Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  It probably wasn’t the wisest thing Alison had ever done, but she had to speak with Leith. She had to tell him how much she appreciated what he was willing to sacrifice for her sake, but she had begun to feel the weight of her conscience ever since he’d taken his leave the other night. She knew he couldn’t possibly love her, and she couldn’t allow him to surrender his own chance for happiness with some other woman of his choice.

  She found him in the courtyard with both Colin and Gavin, their heads together in solemn discussion. Gavin and Colin had evidently only just returned from yet another search, for Gavin still held the reins of his mount firmly within his hand. Colin had abandoned his own mount entirely, and it stood dutifully by, as Colin listened to whatever it was Leith was saying to him. Her heart twisted a little at the sight of him, but she told herself she was a fool. He had never shown her the least regard. Why should she care so much for a man who refused even to look her in the eyes?

  Alison had to know, too, whether they had word of Meghan, as she was tormented with worry for her friend’s sake. She couldn’t bear the wait any longer; she had to know.

  And yet, she waited still, unable to face Colin.

  When both Gavin and Colin had taken their leave, and Leith turned to go as well, she ran after him, calling his name.

  He turned to face her at once, his brows lifting in surprise. “Alison!” He reached out and seized her hand when it seemed she would stumble into his arms.

  “Och, forgive me for intruding.” she beseeched him a bit breathlessly. “But I had to know. I had to know of Meghan. Please dinna be angry with me for coming yet again.”

  “Dinna be silly,” Leith said. “I understand, Alison.” And he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

  Alison clutched his arm hopefully. “Is there news?”

  He shook his head. “None at all, I am afraid.”

  Alison frowned. “I am so worried.”

  “So are we, lass, so are we. But dinna ye fret. We will find her soon.”

  “I do hope,” she said, and took a deep breath. “Leith,” she began, peering up at him bravely. “I also came for another reason.”

  His brows lifted. “What is it, Alison?” he said with a look of concern.

  Alison suddenly could not find the words to speak. “I... I... wished to say... well, you see,” she stammered, “I feel a bit that you were forced to ask my father... ”

  He clasped her hands gently, seeming to understand what she was trying to say. “Alison sweeting, I was not forced to do anything at all, dinna ye see?”

  Alison shook her head. “I cannot believe you would wish to wed with me,” she told him. “I know that you feel sorry for me, and I wanted you to know that I will not be crushed if you dinna wish to take me as your wife. I do not need a man to feel sorry for me, and I dinna wish to make you unhappy.”

  He smiled down at her. “Look at me, Alison MacLean... Does the prospect of wedding you seem to distress me?”

  “Well, nay, but—”

  “Nay, but naught,” he said, hushing her. “Come with me a moment.” And then he drew her aside for privacy behind a horse and cart. “Will you do me a favor?” he asked her.

  Alison nodded, so grateful to him that she would have fallen at his feet and kissed them with her lips.

  “Listen to me with your heart just now, Alison,” he said, and then drew her into his arms.

  Alison gasped in surprise. Her heart began to hammer within her breast as he turned her face up to his and bent to touch his lips to her own.

  She felt dizzy with shock as he kissed her sweetly, gently upon the mouth—just a tender kiss, but it was the first kiss Alison had ever had in her entire life.

  No man had ever, ever done such a thing to her.

  No man had ever even expressed the desire to do so.

  It confused her, startled her so that she merely stared up at him in bewilderment as he lifted his face to peer down at her. She blinked in surprise.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked her, his voice tender.

  Alison could not find her voice to speak, nor did she find the will even to nod.

  “Listen to me, and listen to me well, Alison MacLean,” Leith told her with certainty. “I want you to go home now,” he directed her, “and think on what I have just said to you with my heart. Think about what you desire. Consider carefully whether you would have me as your mon. My offer stands as it was made, but I dinna wish to force you, either, lass. Go home, then, and think of this, and decide if you will have me as your husband, because I would be honored to take you as my bride.”

