Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (Sweet Scottish Brides Book 2)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “I gather as much.”

  “Lyon, old friend, I believe I’ve just made your charge here all the more complicated.”

  “I see,” Lyon answered. “Well, that makes two of us, then, as so have I.”

  David cast him a curious glance.

  “I shall explain within,” Lyon assured. “We can argue over who shall go first over a tankard of ale. What say you?”

  David’s look darkened. “I’d say if you need to ply me with ale, Lyon, something tells me I’m not going to like this one whit.”

  “Then we are even,” Lyon replied. “Because something tells me that if you felt compelled to stop and tell me about something you’ve done, neither will I.”

  “You always were a canny rogue,” David told him. “And nay, you will not like this, I think. I hope you have something more than bog water to drink. I’m not in the mood to grind my ale between my teeth.”

  “The ale is fine,” Lyon said. “Just do not sit beneath the rotting ceiling or you’ll get splinters in your cup—and then find yourself plucking slivers from your tongue the rest of the eve.”

  David’s brows lifted. “That bad?”

  “Aye,” Lyon replied with a nod. “That bad.” And then he grinned. “But better than having rats crawl up your leg while you sleep any day.”

  David chuckled. “I’m certain,” he said, and shook his head. “Accursed Highlanders. I’d rather be mauled by a pack of rats any day than to deal with a single one.”

  “That bad?”

  “That bad,’ David assured him as they entered the hall. He flung off his mantle and cast it over his arm. “Whatever possessed me to want to be king?”

  Lyon answered without pause. “Because you love it, and you were always better at chess than anyone.”

  David laughed. “Even you?”

  “Aye, you canny rogue, even me.”

  * * *

  It was getting late.

  Squinting as the letters blurred before her eyes, Meghan set the manuscripts down. The texts, she’d discovered, were both a personal memoir and a corresponding treatise, with references to passages within the first volume.

  It began with a rather poignant account of Lyon’s youth, his days spent in study under the Archbishop of Canterbury. And it seemed to Meghan that though these had been his most uncertain years, years spent sequestered from his peers, they were also his most contented years. Though he’d questioned his soul, he’d seemed focused and certain of his life’s ambition. While he’d studied beneath the tutelage of the clergy, his ambitions had been of an academic sort; his enlightenment, while spiritual in nature, hardly adhered to the teachings of the church.

  In fact, Meghan thought some of his beliefs quite heretical, even for her. Gavin would have apoplexy were he to read them, she was certain. He was nigh ready to tie Meghan to the pulpit for simply suggesting that her sanctuary was the woodlands, and that God’s sermon came to her through the creatures of his creation. But these essays questioned the very existence and nature of God.

  Within his first essays, he had explored in great detail his quest for spiritual truths and had been quick to dismiss the import of materialistic pursuits. It was very clear to Meghan, here, that his ambitions had been of a noble sort.

  His next essay had been a little less conclusive and a little more discomposing.

  Though he did not elucidate, something had happened to change his life’s direction. He had by now abandoned his former aspirations to an erudite life and had resigned himself to a more... at first defensive... then offensive perspective. His objective seemed to be the pursuit of justice.

  She was almost finished now with that particular essay though not completely, and though she wasn’t certain she should continue—it felt a little as though she were peering through a looking glass at his soul—she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  The account drew her as much as did the man who’d written it.

  She had no notion how long she’d sat reading, but knew that it had grown dark outside by the dimness of the room—not that there had been much light to begin with, as the only window that graced the chamber was nailed shut from within. The afternoon light was beginning to fade, and last night’s torch had gutted itself sometime during the night. The remains of the supper they’d brought her were left almost untouched.

  Now it was growing too dark to read.

  Frustrated, for the treatise had grown ever more fascinating, Meghan rose from the desk and went to the window to examine the shutters, to see if there were some way she could brighten the room.

