Chapter 10 #2
When she was able to blink the room back into focus, she saw that Bonnie was gone—likely up to her room to mourn the lack of money the manuscript would bring—and her mother was glaring at her.
Coldly, the baroness hissed, “You have been away from home for days, Tiffany. And now I learn you were with a man? You know there is a word for women like that? You might as well not have returned at all if you were going to shred your reputation so thoroughly.”
Still stunned, Tiffany shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness in her brain. “Mother, no one knows—”
“Shut up. Shut up!” Mother was pacing now, waving her hands in agitation. “I will not allow you to ruin what I have worked so hard to build!”
The inn?
Tiffany’s fingers rose to her warm, swollen cheek. Her teeth ached. Was that normal? “What is that, Mother?”
“Your reputation!” the baroness shrieked, as she whirled back around to point a long finger at Tiffany’s nose.
“Your reputation as the most desirable marriage prospect in a generation! And if word of your folly were to somehow escape these walls, and it was discovered you are not quite as virginal as everyone thinks—”
Tiffany gasped. “But I am! We did not—” She bit down on her vow that they didn’t do anything, because while she was still a virgin, she had been irrevocably changed. “I am a virgin.”
She’d done nothing more than having her heart opened, then shattered.
Mother’s sneer told her she didn’t care for the protests.
“It matters not. If word gets out you were alone with a man, even your beauty could not save you. And then where would I be? Left with merely Bonnie to try to marry off and better my lot in life!” She threw up her hands.
“Daughters!” She wailed theatrically, as she whirled back toward the corridor to the rest of the inn.
“My penance in life is daughters who cannot bring me the wealth I deserve!”
As she watched her mother stomp out of the room, muttering about beauty and men and bargains, Tiffany’s eyes clouded with tears.
Yesterday in York, Lysander had said her worth was more than just her beauty. He’d said such wonderful things about her, and in that moment, Tiffany knew the truth: she’d gladly give up her beauty, if it meant she could have him.
Not as Lysander, and not as Lunzie, but as both. She’d thought she loved Lysander, with his charm and wealth and grace and handsome face, but when he’d snubbed her, she’d realized those things alone weren’t worth loving him.
It had taken Lunzie—with his coarse dress and easy-going attitude and fun-loving smile—to show her what she wanted in life. What she wanted to be, and who she wanted to be with.
Her head hurt, and her cheek throbbed in time with the ache in her heart and the heaviness of her eyes. Choking back a sob, she allowed herself to sink to the table beside her bag.
She’d failed in her reason for going to York, but she’d learned so much more. She’d learned about herself, and about him, and now she knew what she wanted.
Starting today, she’d no longer allow her mother to control her life. She would no longer rely on her beauty to make her way in the world. She’d take what Lysander—nay, what Lunzie had taught her, and she’d strive to make life better for those around her.
That’s what he’d said he liked about her after all: her caring nature. Well, from now on, Tiffany vowed she’d share more of that and less of her beauty.
She’d learned how, thanks to him.
Dropping her forehead to her hands, Tiffany allowed the tears to start anew.
He’d changed her life, and she couldn’t even thank him.
How could Lyon stand to live in a place like this?
Lysander rested his head on the arm of the cushioned settee and scowled up at the exposed ceiling beams, darkened from centuries of smoky fires. Oliphant Castle was something out of the Dark Ages, and it was no wonder its lord had gotten a reputation as a barbarian.
Ye’re sounding like Tiffany now.
Aye, but Lyon was his brother, and he was allowed to call him a barbarian.
Because he is one.
Grunting in irritation at his own stupid rationalizations, Lysander lifted his brandy.
“That stuff’ll kill ye,” growled his brother from behind him.
Lazily, Lysander swung his gaze to rest on Lyon, who stood in the doorway.
Without a shirt.
Cocking a brow at his brother, Lysander settled back against the settee. “Then why do ye keep it in yer study?”
Lyon grunted as he stalked across the room. “As a test.”
True to his reputation as the Beast of the Oliphants, Lyon’s words were as short as his temper. He stopped beside the nook which held the shelf and the brandy decanter, and Lysander watched him stare at the liquor hard, before swiping up the crystal pitcher of cold water and pour himself a glass.
“I failed yer test then, brother,” Lysander admitted, staring down at his third glass.
“Not a test for ye. For me.”
Ah.
“Where’ve ye been? I’ve been waiting.”
“Out.” Lyon rested his hip against his desk. “Why are ye here?”
Judging from the sheen of sweat across his brother’s shoulders, and the way his kilt hung low on his hips, Lysander guessed he’d been sparring with his butler again. Lyon’s devotion to his exercise regimen was legendary.
And warranted, considering it had changed his life.
“I…” Sighing, Lysander pushed himself upright. “I needed to speak with ye.”
