, and she was certain she felt—and smelled—exactly like an invalid would. But each night, he climbed into her bed and held her.

  And the nightmares—licking flames and choking smoke—were held at bay.

  As she began to recover, Lyon would visit her during the day, as well. He brought her books, and they discussed their favorites, or he would nag her into eating more. He kept her apprised of the goings-on with their families—she was thrilled to learn he was spending more time with his brothers, although he wouldn’t tell her why—and shared stories of their pasts. She loved hearing about the antics of his nephew Ewan, his sister Raina’s son, who’d been born out of wedlock, and who had a mischievous streak Bonnie very much appreciated.

  And Lyon told her more about Rose and the time he’d had with her. When he explained workmen from the village had come to tear down the ruins of the stables where she’d died, Bonnie held him as he mourned, and she whispered how proud she was of him.

  Aye, being stuck in this room was irritating, but in all honesty, it wasn’t so bad, not when Lyon would regularly visit her. But he always had to leave, and seemed to be very busy, without telling her why. Whenever she asked, or whenever she’d try to discuss the future, he’d change the subject.

  It was almost a month after the fire when Bonnie had decided she’d had enough. It was Hogmanay, the time of new beginnings, and she figured she could start right then and there.

  Mrs. Oliphant, the grumpy cook who seemed to have a soft spot for her, was in the middle of brow-beating her to eat. “Come along, milady! I ken ye like the soup well enough, and I’ve baked this bread fresh this morning!”

  Bonnie thought it was much better than her attempts in the kitchen during the blizzard. Heavens, how long ago had that been? Time seemed to blur together these days.

  With a satisfied sigh, she pushed the tray back toward the cook.

  “Everything was delicious, Mrs. Oliphant. And if ye’ll leave the bread, I promise to nibble on it throughout the afternoon.”

  The woman peered suspiciously at her. “I dinnae like the look in yer eyes, lass.”

  “I didnae think ye would. I’m prepared to do something drastic.”

  “How drastic?”

  “Verra drastic.” Bonnie grinned impishly. “On yer way downstairs, could ye ask Mrs. Oliphant to send up a hot bath for me?”

  “Saints preserve us, she’s bathing,” the cook muttered on her way out the door, and Bonnie’s smile grew. She was certain she was doing the right thing.

  But when the tub arrived, followed by her sisters, she wasn’t so sure. “What are ye two doing here?”

  With a sigh, Vanessa lowered herself into one of the chairs as the maid and two footmen Lyon had hired—at least, Ember thought they were supposed to be footmen—filled the tub and set up a screen. “We’re here to help ye, is it no’ obvious?”

  Bonnie eyed her pregnant sister. “I’m no’ sure how much help ye’ll be.”

  “I’m supervising. Ember, drag our smelly sister out of bed, would ye?”

  When Vanessa waved imperiously, both Ember and Bonnie smiled. “With pleasure,” they chimed in unison.

  Ember’s hold was gentle, as it had been the other times her sisters had visited, and soon Bonnie was standing beside the screen wrapped in a robe, while Ember examined her leg.

  “Well, it doesnae look so bad, does it? It’s healed nicely.”

  Bonnie had to agree. “Aye, the scars will likely be permanent, but I can walk well enough, which wasnae a given.”

  Hesitantly, Ember’s gaze lifted to Bonnie’s head, which was still swaddled in bandages. “Do ye want to remove those?” she asked in a low voice.

  Bonnie faced the mirror and took a deep breath. “Aye. Please.”

  Ember gently pushed her down onto the small stool and reached for the end of the bandage, which the maid had tucked carefully in the back. The doctor had visited regularly, and given the lassie instructions, which she—and the housekeeper—carried out to the letter. But Bonnie knew the wounds had scabbed over a while ago and could now be exposed to the air.

  And perhaps even washed now that the pain was so much less intense.

  Ember was gently unwinding the lengths of soft linen, but she hesitated when she reached the last layer. “Are ye ready?”

  From the other chair, Vanessa scoffed noisily. “Stop dragging it out, already. My stomach cannae take much more worry!”

  Ember met Bonnie’s gaze in the mirror, and they shared a secret indulgent smile.

  And then Ember removed the last bandage.

  Bonnie barely heard Vanessa’s horri
fied gasp, or Ember’s low moan of pity. She was too busy staring at herself.

  She’d never cared much for her hair, one way or the other. It had just…always been there.

  But now that it wasn’t, she wasn’t certain she knew how she felt.

  With shaking fingers, she reached up to touch her scalp. It didn’t hurt any longer, but it felt…rough. Hard. That was the scabbing fading to scars, she knew. She knew it logically—she’d read enough on the subject, or rather, Lyon, who had lived through this same process himself, had read it to her.

  But there was a difference between reading about something and living it.

  “Oh, Bonnie,” whispered Vanessa. “Yer beautiful hair. I’m so sorry.”

  Ember’s hand closed over Bonnie’s shoulder, offering her strength. “How do ye feel about it?”

  “I dinnae ken,” Bonnie answered truthfully. “I’ll have to get used to it.”

  “If ye had to choose between yer hair and yer life, I’m glad ye’re bald,” Ember admitted.

  Grinning, Bonnie agreed. “If I had to choose between my hair and my manuscript, I’d still choose my book.”

  She had, hadn’t she? Plunging into that inferno for her life’s work.

  And Lyon had saved her.

  Aye, he’d saved her and her manuscript, but hadn’t been able to save her future, the publishing house.

  Vanessa must’ve seen the sadness in her eyes because her sister tsked loudly. “We’ll start a new fashion, Bonnie. Turbans will become all the rage once we three start wearing them!”

  Leave it to Vanessa to consider fashion. Bonnie flicked a glance up at Ember. “Turbans and engraved evening slippers. Between the three of us, we’ll change Highland fashion forever!”

  When Ember leaned down to hug her, Vanessa heaved herself up out of her chair and joined them, wrapping her arms around them both and pressing her pregnant belly into Bonnie’s side.

  And Bonnie embraced them both in return, knowing no matter what the future brought—no matter what Lyon wasn’t telling her—they would always have each other.