And as soon as her fingers touched his skin, they both froze. She couldn’t be certain why he had stiffened—perhaps he was direly offended by her impertinence—but for her part, she was arrested by the warmth, the burning, which began where she touched him and traveled up her arm. It seemed to creep across her chest, making her itchy, and she wanted nothing more than to close her entire hand around his arm, to touch his bare chest and scarred cheek…to lick him.
Lick him? It’s a good thing ye dinnae care about propriety, lass.
And then he exhaled, the lids of his eyes lowering, and Bonnie swore she felt him shudder. Shudder beneath her touch, which is when her fingers did tighten, as if she couldn’t stand to lose the connection.
Maybe she couldn’t.
When he swallowed, the long, golden column of his throat moved in the most intriguing way, making her wonder what his skin felt like at the base of his throat. But then he was looking at her again, and as she met his eyes, she saw something in those hazel depths she couldn’t identify.
“Just the medieval embroidery,” he finally said, and it wasn’t a growl or a grunt or anything. Just…words, and it took her a moment to realize he was making a peace offering. He was allowing her access to part of his collection.
She allowed her gratitude to show as her smile bloomed. “Thank ye, Lyon,” she breathed.
And when she nodded, she could swear that something she’d seen in his eyes had now turned to uncertainty and confusion.
Chapter 2
“Oh, isnae that lovely? The way the attraction was just immediate?”
“Do stop sighing like an overly dramatic virgin, Grisel. Go make some tea if you need to.”
“Tea! Excellent idea, Evangeline. I’ll be right back!”
“She sounds like an overly aroused virgin, if ye ask me. All the lass did was touch Lyon’s arm!”
“Well, Broca, you know how Grisel gets with these sorts of things.”
“Um…Evangeline? Broca?”
“Aye, Willa dear?”
“Have ye been paying attention to the weather?”
* * *
When was the last time someone had touched him the way she was doing now? Oh, he wasn’t without human contact, but when Keith landed punches, Lyon didn’t feel them…not the way he was feeling her hand on his bare skin.
And aching for more.
What was it about this woman? She was nothing special to look at, but…damnation! When she touched him—touched him as if she weren’t afraid of him, as if his scars didn’t disgust her—he’d felt a foreign warmth creep up his arm and into his chest.
And damn him, but he wanted more.
Which is why he made himself shake her hand from his arm. He didn’t deserve the warmth she offered. He lowered his voice to its habitual growl and jerked his chin toward the opposite side of his study. “The art is over there.”
She cocked her head and studied him a few heartbeats longer than comfortable, and he saw a curiosity in those dark blue eyes he didn’t like. He couldn’t afford this intriguing interloper to be curious about him…not when she was willing to touch him so fearlessly.
Finally though, she nodded and turned to the far side of the room, and Lyon exhaled. To keep himself from watching the sway of her hips as she walked away, he scooped up his shirt, which he’d tossed over the back of his chair when he’d finished taking Keith’s pummeling, and pulled it over his head.
He was buttoning it up—not that it mattered, now that she’d seen his scars bared to the world—when he heard her gasp.
“This is beautiful!”
He knew what she’d found. Lyon’s grandfather had mounted the necklace’s delicate gold links in a glass frame to protect it, and now it held the place of honor among the shelves.
“It’s rumored to have been made by Duncan Oliphant,” he said gruffly, surprised he was offering information.
From the way her eyes widened as she threw a smile his way, she seemed to realize it was unusual for him to offer conversation willingly. “The man who started the silversmithing school? He’s the founder of Oliphant Engraving, is he no’?”
Lyon folded his arms across his chest and rested a hip against the desk. “The engraving business wasnae started until many generations later. But thanks to him, it’s said the Oliphants are the finest engravers in the Highlands.”
Why in the hell was he still speaking to her? And why was he craning his head to get a better look at her as she bent to examine the necklace? He should be ignoring her and getting back to the new design he’d been working on…
But Bonnie Oliphant was impossible to ignore, especially when she made those alluring little hums and gasps when she found something new about the gold-work to enjoy. He liked the way she used the pad of one delicate finger to trace the design against the glass.
He didn’t want to like it, damn him.
“Has anyone worn it recently? I wonder how heavy it is.”
Would Rose have worn it eventually, had she lived?
“Nay,” Lyon growled.
His tone didn’t seem to dissuade Bonnie. She straightened and moved to the next shelf where, among the tomes on mechanics and engineering Lyon preferred to keep here in his study rather than the too-painful library, the framed fragments of embroidery rested.
“These are incredible,” she murmured, tilting her head to one side to study the linen fragments. “The colors have faded, of course, but imagine how vibrant they must have once been. I cannae quite make out the subject…”
Despite his intentions, Lyon found himself scooping the gas lamp from the desk and crossing to her. When had it started to snow?
He glanced at the window, only now realizing how dark the room had become, and not for the first time, wondering how difficult it would be to wire this room, and a few others, with electric lights.
Less risk of fire, at least.
That alone would be worth the cost.
