Lyon's Gift

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The problem was that her heart was riddled with fissures. And her soul was exploding behind it, bursting to be set free. If she let them... the bricks in the wall surrounding her heart would come tumbling down so easily.

  And if she revealed herself... and he were to be repelled by what he saw?

  She couldn’t take that chance.

  And still... if she managed to bring peace with this union, all was well that ended well.

  Right?

  Then, too, she would be saving Alison from a marriage she surely did not want. Alison was her best friend, and Alison wanted Colin, Meghan knew—desperately! If Meghan wedded Lyon Montgomerie, it would buy Alison time at least to win her brother’s fickle heart. Meghan was certain Colin could be content with Alison if he but gave her a chance. Alison might not be the fairest of women, but her heart was sweeter than honey and purer than gold.

  Still and all, Meghan couldn’t simply surrender herself so easily.

  Pride would scarcely allow it.

  She dared to want more!

  She might concede to this union for the sake of peace, but Piers Montgomerie was going to get more than he bargained for, she vowed. He was going to learn not to judge a soul by the mask it wore!

  He wanted a face to wed, did he... Well... he could have the face, but not the heart!

  And Meghan was looking forward to teaching the rogue a bloody good lesson!

  Her gaze was drawn toward the desk... and curiosity seized her.

  She didn’t care if it might be wrong to pry. ’Twas certainly the least he deserved for so rudely locking her away within his room... and for leaving his mysterious papers out upon the desk.

  A little peek couldn’t possibly hurt anyone.

  She went resolutely to the desk and found two thick, leather-bound manuscripts sitting upon it. Turning over the first, she saw that it was untitled. Opening it revealed scribbled notations... pages and pages, all written in Latin to the best she could determine. Her brows knit as she tried to make out the words. She recognized a few, but she had never really learned Latin. Her mother had been familiar with the language of the church, but Fia had not. Only her brother Gavin knew the tongue well enough to read script. The best Meghan could make out, by perusing the headings of each notation, was that they were entries taken from the writings of others: Aristotle and Augustine, Boethius and Anselm, and many more... too many to name—all dated, she assumed, to the year they were written.

  Meghan’s curiosity was piqued... and yet, she could hardly sit down to read the texts when she could not understand them. Frowning, she dropped the first manuscript down upon the desk, and turned over the other.

  This one also was untitled. In the bottom right-hand comer was written... Piers Montgomerie.

  Lifting a brow in surprise, Meghan drew out the chair and sat down before the little desk. She turned to the first page.

  It was titled Spiritualitas vs. Carnalis.

  But the script was written in the English tongue and that she understood very well, for Alison’s mother had been an Englishwoman and had taught her daughter well. Alison, in turn, had taught Meghan.

  Much too engaged to walk away now, she laid the manuscript flat upon the desk and began to read…

  Given that Lyon had only this morning dispatched his letters, David of Scotia was the last person he expected to find in his courtyard so soon.

  David arrived with a retinue of five, looking harassed as he dismounted before Lyon.

  “Christ be damned! You must be foreknowing!”

  David’s answering scowl was a testament to his mood. “What the devil are you speaking of?”

  Lyon arched a brow. “Only this morn I dispatched you a letter, and here you are.”

  “So I am!” David replied, his tone curt.

  Lyon slanted him a knowing glance. “What brings you to these parts?” he said. “Naught good, I suppose.”

  David shook his head ominously. “Naught good!” he agreed. “Damned misbegotten Highland rogues!”

  Lyon slapped a hand upon his shoulder, his expression sober. “Come, then,” he urged, “let us converse within.”

  And the two made their way toward the hall.

  “I’m afraid I bring distressing news,” David disclosed.

  “I gather as much.”

  “Lyon, old friend, I believe I’ve just made your charge here all the more complicated.”

  “I see,” Lyon answered. “Well, that makes two of us, then, as so have I.”

  David cast him a curious glance.

