“Nae closer,” he commanded, but his voice caught. Being this close to the fire, having her this close, was making it difficult to breathe.
“I hope everyone’s alright. Oh! There’s my foreman. Mr. McCaffey!” She darted forward, waving frantically, and Lyon was right beside her. “Mr. McCaffey, ye’re safe. Thank God!”
The older man was soot-stained and sweaty and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, milady. The whole place will be gone by the time the brigade arrives to save the rest of them.” He leaned over and spat, but didn’t bother apologizing for his manners. “I only just managed to get out, and the ink will—”
Suddenly, Bonnie grabbed the man’s arm. “My manuscript, Mr. McCaffey?” she asked breathlessly. “Surely ye grabbed my manuscript before ye evacuated?”
“Nae time,” the man grunted, then spat again. “I’m sorry, milady.”
Her eyes wide, Bonnie slowly turned to her publishing house where her dreams were, quite literally, in flames.
“Bonnie,” Lyon urged gently, “come away.”
“My manuscript,” she whispered, and he knew what she was saying.
The only copy of her book, which she’d worked so hard on for so long, the very thing on which she’d pinned all of her dreams for her publishing house, was currently burning along with her presses and supplies.
Suddenly, she began frantically scrambling for the ties holding her winter bonnet in place. “Nay! Nay!”
“Bonnie, what are ye doing?” he asked in a low, intense voice as he stepped around Mr. McCaffey to reach her. “What are ye—”
Then he bit off his question with a muffled curse because it didn’t matter what she was doing with the bonnet, because she’d given up on the ties, and with an agonized cry, darted for the burning building.
Cursing again, he lunged and caught hold of her coat, but she twisted and pulled without stopping and managed to slip from his grasp.
He watched her disappear into the building, and his knees gave out.
“Nay,” he whispered, because suddenly, amazingly, it was all clear.
He loved Bonnie Oliphant, and he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge it. Not until he saw her leaving him.
She’d left him—she’d entered a fire—because she believed the risk was worth it to save her manuscript.
He trusted her judgement and respected her agency, the way she’d told him he hadn’t Rose’s, but he’d be damned if he sat and watched another woman he loved die in a fire.
“Nay,” he growled again, pushing himself to his feet and stumbling after her. “Nay!”
He grabbed his scarf and pulled it up around his nose and mouth and held his forearm up to protect his head. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunged into the fire after the woman he couldn’t live without.
Chapter 9
“I didn’t mean for you to set something on fire, Broca! I didn’t want that!”
“I didnae either. It wasnae in my notes.”
“Oh, dinnae worry, Broca. Things go off-script all the time in my stories. A little fire here and there hardly harmed anything.”
“First of all, Grisel, yer stories are haphazard fairy-tale rip-offs. Second of all, a little fire damn well did harm something! Poor Bonnie! And her dreams! And let’s not forget what Lyon has already been through before with a fire.”
“Stahmp ‘er dipped flink?”
“Sisters, decorum please. Broca, perhaps the fire wasn’t a result of your planning. Grisel, fire can be dangerous; that’s basically the entire moral of this story.”
“I thought the moral was no’ to judge someone by their appearance.”
“Well yes, Willa. Thank you. But the secondary moral is likely ‘Do not mess around with fire because it is dangerous and can create terrible scars.’ ”
“Oh.”
“Speaking of which, did anyone else notice the interesting parallels? Lyon plunged into a burning building once to save his first wife, and he did it again to save Bonnie?”
“Are you… Grisel dear, did you only just realize that?”
“That’s literally the whole damn point of this plot!”
“Oh, well then, I’m glad I picked up on it. It’s probably because of narrative causality, eh?”
“Narrative causality!”
* * *
Sounds filtered through the darkness.
Bonnie had been floating for years, or possibly moments, the world a confusing mix of red and yellow and black. There’d been voices—yelling, pleading, praying—and the terrible scent of burning paper likely coated the inside of her nose and mouth forever.