  Alison shook her head and opened her mouth to speak.

  “Shhh,” he bade her. “Dinna say a word until you have passed the night in thought. Do me the favor of that. Will you?”

  Taking in a breath, before she should swoon at his feet with the shock of it all, she nodded.

  “Good, then,” he said, and drew her out from behind the cart into open view once more.

  He had to drag her out behind him because she would have remained there, so shocked was she by what he had said and done. She placed her fingers in bewilderment to her lips.

  The messenger came as she stood there staring up at Leith Mac Brodie in bewilderment. Alison was scarcely aware of him, even, for he handed the missive to Leith and practically turned and fled whilst she stood there contemplating what had only just happened between them.

  Leith broke the seal, and stared at the parchment. He turned it sideways, and then his face colored a bit. “Alison,” he said. “Gavin is not here, and I cannot read this. Will you do me the honor?”

  Alison nodded, taking the parchment from his hands at once. She gazed at the paper without seeing the words for an instant, and then blinked and read.

  “Lyon Montgomerie has her,” she said, stunned. “He has Meghan.”

  “What?” he thundered, and tore the parchment from her hands.

  She peered up at him, blinking. “It says only that he holds her in custody for the charge of thievery.”

  Behind the protective barrier of rails, Meghan stood looking down upon Lyon’s hall.

  Her vantage point along the tiny open corridor offered her a clear view of all who came and went, and she needed only step back into the shadows if Lyon entered the hall below. Neither did she fear anyone would come upon her here, as only Lyon’s room could be accessed by the corridor, and no one seemed to dare climb his stairs, so Megan was able to observe her gaolers and make a plan.

  The hall was empty now but for a few laggards who seemed disinclined to work whilst their master’s eyes were not upon them.

  King David had remained rather than continue along his journey to Edinburgh, and he and Lyon had closeted themselves to discuss matters of consequence. She wondered what those topics might be, as David’s visits to the Highlands were rare. She was certain, however, their discussion did not concern her, as it was clear that her situation had been addressed and decided upon.

  And she was hardly pleased with the outcome.

  Yet neither could she argue it, as she had agreed to his bargain, and to admit she had been outwitted only made her feel foolish.

  Nay, she wanted to make him regret his shallow-minded covetousness.

  More than that, she needed to go home.

  The only way she knew that Lyon had come to his room at all last night was because she’d awakened to his warmth upon the bed beside her, where he must have sat to ensure she was still asleep. His body was gone, but his scent had remained, and Meghan, her heart pounding fiercely, had dared to turn over upon the warm sheets, embracing it. It was a brazen thing to do, but Meghan, having slept within his bed for the second night in a row, was having the most peculiar thoughts.

  She couldn’t seem to eradicate him from her brain—not that it was at all possible in her situation, she realized. How could she when she was occupying his chamber, contemplating wedding with him for the sake of her kinsmen, and reading his most personal thoughts?

 
; She was really growing quite desperate.

  Studying the hall, she noticed for the first time that it bore a similar ceiling to the one Gavin had had constructed within their chapel. Only this one was older and not domed. It was flat, as there were rooms above the enormous hall, but it was braced along the walls with the same sort of beams that supported the ceiling of the chapel.

  The same sort from which that silly raven had peered down at her.

  She had felt so helpless to reach it.

  Meghan stared at the beam closest to her, the craziest notion entering her head, and then she peered down at the hall below.

  One would have to be truly mad to perch oneself upon such a place on high, she thought, and noted the placement of the nearest beam...

  If she could but reach it—and she thought she could—she could pull herself up onto it...

  The thought of him looking up at her from below brought a cunning smile to her face. Well, perhaps she could convince him that she was mad after all. Determining that it was worthy of the effort, and certain she could see her grandmother doing the very same thing, Meghan went to the far end of the rail and reached out, trying to touch the beam. Stretching, stretching, she lifted herself up on tiptoes and giggled with mischievous delight when she was able to wrap her fingers about the board.

