The old man suddenly seemed to share her concern. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“Wait,” Alison said. “I know what to do. He shall not recognize me when I am through, and he’llna turn me away if he does not know me. Wait here for me, and I will return in a trice,” She clutched the old man’s arm. “Thank you. Thank you for coming to fetch me. Wait here now, if you will, and I shall be back anon. Wait,” she begged him, and raced into the hall, taking care that her father did not see her, as he believed she was still within her room.
Meghan needed her now, and she would not fail her dear friend—she would not.
Meghan awoke to the sound of voices.
She couldn’t seem to gain her bearings.
She heard everything, was keenly aware of her surroundings in the oddest sort of way, but her lids were too heavy to lift. Nor could she move. It was as though she were sleeping still and could not awake.
“I have reset the bone,” said a woman’s voice from somewhere beyond the haze. Meghan faintly recognized it. She tried in vain to open her eyes, to look upon the bearer of it. “’Twill need time to heal,” the woman continued gravely. “Dinna let her use the arm, and if you must... bind her to the bed until she awakes.”
“I shall remain with her,” she heard a familiar male voice say in a low tone. “How long will the drogue last?”
“Until the morrow,” came the woman’s reply.
Drogue.
They’d given her a drogue... like the ones her grandmother sometimes used... Her heart lifted with hope.
“Fia?” she murmured.
Shadows descended like a shroud over her senses.
“Fia?” she persisted.
She sensed more than felt the hand at her brow... not a small one with calluses on the tips of fingers raw from pulling herbs... but a large one... as gentle as it was coarse.
“Hush now, Meghan,” the man’s voice commanded, though not unkindly, and the familiar sound of it reverberated through her very soul.
Lyon?
Meghan heard herself whimper softly, and was surprised by the distance of the sound. Strange, it didn’t sound like her at all, didn’t feel like her, though she knew it was.
What was wrong with her?
And why did her arm hurt?
And why had they drugged her?
“Och, you really should bind her to the bed,” the woman said, concern in her voice. “You dinna want her to injure the arm any more.”
Meghan shook her head. She didn’t want to be bound to the bed. She whimpered, trying to tell them nay.
“Poor wee thing,” the woman lamented, and once more the familiarity of it struck her.
Who was the woman?
“Fia...”
The woman let out an audible sigh. “Crazy auld Fia has been dead nigh on two years now,” she said. “The two were inseparable; where you spied the one, the other was not far behind.”
It wasn’t Fia.
Fia had been dead nigh two years now. Meghan’s heart fell as she remembered that. It wasn’t Fia.
Who was it?
She heard weeping again and wondered if she were the one sobbing.
She felt so weighty, so dizzy... so insubstantial...
“Fia... Fia is her lamb, as well,” Lyon confided to the woman.
The lamb.
Meghan groaned as slices of memory began to return to her. She’d been holding the wee lammie within her arms, dancing with it across the room—with a few well-placed stomps for special effect—so happy that her plan had gone so well.
“Aye, but she seems to think the lamb is her grandmother,” another man’s voice disclosed.
Silence.
“Och,” exclaimed the woman after a moment. “Poor wee thing, but it does not surprise me,” she said grimly. “She comes from verra bad blood, you see. ‘Twas merely a matter of time before Meghan Brodie succumbed to the madness as well.”
“She seemed well enough to me.”
“So were her mother and grandmother in the beginning,” the woman pointed out sadly. “And then it came over them, twisting their minds. Och, but ’tis a shame, too, as Fia understood the magic of the woodlands well.”
Naught had come over her mother and grandmother, Meghan wanted to scream. They had simply been misunderstood. Who was this woman who would befoul her mother’s and grandmother’s names?
“I’m afeared she’ll end like them if something is not done—and soon.”
She wanted to speak up and tell the woman that she was wrong—all wrong. It wasn’t true. But she couldn’t open her mouth to speak. Nor could she lift her lids. What had they given her? The heaviness seemed to be dragging her down into oblivion.
Meghan fought to stay awake... fought until finally, the will to sleep was too great...
“What can be done?” Lyon asked the old woman.
“I have a potion,” she answered, and those vaguely familiar eyes began to gleam with the color of gold, though in the dimness of the room, it was difficult to tell their true color. “I am something of an apothecary,” she disclosed. “But the price of this particular potion is high,” she cautioned him. “And you will not relieve me of it for less than a handful of gold.”
Lyon wasn’t entirely certain it was necessary to do anything at all to cure Meghan’s so-called madness, but if the old woman’s medicine was harmless enough, he might consider the prescription, no matter the cost. “What sort of potion, woman, would cost me a handful of gold coins?”
She smiled, a brilliant smile that seemed to smooth the wrinkles from her brow, making her appear much too young. Her hair was covered with a scarf that concealed much of her face, as well, and was tied entirely too tight about her chin besides. He wondered that she could bear it.
“A powerful potion,” she assured him, eyeing him first, then casting a glance at David. “Made from roots.”
“I have never heard of such a thing,” David interjected.
“Of course not,” she replied, drawing back and peering at him, obviously insulted by his challenge. “It is the root of a tree found in the Far East alone.”