“Speak then,” grunted Lyon, as he lowered himself to the floor and began to push himself up using only the muscles in his arms. “I’ll listen.”
Lyon wasn’t being rude, it was just who he was.
And Tiffany’s observations weren’t completely wrong, were they?
He found himself telling his older brother everything.
Well, perhaps not everything; there was no need to explain how her scent caused his cock to harden, and how her lips were positively sinful, nor how he ached to possess her.
But he explained the scheme he’d concocted with Athena’s help, and how he’d set it into motion.
And how it had been an utter success.
And an utter disaster.
“And now the lass willnae speak to ye?” Lyon growled, sitting on his arse on the worn rug atop the stone floor, with his arms resting on his knees.
“Would ye, if ye were in her position?”
“I try no’ to talk to ye now, as it is.”
Lysander rolled his eyes at his brother’s attempt at humor. “And I so appreciate ye interrupting yer busy schedule of moping and beating the shite out of poor Keith.”
“What do ye want me to say, Lysander?”
“I want…” Shrugging, Lysander stared down at his almost-empty glass. “I guess I want advice.”
“On how to woo the lass?” Lyon rolled gracefully to his feet, the candlelight—I swear, it’s like he’s living four centuries in the past!—throwing the scars up the left side of his body in sharp shadows. “Ye want her back, I assume?”
Lysander blew out a breath and met his brother’s eyes. “I do. I shouldnae have done what I did.”
Lyon shrugged. “Then tell her that. Ask her forgiveness.”
“But…” Shaking his head, Lysander pushed himself to his feet, and was surprised when he stumbled slightly. “She said those things about ye. Terrible things,” he muttered, even knowing the words she’d said didn’t define her.
Lyon shrugged, and as Lysander moved past him on his way to the brandy, he stood. Before Lysander could pass, Lyon snatched the glass from his hand.
As Lysander blinked woozily down at his empty hand, his brother asked, “What sorts of things?”
“She said ye…” Why couldn’t he recall exactly what she’d said now? “She’d called ye barbaric for wearing that kilt. She said ye were scarred and brutal and didnae speak, but grunted.”
Instead of being offended, Lyon shrugged and turned away—taking the brandy glass with him, damnation. “All those things are true.”
“What?”
Lyon took his time to replace the glass on the shelf, then turned back, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and planting himself between Lysander and the brandy. Not at all subtly, to Lysander’s way of thinking.
“All those things she said about me are true. Ye ken it. I ken it. The Oliphants ken it.”
Does he just shout cold commands?
Tiffany had asked her sister that, and Lysander had bristled, even though he’d seen his older brother grow colder and less alive since his wife’s death.
Can you imagine sitting across from that? Tiffany had asked her sister that, but Lysander now realized she’d meant, not Lyon’s appearance, but his personality. And he knew that nay, Tiffany would have never been happy sharing a life with someone as distant and bad-tempered as Lyon had become.
His brother was watching him, and dipped his chin in acknowledgement when he saw Lysander understood his reasoning. “Dinnae blame her for speaking the truth, even if it was rude.”
“I did though,” Lysander whispered, hating this guilt. He turned away from Lyon and stumbled back to the settee. “I did blame her. I set out to hurt her.”
“Then ye owe her an apology.”
“She’ll no’ accept it.” Lysander wouldn’t accept it if she’d been deliberately cruel to him as he had to her. But then, now that he knew Tiffany, he couldn’t imagine her being deliberately cruel.
Oh, shite.
She wasn’t cruel. She was kind-hearted and spoke her mind and acted impulsively, but she wasn’t cruel.
“Ye dinnae ken a woman’s mind, wee brother.” A ghost of a smile touched Lyon’s lips before he shook his head and moved to his desk. “If ye care about her—”
“I love her.”
It took Lysander a moment to realize the words had come from his lips, and between one breath and the next, he knew they were the truth. He loved Tiffany Oliphant in a way he hadn’t expected to when dancing with her at the ball. He loved her, and he wanted a future with her.
But first, he had to apologize.
“Then go make it better, ye wee dobber,” growled Lyon. “And leave me to my silence.”
Lysander knew he was in no condition to travel—neither back to Newfincy Castle or to his own estate—but he could give his brother what he asked.
As Lyon reached for one of the leather-bound tomes that lined the walls of the study, Lysander closed his eyes and rested his head back against the settee.
His heart felt light and heavy at once. Light, because he’d come to the most amazing realization and was determined to ensure he did everything in his power to convince her of his sincerity. And heavy…because he wasn’t sure if he could.
But he would try.
The brandy made his head swim, but thoughts of Tiffany were more important. He lay in his brother’s home—his ancestors’ home—and with a slight smile on his lips, began to plan.
Again.
Here’s hoping ye dinnae fook this one up as badly as the last.
Indeed.