Lyon's Gift

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  He thought about his words and wondered if she would be shocked by them, repelled—thought about his drawings and wished he could see her face when first she’d set eyes upon them.

  Would she be appalled?

  Amused?

  Aroused?

  His heart hammering as it had not in years, he climbed the stairwell to his bedchamber, wavering a bit in his drunkenness. He’d returned from the gravesite and had remained within the hall below, swilling more ale whilst he’d stared at the hole he’d had boarded within the floor of his chamber... trying to imagine what it was she was thinking behind the upstairs door.

  What it was she was doing?

  His breath quickened at the thought of seeing her once more.

  He swallowed the last of his ale as he reached the top of the stairs and hurled the empty tankard down the stairwell, listening to it clatter on its way down, uncertain whether it was a warning to Meghan or a self-recriminating gesture.

  It didn’t matter. He was too besotted to care.

  He opened the door, and stood wavering upon his feet, acclimating himself to the dimness of the room. His eyes were drawn at once to the lone taper lit upon his desk. The tiny flame illuminated her face and little else, and his breath caught at the sheer beauty of her profile.

  God, but she was lovely.

  Meghan heard the warning clatter beyond the door, but had no time to leave the desk before the door swung open to reveal Lyon standing there.

  Her heart leapt against her breast, and she dropped the quill upon the desk, afraid he would catch her penning her own words upon the pages of his manuscript.

  Despite the fact that the room had grown dim and she’d had to squint to see the pages, she’d scarcely been aware of the passage of time.

  And now he was here, filling the doorway with his presence.

  He came into the room, swinging the door shut behind him, and her heart quickened.

  “Is that fear I spy in your eyes, Meghan?”

  Meghan couldn’t find her tongue to speak, so expressive was his look. After having read his essays, the brightness of his gaze took on an entirely new significance. Och, but she could hardly look him in the eyes without wondering if he thought of her in those ways he had written about.

  “Have you changed your mind now after reading those pages?”

  Meghan’s breath caught as he approached her.

  She didn’t know how to answer. Certainly, she should be shocked by their content, but she wasn’t. And perhaps she should think him wicked, too, but she couldn’t—because if he were so wicked then so, too, was she, because his private thoughts made her feel... warm... and his presence now made her heady with anticipation.

  She closed his manuscript before he could spy her scribblings, and guiltily pushed it aside.

  He came to stand beside her.

  Meghan’s heart thundered as he lifted up the manuscript and held it, inspecting the binding. He didn’t open it, merely stood there holding it, and she prayed he’d leave it closed. She wasn’t certain whether he’d be incensed by her boldness... or merely amused that she should think herself learned enough to add her own observations to his. He would read them soon enough, she was certain, but she was afraid it would be now, when her musing was as yet incomplete and her thoughts too scattered to form into comprehensive words.

  “Answer me, Meghan.” He tossed down the manuscript and Meghan let out a sigh of relief.

  “Nay.” She averted her gaze, staring at the bright-yellow flame as it danced atop the burning taper.

  “Nay?”

  She held her breath as he knelt beside the desk, and cast him a glance but didn’t dare look him full in the face.

  How could she ever again when now she knew what he was thinking?

  When she shared his thoughts?

  She couldn’t forget his words... or his drawings... Couldn’t keep her heart from hammering as he stared so expectantly at her.

  “Nay, you will not answer me?” he asked, his voice no more than a husky murmur. “Or nay, you do not think me wicked, Meghan?”

  Meghan’s face heated. “Nay...” She turned to look at him then, and the intensity in his eyes seized her breath. “I—I d-do not... th-think you wicked,” she told him, and sucked in a breath.

  He cast a glance at the arm she had cradled before her within her lap. “Does it pain you?”

  Meghan nodded. “A bit,” she confessed. Though in truth, she’d not thought of it overmuch whilst she’d read through his manuscripts—nor whilst she’d sat writing at his desk. Her thoughts had been so immersed within the manuscripts that she’d forgotten her physical pain.

