“I am sure and certain.” Alison replied. “And now you’ll do me the favor of hurrying home.” She led Meghan to the door, and opened it without ceremony. “Iona?” she called out.
“I am here,” the woman answered from the corridor. “Hurry now.”
“Go,” Alison directed Meghan.
Meghan’s feet would not move.
She forced herself to walk into the corridor. “Alison,” she began, “I don’t know...”
“Come now,” Iona directed. “We haven’t time for farewells.”
“I shall be fine, Meghan,” Alison swore, but she didn’t understand. Meghan didn’t want to go.
Iona dragged Meghan away, clutching her by her good arm, and led her away down the stairs perforce.
“Do me one favor,” Alison called softly after them.
“Anything,” Meghan exclaimed and halted, shrugging free of Iona’s grip and turning back up the stairs. “I knew this would frighten you,” she told Alison. “You dinna have to do this.”
“I want to,” Alison asserted. “I simply want you to tell your brother that not only will I wed him, but I will wed him with all my heart.”
“Colin?” Meghan said in surprise. “You mean Colin?”
“Nay, Meghan Brodie,” Alison corrected. “Leith. Go and carry him my message, now, and tell him to please tell my da where I am.”
Meghan stood there upon the steps in stunned disbelief.
“Leith?”
“Aye,” Alison answered, and Meghan could spy her brilliant smile even in the darkness.
And this time when Iona dragged her away, she was entirely too dumbfounded to protest.
Chapter 25
Weary to his bones, Lyon climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, eager to see Meghan, yet anxious to discover whether she had worsened during his absence.
While he’d taken the potion from her this morn, there was no guarantee that what she had ingested already would not cause further damage, for she’d been consuming it for days now.
He only hoped he was not too late.
He’d not found the old witch, and neither had MacKinnon or any of his kinfolk ever heard of her. Glenna, of MacKinnon’s own clan, was the only midwife his people knew. It was as though, given the old witch’s sudden appearance and disappearance that eve, she was formed of mist and to mist she had returned. They had encountered no woodland hut, and there was not even a name he had to go by to search for her.
Carrying a taper before him to light the way, he entered his chamber, quietly lest he should wake her if she slept. At this late hour, it was entirely likely that she did.
He spied her lithe form upon the bed and went to the bedside, impatient to see her, but she was lying upon her belly, as she was so oft inclined to sleep, and her face was hidden from his view. He couldn’t help but note, however, that she was wearing a wimple, and his heart sank to see it. He had not told her of the changes that had come over her face, and so she must have discovered them for herself.
His heart ached for her.
He wondered how she’d learned, and wished he could have been there with her to ease her distress. He should have told her himself, but he was a craven swine—and he’d dared to accuse his own men of such a thing.
It was a simple matter to face the enemy with a blade in his hand, but another entirely to look Meghan in the eyes and face his own truth—that he was a greedy man who would stop at little to have his own way. He’d fought his battles for his own personal gain—for mere gold, he’d thought, would buy contentment.
But gold, he’d discovered all too soon, was a cold bedfellow.
Disgusted with himself, he turned away from Meghan’s sleeping form, and made his way about the bed to the little desk. Setting the candle down upon it, he sat within his chair to contemplate the day.
He’d ridden into MacKinnon’s home only to find everything he’d ever wanted staring him right in the face.
Far from discovering a man in mourning or bitter in his ale, he’d interrupted a wedding celebration of the sort he could hardly imagine sharing with Meghan.
Nay, if he were to wed Meghan now, it would be perforce, and what satisfaction was he going to gain from that? Did he truly want her, even unwilling?
Or did he want her smiling beauteously... as MacKinnon’s bride had done with her husband... with such adoration in her eyes to make a grown man weep.
Lyon had paid his respects and drank a toast to the new bride and groom, and another, and another, and all the while his heart had been heavy with guilt for the woman he had locked away within his chamber.
He had stolen Meghan and brought her home perforce—as though she were some beast without a will of its own.
What honor was there in that?
And he had turned her brothers away when they had come to see only that she was well. All they had asked of him was simply to set eyes upon the sister they adored.
And Lyon had refused them.
Why?
Because he was afraid she would leave him.
He’d heard tell, time and again, at MacKinnon’s wedding, how Iain MacKinnon had set out to mend his wife’s broken wings, shielding her all along from the knowledge that her father had repudiated her—and then had been willing to let her go when her father had come after her at last. Knowing how much it had meant to her, he had given her a choice. He loved her enough to set her free.
It was a heroic tale, and despite that he and MacKinnon were destined to have differences between them, Lyon had to respect the man for his integrity.
He had much to learn from the man, in truth.
His gaze fell to the manuscript upon his desk, and he flipped absently through the pages, considering his options.
