Chapter 1 #2
But for now, her brain was one-hundred percent occupied looking at the man behind the desk.
When they’d stepped into the room, Lyon Oliphant had looked up from whatever he was writing, his golden hair falling away from his face as he scowled in irritation. He had the most impressive face for scowling, she had to admit, but even that wasn’t what occupied her attention.
Nay, it was his chest. His scarred, sweaty, massive, muscled, very much naked, chest.
Oh my.
Bonnie swallowed, unable to even drag her eyes up to meet his angry gaze. If she’d been a man, and he a woman, and she’d been staring at his breasts so intently—
Wait, no, that analogy was far too awkward. Suffice it to say, were their positions reversed, and he was staring at her chest this hard, this hungrily, she would slap the—
Nay, that wasn’t true either.
If Lyon Oliphant stared at her as intently, as interestedly, as she was staring at him right now, Bonnie would likely offer to remove her blouse and allow him to look harder. With his hands. And tongue.
Dear God, you are getting off topic, are you not?
Right.
Right.
With supreme effort, she dragged her attention back to his face, which really was locked into a frozen glower, thanks to those scars.
“What are ye doing here?” he growled, and Heavens, but that sound seemed to reverberate all through Bonnie’s chest in the most delightful way, before settling between her thighs.
She opened her mouth to answer, before realizing the Beast of the Oliphants was glaring at his brother. When she turned, Lysander was smiling that easy-going grin of his.
“I told ye I’d be stopping by, Lyon. Remember?”
“Alone.” He didn’t even look at her.
But he also didn’t seem to care that he was standing, shirtless, in broad daylight, in his study, with a woman in attendance.
Lysander waved dismissively. “I didnae mention the state I’d be in during my visit.”
“Sander.”
“Lyon, this is Miss Bonnibelle Oliphant. Ye might remember her from my wedding to her sister.” Then, as if he hadn’t just unnecessarily recounted their family relationship to the laird’s heir, he turned to Bonnie. “Bonnie, my perpetually grumpy oldest brother, Lyon Oliphant. Ye may call him Lyon.”
“Why is she here, Sander?” growled Lyon.
And since the man was doing a remarkable job of not acknowledging her, Bonnie also directed her comment to Lysander. “To be fair, Lysander, if I had a stranger drop in on me unannounced while I was in a state of undress, I too would be grumpy.”
“I’m no’ completely undressed; I was sparring with Keith.”
She pretended to startle as she turned back to him and said brightly, “Oh, we are speaking directly to one another now? Excellent! I am pleased you take your physical health so seriously, and it is good to know this is not just a castle full of half-dressed inhabitants.”
She could swear his lips twitched, but then he pressed them so tightly together she couldn’t be certain.
“Bonnie is here to see yer collection, Lyon,” Lysander announced, and it was only then she realized he was backing toward the door. “I’ll let her explain it to ye.”
Both she and Lyon asked, “And where are ye going?” at the same time, which might’ve been comical, had she not been struck with sheer panic at being left alone with Lyon Oliphant.
Panic, but of a good sort.
Should I take my shirt off as well, to fit in?
Lysander didn’t seem to notice. He nodded toward the window, which had thankfully been modernized with glass rather than a bearskin or something equally medieval. “We’re expecting snow, and I need to see to my team. My estate isnae too far, and I’ll come fetch ye when ye’re ready, Bonnie.”
It was entirely inappropriate.
It was scandalous.
It was thrilling.
“Lysander!” they both called—her in exasperation, him in warning—as the man in question waved cheekily.
“I’ll see myself out. Ta!”
And then he was gone and Bonnie was left alone in a man’s study, with said man wearing not nearly enough clothing.
Or—hear me out—just the right amount, yes?
Well, she couldn’t argue with that. Why was it such a hardship to keep her attention on his face, and not on those glorious muscles of his shoulders, where it belonged?