  She found the shutters nailed firmly so that they could not be pried open, and no matter how hard Meghan tugged at them, they would not budge. She wondered who would do such a thing. Surely not Lyon Montgomerie? What manner of man could compose such a brilliant memoir and then board a window shut rather than simply fix the shutters?

  As she struggled with the shutters, she came aware of voices outside and below the window, and ceased her struggles in order to try to make them out. She thought she would recognize Lyon’s voice most anywhere, but the other she could not make out—not Baldwin’s, she was near certain.

  Searching for a knothole or a crack to peer from, she listened, but in vain, and then could suddenly hear the echo of voices carry up from the hall below.

  Meghan rushed to the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. She frowned at the discovery, though it should have pleased her. He hadn’t locked her in, after all. What was wrong with her that she should forget to try something so simple as the lock upon a door? She’d wasted entirely too much time sitting within his room, prying into his papers and his past, when she should have been making some attempt to get home.

  Aye, it was entirely possible that a union between them would be advantageous to all, but Meghan didn’t appreciate being coerced into anything. It would suit her much better were she to go home to her brothers and discuss with them the possibility of wedding Lyon Montgomerie. And if Lyon wished to wed with her, he could ask for her hand in matrimony, rather than tell her she was going to wed him will she nill she.

  Pah! She hadn’t even drawn a comb through her hair, she remembered suddenly, but didn’t care. And having slept in her dress, it was rumpled and even slovenly—och, she must appear every bit as insane as she would have him believe she was.

  Making her way cautiously down the stairs, she examined her surroundings, and determined that it had been far too long a time since the manor had been in good repair. As the stairs creaked noisily beneath her careful steps, she didn’t wonder any longer why the shutters had been boarded shut. She could perfectly understand why the very thought of repairing them might seem overwhelming. And yet, someone had to begin the repairs somewhere with something, or the entire place was going to crumble down upon itself.

  She spied them upon the dais as she descended the final steps—Lyon and his guest. At least Meghan assumed it was a guest, because he didn’t look like one of Lyon’s men-at-arms.

  In fact, this man was dressed in finer garments than Meghan had ever set eyes upon in her life, and his bearing was anything but common. She knew at once that this was someone of import—someone who had the power to help her if he chose. And having determined that, she straightened her shoulders, and made her way resolutely to the dais.

  Like a wolf scenting his mate, the instant she’d descended into the hall Lyon sensed her presence, and his gaze lifted to find her watching discreetly from the foot of the stairs. And suddenly, he could hear not a word David was speaking to him, his attention wholly taken by the woman standing in the shadows.

  “So it seems I misjudged MacKinnon,” David disclosed, somehow oblivious of their audience. He had erroneously chosen to kidnap the Laird of the MacKinnon’s son, hoping to hold him as a ward of the court so that they could better control the MacKinnon’s interests. It had been a mistake. MacKinnon had not only retrieved his son, but he’d absconded with the daughter of an English noble and had promptly made her hi
s wife.

  But Lyon was no longer listening.

  Something like birds took flight within his gut, and his breath strangled within his throat as Meghan’s gaze settled upon him, her beautiful eyes slitting. Her chin tilted defiantly and she pushed away from the banister and marched toward them. His heart jumped.

  “I can see now that it was a mistake to involve his son,” David continued, “but what has been done cannot be undone.”

  Lyon nodded absently.

  Meghan Brodie captured him as no woman ever had. She roused him... made his soul yearn for something... more.

  He shook his head, trying to cast off the spell she wove over him. “Misjudged who?”

  “Lyon?” David said, sounding vexed. “Have you not listened to a single word I’ve said to you?”

  Lyon didn’t see the point in lying.

  “Nay,” he admitted, but his eyes remained fixed upon Meghan’s lovely face as she marched toward them, her expression foreboding. Even ungroomed as she was, looking every bit the part of a madwoman, he thought her beauty unparalleled. Whatever else she was, whether mad or simply shrewd as the devil, she was unshrinking as well, and Lyon braced himself, expecting the worst. There was little worse to bear than the lash of an angry woman’s tongue.