Meghan’s neat script caught his immediate attention and he began to read her entries one by one. Her first observation was within the first essay, written cleanly beside the paragraph where he’d first bespoken his love of academia. Beside where he had so carefully explained his reasons for abandoning it—his rationalizations and justifications—was written merely First instance.
He lifted a brow.
What that meant, he didn’t know.
Drawing the taper closer, he turned the page, reading the places where she had marked Second instance and Third.
All of them were times in his life when he had expressed some regret, some departure from his convictions.
Turning the pages he found many more, and read them all. Dozens of them. One after another.
He was beginning to see the point.
On the last page, he found her final observation. In her careful script was written: What profited a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?
It was a biblical passage, one he was surprised she knew.
He looked up, staring at her, his heart pounding, at the sight of the woman lying so serenely within his bed.
She was incredible.
Through her eyes, he saw everything so clearly now.
She was brilliant, and he was a wretch and an imbecile.
The answer was so obvious, and yet like a blind man he had not seen it when it had been there before his very eyes all along.
All his life, he had been searching for something beyond himself when he should have simply returned to that place within himself he had abandoned so long ago.
He wasn’t going to find contentment.
It had been there all along for the taking, and he had simply to accept it. Every time he had compromised himself—every instance he had gone against his own convictions—had taken him yet another turn down a long and winding road toward discontent. And the further down the road he had traveled, the harder he had searched, even going so far as to put his words upon paper to study and mull over. His manuscript had been at times naught more than a journal he’d kept simply to remind himself of every turn he’d made in the proverbial road—because at times it seemed he’d taken so many, he no longer recalled which he’d traveled and which he had not. H
e had grasped at every prospect for gratification, and explored every inclination in search of it.
And he had ended up empty-handed.
Until now.
Rising from the desk, he abandoned the manuscript and went to sit upon the bed, swallowing hard at what he knew he must do.
And he had to do it now, before he changed his mind.
Because he could not.
This woman was a gift.
His gift.
Lyon no longer knew for certain if there was a god, but if there was, he had seen fit to favor him with this last chance to save himself.
He felt it way down deep in his bones.
In forcing her to wed with him, in keeping her from her brothers, he compromised himself one last time.
And if he forced her to wed with him, she’d suffer the consequences along with him.
And he would watch her suffer, and slowly die.
He couldn’t bear that.
He reached out, wanting to run his fingers through her beautiful hair, but didn’t dare. They hovered above her head, as though to caress her, but he was afraid to touch her yet.
He could see her... see himself years from now... if he forced her... She would resent him. And her brothers would too. And by virtue of the fact that he would be her husband, he would be forcing her to choose between them.
He couldn’t do it.
Now was the time to let her go.
Now before her reputation was sullied.
Now before she no longer had a choice.
If she would choose him... it would have to be of her own free will.
Aye, Meghan Brodie was his gift all right.
And now he was going to give her one in return: her freedom of choice.
He laid his hand upon her head. “Meghan,” he whispered and shook her gently. “Meghan!”
She turned to look up at him, sleepily, and his heart jolted.
He had to blink at what he saw.
Though her face was covered with a wimple, he no longer recognized it. Aye, the hair and eyes were the same, but her beautiful eyes crossed as she peered up at him. She didn’t seem able to focus, or mayhap it was his imagination, a trick of the candlelight, as he seemed to recall her bruise being upon the other cheek, as well. The swelling had diminished but the bruise had darkened, and the bruises upon the rest of her face had darkened, as well.
He stared at her face, incredulous at the changes that had come over her, disgusted with himself for the way it repelled him.
It was his fault, he reminded himself.
“Meghan?” he whispered, his voice uncertain and shaky.
“Aye,” she answered softly, almost too softly to be heard, and he shook his head.
“I... I...” But he could scarcely find his voice to speak. How could he send her away after what he’d done to her?
And then again, how could he not offer her her freedom? She had the right to live her own life.
“I... I’ve come to a decision,” he managed at last.
She cocked her head up at him, looking confused, and Lyon’s brow furrowed at the skewed way in which she looked at him. His stomach turned.
“I... I’ve decided to send you home.”
Her eyes widened incredulously. “You have?”
“Aye! But get up! You have to go now,” he told her firmly. “This instant, before I change my mind.” And he bounded from the bed, intending to fetch Baldwin before he could chance to settle in to sleep. He couldn’t take her himself, couldn’t look upon her any longer, couldn’t look into her eyes, filled as he was with shame.
* * *
Never had a walk home through the forest felt so depressive—nay, for this had been Meghan’s and Fia’s place and she knew and loved it well.
And now, more than ever, she wished Fia were here to keep her company rather than stone-faced Angus. The man had spoken nary a word since they’d left Lyon’s manor, and the silence was beginning to grate upon Meghan’s nerves.
Neither did she know what she was going to say to her brothers when she faced them.