“You have been to the Far East?” Lyon persisted, at once doubting her claim.
“And you have seen this tree with your very own eyes?” David added.
“Och, nay,” she confessed, “but I do have the root with me even now.”
“But you have seen it work its magic?” David inquired, saving Lyon the trouble of asking.
“Nay. You will need to take my word.”
“’Tis rather convenient a tale, I should say.” Lyon eyed her speculatively. “And you just happen to carry with you this root of an unknown tree—”
“Do you not also carry upon your person your most valuable possessions?”
“I have none,” Lyon claimed, and was aware of David’s surprised glance.
“Ah, but you do,” the woman demurred.
“This tree root,” he continued, overlooking her remark, “it comes from a land where you have never been, and you claim it a cure for madness, though you have never seen it work?”
“You are not a believer of medicine, I take it?” she asked, cocking her head inquisitively.
He wasn’t a believer in anything at all, if the truth be known, except in life and in death. All else, according to his mind, was merely illusion. He lifted his brow. “I believe your nose scents gold, old woman.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not precisely,” she yielded. “What I do scent is something far more valuable than gold.”
“And what makes you think I’ve anything of value between these walls? Look about,” he charged her. “Do you see the hole in my roof and the one in my floor? Tell me, does this strike you as the home of a wealthy man?”
“These auld eyes,” she said, “see more than you think. For instance, they spy the look in your eyes when you gaze at her.” She glanced down at the bed where Meghan lay, resting peacefully. “It is the look of a man who loves a woman.”
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“Then shall I pluck out my eyes,” he asked acerbically, “and place them within your palms to pay for the potion? All for the love of a woman? Do you think me a fool who can be taken advantage of over some sentiment you perceive I bear?”
The light in her eyes faded.
She seemed disappointed.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” she said and turned away to make a few last-minute inspections of Meghan’s sleeping form. “She’ll sleep until the morn, I think. Dinna let her rest upon that arm, as it must heal exactly as I have set it. As for the wound upon her head,” she continued, “it bleeds, but it is not deep. Simply leave it be and it will heal on its own.”
Lyon watched her gather up her belongings—her potions, her needle, and her thread—and was grateful she had not had to use the needle upon Meghan’s lovely face.
“If she should need me,” she began, “I shall—”
“Wait,” Lyon urged her.
She spun to face him, the gleam in her eyes once more apparent.
“Are you certain it will work? This potion...”
She gave him a discerning glance. “Nay, there is never a surety. But the root is said to purify the mind and return its lucidity. It is said to make the weak mind strong, and to create genius in that which is already keen.”
“Very well,” he relented, “I shall pay your price, old woman. Work your sorcery.”
“But there is one last thing,” she apprised him, her eyes narrowing. “There is yet another price to be paid beyond that you will render to me.”
“Another price?” He gave her a deprecating glance. “More gold? Perhaps you’d rather have jewels or cloth?”
She smiled, flashing teeth that were far too white to be so old. “Nothing such as that,” she assured him. “Though this price is to be paid by her, as well.” She nodded at the bed where Meghan lay.
“And what price might that be?” Lyon persisted, his tone fraught with sarcasm.
“The potion is sometimes disfiguring.”
His brows collided. “Disfiguring?”
“Aye,” she said, giving him a knowing look. “To the face. There are those who form a reaction to it,” she explained. “Sometimes merely a pox... sometimes more... but you cannot know until it happens just who will, and who will not. If you think it more important to have a pretty face than a keen mind... dinna give her the potion. But... if she truly matters to you...”
Her implication hung in the air for him to ponder.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “And is that all? The potion is safe aside from that?”
She seemed pleased with his response, for her smile manifested now within her peculiar eyes. “Aye,” she answered, and then declared, “I have the root with me now, but ’tis useless to you without the elixir. I shall have it prepared by this eve. Have the gold in hand when I arrive,” she commanded him, and with that, turned and left, leaving him and David to stare at each other in wary contemplation.
Lyon turned to the woman lying so quietly upon his bed. The old woman had claimed he loved her.
Did he?
Could he?
He knew he wanted her, knew he craved her even.
But love?
Love was something he had never believed in.
So what was this strangeness he felt? This bond he shared with the woman lying there so still?
Obsession?
* * *
David departed before eventide, with the intent of paying the Brodies a visit.
It was their right to be informed of Meghan’s accident. Were the situation reversed, Lyon would appreciate the same courtesy. Right or wrong, however, he had refused them visitation, and David had agreed to uphold his decision, and to soften the blow of his refusal with a personal appearance. It was more than Lyon had a right to ask of David, since the Brodies surely would not accept Lyon’s decision so blithely.
Lyon was perfectly aware that he was being unreasonable, but he also understood that if her brothers came to see her... and Meghan asked to leave with them... he would look at her in the condition she was in...and he’d not be able to refuse her.
He wanted the chance to win her.
It had suddenly become crucial to his state of contentment. He didn’t understand what it was about her that drew him, but she did. Her very presence had somehow banished shadows from his life, like the morning sun, which dispelled darkness with naught more than its glorious appearance.
