Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (20 page)

“Nay,” she answered at last, lifting her chin slightly. “But you told me once that I would ask... so show me,” she bade him, her eyes flashing with invitation.

His heart hammering, Lyon stood before her, holding her gaze before kissing her deeper and fuller than ever before.

T
he next morning
, the vial was missing from the little desk.

Meghan didn’t bother to search for it. She knew where it had gone. There was little doubt in her mind that Lyon had confiscated it from her. It didn’t matter; her arm was better and she could continue the scheme without the potion. She had her powders and that was all that was needed.

She painted her face the instant she awoke, taking the pouch from its hiding place beneath Lyon’s bed only long enough to make use of its contents before putting it back. This time, however, rather than simply using the powders Alison had sent, she pulled out the wimple and veil as well. Using the little mirror once more, she fastened the headdress as best she was able. She knew he would wonder where she had procured it, but she would simply tell him that she had borrowed it. If he pressed her for a name, she would tell him the first that came to mind. He couldn’t possibly remember the name of every one of the wives who had remained upon his land.

When she was done, she sat once more at the little desk, and opened his manuscripts to read.

And to wait...

T
here must be
a way to reverse the effect of the potion, Lyon had determined. He’d sought out Cameron at first light and sent out a handful of his men to find the midwife who’d tended Meghan.

Cameron, the daft old fool, however, seemed to be leading them upon a merry chase. Either the old man was truly decrepit, or he was purposely keeping them from the old witch. He had quite conveniently forgotten her name, it seemed, though he had remembered it easily enough the night of Meghan’s accident. Neither had it seemed he’d had much trouble locating the woman that evening, for she’d come to Meghan quickly enough. And yet now he could scarcely remember the direction of her woodland hut.

Lyon couldn’t imagine why he might contrive to keep the old witch from him.

Neither could he help but wonder what Meghan was doing, as he’d left her within his bed looking a bit like a cadaver with her sunken eyes and bruised face. He hadn’t dared even to touch her, much less wake her, as she was sleeping so peacefully thanks to the rotten medicine she had ingested.

He reined in his mount, growing impatient with the search, and fell back to ride beside Cameron. “Tell me once more, old man. Was this hut upon my land? Or does it sit upon someone else’s?”

Cameron screwed his face, as though to consider the question, and then peered up at the sun, as though to gauge it. He shook his head. “I dunno,” he answered after a moment.

Lyon gritted his teeth to keep from howling in frustration. “Why not?” he demanded.

They had long since ridden from any woodlands and now were well into the moorlands. The terrain was hillier here and generously marked with chiseled stones.

The old man shook his head. “I dunno,” he said again.

Lyon cursed beneath his breath and spurred his mount to where Baldwin rode beside yet another Scotsman he’d managed to inherit. Only this lad was younger and seemed more eager to please.

“Duncan,” he called out tersely. “Have you any notion where it is we are, lad?”

Duncan peered about, then turned to him, and nodded. “MacKinnon land,” he announced without doubt.

Lyon eyed him incredulously. “MacKinnon! Have we ridden so far?”

“Aye, my laird,” Duncan replied.

That was all he needed—to deal with Iain MacKinnon just now. He swore an oath beneath his breath, and decided that he was desperate enough to pay MacKinnon a visit anyway. Cameron had been leading them all afternoon to no avail, and they hadn’t gotten anywhere but lost.

“Do you know where lies his manor?” Lyon asked Duncan. “Is it near?”

Duncan nodded, and pointed toward a gently sloping, heathered hill in the distance. “Chreagach Mhor,” he disclosed. “Over the rise, upon the cliff.”

“Lead me there,” Lyon commanded the lad.

The youth protested, saying, “But we are only four!”

Lyon narrowed his gaze at the boy. “Do you tell me that MacKinnon will not greet us even-handedly?”

“Nay, but—”

“Because that is not what I have heard,” Lyon assured him. “I understand his position here in these Highlands,” he said, “but I have heard he deals fairly with his neighbors, and what am I but his neighbor?”

“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “But you dinna understand, my laird.”

“I understand quite well,” Lyon said. “You think he will greet me with his blade simply because my blood is English?”

