The Lass Who Loved a Beast

by Lee, Caroline

  * * *

  Lyon was breathing hard by the time he was done with his workout with Keith. It likely had to do with the fact the younger man never stopped smiling, which irritated Lyon beyond reason.

  Or perhaps the fact Keith seemed to never miss a chance to innocently bring up Bonnie. What did Lyon think she was doing up in the study? Did Lyon think she slept alright last night? Did Lyon know he’d taken her one of Lyon’s old shirts to sleep in?

  That sort of thing.

  Perhaps it wasn’t so innocent.

  So aye, by the end of their sparring, Lyon’s fists throbbed, his jaw ached where Keith had landed a particularly devastating blow, and the other man’s nose was bleeding. They were both breathing hard, and the fire in Lyon’s blood was nowhere close to being cooled.

  Every time he thought of Bonnie lying half-nude, covered only by his shirt…well, it raged again. And he didn’t like the feeling.

  “I’m going to cool down,” he growled, snatching the offered towel from Keith’s hand.

  The younger man grinned of course. “I’ll get cleaned up as well. I’m planning on spending the afternoon practicing my butlering, unless ye’re frustrated enough ye feel the need to beat the shite out of me again?”

  A reluctant smile tugged at Lyon’s lips, and he blew out a breath at Keith’s teasing. “It wasnae that bad.”

  “Aye, it was. Perhaps I’ll see if Bonnie has any knowledge of medical procedure.”

  And just like that, Lyon’s scowl was back.

  He was still wearing his boots with his kilt, so he tossed the towel over his shoulder and strode for the steps leading down to the first level and the door leading to the courtyard. Thankfully, some ancestor had replaced the ancient double doors—suitable for welcoming a medieval army—with a more accessible portal, so he was able to slip out without letting in too much snow.

  Aye, it was still coming down outside, although perhaps not as hard as it had the previous night. Lyon tilted his head back and took a deep breath, relishing the way the snowflakes melted as soon as they touched him.

  Perhaps that fire in his blood was useful after all.

  With the towel thrown over his shoulders, he began to trudge through the courtyard. The snow was past his knees, and the exercise reminded him he needed to work his leg muscles as hard as he did his upper body. After the fire, the doctors had informed him he’d lose most of the strength and mobility on his left side, including his left arm and shoulder. He’d given them a mighty, “Fook ye,” and devoted himself to his exercises.

  Keith might think he enjoyed beating the shite out of him, but in reality, Lyon was desperate to keep his body working. It had failed him once already.

  His pensive hike took him past the ruined stables, but he didn’t allow himself to linger. He hadn’t allowed himself to linger ever since the fire and couldn’t do so now. One of these days, he promised himself he’d tear the damn thing down, but not now. Once it was gone, there’d be nothing to remind him of his failure besides the scars.

  And he deserved to be reminded as much as possible.

  By the time he reached the rear of the castle, he was reconsidering his plan. Normally, after a workout with Keith, he’d go to the loch to wash up. But during winter, when the snow piled up around the keep, throwing himself into a convenient snowbank did the same job just as well. Now, having dropped backwards into a large pile of snow, he wasn’t steaming anymore, and in fact, the cold was beginning to seep inside him.

  He decided it would be best to cut through the kitchens.

  But when he pushed open the back door, he was met with an unexpected sight. Instead of the plump and cheerful Mrs. Oliphant, the woman standing at the scarred oak table was none other than the lady who’d haunted his dreams last night.

  “What in the hell are ye doing here?”

  Bonnie straightened from where she was kneading a pile of bread dough and blew at a piece of hair which had fallen from her simple bun. She smiled, and the sight warmed him more than the heavy iron stove did.

  “Why hello, Lyon.” She used the back of her hand to push the errant lock of hair out of her face again. “I was just thinking of ye.”

  “What—”

  Dinnae ask what she was thinking of, ye idiot.

  “Where’s Mrs. Oliphant?” he snapped instead.

