Meghan wasn’t certain whether to be angry or amused by his response. No one had ever been so impervious to her. It seemed to her that no matter what she said, or what she did, he would do as he pleased with a smile on his face. She was certainly accustomed to despotic men, but somehow Lyon Montgomerie was different. It was more than evident in the way he looked at her and in his actions—that he was not indifferent to her appearance. Unlike other men, however, he was not reduced to babbling when she spoke. Nor did he seem particularly inclined to oblige her every whim. To the contrary, she’d never met a man who seemed so little concerned with her opinion of him. In fact, he didn’t seem to care whether she approved of him or nay. And more, he seemed amused by her apparent disregard of him.
The two of them seemed, in truth, to be engaged in some strange battle of wills and wits, and Meghan, for one, didn’t intend to lose.
He turned once more to go, and Meghan said quite deliberately, “If you’re not going to stay and abuse me... would you mind terribly sending in my grandmother to keep me company?”
If Meghan had hoped for a reaction from him, she’d hoped in vain, because he simply smiled tolerantly and said without hesitation, “Of course. I shall send her directly.”
Meghan smiled sweetly at him. “Thank ye.” She batted her lashes coyly.
“You never cease, do you?”
Meghan’s brows lifted. “Whatever do ye mean? I’ve no notion what you’re speakin’ of.”
“Of course you do… I can see it in your eyes. You know precisely what it is you are doing, and it’s not going to work.”
“What’s not going to work?” Meghan asked in her most innocent tone. “I’ve no idea what you’re referring to. ’Tis merely the least you can do. If you’re going to keep us both prisoners here, you might as well be kind enough to let us serve our gaol time together.”
“Prisoners?” He lifted a brow. “Do not think of yourself so,” he bade her. “You’ve my word you shall be given all due respect as my wife.”
Meghan cocked her head at him, giving him her most willful glance. “I dinna remember agreeing to such a thing, Sassenach. Although if it pleases you to think so... have yourself a merry time with the notion. You can go now,” she said dismissively. And with a sigh, she laid back upon the bed, stretching out upon it as though it were her own and his presence of little consequence.
Lyon watched her make herself at home upon his bed, and experienced an immediate reaction to the sight of her lying there. She lounged upon it as though she had nary a care in the world... as though she were a loving wife waiting for the return of her lover.
His mouth went dry, and although he’d planned to go, to prepare messages to send to David and Dougal MacLean, he suddenly didn’t wish to leave her.
Most particularly because she seemed to wish him to go.
Or did she?
He closed the door and smiled when her head popped up at once to peer at him. Her surprised expression at finding him still present shifted at once to that already familiar expression of bored disdain she had perfected so well. Their gazes locked and held as he approached the bed. The room went completely silent but for the sound of his own footfalls across the creaky wooden floor.
“I shall tell you what pleases me,” he said, leaning over her.
“What?” She blinked, but held his gaze.
Lyon could see the question in her eyes. She wasn’t so dauntless as she would like to have him believe. And yet she faced him squarely, her delicate chin lifting in challenge—tilted at a perfect angle so as to meet his lips... did he but lower his mouth to hers. And what lips she was blessed with... full and pouty, perfectly shaped... He imagined them to be soft and luscious...
Her chest lifted with another soft gasp, and his gaze fell for an instant in thought before returning to her face. It was all he could do not to bend for a kiss upon those sweet lips. The scent of her rose to taunt him...
“Seeing you here upon my bed,” he whispered. “That pleases me.”
She smiled softly in answer, and he could see that her own reaction shocked her, for it registered there upon her face with a startled blink.
He wanted her as his wife.
And yet he wanted her willing.
He wanted more than her body.
He wanted her to whisper his name in goodnight in the dark of night... and to think of him the first instant her long lashes lifted from sleep in the morn. He wanted to see the longing in her deep-green eyes. He wanted her to sigh with contentment as she rested in the safety of his arms.
She did that to him somehow... this woman whose name he did not even know. This woman who looked at him askance, and pretended an indifference she couldn’t possibly feel with that look she now wore in those beautiful eyes: a look of pure virgin innocence mingled with uninhibited curiosity. He sensed she hid a passion as deep as his own. Heaven help him, if it was the last thing he did... he was going to win her heart. And he was going to employ every device he knew to keep her there with him.
He was going to bind her to him for always. That he vowed as he stared down at her lovely face, flushed now with color.
He moved closer, savoring the heat between their bodies, hovering above her mouth, until the warmth of her breath teased his lips.
Meghan held her breath as he stared down at her.
Never in her life had she been kissed by a man—never had she desired it.
And yet... somehow she could think of little else but the way his lips would feel upon her own. She swallowed convulsively.
Poised above her as he was, with his beautiful lips so near, and his vivid blue eyes locked with hers, Meghan felt utterly dizzy.
That look he wore... she wasn’t so naive that she didn’t comprehend what it meant. She’d seen Colin gaze that way at women much too oft to mistake it.
“You’re like all the rest,” she murmured huskily.
He shook his head and was so close that Meghan imagined she felt the brush of his lips against her own.
Or had it been real?