  He produced the same small vial he had once before from his belt, and opened it. The sweet scent of herbs tickled her senses. “Give me your tongue, Meghan,” he urged her, and the silken sound of his voice sent a quiver down her spine.

  Meghan stared at his mouth, recalling all the wicked things he had confessed to doing with his tongue. Och, she wasn’t ignorant in the ways of men and women, but she had never dreamed a man would wish to do such things to a woman’s body!

  That he could crave the taste of her?

  The very notion sent gooseflesh rippling over her.

  The way he was staring at her now made her feel as though he did.

  “Give me your tongue,” he demanded once more.

  Meghan swallowed convulsively and did as he bade her. She hugged herself, cradling her injured arm, trying to still the trembling of her traitorous body as he moved the vial over her tongue, dripping medicine into her mouth. The liquid tickled her buds. Meghan blinked as he withdrew the vial. She swallowed, her eyes drawn once more, against her will, to the manuscript that sat upon the desk between them, its leather cover illuminated by the candle’s twisting, flickering light.

  His command was softly spoken. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Meghan’s gaze returned to his face.

  Their gazes locked, held.

  She swallowed once more, no more capable of revealing her own thoughts than she could cease thinking of his.

  “Have you been reading all afternoon?”

  “Most,” she confessed, and her voice was soft and low, strange to her own ears.

  Her confession thrilled Lyon.

  The blood hummed through his veins. He wasn’t certain what he’d hoped to accomplish by having her read his manuscripts, but he was pleasantly surprised.

  Relieved.

  Intrigued…

  By the look upon her face.

  Was she not what he had supposed?

  Was she more like his mother than some virginal Highland lass whose brothers had kept her sheltered from greedy eyes and hands?

  Was that why she was as yet unwed?

  Was she deflowered and impure for the marriage bed?

  All these thoughts and more poured through his mind. He wasn’t certain how the answers should make him feel, but one thing was certain, he didn’t care this instant—couldn’t care less if her body had been explored by unknown hands and eyes before this day, because they were untouched as yet by his own. And if he had his way, there would be naught of her left to his imagination. And when he was finished with her, there would be no memory remaining of another man’s hands upon her delicious body.

  The taper’s flame began to fade as it burned down the wick, the only evidence of the passing of time, for the air grew still between them, the tension as delicious as anticipation should be. The room was left deep in shadows but for the almost nonexistent glow from the candle, and what muted light came from the hole in his ceiling. The flame was a soft illumination upon her lovely face, casting a buttery-yellow light upon her pallid cheeks. And the flicker of the flame was a glimmer in her eyes—eyes that were hardly wicked as his own must seem, but hardly innocent either.

  He had to know...

  How innocent?

  His own body tautened at the mere scent of her flesh.

  “You’re trembling,” he said sof
tly, his voice thick with hunger.

  “M-my arm…”

  He wanted to hear that she did not think him depraved.

  He wanted to take her beautiful face into his hands... taste her sweet mouth... wanted to slide his tongue between those luscious lips and drink of her nectar.

  “I have something that will ease it...”

  The candle flickered between them, making it appear her dark-green eyes widened a bit in fear, but it was a trick of the candlelight, he hoped, for in the next instant they were filled only with a curiosity he wanted more than life to satisfy.

  “If you will trust me,” he added.

  She seemed to understand that his meaning was deeper, because she hesitated before nodding. And yet she nodded and it sent his pulses leaping.

  He reached down, holding her gaze, and separated her kirtle from her undergown. Watching her face, he gathered it within his fist and jerked it, renting a strip from it. She gasped, but her gaze never wavered. Lyon’s heart thundered within his chest at the implication. Not knowing his intent, she trusted him still, allowed him his will. He tore his gaze away long enough to examine the strip he’d rent, and then folded it and rose to his feet.