  She didn’t seem bothered; she never seemed bothered by any of his growls or glowers. Instead, she shrugged, grinned again, and went back to kneading the dough. “I dinnae ken. I’ve yet to meet her. Are ye certain she exists?”

  When she sent him a teasing sideways look, the hair fell into her face again, and Lyon was moving before he realized it, his gaze locked on that out-of-place piece.

  “Perhaps she cannae come because of the storm,” he murmured, stepping up in front of her.

  And before he knew what he was doing, he reached up and lifted that piece of hair, tucking it into her bun the way he used to do for Rose.

  It was only then he realized she was holding her breath as she stared up at him with those beautiful eyes, and he jerked away, stepping back to put distance between them.

  Idiot! Ye’re half-naked and standing entirely too close. Ye touched her!

  But yesterday, when she’d arrived, he’d been wearing just a kilt as well, and she hadn’t minded touching him.

  Now, she cleared her throat and focused not-entirely-believably on the bread dough in front of her. “I offered to make a simple luncheon. The potatoes are baking in the oven.”

  And that was when Lyon realized two things: there was a delicious scent wafting around the kitchen, and he was suddenly very ravenous.

  For food, he told himself.

  But still, she hadn’t pulled away from him. So he swallowed down the instinct which told him to hide away, to mope and mourn, and instead, took a deep breath. “How can I help?”

  He was rewarded with a brilliant smile, which made him feel like some kind of hero.

  * * *

  It stopped snowing sometime during her second night in Oliphant Castle, and Bonnie had never been so disappointed when she woke up to blue skies and realized this might be her last day with Lyon.

  The day before—after Lyon had helped her prepare luncheon—they’d spent the afternoon in his study, working in what she imagined was companionable silence. Since the cook had never returned, they helped Keith make dinner as well, then the three of them ate in the cozy little room by the kitchens. Most of the conversation was between her and Keith of course, but every once in a while, Lyon would chime in with a piece of Oliphant history.

  And she was completely intrigued. Not only was he a walking, talking source for her book, but she loved hearing his opinion on things. It was clear the man—the future Laird Oliphant—was proud of his heritage, and that made her smile.

  Of course, a lot of the things he did made her smile.

  To her surprise, he joined her and Keith for breakfast that clear morning, and the first thing he announced upon entering the cozy little room was, “There’s too much snow out there. Phin willnae be able to come fetch ye today either.”

  And the joy which bloomed in her chest was nothing compared to the realization he didn’t want her to leave right away either.

  So that day was spent much the same as the day before—cooking, researching, working, with him disappearing to spar with poor Keith about midday. Bonnie pulled out one of Mrs. Oliphant’s cookbooks and tried her hand at making cookies, which both men declared were really quite good. Their compliments made her glow with accomplishment.

  The following day was slightly different as the cook herself appeared in the kitchens that morning. However did she get there? It must’ve been some sort of magic since the snowdrifts were still so deep.

  After the mid-day meal, on the cook’s suggestion, Lyon invited Bonnie for a stroll around the courtyard. That was too good an offer to pass up, even though her boots weren’t intended to trudge through the high snow, and she was shivering under her coat. B
ut it was entirely worth it for the look on his face when she scooped up a handful of snow, packed it into a ball, and threw it at his chest.

  “What the hell was that?” he growled.

  “A snowball, Lyon. I’m throwing snowballs at ye.”

  “Nay, ye’re no’. That was just one snowball. Snowballs is plural.”

  She pursed her lips and hummed, pretending to consider his semantics, all the while leaning subtly to the side so she could sneak another handful of snow into a ball. Unfortunately, she wasn’t subtle enough.

  With a sudden roar, he leapt forward, and just when she began to think he might tackle her, instead, he leaned over and scooped up a huge armful of snow. Before she could understand what was going on, he’d dumped the entire thing atop her head.

  The laughter quickly overcame the outrage, and she came up sputtering. She lobbed snowball after snowball at his chest, face, shoulders…but he just stood there, his arms crossed, with a faintly bored expression on his face, and the slightest sparkle in his hazel eyes.