Duncan shook his head. “’Tis not usually his way, no, but his son was stolen by King David and given to the English as ward. MacKinnon has only just now returned from retrieving the boy. He cannot be pleased, and I dinna wish to face him if he is angry.”

“So David told me,” Lyon countered, angered, “and yet MacKinnon has already faced David squarely. I cannot see that he would accord me any less courtesy when I come in the name of peace.”

Baldwin frowned. “Lyon... are you certain you wish to?”

Lyon was unused to having his authority questioned.

“I am quite certain I wish to,” he said, his tone clipped. “If any of you are man enough to follow, then do so. If not, then take your good-for-nothing corpses back to the manor, pack your belongings, and get out of my sight, as I do not want or need craven men in my company.” He spurred his mount toward the hillock, leaving them to follow or not at their own discretion.

If they chose not to, however, they had better not be waiting for him upon his return.

As well as Lyon knew David, he was surprised to find that his friend had returned to see Iain MacKinnon. He was not so surprised when he learned why.

It seemed the MacKinnon was getting married—wedding his English love.

Lyon nearly interrupted the ceremony and was glad he had calmed himself before riding in. As it was, Iain MacKinnon was well aware of his presence, but he seemed to realize at once that Lyon’s visit was not one of ill bodings. MacKinnon eyed him, nodded to acknowledge him, but dismissed him as he returned his attention to his bride and exchanged with her his vows. Spotting David within the crowd, Lyon joined him and watched the couple.

“I did not realize,’ Lyon said, “that I would be intruding.”

David turned to him, looking surprised. “Lyon! Neither did I, until the messenger came to invite the Brodies. They, of course, did not come, but I thought it prudent to pay my respects.”

Lyon smiled. “Quite beneficent of you,” he said. “And did he receive you well?”

“Cordially,” was David’s response. “Cordially, but the wily Scot does not show his appreciation so well. If he found my presence an honor, he has yet to reveal it.” Despite his words, he chuckled. “You have to admire a man who will not be cowed. Curse the rotten knave.”

Lyon chuckled softly.

“That is also what I like about you, Lyon.” David smiled at him. “From that day so long ago when we were both naught more than whelps.”

Lyon shook his head at the memory, then turned his attention to the wedding couple. The ceremony was over and they were locked within an embrace.

“You were never a man to act against himself,” David added.

Lyon looked at his friend and liege in surprise. David couldn’t know him that well if he thought so, but Lyon said nothing.

“I am honored, Piers, to have you at my back.”

Lyon nodded his thanks. “It is my pleasure to do so,” he told David.

“And more,” David added, “as my friend. I count myself a fortunate man.”

Lyon didn’t know what to say. Instead he gazed at the MacKinnon and his bride. “Thank you,” he said finally, uncomfortably.

David seemed to understand for he changed the subject at once. “She’s a lovely thing, is she not?”

“That she is,” Lyon agreed. “Who is she?”

“Page FitzSimon,” David said. “Her father is the man to whom I entrusted Iain’s son as ward until Henry could take him, as he was both mine and Henry’s vassal.” He too watched the couple; they were both smiling and basking in the adoration of their people. “It seems there is no reason to regret my actions, is there? All is well that ends well. Have you ever seen two people more in love?”

Lyon considered that question, and had to ask himself, What is love?

What did he feel for Meghan?

Certainly he thought of her every moment of every day—wanted to be with her every instant he could. The very image of her made his heart beat a little faster, and the thought of spending the rest of his life with her made him smile.

And she was bright. The simple fact that she could read had amazed him. She’d read his papers with an open mind, without condemning him for his thoughts—not once had she thrown his words back into his face. Nay, she’d read them with an open heart as well.

And then she had given him everything.

He wanted to take care of her for the rest of her life. He wanted to wake up with her upon a morn and look into her beautiful eyes. He wanted to kiss her, and to laugh with her, and to show her things, to see her nursing his babe at her breast, to see her hold him to her and look down upon him with loving eyes. He wanted to wake up and lazily draw her into his arms, set his mouth against hers and nuzzle gently for the rest of his days.

When he thought of her, he felt both a flutter in his heart, as though it sprouted wings to fly, and a glorious warmth that cocooned him unlike anything else he’d known in his life.

