Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “I’ve decided to make Meghan my bride.”

  “You shall not,” Colin Mac Brodie erupted.

  Lyon ignored him. “That should put an end to our disputes once and for all,” he pointed out, “as what is mine shall in essence be yours and what is yours shall in essence be mine. No more quarreling.”

  Leith Mac Brodie remained silent, scrutinizing him.

  “Meghan wants no husband,” Colin proclaimed, spurring his mount forward as well. “So you can forget that, Montgomerie.”

  “I’ll not agree to such a thing,” Leith announced, after a moment’s contemplation. “Not unless I see my sister and she agrees to the same with her own lips. No other way, Montgomerie.”

  “Well,” Lyon said, “then you have wasted your time in coming here today, because Meghan is not seeing guests. She is indisposed, as well you know.”

  “Montgomerie,” Leith warned him, his lips thin with anger now, “I cannot force my way past your guards today, but hear me well... I’ll not rest until I see my sister where she belongs. And if you will not let me see her now as a show of faith, I will not promise to fight fairly. I will leave here, as you leave me little choice, but Meghan is my flesh and my blood and I’llna abandon her to you so easily.”

  Lyon ignored the prick of his own conscience.

  He wanted this too badly, he knew.

  “I am asking for a fortnight,” he said stubbornly. “Give me that time with Meghan, and thereafter I will allow her to decide freely. If she chooses to leave, she may go of her own accord. That is the best I can do.”

  Leith seemed once more to contemplate his request.

  “You expect us to simply abandon her here, Montgomerie?” Colin countered. “Knowing she is wounded and in need of us? I dinna think so, you rotten knave.”

  “Return her to us, woo her properly,” Leith said.

  It was a reasonable enough request, but Lyon could not agree to it.

  “Nay,” he answered. If he returned her now, he knew, he’d never see her again.

  He needed time.

  And right or wrong, he was willing to wield his sword to keep her.

  “Sassenach,” Colin spat. “Lay a hand upon my sister and I’ll do some slicing of my own.”

  Lyon met Colin’s gaze, assuring him, “I give you my word I’ll do naught to your sister she does not wish me to do.”

  The quietest brother rode forward then and whispered into Leith’s ear. The two spoke an instant, and then Leith nodded, and turned to face Lyon once more. “Your word?” he said. “And what assurances have I that your word is honorable, Montgomerie?”

  Lyon considered his answer carefully, and then spoke truthfully, as there was no other way with him. “None at all,” he replied, “save that I value honesty above all else.”

  Leith contemplated his words, and then announced, “Not good enough.” He motioned for his men to follow. “We’re going, but you’ve not seen the last of us, Montgomerie. My sister is not some beast to be bartered.” He whirled his mount about and spurred it away, forcing his way through the circle of Lyon’s men. “I’ll see her an auld maid before I see her unhappy,” he swore as he thundered away, his brothers at his heels.

  “Sassenach,” Colin said and spat upon the ground as he followed his elder brother.

  Lyon watched them leave, and for the first time in a long time, experienced a twinge of guilt for his actions.

  It confused him.

  He’d done things in his life for which he should have prostrated himself upon the ground, and yet he hadn’t felt guilt then. He’d always done whatever needed to be done, with the least amount of brooding, because to dwell upon them brought madness. But this moment, as he watched Meghan’s brothers ride out from his courtyard, he felt a prick of conscience.

  It was as though Meghan Brodie, somehow, in the space of a single day, had revived him in whole, body and soul.

  It was as though he’d been slumbering and now reawakened—by a smart-mouthed, canny-eyed siren who might or might not be mad, as well.

  He shook his head and turned toward the manor with the intention of returning to her, and then stopped and forced himself to turn around and walk away.

  He would go to her soon enough, but just now he needed time to think. Nor could he so easily face her after refusing her brothers so coldly.

  He didn’t particularly like himself at the moment, and he needed to determine why, when he’d felt far less remorse for much worse.

  * * *

  Meghan completed the second essay, and forced herself to set the manuscript aside and contemplate it, before going on to the next.