“Nay,” he assured her. “I am not, siren, and do not make the mistake of thinking so.” His eyes gleamed wickedly, and Meghan immediately sensed that perhaps he spoke the truth. Perhaps, as with the others, her face had caught his eye, but his response to her was anything but familiar.
“You canna force me to wed with ye,” Meghan said a little breathlessly. “And I will not. You canna make me.”
Was she trying so hard to convince him?
Or herself?
“Quite true,” he agreed, smiling. “I cannot force you. But you will…in time.”
Meghan narrowed her eyes at him. “Dinna be so certain of yourself, Sassenach. I’m not some foolish lass who sighs after every handsome lad. You will not win me with flattery.”
His smile deepened. “You think me handsome, do you?”
Meghan’s face burned. “I didna say such a thing. Dinna put words in my mouth, Sassenach,” But she was surely thinking it. Never in her life had a face appealed to her more. It was the face of a man, not that of a boy. And yet Meghan could very much spy the devilry of his youth in his every expression. He was a man who relished his pleasures... and it was obvious to Meghan that his pleasure at the moment was… her.
“I would not dare put words in your mouth,” he assured her. “Not when there is something else I’d so much rather do with that lovely mouth of yours.”
Meghan shivered at the silky tone of his voice.
Never in her life had a man looked at her so. He was a man who knew what he wanted and was used to getting it, she realized. And she was certain there was more there than the intent to kiss her that was so apparent in his eyes.
Meghan lay there, blinking. Was he going to kiss her now? It seemed to her that he meant to, for his eyes slitted and he tilted his face, as though to lock his lips with hers.
She held her breath in anticipation.
Would she let him?
Should she?
“One day,” he vowed, “you will ask me to love you.”
“Nay—”
“Shhh...”
His breath blew warm and sweet upon her lips. Meghan closed her eyes for an instant, letting the sensation brush over her. She felt defenseless against this form of seduction. She knew how to deal with men who leered, men who vowed their love after first setting eyes upon her, and overeager beaus, but she didn’t know how to deal with this man at all—nor with the strange way he seemed to speak to her heart. It answered to him like a slave to its master... no matter that her head said nay.
He withdrew a little, giving her space to breathe, to think.
“I think you will,” he said and offered her an incorrigible grin.
“Nay, I’ll not,” Meghan assured him, with far more certainty than she suddenly felt.
“Then prove me wrong,” he challenged her, rising from the bed abruptly. Meghan blinked in confusion at his unanticipated answer, at her own keen sense of disappointment. He abandoned her, leaving her to stare after him, dumbfounded, as he walked away.
“You will wish to wed with me,” he said, “because you know I speak the truth. It is the most obvious solution to our little dilemma.” And then he closed the door behind him.
What in heaven’s name happened?
Had she wanted him to kiss her?
Surely not.
Then why was she so disappointed that he had not?
And why should she feel rejected, when he’d made his intentions and his desires perfectly clear from the first?
Because for once, she hadn’t been the one in control, Meghan realized.
And truth to tell, it galled her that he had been. The knave…How dare he simply walk away and leave her this way!
Chapter 11
It had taken every ounce of Lyon’s will to leave the girl lying upon his bed.
He’d wanted so badly to kiss those lovely lips, to worship them with his own, but he wanted something else so much more. Aye, she might have kissed him back in the heat of the moment, but he understood that it was too soon. She would have regretted it after. And then, too, it had provoked him that she would compare him to all the rest of her swains.
Had she kissed many men? Is that what he saw in her expression when she looked at him?
The thought both disturbed and intrigued him at once. He didn’t like to think of her with another man, but the possibility that she would know how to kiss a man’s lips appealed as well.
He was a man of passion, he realized. He wanted a woman who was bold enough to share in it. He wanted it to be the woman now lying upon his bed.
No other would do.
And that brought him to another matter entirely...
He had no notion how he was going to deal with Dougal MacLean over the matter of his daughter.
Lyon had met her only once, but she hadn’t appealed to him in the least, and he scarcely recalled what she looked like now. And yet part of the understanding in his accepting this land from Dougal MacLean was that he would agree to give it back by virtue of an alliance. He’d put off the betrothal so long because after meeting MacLean’s daughter, he hadn’t been in any rush to marry. And now that he was, it wasn’t Alison MacLean he wished to be with.
It was... whatever her name was up there. He frowned at that. She was as stubborn as they came. He wasn’t going to glean her name easily from her, only because he desired it, and she knew. Well, he was simply going to have to write the missive to David without it. He would just name her as Brodie’s sister.
He barreled down the stairs, into the hall, and headed directly toward his table at the dais, ordering his pen and parchment from a lad who sat cross-legged on the floor, petting a mangy cat. In his haste, he had forgotten to bring his writing implements with him. The lad bounded up and ran to do his bidding, and Lyon stepped up on the dais and rounded the table. He drew out a weary breath along with his chair and sat to wait, trying to determine the best course of action to be taken. Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his hair.
Accursed Scots.
He was going to have to word this precisely right, he knew, else he was going to end with yet another feud upon his hands.