  “I shall explain within,” Lyon assured. “We can argue over who shall go first over a tankard of ale. What say you?”

  David’s look darkened. “I’d say if you need to ply me with ale, Lyon, something tells me I’m not going to like this one whit.”

  “Then we are even,” Lyon replied. “Because something tells me that if you felt compelled to stop and tell me about something you’ve done, neither will I.”

  “You always were a canny bastard,” David told him. “And nay, you will not like this, I think. I hope you have something more than bog water to drink. I’m not in the bloody mood to grind my ale between my teeth.”

  “The ale is fine,” Lyon said. “Just do not sit beneath the rotting ceiling or you’ll get splinters in your cup—and then find yourself plucking slivers from your tongue the rest of the eve.”

  David’s brows lifted. “That bad?”

  “Aye,” Lyon replied with a nod. “That bad.” And then he grinned. “But better than having rats crawl up your arse while you sleep any day.”

  David chuckled. “I’m certain,” he said, and shook his head. “Damned Highlanders! I’d rather be mauled by a pack of rats any bloody day than to deal with a single one!”

  “That bad?”

  “That bad,’ David assured him as they entered the hall. He flung off his mantle and cast it over his arm. “Whatever possessed me to want to be king?”

  Lyon answered without pause. “Because you bloody well love it, and you were always better at chess than anyone.”

  David laughed. “Even you?”

  “Aye, you canny bastard, even me.”

  It was getting late.

  Squinting as the letters blurred before her eyes, Meghan set the manuscripts down. The texts, she’d discovered, were both a personal memoir and a corresponding treatise, with references to passages within the first volume.

  It began with a rather poignant account of Lyon’s youth, his days spent in study under the Archbishop of Canterbury. And it seemed to Meghan that though these had been his most uncertain years, years spent sequestered from his peers, they were also his most contented years. Though he’d questioned his soul, he’d seemed focused and certain of his life’s ambition. While he’d studied beneath the tutelage of the clergy, his ambitions had been of an academic sort; his enlightenment, while spiritual in nature, hardly adhered to the teachings of the church.

  In fact, Meghan thought some of his beliefs quite heretical, even for her. Gavin would have apoplexy were he to read them, she was certain. He was nigh ready to tie Meghan to the pulpit for simply suggesting that her sanctuary was the woodlands, and that God’s sermon came to her through the creatures of his creation. But these essays questioned the very existence and nature of God.

  Within his first essays, he had explored in great detail his quest for spiritual truths and had been quick to dismiss the import of materialistic pursuits. It was very clear to Meghan, here, that his ambitions had been of a noble sort.

  His next essay had been a little less conclusive and a little more discomposing.

  Though he did not elucidate, something had happened to change his life’s direction. He had by now abandoned his former aspirations to an erudite life and had resigned himself to a more... at first defensive... then offensive perspective. His objective seemed to be the pursuit of justice.

  She was almost finished now with that particular essay though not completely, and though she wasn’t
certain she should continue—it felt a little as though she were peering through a looking glass at his soul—she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  The account drew her as much as did the man who’d written it.

  She had no notion how long she’d sat reading, but knew that it had grown dark outside by the dimness of the room—not that there had been much light to begin with, as the only window that graced the chamber was nailed shut from within. The afternoon light was beginning to fade, and last night’s torch had gutted itself sometime during the night. The remains of the supper they’d brought her were left almost untouched.

  Now it was growing too dark to read.

  Frustrated, for the treatise had grown ever more fascinating, Meghan rose from the desk and went to the window to examine the shutters, to see if there were some way she could brighten the room.

  She found the shutters nailed firmly so that they could not be pried open, and no matter how hard Meghan tugged at them, they would not budge. She wondered who would do such a thing. Surely not Lyon Montgomerie? What manner of man could compose such a brilliant memoir and then board a bloody window shut rather than simply fix the shutters?

  As she struggled with the shutters, she came aware of voices outside and below the window, and ceased her struggles in order to try to make them out. She thought she would recognize Lyon’s voice most anywhere, but the other she could not make out—not Baldwin’s, she was near certain.