  Soon, she realized he’d made all of his moves, and it wasn’t as much fun without his reaction, but chuckling, she fell against his side. He offered his arm, as if they were out for a mere stroll, and she held on as she struggled back to the front door.

  Tomorrow, would Phineas come for her? Or, as she suspected, had he left her there at Oliphant Castle to be alone with Lyon…on purpose? If so, he might not be in any hurry to retrieve her.

  But still, her time there was limited, and she didn’t want to spend another frustrated night lying in that big bed, dreaming of Lyon Prince, without knowing if there was something between them or not.

  So that evening, aided by the overcast skies and threat of more snow, she asked Lyon, “Do ye play chess?”

  He eyed her for a moment, as if trying to determine her reason for asking, before finally inclining his head slightly. “Aye,” he answered cautiously.

  “Excellent. I propose a match.” There was a set in his study; she’d stared at it more than a few times over the last several days, hoping for inspiration. “And we’ll make it interesting.”

  When they were settled in front of the board—since he took the dark pieces, she was seated before the whites—he leaned back against his chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and asked, “How interesting?”

  Excellent. She knew his curiosity wouldn’t be able to hold out too long. Smiling, she shrugged. “The loser owes the winner a favor. And for each forfeited piece, the loser owes an answer to a question asked by the winner.”

  When he eventually nodded, she pressed her lips together to keep from crowing. She was a very good chess player.

  Indeed, he was the first to forfeit a pawn, and he gestured impatiently to her. “Ask yer question.”

  It wouldn’t do to jump right into the things which really mattered, so she decided to ease into it slowly. “Why do ye wear a kilt, even in the winter?”

  He blinked, obviously expecting something more personal. But he glanced down at himself, as if surprised to discover he was wearing a jacket and waistcoat with his kilt. “I wear it because it’s expected.”

  “As the laird’s heir?”

  “As the Beast of the Oliphants.” Something bitter flashed in his eyes before his gaze landed on the merry fire in the hearth. “I ken I’m thought of as barbaric.”

  She scoffed. “Aye, but that would be mitigated if yer clothing wasnae two hundred years out of date.”

  “Why no’? This castle is two hundred years out of date. Remind me to show ye the hidden passages.”

  There were hidden passages? She smiled, pleased he was willing to show them to her. “What’s the real reason for the kilt, Lyon?”

  The roll of his eyes was slight, but she caught it.

  “The real reason? It’s terribly comfortable and verra freeing.”

  She was about to ask what he meant by that, when he met her eyes and unfolded his arms to reach down and adjust himself.

  There.

  In front of her.

  Part of her wanted to blush and slam her eyes shut, but the rest—the academic part, which was always curious of course—couldn’t help but stare, fascinated. She remembered the medieval embroidery where the woman fellated the man and wondered what Lyon would look like under that kilt.

  When he cleared his throat, she realized she was still staring and snapped her gaze back up, half-horrified, half-amused. He raised his good brow, and her lips twitched.

  “Yer move,” she managed hoarsely, and he leaned forward to examine the board.

  They went back and forth, each forfeiting trivial answers. He asked about her life with Vanessa and Ember at the Oliphant Inn, and what their mother was really like. She asked about the castle, the passages, and why he was comfortable with so few servants.

  It was fascinating and wonderful, and she was half in love with him by the time the match was finished.

  Or rather, not quite finished. In one languid motion, she moved her rook into position and took his bishop. “Check.”

  His queen would be able to counter, but that would leave his king open to her bishop, and judging from the scowl on his lips, he knew it. But first…

  “One more answer, if ye dinnae mind.”

  He blew out his breath in one giant heave, as if it were a major inconvenience, and flopped back against his chair. “Fine,” he barked.

  This was a question she’d had since she’d arrived at Oliphant Castle, and since it seemed as if she’d win the match and be owed a favor, she could waste this opportunity on a question which had been bothering her.

