Lyon's Gift

by Tanya Anne Crosby

He’d wanted to know why the sky was so blue and the grass so green. He’d wanted to know what stars were made of, and why they burned so brightly. He’d wanted to know why his veins were blue while his blood was red. He’d wanted so much more than a bed on a cold, hard floor and to stand alone behind invisible doors... watching other children at play.

  Though, in truth, why should he have cared if the other children were outside playing and laughing? Thanks to his mother, he’d been able to study with the Archbishop of Canterbury and that had been no trifling thing. He’d had every reason to be grateful and no reason at all to yearn for something so negligible as dirty knees or silly games.

  “Damn it all!” he exclaimed, lifting up his pen and rapping the quill’s end upon the wooden table. “We’re going to show these bloody Scots that we can feud with the best of them!”

  And enjoy it every bit as much.

  That’s what it was going to take to win their alliance, he surmised.

  Or not.

  Either way, he would relish the sport.

  Though at first he’d been taken unawares by their unanticipated raids, some part of him reveled in this honest form of warfare, where one’s enemy stood up to be counted, and one’s friends openly declared they’d as soon pluck out your eyes if they could profit from them. There was something particularly heartening in that unrelenting honesty.

  Aye, he was perfectly pleased to play their games.

  “These savages will not run us off this land!” he vowed. “Damn you for a witless arse!” he reprimanded Baldwin, though he knew his eyes didn’t quite conceal the smile he hid. “I should take the price of those beasts out of your hide, you realize?”

  Color returned to the tips of Baldwin’s ears. “I wouldn’t fault you for it, Lyon,” he said, but neither did his smile vanish either. “So what would you have me do?”

  “What else?” Piers grinned. “We steal the buggers back—and a few more for good measure!”

  Baldwin smirked. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, “I’d think you were enjoying this.”

  Lyon lifted a brow. “And you would probably be right,” he returned, rising from his seat and taking his sword from where he’d placed it upon the table before him. He slid it into his scabbard and winked good-naturedly at Baldwin. “Now, let’s go teach these Scots how to commit a proper thieving!”

  CHAPTER 2

  It was a raven, no mistaking it.

  Its blue-black wings pummeled the air in obvious distress though it made not a sound as it flailed about the rafters searching for escape. Within the silence of the chapel its flight for freedom—like a soul fighting to be set free—was a cry that stirred Meghan Brodie’s heart.

  She had cast open the shutters to the bright summer day and the poor bird had flown inside as though it had been anticipating her appearance at the window. It had startled her, certainly, but Meghan wasn’t the least bit superstitious, else she might have considered it an evil omen.

  Certainly, her grandminnie Fia, would have claimed it to be so.

  The last time she recalled a bird flying into their home—and it had been a sparrow that time, not even a wicked raven as this was—her dear grandmother had taken great pains to make it fly out the same way it had flown in, so that it might take with it whatever curse it had brought into their home. Else, old Fia had explained, the sparrow would die and the one who’d let it in would remain cursed for all eternity. In her quest to set the sparrow free, Fia had blocked off every window and every door except for the one the bird had flown in through, and then had stood speaking to the creature for hours, until she’d managed to coax it into her hand with bread crumbs. And then with blessings she had cast it out the door.

  Meghan hadn’t believed a word of it, of course. She’d thought her grandmother incredibly silly, while her brothers had simply thought her raving mad—as everyone else did. Superstition was, in Meghan’s opinion, merely a way of explaining away circumstances one could not fully comprehend. Nothing more. When it came to such notions she was truly quite unromantic. Her mind couldn’t embrace the mystical, though her grandmother’s tales had certainly been useful for frightening wee grandchildren into good behavior.

  The memory brought a wistful smile to her lips.

  Her mother had never meant to frighten Meghan, of course—and her brothers were entirely fearless—but her grandmother was another matter entirely.

  All that Meghan remembered of her dear mother was her sad, grieving face; she’d lived only until Meghan’s third summer. Her da she remembered not at all, as he’d died when Meghan was but a bairn.