When he arrived at her side with the lamp, she offered him a brilliant smile of thanks. No words, just that smile, and Lyon was thankful social niceties didn’t require him to speak, because he didn’t think he could at that moment. Her smile had knocked him with the same force as one of Keith’s blows, but he didn’t think he’d recover anytime soon.
“Oh, that’s much better. Here, lift it higher,” she commanded, and numbly, he did. “Fascinating!”
She leaned closer to the glass-encased linen, her nose almost touching as she studied the tiny, ancient figures. “Why, it’s a battle scene, is it no’? Look, there’s a severed limb, and this must be blood.”
Lyon had spent many hours poring over these embroideries, almost as fascinated as he’d been by the sketches and designs inside the connecting shelves. These were genuine works of art, even if the subject was a little…strange.
“Battles, aye.” He cleared his throat, unused to this strange desire to want to speak, but compelled to do so nonetheless. “I read somewhere that Nessa Oliphant, the woman who designed and created these, was a verra unusual lady.”
“She’d have to be,” murmured Bonnie, her finger tracing the blow of a battle-ax. “Just remarkable. I’m certain I can still see the facial expressions.”
When she reached up and took the lamp from his hand, her fingers brushed against his, and he instinctively tightened his hold, which resulted in a brief tug-of-war, until his brain caught up and commanded he release his hold. She smiled again, and part of him numbly wondered if it’d be worth it to hold on to the lamp longer if only she’d smile at him again.
Keep yer cock in check, lad. She’s a lady, and ye’re a…
A beast.
Aye, the reminder was helpful.
She’d taken the lamp and moved on, murmuring thoughtfully as she went. She found another collection of ancient embroidery, framed together by some long-dead ancestor. “Just beautiful. Look! In this one, the couple appears to be embracing. This woman was one of yer grandmothers?”
He shrugged. “Likely no�
�� a direct line. There’s family trees in the library which show her as a sister to Duncan and Malcolm Oliphant.”
She straightened; her brows high. “The Duncan Oliphant who made that necklace?” When he shrugged—Duncan was a common enough name—she pressed on. “And who was Malcolm Oliphant?”
Now that his hands were free, he crossed his arms in front of his chest again as he nodded to the shelves to the right of the now-gray window. “An inventor. Some of his sketches and designs are preserved over there.”
She lifted the lamp and peered in their direction, but soon glanced back at the embroidery. That’s right; she likely wasn’t as interested in the mechanical inventions of his ancestor as he was, since she’d come all this way to procure sources for her book on women’s history.
“Oh, this one appears to—” Frowning, she shifted the lamp and leaned closer. “That is no’ an embrace, is it?”
It was the speculative tone of her voice which made his lips twitch. This woman had barged into his private study and didn’t bat an eye at his near nudity, then demanded she be shown his personal family heirlooms. Of course a little thing like embroidered medieval pornography wouldn’t bother her.
“Nay,” he said drily. “It’s a bit more.”
“Good heavens, her leg is up over his shoulder!” Bonnie cocked her head to one side. “I didnae think such a thing was possible.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, he was compelled to point out, “It is.”
She glanced over at him, her lips curling upward. But as soon as their gazes met, her eyes widened, her mouth opened in a silent “oh,” and a blush stained her cheeks pink.
So she could be embarrassed? Good.
Only…she wasn’t embarrassed by seeing him half-nude. Oh, her eyes had gone right to his scars—how could he have missed that—but instead of the revulsion he was used to seeing, or the pity, as strangers examined the burn marks on his face…instead, he saw interest. Intrigue. She’d seen his naked chest and had studied his scars, but he’d seen desire in the way her blue eyes had widened and in the way her lips had parted.
And he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Feeling vindictive, he held her gaze for a long moment, watching the blush creep up her cheeks as she realized they were standing beside one another—virtual strangers, and him half-dressed—viewing embroidered depictions of athletic sexual congress.
“The next panel is even better,” he murmured.
She sucked in a breath and tore her gaze away from his, hurrying to step over to the next shelf where a well-meaning relative had secured the naughtiest of the ancient needlework carefully behind glass.
It had been Lyon’s favorite as a lad, and he’d made certain to show them to his younger brothers when the time had been right. Da had also enjoyed them, as had generations of other young, aroused male Oliphants.
“Goodness,” she breathed, as she peered at the new depictions. “There’s more than four legs in that embrace. Is that— What is that woman doing to him? I cannae tell if it’s torture or no’.”
“It’s called fellatio,” he said in a dry tone.
Maybe it was the scientific term, but when she glanced over at him, her lips were twitching, and her cheeks were aflame. “Oral stimulation performed upon the penis?”
Ah, she was being scientific as well. Nodding somberly, he intoned, “She put his cock in her mouth.”
The noise which came from her lips might’ve been a snort, or an aborted laugh, but she raised her fingertips to cover them as she turned back to the embroidery. “And the other woman? What’s she doing?”
“Forcing him to suck on her tits, looks like.”
Good God, had he really just said that out loud? To a lady?
“Hmm. So it is torture then, eh?”
Of course, said lady was standing with him, alone, peering interestedly at pornography, so perhaps it wasn’t all that strange.
