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?
Why was it that she was as yet unwed?
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 she’d been wooed by unknown men, because she had yet to be wooed by him. And, if he had his way, when he was done there would be naught of her soul left to his imagination. When he was finished, there would be no memory remaining of any other man’s hand in hers.
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 heart fluttered 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... kiss her sweet mouth...
“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. 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 arms...
“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. Heaven help her, 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 yet again. 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 women he’d wooed... 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 roo
m. 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?”
“I... I dinna remember.”
He lifted a brow. “You do not remember?”
Meghan shook her head.
He released her suddenly, and stood once more, looking down upon her. Her heart hammered as he slid aside the candle upon the desk. Without warning, he reached down, plucking her up from the chair. Meghan gasped in surprise as he sat her upon the desk, and then seated himself before her.
“Shall we rouse your memory, then?” he suggested, and reached down, sliding his hand beneath the arch of her foot. Meghan’s heart leapt into her throat at the intimacy of his caress.
“W-what are you going to do?”
“Shhh…”
His gaze never left her face as he began to massage her bare foot, stroking the arch and caressing her skin gently.
“Do you remember what I wrote of this, Meghan?”
Meghan’s breath quickened at the question. She nodded as his fingers massaged her foot, gently lacing through her toes. And then he raked the seat backward from the desk and Meghan thought she would swoon as he lifted her foot to his beautiful mouth, watching her face all the while as his lips alighted upon each of her toes in tender, sweet kisses.
A shudder flew through her.
Feeling paralyzed with uncertainty, and dizzy with anticipation, she watched as he kissed along the arch of her foot, where his fingers had caressed. And then her heart leapt against her ribs as he released her, easing her foot back to where it rested before and drew her closer, gently, hugging her to him with a tenderness she’d never known before.
“I want you for my own, Meghan Brodie,” he said without ceremony.
“You want my beauty,” she answered breathlessly, scarcely able to think for the way his arms were making her feel.
He didn’t want her. There was a difference, Meghan understood. She fought to remember that through the haze of pleasure.
“Aye,” he whispered, his voice low and husky with a desire he didn’t attempt to conceal. “I’ll not deny it. I do,” he confessed, and fell to his knees before her.
“I want your beauty, Meghan,” he whispered. “but I wish to know you too...heart and soul…”
His heart hammering, Lyon closed his eyes and concentrated not on the burn of his skin, but on her breath as he held her once again, attempting to share her every breath…attempting to truly be at one with the woman in his arms.
He could see in her eyes that she was not completely lucid, and so he didn’t wish to take this any further.
Nay, this time it would be different.
Because she was different.
Deep in his soul, he sensed that in her arms he would find all his answers—all the revelations he sought were hidden behind the mirror of her gaze.
He craved them madly.
Answers.
Aye, he was well aware she was drugged... that she might not have allowed him so much liberty otherwise, but he’d never confessed to moral restraint. He’d never intended mercy in his pursuit, nor did he play fairly.
He played as he fought as he loved...
To win.
When at last she slept...
When at last she dreamt...
When she awoke in the morn...
He wanted her to remember this feeling.
He wanted her to think of naught else but him every waking hour of the day—as he did with her.
She was in his blood.
Who would have thought after all this time without a woman... he would find such pleasure in such simplicity, but he did.
He held her, taking thorough gratification in every beat of his heart against its cage.
Aye, this time was different, he assured himself, and he didn’t care if she was mad or not—if she was mad, let him be mad with her—he wanted Meghan Brodie for the rest of his life.
Chapter 21
“Bless you, Cameron,” Alison MacLean said, and bent to kiss the old man upon the cheek. “Thank you again for coming to fetch me when Meghan fell. And bless your true Scots heart for doing this for me now.”
The old man blushed fiercely, his face mottling with color. “’Twas naught,” he replied. “Dinna thank me, lass, as I didna want the mon upon my birth land, anyhow, and I dinna appreciate the way he takes what he wills—arrogant Sassenach.”