  Searching for a knothole or a crack to peer from, she listened, but in vain, and then could suddenly hear the echo of voices carry up from the hall below.

  Meghan rushed to the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. She frowned at the discovery, though it should have pleased her. He hadn’t locked her in, after all. What was wrong with her that she should forget to try something so simple as the lock upon a door? She’d wasted entirely too much time sitting within his room, prying into his papers and his past, when she should have been making some attempt to get home.

  Aye, it was entirely possible that a union between them would be advantageous to all, but Meghan didn’t appreciate being coerced into anything. It would suit her much better were she to go home to her brothers and discuss with them the possibility of wedding Lyon Montgomerie. And if Lyon wished to wed with her, he could ask for her hand in matrimony, rather than bloody well tell her she was going to wed him will she nill she!

  Pah! She hadn’t even drawn a comb through her hair, she remembered suddenly, but didn’t care. And having slept in her dress, it was rumpled and even slovenly—och, she must appear every bit as insane as she would have him believe she was!

  Making her way cautiously down the stairs, she examined her surroundings, and determined that it had been far too long a time since the manor had been in good repair. As the stairs creaked noisily beneath her careful steps, she didn’t wonder any longer why the shutters had been boarded shut. She could perfectly understand why the very thought of repairing them might seem overwhelming. And yet, someone had to begin the repairs somewhere with something, or the entire place was going to crumble down upon itself.

  She spied them upon the dais as she descended the final steps—Lyon and his guest. At least Meghan assumed it was a guest, because he didn’t look like one of Lyon’s men-at-arms.

  In fact, this man was dressed in finer garments than Meghan had ever set eyes upon in her life, and his bearing was anything but common. She knew at once that this was someone of import—someone who had the power to help her if he chose. And having determined that, she straightened her shoulders, and made her way resolutely to the dais.

  Like a wolf scenting his mate, the instant she’d descended into the hall Lyon sensed her presence, and his gaze lifted to find her watching discreetly from the foot of the stairs. And suddenly, he could hear not a word David was speaking to him, his attention wholly taken by the woman standing in the shadows.

  “So it seems I misjudged MacKinnon,” David disclosed, somehow oblivious of their audience. He had erroneously chosen to kidnap the Laird of the MacKinnon’s son, hoping to hold him as a ward of the court so that they could better control the MacKinnon’s interests. It had been a mistake. MacKinnon had not only retrieved his son, but he’d absconded with the daughter of an English noble and had promptly made her his wife.

  But Lyon was no longer listening.

  Something like birds took flight within his gut, and his breath strangled within his throat as Meghan’s gaze settled upon him, her beautiful eyes slitting. Her chin tilted defiantly and she pushed away from the banister and marched toward them. His heart jumped.

  “I can see now that it was a mistake to involve his son,” David continued, “but what has been done cannot be undone.”

  Lyon nodded absently.

  Meghan Brodie captured him as no woman ever had. She roused his body... made his soul yearn for something... more.

  He shook his head, trying to cast off the spell she wove over him. “Misjudged who?”

  “Lyon?” David said, sounding vexed. “Have you not listened to a bloody word I’ve said to you?”

  Lyon didn’t see the point in lying.

  “Nay,” he admitted, but his eyes remained fixed upon Meghan’s lovely face as she marched toward them, her expression foreboding. Even ungroomed as she was, looking every bit the part of a madwoman, he thought her beauty unparalleled. And God’s teeth, whatever else she was, whether mad or simply shrewd as the devil, she was unshrinking as well, and Lyon braced himself, expecting the worst. There was little worse to bear than the lash of an angry woman’s tongue.

  David’s gaze followed his.

  “You have a guest!” he said with some surprise, and then as she approached, undaunted, with fire flashing in her glorious green eyes, he turned to Lyon and asked, “Lyon... who is she?”