  She tested it, tugging it to make certain it was secure, and then smiled and stepped up onto the rail, humming a merry tune...

  “Lyon!” came a bark from beyond his closed doors, and was followed at once by a sharp rap. “Lyon!”

  Lyon removed his booted feet from the table and peered at David, knowing instinctively that the news would not be good. The two of them had been discussing Iain MacKinnon, and the best course of action to take with him. Lyon had suggested that David consider returning to discuss the matter with Iain directly. Iain, as Lyon understood it, was a fair man, and Lyon believed in direct personal confrontation. At any rate, sequestered as he was with Scotia’s king, none would be so bold as to interrupt him here, lest the message be of grave import. Or…

  “Enter,” he said, and braced himself as the door swung open to reveal a wan-looking Baldwin.

  “Lyon?” Baldwin said apprehensively. “If I may beg pardon, I think you should come.”

  Lyon cast a glance at David to find his old friend eyeing him curiously, brows raised. Rising from his chair, Lyon knew instinctively by the look upon Baldwin’s face that his interruption was about none other than Meghan.

  What was she up to now?

  “I shall return,” he said to David, and then asked as cordially as possible, “Have you perchance had the opportunity to sample the wine I sent you from Auvergne? I have some hoarded away for myself, I must confess. Perhaps you should like to try it now?”

  David’s brows lifted higher. “In other words, you would like me to occupy myself here alone whilst you go and deal with your guest?”

  Lyon’s lips curved upward. “You were ever a shrewd scoundrel.”

  “As were you, of course,” David returned, flashing a cunning smile. He sighed. “Very well, Lyon, go and deal with your wench. I will wait.”

  Lyon laughed. “I shall be quick,” he promised, and abandoned David to his own devices. Preceding Baldwin out the door, he demanded of him, “What now?”

  “Uh... I think you need to see this for yourself,” Baldwin answered, and said not a word more.

  Lyon grimaced. He suddenly wasn’t certain he wished to know what she was up to, as he was certain Meghan was determined to make him pay in blood.

  As he entered the hall, he heard her singing in the most god-awful voice, but didn’t see her straightaway for the audience that had gathered at the sound. The noise was as hideous as that of some ghoul from the black woods. And her lyrics were none the better.

  “I must go walk the wood so wild,” she wailed,

  ‘‘And wander here and there in dread and deadly fear I. Alas, where I trusted, I am beguiled. And all for one. All for one.’’

  He didn’t have to search long for her. He merely followed the gazes of his men to find her perched, of all places, upon a ceiling beam like some bird in a tree. He halted abruptly at the sight of her. She was crouched upon a high beam with her hand braced upon the ceiling for support—singing at the top of her lungs, totally unaware of her audience, or so it seemed.

  “My bed shall be under the greenwood tree,” she carried on. “A tuft of brakes under my head.”

  Truthfully, he didn’t for one instant believe her mad, but he had to admit that she had to be just a little daft to perch herself up so high.

  “Meghan Brodie,” he shouted up at her, his voice thundering through the hall. He didn’t wish to startle her, lest she fall, but her very position was frightening him. “Come down at once,” he hollered, but he worried for naught, as she didn’t seem the least bit disconcerted by his presence.

  She stopped singing and cocked her head as she peered down at him. “You cannot make me, Sassenach,” she shouted. “And you cannot order me about. You are not my husband yet, nor are you my da, and I dinna have to listen to a word you say.”

  “If I were your da,” he assured her, “I vow I would lay you over my knee and give you the strapping you well deserve.”

  “Och,” she answered, unconcerned. “My da didna ever do such a thing, and neither will you. Besides, Sassenach, I like it up here,” she announced, and with that she giggled, a sweet childlike titter that made him uncertain whether to laugh or scold her.