The old witch—it was how Lyon began to think of her—returned as David rode from the courtyard. She seemed to appear from the night mist: he was alone one instant, and not the next. She handed him a vial, dispensing instructions for the administration of its contents. She’d laced the potion with mandrake, she’d claimed, something for the pain, and he was to measure it out to her judiciously lest he poison her. And then she had demanded her coin forthwith. After wishing him well, she vanished as swiftly as she’d appeared.
Clutching the precious vial within his fist, Lyon climbed the stairs to his chamber. When she awoke, he wanted to be with her. When she first opened her eyes, he wanted to be the one she saw.
And if she did not awake this eve, he would be content to simply watch over her... as long as he knew she would open those beautiful green eyes eventually.
He entered the chamber, closing the door behind him, and went to stand before the bed. She looked so fragile lying there amidst his rent sheets and her own dried blood. The very sight of her made his heart wrench.
The torchlight cast dancing shadows over the bed, animating her face despite that she slept undisturbed. She was beautiful even now, though her poor face was bruised and wan. She looked more like an angel lying there so serenely, though he had to own he preferred the imp in her to the cherub any day.
The very thought of her temper and wit made him smile.
Guilt stabbed at him as he watched her.
He had no doubt she would recover, for she was strong and her wounds were minor, but he couldn’t help but feel responsible.
Had he not taken her against her will, none of this would have happened. She would likely, at this instant, be safe at home with her brothers.
And yet, he prayed that God would save his rotten soul, for he still could not find regret for his actions.
She stirred, whimpering softly, calling for Fia once again, and he frowned. Lifting up the vial in his hand, he contemplated its contents. It was entirely possible the elixir was a waste of time... that there was naught wrong with her at all... as he suspected.
But... what if he were wrong?
What if there were, in truth, some family madness she was cursed with, and he had in his hands the means to cure her?
He liked to think he was a better man than to sacrifice her sanity for the privilege of gazing upon a perfect face.
He watched her an instant longer, his heart sinking when she began to weep softly in her sleep. Curse him if he could be so shallow as to allow her to suffer for his pleasure.
His mind made up, he sat upon the bed beside her and proceeded to open the vial. There was enough within it for a sennight’s supply, the old woman had said. The results would be immediate, she’d claimed.
Well, the morning would bring answers enough. If he observed no significant difference when she awoke, he simply wouldn’t continue the treatment.
But if the differences were apparent... Well, then... he had the means within his hand to help her, and he would be selfish not to use it.
And with that resolved, he set about administering the potion.
Chapter 18
Meghan was uncertain at what point her dreams became substance, but Lyon’s face was the first thing she saw when she awoke. He sat upon the bed, staring down at her, his expression concerned.
She’d been dreaming of him—strange dreams, pleasant dreams, but his was a constant presence—and she couldn’t say she was surprised upon opening her eyes to find him watching her.
“Welcome back,” he said quietly, his lips curv
ing into a soft smile. His deep-blue eyes gazed at her with such warmth that it stilled her heart.
Surely she imagined the tenderness... He couldn’t possibly feel anything for her beyond those most superficial of desires.
Meghan tried to return a witty reply, but when she parted her lips to speak, only a moan of pain came from between parched lips. She lifted her head and peered groggily down at her arm. “W-what... happened?”
“Do you not recall?”
Meghan did, though she wished she didn’t.
Her arm? It hurt. It served her right. She averted her gaze to the bed, tears welling in her eyes. The entire ordeal made her feel both guilty and childish at once. It didn’t matter that she’d been pretending; he must think her a spoiled brat to have thrown such a wicked tantrum.
And her fit of fury had gained her what?
And what of the poor wee lammie? She was afraid to ask, but had to know. “W-where is...” she began, and choked on a sob.
“Fia?”
Her face burned with guilt, but she nodded, daring to peer up into his glittering eyes. His expression was softer yet, no condemnation there to be seen.
He shook his head. “I... am... so sorry, Meghan, but the la—Fia,” he amended, “she... is... gone.”
Meghan gulped back another heartfelt sob, feeling incredible shame.
“There was naught to be done,” he continued gently. “But know that it—that she did not suffer,” he offered in condolence.
Tears rolled down Meghan’s cheeks. She didn’t have to pretend grief.
“Poor, poor wee lammie,” she sobbed, bringing a hand to her mouth in remorse. “ ‘Tis all my fault.”
He shook his head. “Nay,” he argued.
“ ‘Twas not—” He narrowed his eyes. “Poor wee lammie?”
Meghan couldn’t bear that she’d been the cause of the poor animal’s death. If it hadn’t been for her tantrum... “Aye, it is all my fault,” she cried. “If only I hadna—”
“Nay,” he said quietly, though with a lingering frown upon his face. “It was not your fault, Meghan. You couldn’t possibly have known the floor would give way beneath you. If the fault lies with any, then it lies with me, as I knew the ceiling was weak and in disrepair. I should have fixed it long before now,” he said, and shook his head with a look of self-disgust.
Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (Sweet Scottish Brides Book 2) Page 16