  David’s gaze followed his.

  “You have a guest?” he said with some surprise, and then as she approached, undaunted, with fire flashing in her glorious green eyes, he turned to Lyon and asked, “Lyon... who is she?”

  Lyon cast his friend a sheepish glance. “She,” he replied with some hesitation, “is the complication I was speaking of.” And he shrugged.

  Chapter 16

  Meghan decided she would appeal to the man’s sense of loyalty. If he were countryman, she had some chance, at least, of gaining his support. If he were an English toad, then she was simply out of luck. It was impossible to tell by his manner of speech as he spoke like an Englishman, with only the merest trace of a brogue.

  “Are you a Scotsman, sir?” she asked, meeting his gaze as she approached the table. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

  He cocked his head at her in puzzlement. “Aye,” he answered, casting Lyon a wary glance. “Why do you ask, lass?”

  “Verra good,” Meghan exclaimed. “Because I wish to go home.”

  The man turned to Lyon, looking all the more confused by her vehement demand. “What is this?” he asked. “What does she mean, Lyon?”

  “Uh,” was all Lyon Montgomerie could think to say.

  Meghan turned to glare at him, and was pleased to see that he had the decency to flush at the prospect of an explanation.

  She wasn’t about to let him explain, however, because he would no doubt find some way to justify his actions. “He abducted me,” she charged, pointing an accusing finger at Lyon.

  The man’s brows lifted higher. “Lyon?” he said. “Is this true?”

  Lyon had the good grace not to deny it. He nodded with lifted brows and an abashed grimace. “Afraid so,” he admitted.

  The man exploded with fury.

  “I was going to tell you as soon as you were finished,” Lyon assured him.

  “What a pair we are,” the man declared. “Why would you do such a thing? Who the devil is she anyway?”

  “I am Meghan Brodie,” she announced, wholly annoyed with their apparent comradeship. “And I dinna know who you are, sir. You dinna sound like any Scot to me, but my brothers will not be pleased to hear this, I assure you.”

  The man turned to Lyon once more. “Lyon, I anticipate you had a better reason than to simply warm your bed. Her very demeanor curdles my blood.”

  Meghan gasped in outrage at his remark, and her face heated.

  Lyon chuckled softly. “I cannot claim I did to begin with,” he said, “but in my own defense, I must say she was somewhat more appealing last night.”

  The man chortled, and Meghan bristled. She gritted her teeth and clenched her hands at her sides. “I dinna see what precisely is so amusing,” she assured them both and narrowed her eyes at the arrogant stranger. “Who are you, sir?” she demanded of him.

  He regarded her a moment, and then proclaimed matter-of-factly with an arrogant lift of his chin, “I am David of Scotia.”

  Meghan blinked in surprise. “King David?”

  “Aye, lass.”

  “Son of Malcom Ceann Mor?”

  “None other.”

  Meghan tilted her head at him in disdain. “You dinna look like a king to me, sir,” she accused him. “You look and sound like a rotten Sassenach.”

  He merely smiled at that.

  “Och,” Meghan exclaimed, and was disheartened.

  Or was she truly?

  “I dinna suppose I can persuade you to send me home?” she asked the man without hesitation, but also without expectation. There was little chance of it, she knew, when he was the reason Lyon Montgomerie was in Scotia to begin with. The two were in league together. Bedfellows.

  “Give me a single reason I should question the judgment of one of my most valuable men,” he answered.

  “Because I dinna wish to wed with him is why,” Meghan said, lifting her chin.

  His gaze flew to Lyon’s in surprise. His brow arched imperiously. “Wed, Lyon?”

  Lyon seemed to brace himself. He nodded. “Aye,” he answered simply.

  “You cannot wed with her,” David argued.

  “That’s precisely what I have been trying to tell him,” Meghan interjected, pleased to see he was finally seeing her point.

  “What of MacLean?” David asked, ignoring her.

  Meghan bristled at his apparent dismissal.