And always—always—the pain.
Part of her was aware enough to recognize the feel of the medicine someone poured down her throat, and she welcomed the oblivion. The water helped as well, and sometimes there was soup, the warm squash soup she’d liked so much.
But that was likely a delusion, wasn’t it?
As was his voice, reading to her from her own book.
But now, slowly, she realized all she heard was…silence. It was dark, and the sharp pain in her head and leg had faded to a dull, constant throb. And everything was silent.
She opened her eyes.
At least, she thought she’d opened her eyes, but all she saw was darkness, still. She took a breath, pleased to discover it didn’t hurt as much as she’d feared. She’d been in the fire, hadn’t she? She remembered reaching the case with her manuscript, but then a beam had fallen, blocking her escape…
And the fire had reached her.
But now she could breathe without coughing, which seemed miraculous. She was lying on her back, and…
Gently, her right hand patted the area around her. She was in a bed, the blankets pulled up to her chest, but her arms were free.
And her head…
The pain wasn’t as sharp as it had been. Slowly, worried about jarring her body more than necessary, Bonnie lifted her hand to touch the bandage around her forehead. She barely managed to contain her hiss of pain, and she jerked her fingers away.
In doing so, she snagged the cloth which had been laid over her eyes, and grateful to learn the cause of the darkness, pulled it away.
The light was near blinding, but in a relieving sort of way. Squinting, so the tears which had formed wouldn’t overwhelm her all at once, Bonnie tried to learn where she was.
The ceiling above her was familiar.
Why?
It wasn’t the ceiling of the room at the Oliphant Inn where she’d grown up. It wasn’t the ceiling of her room at the boarding house, or the guest room at Blabloblal where she often stayed.
It’s Oliphant Castle.
She was staring up at the ceiling of the room she’d stayed in previously at Oliphant Castle.
The memories came crashing back of the kiss she’d shared with Lyon in Inverness, of the things he’d told her about losing his first wife, about the way he’d reacted when she’d finally convinced him he was worthy of love.
Ye told him ye loved him.
And then she’d left him, plunging into the fire to save her manuscript.
Blinking now, she was able to see more of the room. But why was it so silent now when she’d heard his voice for so long? He’d spoken to her and about her. Or had it just been a fever dream where she’d heard his voice reading her book out loud?
There was nothing for it; she was going to have to move her head, wasn’t she?
Gritting her teeth, Bonnie stiffened her neck, trying her best to lift her head up off the pillow as she turned it, but still the bandage dragged, and the pain was blinding.
Whimpering softly, she gave up on the movement, ending with her head cocked only slightly to one side.
It was enough.
From this angle, she could see everything she needed to see. There, on the bedside table, was a cup of water and a stack of books. All sorts of books—engineering, fairy tales, history—and papers she’d recognize anywhere.
Her manuscript.
&nbs
p; Even better than knowing it had survived the fire was what sat beside the table. Or rather, who.
Lyon didn’t appear to be asleep, but it was hard to tell. He sat forward in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his forehead in his palms. His fingers dug into the short hair of his scalp, and she longed for the strength to reach for him and run her own fingers through those shorn locks.
He’d come to Inverness for her. He’d left his castle, cut his hair, and dressed like a gentleman, because he thought that’s what she wanted.
But she loved him for himself, and that included the barbaric beast he’d shown the world.
A flick of her eyes told her he was at least wearing his kilt again, thank goodness.
“Lyon,” she whispered. Or tried to at least. Her lips had parted, but no sound came out more than a breath. She dragged her tongue across her lower lip and tried again.
“Lyon?”
This time he jerked, almost comically. His left elbow fell off his knee, and he would’ve pitched forward had his head not snapped up.
“Bonnie!” His eyes were wide as he braced his palms on his knees and steadied himself. “Ye’re awake?” Then before she could answer, he shook his head wryly. “Of course ye’re awake; ye’re looking at me, are ye no’? How are ye feeling?”