  But her grandmother, the old lovable lunatic, had walked the halls of Meghan’s home until Meghan’s sixteenth winter, all the while talking to faeries and wraiths—at least that’s what Fia had claimed. Meghan suspected she’d merely been too chagrined to admit she liked to talk to herself, as Meghan was wont to do—och, but she made no apologies for it! She liked her own company and that of animals so much more than she did people.

  People, Meghan often thought, were entirely too fickle in their attentions, and never seemed to look beyond the mask of her face. It made her uncomfortable, and truth to tell, she must not see the same person in the looking glass, for she couldn’t conceive what it was about her face that made men daft in her presence and women loathe her at merely a glance. It seemed to Meghan that nobody cared one whit for the person behind the face.

  Both Meghan’s mother and grandmother had been blessed with loveliness, but Meghan hadn’t inherited their delicate beauty at all. Her cheekbones were much too prominent, her lips much too full, and her auburn hair a riotous mess of curls that refused to remain bound. At least she hadn’t the tendency to freckle, though the sun colored her skin much too dark in the summer.

  Her most distinguishing feature, she thought, were her eyes; they were the deep cool shade of a forest glen. She had her da’s eyes, she’d been told. Betimes they appeared nigh black, though they were in fact a pure, deep, woodland green. It was the same eye color her brothers shared, all but for Colin, whose eyes were the pale shade of a cloudless summer sky.

  She lifted her gaze once more to inspect the chapel’s ceiling as the raven began to caw. Its blue-black wings beat the rafters in growing distress, and Meghan frowned. The chapel had once been naught more than the ruins of an old stone temple built by the ancients. Its ceiling had stood wide open to the heavens for most of her life, but her brother Gavin had recently erected a sloping wooden shelter, and the new wood was sturdy and true, reinforced by beams that were braced along the stone walls. No amount of thrashing, not even from stalwart Mother Nature, was going to raise it. The poor raven had nary a chance.

  She stood there wondering how best to get the bird out of the chapel.

  What might her Minnie have done? Her sweet, mad grandmother had had a way with creatures that far exceeded what paltry influence Meghan thought she had.

  Though Meghan had been raised by her three brothers, she’d spent the greater part of her childhood with her grandmother, either searching for herbs to make potions, or listening to tales of good faeries who peeked out from behind trees in the woodlands. Och, but as loony as the old woman had seemed, Meghan missed her fiercely.

  Although Meghan knew her brothers loved her well and truly, it was a burdensome thing to be the only woman in a household of men.

  Not to mention lonely.

  If it weren’t for Alison, the MacLean’s daughter—her very best friend—Meghan didn’t know what she would have done.

  Leith, her eldest brother, was laird of their clan. He was sweet and good, even if he was entirely too overbearing and protective. With all his rules, he kept Meghan from living life just as surely as though he were a wall she could not pass. What he didn’t seem to realize—thank God—was that she had her own little tunnel burrowed beneath those bulwarks, and the defiant thought brought a tiny smile to her lips because what he didn’t know, she decided, couldn’t possibly hurt him.

  Her b
rother Colin, on the other hand, was much too unconcerned with anything but women and drink. Blessed as he was with good looks, Meghan only wished he didn’t give the pursuit of his own pleasures such import above all else.

  Poor, sweet Alison hadn’t a chance with him!

  Then there was her dear brother Gavin, the only brother younger than herself. Gavin held another view entirely from both Leith and Colin. He was the one who disregarded the mind and physical beauty altogether, thinking it a sin to worship the temple of the spirit and a complete waste of one’s time—a woman’s, at least—to ponder life’s mysteries. Alas, that was something Meghan was surely wont to do. Her youngest brother encouraged her incessantly to seek to purify her soul, lest she end like their mother and grandmother before her—mad and alone.

  Och, but Meghan rather relished the thought of being alone, didn’t he realize! And if people thought her mad... well, then... She shrugged. They’d simply think her mad and leave her be, now wouldn’t they? And that was well and good, as far as Meghan was concerned.