Alison MacLean wasn’t precisely ill favored, it was merely that she lacked spirit. She’d sat there before him, her expression ranging from disinterest to horror at the prospect of wedding with him. At least that he didn’t feel badly about. He had no doubt that she did not share her father’s enthusiasm for the alliance. So he hadn’t to worry about disappointing her. And yet he certainly didn’t wish to wound her tender feelings.
He tried to conjure her face to his thoughts, but all that came to him were those crossed eyes... that nose... the miserable expression she’d worn. She sat there beside her father, looking entirely wretched, while her father had babbled on about the rewards of their proposed alliance, completely oblivious to his daughter’s distress. Lyon had been aware of nothing but. How could he wed her anyway when it had been perfectly clear to him that MacLean’s daughter came into the bargain wholly unwilling?
Baldwin entered the hall. “Where’s the wench?” he asked, looking bedraggled and a bit surprised to find Lyon alone. Lyon didn’t think his old friend was ever going to forgive him for having to mount the lamb upon his horse. As long as Lyon lived, he didn’t think he would ever forget the sight of Baldwin trying to mount with the rotten little beast in his arms. He’d finally managed only by straddling the animal over his saddle and then mounting behind it.
“I stink to high heaven,” he complained, casting his arms out in disgust.
Lyon chuckled. “I’m sure you do.”
“I hope you’re happy,” Baldwin said sourly. “Where’s the mad wench?”
“In my chamber.”
Baldwin nodded. “Of course.”
“And where is Fia?”
“Where do you think? I gave her to Cameron to place with the others.”
“Well, you’ll have to get her back,” Lyon charged him, and couldn’t help but laugh at Baldwin’s harassed expression. “She wishes to see her grandmother.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“Deadly in earnest,” Lyon said. “She’s something, is she not?”
Baldwin muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he approached the table. “She’s something else all right,” he agreed. “Are you insane, Lyon? Whatever do you want with a lunatic wench?”
Lyon raised his brows. “What do you think I want with her, Baldwin?”
“Bloody cad,” Baldwin said.
Lyon merely laughed.
“I’m telling you, she’s more trouble than it’s worth,” Baldwin warned.
Lyon arched a brow. “I shall be the judge of that.”
Baldwin sat upon the table. “She’s quite insane,” he said with conviction.
Lyon was tired of hearing it. “Nay,” he disagreed, “I assure you she is not.”
“But what if she is?” Baldwin persisted.
“She’s not. She’s simply a cunning little nymph, is all.”
“And you seriously mean to do this?”
Lyon ran his hand over his jaw. “As serious as I can be.”
“You are…” Baldwin gave a low whistle, and shook his head.
The two remained silent an instant, considering the gravity of Lyon’s decision.
“And what of MacLean? What will you say to him? He’ll not be pleased, Lyon.”
Lyon leaned back in his chair. “I know.”
“He is counting upon this alliance, I do not have to tell you.”
Lyon’s lips twisted. “Well, we’ll simply have to find the proper compensation for him, will we not? Every man has a price, as they say. As for David,” he continued, “I am not so dim-witted that I do not understand why he gave me this land to begin with.”
Baldwin nodded.
“He needs me here, else he’d never have risked the displeasure of these Highlanders to begin with—not when he is trying so despera
tely to win them over. Nay, he did not barter land from MacLean simply to reward an old friend. He’s too shrewd for that. He placed me here because I’m good at what I do.”
“This is true,” Baldwin affirmed. “No one is better at commanding degenerate men.”
Lyon leaned forward in his chair and over the table, peering up at Baldwin. “He also realizes that while I want this—and I do—I’d as soon leave it all as to sell myself any longer. I’m through with all that, Baldwin. I’ve gold enough to do as I will. Life is too short,” he concluded.
“That it is. What can I do? How can I help?”
Lyon smirked up at him. “You can get your butt off the table I eat on, to begin with.”
Baldwin laughed.
“And then you can take Fia up to see her granddaughter,” Lyon added with a note of wry humor.
Baldwin shook his head and hopped off the table, though, to his credit, said nothing more.
“Thank you,” Lyon added as his friend turned to go. “I realize this has the potential to make life difficult for the lot of us. Not only me.”
Baldwin smiled. “You have done far more for me. Supporting you is the least I can do. Anything else you need just now?”
“One more thing,” Lyon said. “Get her name for me, will you? I would like to have it before the evening meal.”
“Very well,” Baldwin said, and started away just as the young boy returned, bringing Lyon his quill, inkwell, and parchment.
Lyon took the items from the boy’s hands and then sent him on his way with a ruffle of his dark hair and a word of thanks. And then he set about writing the necessary letters: one to Dougal MacLean, one to David of Scotia, and one to her brothers as Lyon was certain they’d be wondering over her whereabouts just about now. It served little purpose to keep them in suspense. They were going to be brothers by law, after all.
In fact, while he was at it, he thought he might simply make it a wedding invitation and remind them to bring their own ale.
* * *
The little lamb was growing weary.
Meghan could tell by the way it seemed to wobble on its wee legs. And yet she knew the poor creature couldn’t possibly make itself at ease enough in this strange place long enough to fall asleep on its own.
Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance Page 9