  “What of him?” Lyon replied mildly. “I have already dispatched him a letter of explanation, as I did with you. I assure you I’ll not be wedding Alison MacLean.”

  “Lyon,” David urged him, “consider what you are saying.”

  “I’ll not wed her,” Lyon answered quietly, but tersely, and Meghan wasn’t certain who she was more incensed for—herself, or Alison. Did no man know to look behind a silly face?

  “The poor lass appeared as though she might cry did I simply breathe upon her,” Lyon said by way of explanation. “I cannot wed a girl who will not have me.”

  There was an immediate soberness between them as they stared at each other, seeming to be sparring without words.

  David’s expression was an unreadable mask but for his eyes, which flashed forbiddingly.

  “Do you recall,” Lyon said, “what you once claimed you would give to me upon a silver plate?”

  David turned away, his jaw tautening. “I do,” he replied.

  Lyon’s expression was every bit as firm. “This is not the way.”

  Meghan watched the two, considering their curious exchange. By the expression upon David’s face it became quite apparent that Lyon would hold his ground, that David would relent.

  What hold did Lyon have over this man?

  It was also apparent by the look in David’s eyes that he was unused to being opposed, and yet she knew instinctively he would yield.

  “If you will not, you will not,” David relented, “though I cannot and will not condone a marriage without consent. Lyon, you have not even her brothers’ blessings in this.”

  Meghan held her breath.

  “I will have hers,” Lyon assured him.

  Meghan inhaled a breath. “Nay, you will not,” she swore, enraged by his arrogance.

  David peered at her then, looking suddenly annoyed with her presence. Well, Meghan didn’t care. This was her life. And she was certainly not going to stand idly by while two strangers decided her fate.

  He returned his gaze to Lyon and yielded, “Are you so certain of this, Lyon?”

  Lyon smiled. “What do you think, David?” He lifted a brow.

  In answer, David arched a brow as well. “I think if anyone can, you certainly may, but if you do not gain consent, I cannot, as I said, condone it.”

  Meghan could sc
arcely believe they were bartering the matter of her life right before her so arrogantly.

  “Very well,” David said, “I can give you a fortnight to convince her, after which you must agree to release her if she remains opposed.”

  Lyon was silent, unresponsive, and Meghan, knowing this was the best she was going to get from David of Scotia, lifted her chin and challenged Lyon, “Unless you are not so certain of your self, after all?”

  Lyon met her gaze and his lips curved softly, his uncanny blue eyes flashing with seductive interest.

  “I will agree if you will agree,” she boldly invited him.

  He turned abruptly to David, looking suddenly quite satisfied with the arrangement. A quiver raced down Meghan’s spine. Recalling the way he had left her upon his bed, ready to yield to him for want of a simple kiss, she wondered whether she had somehow made a mistake in challenging him so.

  “You were ever the negotiator,” he said to David.

  David gave him a look that told Meghan he was hardly feeling a victor in this settlement.

  “Fair enough,” Lyon said. “I shall agree to a fortnight, after which, if she does not agree to be my bride...” He peered at Meghan, and his smoldering blue eyes stole her breath. “I shall personally escort her home.”

  “Very well,” David announced, and Meghan had the immediate impression she had made a terrible mistake. Something in Lyon’s expression told her she had lost already. And somehow, she got the feeling she’d played directly into his hands.

  The image of him as he’d appeared standing in the doorway last night accosted her then, and her heart began to pound traitorously, thundering in her ears.

  Wasn’t it enough she had to vie with Lyon Montgomerie? Was she going to have to battle her own treacherous body, as well?

  She had never thought herself so susceptible to the wiles of any man, but there was little use in denying the way this one made her feel—despite that she knew him to be as shallow-minded as the rest of his gender.

  Well, she hadn’t lost as yet, she reminded herself. And she wasn’t very good at losing, besides. Lyon Montgomerie might win after all, Meghan resolved, but she was going to make certain he looked thrice at his prize.