Good heavens, it was wonderful to hear his voice.
“I…hurt.” Even speaking hurt her throat, but it was worth it.
His expression softened, and he scooted his chair even closer to the bed. She tried not to wince at the sound of the chair’s legs against the floor, but she must’ve failed.
“Oh, love,” he whispered, reaching for her hand, which was lying on top of the blankets. He squeezed it softly. “I ken ye hurt. I’m sorry.”
“I’m…sorry too.” Her whisper was gravelly.
He was watching her with some concern. “Do ye remember what happened?”
Most of it. She started to nod, then remembered her injuries when the movement caused a shooting pain in her head. This time she did hiss and lifted a hand to her bandages.
“Nay,” he cautioned and caught her hand before she could touch anything. Instead, he brought her fingers to his lips. “Yer head was badly burned, love. When I found ye, yer bonnet and skirts were aflame. The doctor says the wounds to yer leg will heal, and ye’ll be able to walk without a limp in a few months, but the burns on yer head were more serious.”
Her eyes had widened during his recitation, and she resisted the urge to pull her hand from his and try to probe at the injuries again. He must’ve noticed because he winced and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Bonnie. I shouldnae have told ye all that.”
“Nay,” she rasped. “I want…to ken.”
Dear God, what if her brain had been injured or something?
He took a deep breath, his eyes studying her, before finally nodding. “Aye, if I were in yer place, I’d want to ken as well. Are ye seeing alright? Hearing alright?”
She began to nod but remembered in time to stop herself. Instead, she whispered, “Aye, I think so.”
“Good. The doctors think the burns were all superficial, but ye’ve lost most of yer hair, and what was left they had to cut away to treat ye.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, love. Yer bonnet, then yer hair, seemed to trap the flames close to yer skin.”
That explained the intense pain in her scalp at least. But…it didn’t sound insurmountable. She knew Lyon’s hair didn’t grow easily on the burn scars on his cheek. Would she never be able to grow hair on her head again?
She was surprised to find tears pricking at her eyelids.
Why did she care? She’d never been particularly attached to her hair—although it had been attached to her! Oh dear, the laudanum was making her daft.
“Och, dinnae cry, lass,” he whispered again, apparently seeing the tears.
She blinked and squeezed his hand. “The house?”
It seemed to take him a moment to understand what she was asking, but then he nodded firmly. “Aye, the publishing house. It’s…” He shook his head and exhaled. “I’m doing plenty of apologizing, but I’m sorry for that too, Bonnie. The building is gone, the presses are just hunks of ruin now. Mr. McCaffey said they were insured?”
Her dream was…gone. Grimm and Sons publishing was gone. “Aye,” she croaked. There’d been insurance, but that meant finding new presses to buy, and a new building, and the supplies.
Right now, the pounding in her head made it all seem so hopeless.
The tears were threatening again, so she tried to focus on the amazing things Lyon had said. “Ye…saved me?”
“Of course,” he said simply, shrugging. “I kenned I couldnae lose ye, Bonnie, so I went after ye. But I’m just sorry I wasnae faster. By the time I found ye, in the smoke and confusion and flames, ye were almost too far gone.”
Her eyes cut to the manuscript on the bedside table. “My book?”
He nodded, one corner of his lips curling upward. “Aye, ye found it, love. Ye’d found the case, but I guess the smoke overcame ye, because I found ye lying on the floor, wrapped around it.”
On fire.
She remembered the coughing, the smoke burning her eyes and her lungs, knowing she’d never be able to take in a full breath again. She remembered the triumph of finally grasping the case with her life’s work in it, but even as she did so, cursing herself for her stupidity at giving up her new dream.
Her dream of a life with Lyon.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to memorize the feel of his hand in hers.
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat, love,” he whispered, lifting her fingers again to brush his lips across them.
“Nay, I’m…” God help her, her voice was so weak. “I’m sorry I tried to leave ye.”