“I know.” Alison agreed. “But I could not do this without you, Cameron, so I can thank you if I please.”
The old man nodded. “You were a brave lass,” he said, “going in there like that to help your friend.”
“How could I not?” Alison declared. “Meghan Brodie is my verra best friend. She would have done the same for me.” And Meghan would, she knew. It had twisted Alison’s heart to see her friend lying there in so much pain. If she could have lifted her up and carried her from that wretched place, she would have. As it was, she’d had to tend Meghan and then hurry away lest he recognize her face.
Cameron nodded again in agreement, and Alison went on, “I was so worried. I had to see with my verra own eyes that she was well.” In truth, she’d not thought up her plan until King David had sounded so uncertain of Meghan’s sanity. It had startled her, as Meghan Brodie was the sweetest, smartest person Alison knew. But Alison had taken advantage of David’s uncertainty and had formed this hasty plan. She hadn’t known how well it would go, but it was worth a try. “Anyway, Montgomerie did not recognize me so all is well. But I cannot risk myself again so soon, if I am to go back and trade places with Meghan later. So, then, be sure to give her this,” she instructed, and pressed a small sack into the old man’s hands. “’Tis verra important. And you tell her just what I told you, all right?”
“Aye, lass, I remember it all.”
“Verra good, and this is for you.” She held out a few gold coins.
“For me?” He peered up at her in surprise.
“Aye,” Alison smiled brilliantly. “For you. And thank you again, Cameron of the MacLeans, and go on with ye now. I’ll need you soon enough if my plan is to work. Run now to Meghan and tell her to follow my instructions precisely.”
The old man smiled as he took the coins from her. “Aye, lass. I’ll give her the sack the instant she is alone, I promise.”
“Thank you,” Alison said with feeling, and threw her arms about his neck in appreciation. “You’re a sweet auld mon,” she said and drew away. “Go quickly now,” she urged him.
“No sooner said than done,” he promised, and turned on his heel.
Alison watched him wend his way through the forest until he was gone from her sight, and then she turned and hurried home. There was much to do before her final performance, she knew.
She had colored her face with a thin layer of mud, not enough to m
ake her appear grimy, but enough to dry her skin and give her the appearance of wrinkles, and she had been thankful for the dim light of his chamber that he could not make out her eyes, for though she’d met him only the once, she knew they were revealing, crossing as they did so oft.
She didn’t worry he would suspect her later, because by the time Cameron snuck her in to trade places with Meghan, he would be ready to believe anything. And her hair and eye color were close enough to Meghan’s that, as long as she kept her face concealed, it would give them more than enough time to sneak Meghan out and carry her home. And then Alison would simply slip away herself, remove her wimple and makeup, and leave with none the wiser. Meghan would be home and safe and just in time to see her wedded to Leith.
She smiled at that, certain that Meghan was going to be surprised with the turn of events. Alison could scarcely believe it herself, but Leith Mac Brodie had been so kind to her. And if she’d initially believed his proposal one of mere pity, she no longer thought so. He sent her gifts, one each day, and Alison was beginning to wonder what it was she ever saw in Colin Mac Brodie. A handsome face alone was not nearly enough to recommend a person, she knew, and Colin Mac Brodie had never treated her kindly. How could she have been so blind to Leith? How could she have done to him what Colin had done to her? She’d nearly discarded Leith without a second glance merely because his face was not as comely as Colin’s.
“You should be ashamed, Alison,” she berated herself. And she certainly was.
And that brought her to another thought entirely...
Could she have misjudged Piers Montgomerie as well? She knew what she’d spied in his eyes—the way he’d looked upon Meghan as she’d lain so still within his bed. It seemed to Alison that he had gazed upon her with genuine distress. And perhaps it was no more than he should rightly feel, as it was his fault Meghan was insured to begin with.
And yet... Alison could have sworn there was something more in his eyes when he gazed upon Meghan.
Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (Sweet Scottish Brides Book 2) Page 19