  She only wished Gavin would live a little more and leave off with the preaching, for his own sake, certainly not for hers. Meghan had absolutely no qualms about boxing his ears when he carried on too much. She loved each of her brothers dearly—as she knew they did her—and she’d do anything for them, anything at all, except listen to Gavin’s accursed sermons! Christ only knew, they were almost as harrowing as the poor raven’s unrelenting cawing!

  Sweet Mary, she had no notion what to do to help the accursed bird!

  She stood, hands at her hips, before the open window, frowning after it as it flew amuck about the rafters and finally lit upon one of the support beams.

  There it remained, and she could swear it stared expectantly down at her.

  By the blessed rood!

  “Och now, but I cannot help you all the way up there, don’t ye know, you silly creature!” Though she knew it was an absurd thing to do, she extended her hand to the agitated bird, and demanded, “Come down here now!”

  The raven merely flapped its wings, and cawed at her.

  She crooked a finger at it. “Dinna speak to me so rudely,” she told the bird. “I cannot help you if ye will not let me!”

  The raven quieted and cocked its head. It peered down at her curiously, but didn’t move.

  Had she expected it to? It was ludicrous to be nettled by the bird’s lack of response, but she was.

  “I’d wager you’d come down for Minnie Fia! Foolish auld bird!” she scolded it. “Stay, then, if you—”

  “What are ye doing, lass?” a voice interrupted at her back.

  Meghan shrieked in startle, casting up her hands. She turned to face Colin. “Och, you scared me, you ill-bred oaf!”

  Her brother merely grinned at her, and cocked his head, in much the same manner the bird had.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did no one ever teach you any manners?”

  “Ye know the answer to that, Meghan, love,” he said. “I learned my good manners from the same place you did.” He winked at her and chuckled. “Only it seems to me you learned a few more lessons from daft auld Fia than I did. What do ye think you’re doing, talking to that witless bird? You don’t think it understands, now do ye?”

  Meghan’s cheeks flamed. She peered up at the bird, and then lifted her chin as she faced her brother, her hands going to her hips. “Of course not! I was only trying to help the silly thing is all! It flew in through the bluidy window,” she explained, undaunted by Colin’s amused expression. “And now cannot seem to find his way back out.”

  Her brother smiled benevolently at her. “Meggie, dearlin’, you have a good heart, lass, but you’re wasting your sweet breath. That bird does not ken a word you’re speaking and you’d do better to smack your bonnie head against a wall for all the good you’re doing.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Meghan frowned up at the bird. “Ungrateful creature.”

  Colin’s lips curved into a roguish grin. “Of course I’m right.”

  “Och, but I hate it when you are, ye wicked gloating knave!”

  He lifted a brow at her. “That’s another thing you learned from auld Fia, and I’m here to tell you, ’tis a foul thing to hear you speakin’ like a mon. I’ll warrant you’ll never find yourself a mate with that rotten tongue you bear.”

  “Good, then, you silly oaf! What would I be wantin’ with a mon, when I’ve my hands full with the three of ye already?”

  Colin’s smile turned ribald and Meghan lifted a brow at him in censure. He was the only one of her three brothers who would speak so frankly to her of matters between men and women.

  “I could think of a few things,” he said plainly, “but if I told you then I’d have to box your ears for hearing them. And then I’d have to kill the bluidy fool who fell prey to your curiosity.”

  “Nay, you would not!” Meghan said with absolute certainty, her cheeks burning with chagrin. “Because there is not a mon under God’s heaven I’d care to burden myself with long enough to appease any such curiosity!”

  “Well,” Colin countered, shaking his head as though she were no more than a wee misbehaving child, “as I said... you’ll never have to worry over such things, anyhow—not with that vicious tongue of yours.” He peered up at the squawking bird, his cheeks turning suddenly pink as he said, “Anyway... I only came to tell you something...”

  Meghan’s brows lifted. “Something?”

  “Aye. Alison awaits you on the meadow.”

  “Alison?” Meghan’s brows lifted higher in surprise, and then she narrowed her eyes at him, scrutinizing his expression. “You saw her?”