The way his lips curled sadly, wryly, told her he remembered what she’d said to him about Rose. Lyon lifted one hand and gently brushed his fingertips across her cheek, resting them on her jaw.
“Ye tried to leave me, Bonnie, but I went after ye. And if ye try to leave me again, I’ll respect yer decision, but ye damn well ought to ken I’ll go after ye again and again.”
Oh.
“Because we belong together?” she rasped, her throat aching now from the effort of speaking.
His smile softened. “Because we belong together. Do ye want some water?”
Her relief must’ve shown on her face because he huffed slightly and reached for her.
“Slowly, lass. I’m going to sit ye up, alright?”
It was agony to move her head, but he was there to support her. She decided it was worth it when he moved to sit on the bed beside her, his arm around her and supporting the back of her heavily bandaged head.
“Easy, lass,” he murmured, holding the cup to her lips.
She greedily drank, the cool water feeling like heaven as it slid down her abused throat. All too soon, he was pulling the cup away.
“Ye can have a bit more soon. For now, let that settle.”
He began to shift her again, to lie her back down. But she grabbed his hand, stopping him.
“Nay,” she croaked. “Just…hold me?”
He huffed again slightly, and she thought it might’ve been a laugh. But it worked; instead of resting her back down on the pillow, Lyon lifted his feet to the bed and stretched them out, crossing his boots atop the blankets and pulled her flush against him. The movement jostled her head injury, but her aching leg was opposite him, so that allowed her to press her hip and shoulder against him.
Gently, slowly, she lowered her head to his shoulder, and he settled himself more comfortably.
“Better, lass?”
Nay, nothing was better. She was in agony, and her publishing house was gone. Her dream was destroyed.
But…but she was alive. Lyon had saved her and was holding her now, so that had to count for something. And her manuscript was safe too.
In the general scheme of things, didn’t her life’s work count
more than her hair?
Still, the thought of her destroyed dream had the tears leaking from the corner of her lids.
“Aye,” she whispered, although she wasn’t certain she believed herself.
He noticed of course, judging from the little noise he made in his chest, under her ear, and his hold on her tightened momentarily. It hurt, but being reminded he was there with her, and she was alive…well, that was worth it.
Aye, it was worth it, she told herself as her eyes drifted shut.
It had to be.
* * *
The flames merrily licking at the logs in the hearth ought to fill Lyon with dread, but despite his past, they never did.
This old castle was drafty, and the large fireplace in his study—and another in the library, although that one had a glass shield—made the place livable. Although…
Lyon brushed his fingertips across the scars on the left side of his face and wasn’t surprised when he couldn’t feel the sensation.
Fire took life as easily as it brought it, didn’t it?
“St. James’s fingernails, Lyon! What are ye doing?”
At the sound of Keith’s frantic question, Lyon’s head fell to one side, just enough so he could see his younger brother. His friend.
“What do ye mean?”
Keith stepped into the room; his gaze fixed on Lyon’s hand. “Is that brandy? Ye’re drinking? Ye never drink!”
Oh, was that all?
Lyon hummed as he lifted the glass. “It seemed like the time for it.” He sipped and made a face. “Still tastes like shite though.”
“Then stop!” Keith darted forward, but gently tugged the glass from Lyon’s hand. Lyon let it go in bemusement and watched the younger man head toward the niche where the drinks were store. “Ye havenae had liquor since the last of the laudanum, no’ even after Rose’s— Dear God!”
He swung around suddenly, the brandy spilling over the sides of the glass, a horrified expression on his face.
“It’s no’ Bonnie, is it? Lyon! Bonnie isnae…?”
A wry smile tugged at Lyon’s lips. “Nay, Bonnie is no’.”
“Oh, thank fook,” Keith breathed in relief, sinking into the opposite chair, the brandy still clutched in his hand. He took a gulp, then grimaced, then took another gulp. “This really is disgusting, eh?”
The Lass Who Loved a Beast Page 11
