Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (Sweet Scottish Brides Book 2)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  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.

  Chapter 13

  “Who 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.

  The 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 rememb
er 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.

  * * *

  Meghan 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?”

  He lifted his brows. “If the light bothers you,” he said, “I shall put it out.”

  “Oh, nay,” Meghan replied, incensed. “I am merely a prisoner here.” She turned over, facing away from him. “And a silly, brainless female at that. Dinna concern yourself with me.”

  She had a few other choice words for him as well, but held her tongue and drew the pillow angrily over her head.

  Arrogant man.

  Chapter 14

  “She’
s ruined,” Dougal MacLean raved. His fury boomed through the hall, unsettling even the dogs who rose prudently and slunk away with their tails tucked between their legs.

  Alison wished she could join them.

  “How dare you deliver her to me compromised, Mac Brodie?” her father raged.

  Alison winced at the anger apparent in his voice. He’d been ranting more than an hour’s time now and still his tone had not softened in the least. She wholly dreaded the moment when Leith took his leave because she thought her da might very well wield his strap against her bottom. The very thought of it pained her already, and she cowered at the thunder in his voice.

  Poor Leith had taken the brunt of his furor with nary an angry word in return. Alison watched him, admiring his self-possession. His expression was neither belligerent nor diffident, but rather stoic, and the set of his wide shoulders resolute.

  “I have already explained the circumstances,” Leith said once more. “And I have offered to make amends in whatever manner I may. I do not know what more I can say.”

  Her father’s face was florid. He slammed his fist down upon the table, and Alison flinched at the sound of it. “She is ruined,” he shouted once more. “There is naught you can do.”

  “There is little need to belabor the point, Dougal. I am well aware of the circumstances,” Leith leaned forward in his chair, trying to make her father comprehend. He cast a solicitous glance at Alison. “But it could not be helped, I tell you. My sister is missing,” he reminded him once more. “She is still missing, Dougal. And Meghan is my first responsibility, as she is my sister. Can you not understand? I could not leave the search to bring Alison home.”

  “My daughter had no business there to begin with, Mac Brodie,” her father countered, shaking his jowls furiously.

  “I-it was my choice to go,” Alison interjected, speaking up at last, startling them with her avid declaration. In the heat of their discussion, they seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely. Both turned to look at her now.