  Sometime during the years in which the second essay had been written, Piers Montgomerie had ceased to exist and Lyon had been born. What had begun with noble cause—his pursuit of justice—had ended with a far, far different tone. Meghan had no notion what had happened to him, precisely, as he didn’t elaborate within his texts—perhaps naught at all and it was simply a consequence of the life he’d led—but he’d ceased to claim any noble incentives at all. In fact, he seemed quite resigned to his own avidity, and even irreverent when his pursuits conflicted with those of others. And the detached manner in which he spoke of himself within the text was both unapologetic and yet self-reproachful. In truth, had Meghan not read the previous essay, she might have taken him at his word: she might have believed him no more than an evil greedy knave, concerned only with his own personal gain. It seemed to Meghan, however, that he was not content to be what he was. It seemed to her that he had embarked upon a search and somehow had ended empty-hearted.

  He was testing his limits in an effort to... what?

  Had he lost something of himself along the way and tried to recapture it? Had he found himself numb and yearned to feel again?

  She knit her brows and pondered those questions. She couldn’t quite discern what drove him... couldn’t quite put together the two sides of this man.

  Still, she didn’t view him as wicked precisely, no matter that he thought so of himself.

  But there was still more to read, she knew.

  Perhaps, in truth, she would think so after.

  With her good hand, she lifted up the manuscript once more, set it upon her lap, opened it, and turned another page.

  The next essay was titled simply Plaisir.

  She wasn’t familiar with the word... Plaisir... plesir... plesur...

  Pleasure?

  Something like fluttering wings erupted from her belly and soared into her chest.

  Her heartbeat quickened as she turned the page and read...

  I am my mother’s son. I understand her too well to condemn her for her vices.

  Her heart beat faster as she continued...

  I can deny it if I so choose, but the evidence speaks volumes without nary a word passing between my lips to another’s.

  Meghan’s heart tripped. How could she continue to read this essay, when it was so obviously a private matter? And yet how could she not?

  He wanted her to read it.

  Had dared her to, even.

  Beauty is my vulnerability, he wrote, and her heart leapt at the words. Curiosity bade her go on...

  ... has always been my weakness. Beauty turned my eyes from the university, my hands from justice, and my heart from piety. And in my covetousness I walked away and never looked back. And where is it I walk to? Where is it that I stand?

  Where is that boy who once yearned for knowledge and virtue?

  I doubt now his existence, as no trace of him seems to remain.

  Meghan paused, inhaling a quivering breath, her heart aching for the man whose words spilled like lifeblood upon these brittle pages. She caressed the bound parchment... feeling it beneath her palm... wishing it were the sweet face of that little boy of whom he spoke so distantly. She heard the confusion in his chosen words, the condemnation, too, and wanted to tell him that no man who agonized so, no matter how wrong his choices, could be so wicked as he believed.


  She took another deep breath, her heart pounding, and continued...

  If one must conclude that happiness is associated with the fulfillment of one’s nature, as Socrates suggests... then I should be well sated... and yet I am driven here once again to pour my words upon these pages in hopes that I should find that part of me which remains absent from my soul.

  While I cannot deny the physical pleasure my body receives in these vices, the satisfaction is fleeting. And I sit behind my papers now... knowing only too well that next time it will take so much more to bring back the trice of contentment which Eros brings.

  It makes me weary to think of it only.

  Plato, I think, claims Eros to be passionate rather than calm, and thus demanding, irrational, and even obsessive, and Protagoras observes it as one of the impulses that may overcome one’s knowledge of good. On this I can agree wholeheartedly, as I have experienced the above in full. But Eros defined it as the desire for the beautiful? I’m afraid this I must dispute, though my eyes and actions might call me a liar.

  In truth... I have wallowed in beauty like a swine wallows in cool mud, surfeited my body in ways to be delineated in this very text, shocking though the experiments might be, and it is my contention that Eros is far more than a desire for merely the beautiful.

  It is a desire for something more, as well... something which my soul understands, but my heart has yet to see.

  It is that which drives me from bed to bed, I think... and compels me again to leave.

  The truth is that I have yet to find true contentment in pleasure.

  Does that state of true contentment known as happiness exist beyond the realm of human imagination?

  If so, it is certain that pleasure and happiness are not equal as argued, for the separation is easily measured within the confines of the soul. And knowing as much... I cannot, in good conscience, return to another’s arms.