  With the deftness of one who might have been climbing trees for all of her life, she surged forward to straddle the beam with her hand still balanced upon the ceiling.

  Lyon’s heart jumped, and like an aftershock. Startled murmurs filtered through the room.

  “Meghan,” he shouted, blood rushing to his head. “Get yourself down here now.”

  “No,” she replied flippantly. “I will not.” And she surged forward to hug the brace, and continued to sing. “The running streams shall be my drink, Acorns be my food. Nothing may do me good, but when of your beauty I do think.” She paused. “Isn’t that silly?” she declared suddenly. “To think a body would pine so for beauty alone.” She cast Lyon a pointed glance.

  No one spoke a word, merely stared up at their demented guest. Lyon understood her barb was meant for him.

  “My grandmother used to sing it to me,” she revealed to one and all.

  “Meghan—” He asked her nicely this time. “—please come down.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because...” He glanced at his men, annoyed by their presence now. “Because I do not wish you to fall.”

  “Why?” she persisted, staring down at him, and he had the distinct impression she was trying to embarrass him.

  Lyon had to crane his head to see her. “Because...”

  “Never mind. I know why,” she announced suddenly.

  He knew better than to ask what conclusion she had come to.

  She was showing much too much of those gorgeous legs of hers.

  “Want to know why?” she asked when he would not respond.

  “No,” he answered resolutely. “I want you to come down from there, Meghan. Now.”

  She adjusted her skirts, revealing far more of her luscious limbs than pleased Lyon. “Because you dinna wish for everyone to see my bum,” she answered despite his refusal.

  Snickers echoed through the hall, but were quashed at once by the glare Lyon cast them.

  “Meghan,” he thundered.

  She merely giggled.

  His patience ended, he started up the stairs after her. “You will come down if I have to drag you down.”

  “Oh?” she replied. “That will be fun.”

  The hall erupted again with giggles.

  “No, it will not be,” he apprised her, “and neither will you think so when we have both cracked our skulls upon the ground.”

  Meghan watched him climb the stairs and then come to the rail’s edge, scowling at her al
l the while. She lifted herself up, and the room below seemed to sway below her. She frowned back at him.

  Och, but she did wish to come down now.

  Despite her outward calm, she was quite uneasy at this great height. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. She was sorely disappointed that King David had not been present to witness her stunt. It seemed she had bestirred herself for naught.

  “Where is David?” she asked Lyon when he thrust out his arms for her, demanding once more without words that she get down.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Busy,” he assured her. “I’m afraid he will not be attending your performance.”

  Meghan scowled at him, vexed that he should guess at her reason for asking. She knew by the expression upon his face that he had. She peered down at the hall below, at the faces that stared up at her. Och, but sitting up here so high above them all was the epitome of how she felt—alone and under everyone’s scrutiny.

  “Come down, Meghan,” Lyon demanded of her.

  Meghan leaned to hug the beam suddenly, pouting, and said honestly, “No! I miss my grammie.”

  He seemed uncertain how to respond to that, and Meghan’s eyes watered. She missed Fia terribly, and feared that never again would she feel the closeness she had shared with her grandmother—that unconditional acceptance that came with pure love.

  He frowned. “Don’t you go and weep, Meghan.”

  His arms were reaching out for her, beckoning, promising warmth, and Meghan’s resolve wilted.

  “I promise to get her for you, if you’ll only come down,” he coaxed her, his expression full of concern.

  He didn’t understand, Meghan knew, and yet she recognized the small victory in his concession.

  Maybe she would, in fact, convince him that she was mad after all.

  Blinking tears away, she forced a smile, and allowed him to help her down from the beam, uncertain what, if anything, she had accomplished with her silly stunt—except to make herself feel lonely.

  Except to make her yearn.

  She would be stronger next time, she vowed.

  * * *

  She’d had them all thinking she was raving mad—she could tell by the looks upon their faces as they’d stared up at her—and then she’d had to go and spoil it all by listening to reason.