  “Extend your arm a bit,” he bade her. “Just a bit... I know it hurts, Meghan.”

  Once more she did as he asked her, and he slid the strip about her arm so that it cradled it comfortably and then he lifted it about her neck to secure it. He couldn’t help but wonder if she would be so compliant in his bed... in his arms... lying beneath him... or whether she would bend his will to her own, wield her power over him, reduce him to naught more than a lover grateful for every soft touch his darling bestowed.

  “Lift your beautiful hair for me,” he urged.

  She did, gathering the strands with her good hand, and he slid his hands about her neck, reveling in the feel of her warm silken skin beneath his touch. He tied the sling at her nape.

  His hands lingered... his fingertips caressing lightly...

  Meghan’s heart beat faster.

  Swallowing, her breath quickening painfully, she released her hair so that it fell and covered his hands.

  And still he did not remove them.

  He wrapped his fingers about her nape, then, and slid his thumb beneath her jaw, gently turning her head up to look him full in the face.

  “I said you were lovely, Meghan Brodie,” he whispered fiercely, “and so you are.”

  Meghan gulped back the retort that came naturally to her lips. Jesu, but she did like the way he looked at her.

  No matter that she told herself she did not. Och, but her heart seemed to blossom when he gazed at her so. It made her feel... wanted... cherished...

  And yet she needed so much more.

  She wanted him to gaze at her and think her beautiful within as well. Because someday, someday... Meghan knew she’d no longer have beauty to fall back upon. Someday, as with Fia... she would lose her youthfulness and then they would all call her mad and view her as though she were some curiosity to be hidden away. Even her brothers had been guilty of it with Fia; they had felt nothing but shame for the woman who had raised them.

  Aye, beauty was but a curse.

  Her father had been driven to his own demise in obsession over beauty, and her grandfather had all but discarded her grandmother in pursuit of it once Fia’s own beauty had fled her.

  Aye, Meghan was afraid to embrace his words, afraid to take pleasure in them, lest she end like her mother and grandmother before her.

  Alone.

  She wanted him to accept all of her. She wanted him to see that she was more than the sum of her parts. She wanted him to look into her eyes and know that there was a brain behind her silly face... and thoughts... and feelings.

  She wanted him to hear her words and respect them.

  She wanted him...

  She wanted him to kiss her...

  His fingers tangled within her hair. Goose-flesh erupted over her flesh. Meghan held her breath as he looked down upon her, his eyes glittering with the reflected light of the dancing candle flame...

  And with something else... something that truly was a little wicked...

  Meghan averted her eyes to the desk, to the manuscript lying there.

  “Look at me, Meghan,” he demanded.

  Meghan did, and her heart skipped a beat. It was wholly impossible to look into his eyes and not imagine the things he’d done... the desire he made no effort to hide. A delicious shiver raced down her spine.

  “Look me in the eye,” he commanded her, his voice naught more than a husky whisper, “and tell me, Meghan Brodie...”

  The sound of her name upon his lips sent another quiver down her spine.

  “Do you think me wicked now?”

  Meghan blinked.

  How to respond? She inhaled a shuddering breath.

  Did she tell him aye, and accuse him, when she knew in her heart that she was as wicked as he?

  Or did she deny it and let him think her wicked too?

  She could not find her voice to speak. Her lips parted but no words came.

  “Tell me, Meghan.”

  “I—I dinna think... I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “I think you do,” he murmured and bent, brushing his lips softly against her brow. She moaned softly at the sweetness of the gesture, tilting her head back, melting beneath his lips, and he moved lower, kissing the bridge of her nose. Meghan held her breath, closing her eyes, and he then kissed each of her lids. She ceased to breathe at all as the warmth of his mouth descended toward her lips.

  But he didn’t kiss her. The scent of ale accosted her... ale and man... and something more...

  “I d-don’t know,” she swore, and expelled a breathy sigh.