  This descent into intemperance has left me deplete of desire.

  Her heart pounding fiercely, Meghan paused once more for breath. In reading, she’d entirely forgotten to breathe, so entranced was she by his heartfelt words.

  This was by far the most personal of his essays. None of the others had been nearly so revealing, nor had he spoken of himself in such a forthright manner.

  Why did he wish her to read this essay?

  Meghan would have buried such a manuscript ten feet under after writing it, in fear that anyone would know her most personal thoughts.

  Why had he simply handed it over to her so easily? Even dared her to read it?

  Was he trying to frighten her away?

  Surely not—not when he’d made so little pretense about wanting her for his own.

  What was it he wanted her to discover in these pages?

  She nibbled her lower lip, contemplating.

  Perhaps if she continued reading, she would learn the answers.

  Below the passage she’d read was a reference to works she had no knowledge of—by men called Plato and Socrates. Some of their arguments, it appeared, he’d copied into the second notebook, and were therefore impossible for her to read, as she did not understand the Latin text.

  She prayed God would have mercy upon her wicked soul, she could not stop now, no matter that she knew what next she would read...

  Chapter 20

  Lyon hadn’t meant to stay away so long.

  But neither had he been able to face her, lest he feel obliged to confess what he’d done. Sending her brothers away when they must have been worried sick after not seeing her for three days and then discovering she was hurt was certainly not the proudest moment of his life.

  Why had he done such a thing?

  Had he fallen so far into iniquity?

  It was just that... for the first time in his life he wanted something so sorely.

  Meghan Brodie.

  Her name alone made him burn.

  She was becoming an obsession.

  It seemed he could think of naught else but her. In the time he’d known her, he’d abandoned his promises to old man MacLean, disappointed his sovereign, and now turned away worried kinfolk for fear they would seize her from him. What was happening to him?

  He’d spent the morning alone digging a grave for a lamb named Fia. And then had remained by the grave after burying the animal, swilling his ale under the high afternoon sun. His skin was blistered now, but the burn upon his flesh was nowhere near that which smoldered when he neared Meghan. The mere thought of her there... lying within his bed... reading his manuscripts... made his heart thunder and his blood blaze through his veins.

  He thought about his words and wondered if she would be shocked by them, repelled—wished he could see her face when first she’d set eyes upon them.

  Would she be appalled?

  Amused?

  His heart hammering as it had not in years, he climbed the stairwell to his bedchamber, wavering a bit in his drunkenness. He’d returned from the gravesite and had remained within the hall below, swilling more ale whilst he’d stared at the hole he’d had boarded within the floor of his chamber... trying to imagine what it was she was thinking behind the upstairs door.

  What it was she was doing?

  His breath quickened at the thought of seeing her once more.

  He swallowed the last of his ale as he reached the top of the stairs and hurled the empty tankard down the stairwell, listening to it clatter on its way down, uncertain whether it was a warning to Meghan or a self-recriminating gesture.

  It didn’t matter. He was too besotted to care.

  He opened the door, and stood wavering upon his feet, acclimating himself to the dimness of the room. His eyes were drawn at once to the lone taper lit upon his desk. The tiny flame illuminated her face and little else, and his breath caught at the sheer beauty of her profile.

  She was lovely.

  Meghan heard the warning clatter beyond the door, but had no time to leave the desk before the door swung open to reveal Lyon standing there.

  Her heart leapt against her chest, and she dropped the quill upon the desk, afraid he would catch her penning her own words upon the pages of his manuscript.

  Despite the fact that the room had grown dim and she’d had to squint to see the pages, she’d scarcely been aware of the passage of time.

  And now he was here, filling the doorway with his presence.

  He came into the room, swinging the door shut behind him, and her heart quickened.

  “Is that fear I spy in your eyes, Meghan?”

  Meghan couldn’t find her tongue to speak, so expressive was his look. After having read his essays, the brightness of his gaze took on an entirely new significance. Och, but she could hardly look him in the eyes without wondering if he thought of her in those ways he had written about.

  “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 av
erted 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. Och, she wasn’t ignorant in the ways of men and women, but the very notion sent gooseflesh rippling over her.

  “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.