  “Who is Keith to ye?”

  “He’s my butler.” The answer was immediate and flippant.

  She propped her elbow on the table and lowered her chin into her hand as she studied him. “He said the same thing, but he calls ye by yer first name and joins ye for meals. He’s frankly terrible at footmanning— Wait, is that a verb?” She frowned in concentration. “Footing? Footmandering? Footmaneering? Anyhow, he’s no’ verra good at serving meals. And he spars with ye daily.”

  Lyon was still watching her. “I need a sparring partner, and nae one else will live here with me.”

  She dropped her voice. “Who is he, Lyon?”

  He held her gaze, and he could see the debate raging behind those hazel eyes, so similar to his not-a-butler’s. Finally, he dipped his chin once in acknowledgement. “He’s my brother. A bastard my father sired with a local lass during his second marriage.”

  She exhaled, and he echoed it. Then she nodded. “That makes sense. The two of ye are close. As close as ye are with Phineas and Roland?”

  Shrugging, he dropped his gaze to the chess board, as if his answer didn’t matter. “Keith was with me after the fire. He’s stayed with me the entire time. Nae matter how bad it—I—got.”

  But she knew it did matter.

  He cleared his throat, reached out, and moved his queen into the only position available. Just as quickly, her bishop darted forward and knocked over his king.

  They met one another’s eyes over the chess board, and his lips twitched slightly. “The game is yers, milady.”

  “Bonnie,” she corrected in a whisper, already feeling the heat between them.

  He inclined his head slightly. How could he appear so at ease, but also a hunk of coiled masculinity, both at the same time?

  “Bonnie,” he repeated, “what favor will ye ask?”

  As if her body was reacting to stimulus outside of her brain, she stood and stepped around the table. He watched her as she moved up beside him, only his eyes moving, and she could swear he was holding his breath, same as her.

  And then she stood next to him, over him, close enough to see the short golden hairs on the smooth side of his jaw, and the flecks of gold in his eyes, and the ridges of the scars along his ruined eye socket. Even as she was absently wondering what they would feel like, her hand was rising, until she cupped his cheek.

  They both sucked i
n a breath, together, and it was one of the most intimate things she’d ever experienced.

  “I want ye to kiss me, Lyon.”

  His eyes widened, and she only then realized what she’d said. He looked half-sick at the prospect, and her lips curled wryly, deciding she didn’t want to ask him to do anything which would make him uncomfortable.

  “No’ now,” she whispered, brushing her thumb over his scars once, before dropping her hand. “But someday. I’ve never been kissed, and I want ye to be my first.”

  He made a noise which might’ve been a groan, might’ve been a laugh, but she didn’t have the courage to find out which it was.

  Instead, she curled her hands into fists to keep herself from reaching for him again, then brushed past him and hurried out of the study. Tonight, she’d pull on his shirt, curl herself around a pillow, and dream someone as magnificent as Lyon Prince might actually want someone like her.

  Chapter 4

  “I’m pleased to report, ye can cut the sexual tension at Oliphant Castle with a knife!”

  “I hope no’ the one ye used to cut the roast with, Broca.”

  “Nay, Willa. It was another damned metaphor.”

  “Broca, you are doing a marvelous job. By my calculations, this should just be about the time that our beast begins to soften toward our beauty, correct? The snowball fight was inspiring. Do check your notes.”

  “Um… Hold on. Aye! Aye, after that chess game, I think Lyon’s got more than enough to think about. And if everything goes correctly, this should be the day he gives her a gift to show her how he feels about her.”

  “Habbit f’nickum stout me bleck.”

  “Indeed, Seonag. Thank you. I suspect I can guess what Lyon will offer her.”

  “A kiss!”

  “Just shut yer mouth and watch the ball.”

  “Be kind, Broca. Calm down, Grisel. But aye, let us watch…”

  * * *

  I want ye to kiss me, Lyon.

  I want ye to be my first.