Och, not only had she given her body to their enemy, but she’d given her heart as well.
In truth, with every step she took, every twig she snapped beneath her feet, even knowing that leaving was the right thing to do, she wanted to turn about and fly back to him.
Was he home yet?
And was sitting now upon the bed peering at a horrified Alison?
Meghan knew how much Alison disliked him. She could scarcely believe her friend was doing this for her, scarcely believe how difficult it was to take each and every step away from Montgomerie land. To think, only a short time ago, she had gone kicking and screeching in the opposite direction.
So much had happened since that day.
It was as though a lifetime had passed since, and Meghan only wanted to be once more within Lyon Montgomerie’s arms.
There were so many things she hadn’t said to him—she wanted him to know that he was not so bad, in truth, as he thought himself, wanted him to know that she admired the way he had been so brutally honest within his papers.
She wanted him to know...
That she was in love with him.
That he had, indeed, managed to steal her heart.
She wanted him to know that for the first time in her life she didn’t look at herself in the mirror and loathe the woman she saw. She wanted him to know that she loved seeing herself through his eyes, and that she loved the way he held her... loved her.
Och, but her heart felt near to bursting with anguish, and with every faltering step she took, it felt all the more burdened.
Whose life are you living anyhow, Meghan Brodie? she heard Fia’s voice ask.
It was so real to her in that moment that she had to peer over her shoulder to be sure it was not Angus who had spoken to her.
Och, but she truly was going mad.
She narrowed her eyes at Angus. “Did you say something to me?”
Meghan felt more than saw that he shook his head at her in the darkness—and why had she thought he would speak? She had to wonder, even, if the man had a tongue to speak with.
“I didna think so,” she said peevishly, and returned to walking beside him in silence.
They continued onward without another word spoken between them, and Meghan, clutching at her sore arm, began to consider once more what she would say to her sweet brothers.
Would they be disappointed in her?
She knew they would be, because she had, indeed, let them down.
Well, she just wouldn’t tell them everything. In fact, she would tell them naught at all. All they needed know was that she had snuck away from Lyon. If Lyon came after her, she would deal with that then.
And if he did not... Well then, she would keep her secret until the day she joined Fia in her grave. Then she would spill her tears upon Fia’s shoulders. Fia was the only one who could possibly understand—the only one who ever had.
Meghan was wholly uncertain what to expect when she arrived home, but the very last thing she expected to discover... was Alison MacLean.
They arrived at the break of the new day, and Meghan froze at the sight of her friend there within the courtyard, escorted safely home by Baldwin and surrounded by her brothers.
And Lyon Montgomerie was nowhere within sight.
Chapter 26
Lyon sat at his bedside desk, poring over the manuscripts by candlelight until the wee hours of the morn, reading Meghan’s notes. He sat there, brooding, his head within his hands, watching the candle burn down to its quick.
He couldn’t sleep.
Couldn’t think.
Why did things still feel so wrong?
He’d done what he’d thought he was supposed to—set her free. He’d taken MacKinnon’s example and had accorded her choices. But now he couldn’t forget the look in her eyes as he’d bade her good-bye and walked away, leaving her to Baldwin’s care with that look of utter confusion upon her face.
What had he done to her?
And how could he simply leave her now?
He read her notes once more, drinking in her wisdom, hearing her cheeky voice, seeing her smile as he’d peered down into her face, and slammed his fist down upon the desk. He couldn’t just walk away.
So what was he doing sitting here, brooding like a sullen boy?
When in his life had he wanted something and not gone after it?
Never, that he could recall.
Certainly he was going to this time.
He surged upward from the desk, knocking it over, spilling his manuscripts in his haste to go after her.
He had done the right thing, he realized—except for the fact that he’d let her go without telling her what was in his heart. And it was not too late for that.
* * *
Meghan could scarcely believe the anger she felt.
“And he woke you, took one look at you, and sent you off?” she repeated, enraged by Alison’s tale. She was weary from her long walk home, her arm hurt, and her heart ached all the more. “You didna have to e’en ask?”
Alison shook her head, and her own eyes were full of fury for Meghan’s sake.
“Sassenach blackguard,” Colin spat, though he did not understand the half of it.
Meghan clutched at her arm, heartbroken.
“Och, Meghan, here you go,” Alison said, removing the sling from about her own neck. Hanging it about Meghan’s, she helped her to place her arm within it.
She felt like weeping.
She felt like screaming.
She merely stood there, allowing Alison to tend her arm, though her heart felt mortally wounded.
So much for her hopes that he would love her for more than her face.
So much for his love.
Then again, he had never claimed to love her, Meghan reminded herself. He had only said he wanted her. And that he wanted her heart. Wanting was a far different thing from vowing his love, and that he had not.
Foolish girl, she berated herself.
Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance Page 23