  Lyon cast his friend a sheepish glance. “She,” he replied with some hesitation, “is the complication I was speaking of.” And he shrugged.

  CHAPTER 16

  Meghan decided she would appeal to the man’s sense of loyalty. If he were countryman, she had some chance, at least, of gaining his support. If he were an English toad, then she was simply out of luck. It was impossible to tell by his manner of speech as he spoke like an Englishman, with only the merest trace of a brogue.

  “Are you a Scotsman, sir?” she asked, meeting his gaze as she approached the table. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

  He cocked his head at her in puzzlement. “Aye,” he answered, casting Lyon a wary glance. “Why do you ask, lass?”

  “Verra good!” Meghan exclaimed. “Because I wish to go home!”

  The man turned to Lyon, looking all the more confused by her vehement demand. “What is this?” he asked. “What does she mean, Lyon?”

  “Uh,” was all Lyon Montgomerie could think to say.

  Meghan turned to glare at him, and was pleased to see that he had the decency to flush at the prospect of an explanation.

  She wasn’t about to let him explain, however, because he would no doubt find some way to justify his actions. “He abducted me!” she charged, pointing an accusing finger at Lyon.

  The man’s brows lifted higher. “Lyon?” he said. “Is this true?”

  Lyon had the good grace not to deny it. He nodded with lifted brows and an abashed grimace. “Afraid so,” he admitted.

  “Christ!” the man exploded.

  “I was going to tell you as soon as you were finished,” Lyon assured him.

  “What a bloody pair we are!” the man declared. “Whyever would you do such a thing? Who the devil is she anyway?”

  “I am Meghan Brodie!” she announced, wholly annoyed with their apparent comradeship. “And I dinna know who you are, sir. You dinna sound like any bluidy Scot to me, but my brothers will not be pleased to hear this, I assure you!”

  The man turned to Lyon once more. “Gaddamn, Lyon, but I anticipate you had a better reason than to simply warm your bed. Her very demeanor shrivels my willy!”

/>   Meghan gasped in outrage at his crude remark, and her face heated.

  Lyon chuckled softly. “I cannot claim I did to begin with,” he said, “but in my own defense, I must say she was somewhat more appealing last night.”

  The man chortled, and Meghan bristled. She gritted her teeth and clenched her hands at her sides. “I dinna see what precisely is so amusing!” she assured them both and narrowed her eyes at the arrogant stranger. “Who are you, sir?” she demanded of him.

  He regarded her a moment, and then proclaimed matter-of-factly with an arrogant lift of his chin, “I am David of Scotia.”

  Meghan blinked in surprise. “King David?”

  “Aye, lass.”

  “Son of Malcom Ceann Mor?”

  “None other.”

  Meghan tilted her head at him in disdain. “You dinna look like a king to me, sir,” she accused him. “You look and sound like a bluidy rotten Sassenach!”

  He merely smiled at that.

  “Och!” Meghan exclaimed, and was disheartened.

  Or was she truly?

  “I dinna suppose I can persuade you to send me home?” she asked the man without hesitation, but also without expectation. There was little chance of it, she knew, when he was the reason Lyon Montgomerie was in Scotia to begin with. The two were in league together. Bedfellows!

  “Give me a single reason I should question the judgment of one of my most valuable men,” he answered.

  “Because I dinna wish to wed with him is why!” Meghan said, lifting her chin.

  His gaze flew to Lyon’s in surprise. His brow arched imperiously. “Wed, Lyon?”

  Lyon seemed to brace himself. He nodded. “Aye,” he answered simply.

  “You cannot wed with her!” David argued.

  “That’s precisely what I have been trying to tell him!” Meghan interjected, pleased to see he was finally seeing her point.

  “What of MacLean?” David asked, ignoring her.

  Meghan bristled at his apparent dismissal.

  “What of him?” Lyon replied mildly. “I have already dispatched him a letter of explanation, as I did with you. I assure you I’ll not be wedding Alison MacLean.”