It seemed to take a long moment before the man in question was able to look at her, and when he did, she was startled by the anger she saw in those hazel eyes.
Perhaps she reacted, because he closed his eyes and shook his head, just slightly, before sighing and sinking back down into his chair again.
“Forgive me, Miss Oliphant, but I suspect ye’d prefer if I hid back here for the moment.”
Not true! she wanted to shout. Instead, she straightened her shoulders, hefted her case, and stepped closer.
“Since my cowardly brother has already decamped, ye’ll have to tell me why ye’re here.”
His tone was harsh and abrupt, just like the rest of him, but she found she didn’t mind. Too often, in her experience, men spoke to her as if she were someone to be charmed, their words full of flowery praise. It made it difficult to understand the true meaning of a man’s words.
But with Lyon Oliphant, she didn’t have to guess. He didn’t like she was here, and it was refreshingly honest.
So, inclining her head slightly, she stepped up beside a small table and laid her case upon it, then clicked open the latches and lifted the lid to reveal all her work.
“Milord,” she began, but his growl interrupted her.
“I’m nae lord.”
Surprised, she met his eyes. “I know that.” His father was an earl, but besides being Laird Oliphant, the man held no other rank to bestow upon his heir.
The Laird’s second wife had been a titled lady, and it was through her that Lysander, the second son, had inherited a viscountcy.
But this man, hiding behind a desk so as not to disturb her with his glorious body, was nothing more than a mere “mister.”
No, there was nothing mere about Lyon Oliphant.
She cleared her throat. “Would you rather me call you Mr. Oliphant?”
“It is better than the other things I am called,” he growled, and aye, this was most definitely a growl.
It took a moment for her to realize what he meant.
Beast.
That is what he was called—the Beast of the Oliphants. Her own sister, Tiffany, had once disparaged him quite thoroughly, not realizing Lysander could hear her. And to be fair, “Beast” seemed to fit him.
But surely there was more to this man than only a beast? Surely he deserved more than to be reminded of his brusque manners and scarred countenance?
She swallowed, then reached for the papers she needed, keeping her attention on them, as she casually said, “What if you call me Bonnie and I call you Lyon, and we leave it at that?” She straightened. “We are family, in a sense, are we not?”
He was studying her silently, not appearing to be anywhere near willing to reply to her offer. Finally, with lowered brows, he reached again for the pen he’d thrown down when they’d entered the room, as if dismissing her. “Why are ye here, Bonnie?”
Oh.
Oh.
The sound of her name on his lips—even if it was supposed to be sarcasm—sent a shiver down her spine in the most delightful way.
She wanted to crawl across the wide desk and straddle him and explain exactly why she was there, and what she’d been dreaming of since she first saw him glaring at her across the ballroom during the Midsummer Masquerade during that disastrous house party.
Professionalism, lass. Try to remember the meaning of the word.
Right.
Clearing her throat, she lifted her chin.
“I am an author, Lyon, and I own a publishing house. It is my hope that my manuscript, a history of the area written from a woman’s point of view, will appeal to a female audience.
There are a few items of interest I feel I am missing, and your brother kindly volunteered your collection. ”
He seemed unmoved. “Which brother?”
“Lysander.” See? She could be brusque too, if called upon.
When he frowned—which she had to admit, was frequently—the scars on the left side of his face prevented his lips from moving as far, so it seemed almost lopsided.
The same would be true of his brows, except his left eyebrow had been burned away completely, and was now replaced with a mass of thick scars surrounding his eye socket.
But the damage couldn’t hide the way his hazel eyes were burning angrily.
The times she’d seen him formally—granted, it had only been thrice: once at the ball at the beginning of summer, once at Ember’s wedding to his bastard brother Max, and then again at Tiffany’s wedding—he’d worn his golden hair tied back, since it was far too long to be proper.
But “improper” seemed to define the man, not least of which was because said hair now hung alongside his cheek, and he impatiently brushed it behind his ear.