  And she truly did not. She had no notion what to think, what to feel, what to do... He was stirring her senses as though he were a master weaver and she the silken thread upon his golden loom.

  She was suddenly so warm... and so... hot... heady... dizzy... It seemed as though a veil fell over the room.

  Meghan wasn’t certain but it seemed she wavered a bit in the chair...

  And the candle flame... seemed to dance away before her eyes, teasing her vision.

  The pain in her arm faded along with the clarity of the room. The only thing she was acutely aware of... was the hands that cupped her face so tenderly... the lips that drew away from her own, leaving her mouth yearning... the eyes that watched her so intently...

  She blinked, peering into his face, feeling intoxicated by his very presence.

  The drogue was taking effect. She willed it away, not wanting it to dull her senses.

  “Do you think me wicked?” he asked once more, and Meghan could scarcely breathe for his nearness. His blue eyes gleamed as they scrutinized her, scattering her thoughts.

  She shrugged. “I cannot...” She swallowed. “... cannot make such a judgment.”

  His eyes slitted, piercing her. “Cannot or will not, Meghan?”

  “Cannot,” she whispered. “I dinna know you well enough, Lyon Montgomerie.”

  “I beg to differ... you know me better than anyone else upon the face of this earth, Meghan Brodie. I poured my soul into those pages.”

  Her face burned. She tried to look away. “I... I didna read them all,” she lied, unable to look him in the eyes after having such intimate knowledge of him. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure he must hear it as well—was sure that in the silence of the room it was amplified.

  He forced her gaze back. “How much?” he pressed. “How much did you read?”

  “I... I dinna remember.”

  He lifted a brow. “You do not remember?”

  Meghan shook her head.

  He released her suddenly, and stood once more, looking down upon her. Her heart hammered as he slid aside the candle upon the desk. Without warning, he reached down, plucking her up from the chair. Meghan gasped in surprise as he sat her upon the desk, and then seated himself before her.


  “Shall we rouse your memory, then?” he suggested, and reached down, sliding his hand beneath the arch of her foot. Meghan’s heart leapt into her throat at the intimacy of his caress.

  His written words came back to her with the first touch: I laved her feet with my tongue. It is as though I am a slave to my passion... and this the ultimate gift as I humble myself at her feet in worship... craving the taste of her flesh like a man with strong drink, and inebriated with the desire only to please...

  “W-what are you going to do?”

  “Shhh…”

  His gaze never left her face as he began to massage her bare foot, stroking the arch and caressing her skin gently.

  “Do you remember what I wrote of this, Meghan?”

  Meghan’s breath quickened at the question. She nodded as his fingers massaged her foot, gently lacing through her toes. And then he raked the seat backward from the desk and Meghan thought she would swoon as he lifted her foot to his beautiful mouth, watching her face all the while as his tongue darted out to lap at her toe.

  Wicked.

  A shudder flew through her.

  She knew she should protest—God only knew that she should—but she couldn’t. She couldn’t find the words to deny him... to deny herself... even knowing where this could lead.

  Feeling paralyzed with uncertainty, and dizzy with anticipation, she watched as he drew his tongue along the arch of her foot, tasting her flesh where his fingers had caressed. And then her heart leapt against her ribs as he drew her toe into his mouth, gently, suckling it, his eyes gleaming with a hunger she could but yield to.

  Gooseflesh raced over her limbs as he massaged her calves, pushing up her gown as he moved toward her thighs, all the while continuing to suckle at her toe...

  God have mercy upon her wicked soul, but she could not bring herself to still his hands as they climbed upward... like warm velvet across the flesh of her thighs...

  He withdrew her toe from his mouth. “I want you for my own, Meghan Brodie,” he said without ceremony.

  “You want my body,” she answered breathlessly, scarcely able to think for the way his hands were making her feel.

  He didn’t want her. There was a difference, Meghan understood. She fought to remember that through the haze of pleasure.