  He nodded, his hands going to his hips. “I did, Meghan, and do not look at me like that. I didna say a bluidy thing to the wench!”

  Meghan narrowed her eyes at him. “That is precisely the trouble,” she enlightened him. “How could it possibly hurt you to sit and visit with her for a wee bit, Colin? She likes you so verra much—though for the life of me I cannot see why!”

  “Why thank you!” he said, looking offended.

  “You’re not verra nice to her, Colin.”

  Colin’s face twisted into a grimace, and his cheeks turned, if possible, a deeper shade of red. “Och!” he protested. “She’s sweet, Meghan, if only she didna have those eyes!”

  Meghan gave him a disgusted look. “There is naught wrong with Alison’s eyes. They are merely crossed.”

  “Aye, but it makes me uncomfortable to look at her.”

  “Arggghhh!” Meghan shook her head in utter disgust. “To think I share the same blood with you, Colin Mac Brodie. I cannot believe you would be so cold and cruel to a poor lass merely because her face does not suit you!”

  “Cruel!” His hand went to his breast as though affronted.

  Meghan pleaded with him. “If you would only sit and talk with her just once, you would see how verra sweet her heart is—and how smart she is! Alison would make any mon a fine wife! You should feel fortunate to have her devotion—even undeserving as you are!”

  “Och, now!” he objected, meeting her eyes with his sad soulful ones. “Dinna be so fierce with me, Meggie.” His gaze lowered unhappily. “I would never hurt the poor lass. I merely do not wish to wed with her is all, and cannot see the point in misleading her. I was not mean to her.”

  “Nay?” Meghan eyed him shrewdly. “Swear it upon your manhood, Colin! May it fall off and rot like a bluidy worm in the ground if you’ve made her weep again.”

  He cast her a pained glance, grimacing. “Och, Meghan! You’re bluidy cruel to be sure!”

  “Swear it!” she demanded of her brother.

  “All right! I swear it! I swear it,” he declared. “Though I cannot be certain she was not actually weeping,” he amended quickly.

  “Colin!”

  He held up both his hands in protest. “I didna do anything, Meg, but she came and found me with Suisan. I cannot be faulted for that!”

  His hand went to his groin
in a protective gesture—unconsciously, Meghan knew—and she suppressed a grin. He did have a point, she was forced to admit. He couldn’t be faulted for that.

  And it would truly serve no one at all—most of all not Alison—for Colin to lead her astray. Alison was not like Meghan, after all; her feelings were entirely too tender.

  “Can you not see that I cannot be false to her?” Colin asked, his brows lifting in supplication. “It would not be right!”

  Meghan frowned. “Aye,” she yielded, though grudgingly. “I do, ye miserable wretch. I only wish—”

  “I ken what you’re wishin’, Meggie. And you’re a good soul, to be certain—but och! I dinna want a wife, anyhow!”

  Meghan understood that better than any.

  “And if I did,” he added honestly, “the MacLean’s daughter is not the one for me.” He made a gesture at his breast that made Meghan blush. “I’ll be wantin’ more from a lass,” he informed her. “Not merely a bonnie face, but more if you know what I mean?” He lifted his brows.

  “Acck!” Meghan shrieked in protest. “I dinna wish to hear such things!”

  “Well,” he continued, lecturing her, “you should know that a pretty face is not all a lass needs in order to win herself a mon. She must have a pleasin’ body, too.’’

  Meghan narrowed her eyes at her brother.

  He nodded. “And ready laughter.”

  “And I’m supposing she must know how to cook and mend and wash and—”

  “And make healthy bairns,” Colin agreed with another nod.

  “Arggh!” Meghan shrieked once more, and leapt upon him in a fit of outrage, pummeling his burly chest.

  Colin yelped in protest.

  “You’re incorrigible, Colin Mac Brodie!” She smacked his arm, and made to go around him. “You’re a bluidy mon!” she declared, as though that were the worst thing he could possibly be. “And I’ll not be listening to you any longer!”

  “God’s truth, and you’re a bloodthirsty woman!” he returned. “We’ll be having to pay a mon to take your blasted arse off our hands!”