And this time, he was almost certain the noise she made was a sort of strangled moan.
Excellent. Perhaps, eventually, he might make her uncomfortable enough she’d go away. Go away and spread stories about how the Beast of the Oliphants really was as beastly as claimed, and also a complete arse, who insisted on scandalizing poor helpless women in his study.
Except…she wasn’t helpless, was she? She was armed with a biting wit, and a touch which could bring him to his knees if he allowed it.
And she wasn’t exactly scandalized.
In fact, her eyes were sparkling merrily as she turned to him, the lamp lifted between them. “Well, this is some of the best-preserved needlework from the medieval period I’ve ever seen. The details are remarkable enough to indicate the woman who made this was a real artist.” Her lips curled up further on one side, making her seem even more approachable. “But I think it is safe to say I will no’ be able to include much, if any, of Nessa Oliphant’s work in my book!” She chuckled, and before he could agree that was likely the case, she continued, saying, “I would love the chance to see the family trees ye spoke of though. Would that be possible? If I can find a way to include a rendition of one of her pieces—perhaps the tamer of the embraces—I’d like to ken how she was related to the family.”
He was already shaking his head, already stepping back, away from her. “Impossible. The research takes up entire books and is too large and delicate to be moved.”
“Ye said they were in the library. I’m sure I’ll only need an hour or two, and I’ll wear protective gloves—”
“Nay.” He bit out the denial, the request making his stomach roil once more. “Nay, nae one goes in the library except me.”
“But—”
“Nay.”
When she flinched, he realized he’d yelled and silently cursed himself. But at least she’d gotten the message and pressed her lips tightly together.
But remembering the way she’d convinced him to change his mind last time, he stepped back again, even more out of her reach. He would not allow his resolve to falter just because she touched him.
No matter how good it had felt.
A knock on the door saved him from having to explain, and as usual, Keith didn’t bother to wait to be beckoned. The younger man stuck his head around the door—he’d put his shirt and jacket back on after their sparring session, thank God—and grinned unrepentantly.
“It’s snowing,” he said cheerfully.
Unconsciously, Lyon’s gaze flicked to the gray window, then back, before he scowled. “I ken.”
“Snowing too hard for Phineas to make it back for the lady.” His grin grew as he nodded to Bonnie. “Sorry, miss, but ye’re stuck here for the duration.”
The duration?
Both he and Bonnie moved toward the window at the same time, meeting in front of the cold glass. She leaned forward as though she’d be able to see the ground from this height, but Lyon placed his palm against the glass. He could tell, just from how hard it was coming down, that there’d be no travel for the rest of the day.
Or night.
“Fook.”
Raising a brow, she shot him a wry look. “It is no’ as bad as all that, Lyon.”
“Aye, it is,” he growled. “Ye’re stuck here.”
With me.
She just clucked and waved her free hand dismissively. “Please dinnae care for my reputation. My sisters are happily married, and my mother has made it clear—by my choice to pursue independence rather than a life as a biddable wife—she wants nothing more to do with me. My reputation is well and truly ruined.”
Lyon wanted to object, but for some reason, his mind got stuck on the idea of this woman as a biddable wife. As any kind of wife.
A wife, who might sit across the table from a husband. Who might smile and tease and listen to a man’s ideas and plans and contraptions. Who might sigh and scream and moan in bed.
Who might love him.
Why would Bonnie do any of those things? Rose didnae, no’ at the end.
“Perhaps it i
snae yer reputation I’m worried about,” he muttered, turning away with a scowl.
She laughed, but just as quickly, slapped her hand over her mouth. When he turned to scowl at her, he saw her checks pinking again.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled from behind her fingers. Then she lowered her hand, took a deep breath, and met his eyes, hers still twinkling. “I’m sorry, Lyon. I shouldnae have laughed. Yer reputation is fierce, surely ye ken that, and for a moment, I thought…”
When she trailed off, he crossed his arms and lowered his brows. “Ye thought what?”
She wasn’t intimidated. Nay, of course not.
Instead, she shrugged. “I thought ye meant allowing me to stay the night would tarnish yer reputation by showing people ye’re no’ really the beast everyone thinks ye are.”
Damn her and her perception. Damn him. He swallowed past the anger and confusion which threatened to choke him. “Aye, we cannae have that.”
From the door, Keith’s teasing voice called out, “So two for dinner, aye?”
Without dropping Bonnie’s gaze, Lyon growled out, “Aye.”
She gave an impertinent little curtsey. “I do hope ye forgive me if I dinnae dress for the meal, milord. I brought nae other clothing.”
And now she was stuck with him. Had Lyon been a better man, he might’ve made a joke about his state of undress. Instead, he turned away and stalked for his desk, pretending interest in his sketches until he heard the door close behind him.
The paper in his hand crumbled in his fist.
Damn him! Damn the weather and damn Phineas!
He was trapped in this old castle, haunted by ghosts of his past, and now she was trapped here with him.
And he still wasn’t sure if he was a beast or not.
* * *
Dinner wasn’t a complete disaster.
The Lass Who Loved a Beast Page 3