For the first time ever, he felt a communion of spirit with another living soul.

So then, was that love?

If so, then he surely loved Meghan Brodie.

And he wanted to have with her what he saw in the couple making their way through the celebrating crowd. Shouts and laughter surrounded them.

Now MacKinnon and his bride were coming toward him. MacKinnon grabbed his wife by the arm, dragging her after him, and, laughing, she followed.

“If you return in peace, then welcome,” Iain MacKinnon said to David, eyeing Lyon cautiously.

“That I do,” David assured him. “I came to see with my own eyes that Page FitzSimon is content.” He nodded at Page, and she smiled and blushed prettily.

“I am,” she told David, and her smile deepened as she tilted a loving glance to her new husband.

Lyon felt a pang of envy at the sight of them together.

So happy.

“Your father will not trouble you here, lass,” David swore. “Be well, and be happy.”

“I shall be very well,” she answered shyly, and once again smiled up at her husband.

The two of them shared a secret look together—one that was warm and unmistakably intimate, and Lyon’s breath faltered at the thought of Meghan looking at him in such a way.

A grin spread across Iain MacKinnon’s face. He turned to David abruptly, tearing his gaze away from his bride, though clearly with reluctance. “And so I have your blessing in this?” he asked David. “If FitzSimon returns I can be sure to know where you stand?”

David nodded. “You may at that, MacKinnon. And I can see very well that your bride is happy.”

Page blushed even more fiercely, then looked at Lyon, meeting his gaze.

Lyon smiled down at her, thinking her blush as sweet as her smile. He added his own felicitations, and then said, “And you may count upon me as well, as David’s position is mine, too.”

Iain thrust out a hand in welcome. “Iain MacKinnon, as you know.”

“Piers Montgomerie,” Lyon said, grasping the other’s hand.

“Aye, then,” MacKinnon declared, grinning. “I knew that. Make yourselves welcome.” He turned to Page. “Gentlemen, today my wife has made me a verra happy mon.” And then he turned to David and thrust out his hand once more. David grasped it, and MacKinnon said, “We begin anew. While I cannot be happy for the matter of my son, I have gained so much more.”

“’Tis good to know,” David said, nodding.

MacKinnon turned to Lyon and smacked him companionably upon the shoulder. “Eat! Drink! Make merry with me and my bride!”

“Da! Da!” came a little voice below. Lyon peered down in time to see a child scurry between his legs.

“Get yourself up from your knees, Malcom,” Iain demanded of the boy.

“Aye, but Merry is swillin’ the ale from the vats as fast as Glenna pours them an’ she is gettin’ mad, mad, mad!”

Lyon chuckled.

His father did as well. “Is she now? Well then, you go and tell her I am on my way, and find Broc and tell him to fetch his dog.”

“I will go,” Page offered, and made to leave. He dragged her back against him, embracing her.

“Nay,” he replied, “you are comin’ with me.” He lifted her up into his arms, unconcerned by the presence of their guests.

“All right, Da,” the boy said to his oblivious father, and bolted away.

Page was squealing and laughing. “You truly are a savage Scot,” she declared, and Iain MacKinnon merely chuckled at her accusation.

“So you have said, wife,” he told her and kissed her swiftly upon the lips. He started to carry her away, stopping only to turn toward Lyon and David once more. “Stay,” he invited them, “and we shall share a toast together for my bride once I’ve salvaged the ale from that greedy dog.”

David laughed, and so too did Lyon.

“We shall,” said David. “And we thank you for your hospitality, Iain MacKinnon.”

“Aye, well,” Iain responded, grinning almost stupidly with his joy, “you caught me on a good day, I suppose.” And he winked at them and turned away, bearing his giggling wife with him.

Their laughter trailed after them as they disappeared into the crowd.

M
eghan had fallen asleep waiting
.

She awoke to a dark room: no torchlight, no taper, only the light from the hole in the roof to orient her.

“Meghan,” came a whisper, and she lifted her head from her arm to peer groggily through the shadows, wondering if she were dreaming still, so confused was she from the drogue still coursing within her body.

“Meghan!”

Her eyes focused upon the door, where it seemed the sound emanated.

The door was closed, and she could make out the figure of someone standing before it, arms outstretched as though to bar it.