Chapter 1 #3
Of course, the times she’d seen him, he’d also been fully dressed, where “fully dressed” meant a formal kilt. He’d been wearing a shirt then, was her point.
Now, however, she could see the scars were spread down the left side of his neck, across his shoulder and his upper arm, and it was impossible not to allow her eyes to follow them, wondering at the strength it must’ve taken to overcome that pain, to regain the movement he so obviously had, judging from the size of those muscles.
Did he spar with that young man—Keith—in order to maintain those muscles?
How…intriguing.
Clearly, he wasn’t fond of the way she was studying him, judging from the way the pen oscillated back and forth between his fingers. He was likely to splatter ink that way, but he didn’t seem to care.
“Which collection, Bonnie?”
This time his tone was almost exasperated, and she had to think back on their admittedly short and stilted conversation to figure out what he was asking.
“Oh!” Shaking her head, she adjusted her grip on her papers and hurried over to his desk, trying not to notice how he leaned slightly away as she grew closer. “Your medieval collection from your ancestors. Lysander said you have maintained all the artwork passed down. And the paintings, of course.”
“Paintings?” he growled.
Surely Lysander hadn’t lied to her about the paintings?
She halted beside his desk and laid out the relevant pages on the oak.
“These are the sections of my manuscript I believe would be enhanced by the landscapes your brother told me I could find here. The fact they were painted by a woman would only add to the finished product, I believe. Rose Oliphant’s work will be—”
There was a sudden roar.
That was the only description her shocked mind could come up with for the sound he made as he surged to his feet. He roared a denial, and Bonnie would absolutely find a way to counter his objections…once she got over the fact she could see his knees.
He was wearing a kilt.
He was wearing a kilt, and since he’d been sitting behind that desk, she hadn’t been able to see it, only now she could, because he was standing, and oh my heavens the man had beautiful knees, did he not?
Apparently unwilling to allow her the time to think—or get her desire in check—Lyon planted his palms flat against the papers on his desk and leaned forward. Now that she was looking, she could see he’d been working on some sort of mechanical design, and they were, in fact, ink splattered.
“Bonnie—Miss Oliphant—let me be verra clear. Rose’s work will no’ leave my library. No’ for ye, no’ for anyone.”
Her brows rose. Goodness, Lysander hadn’t been exaggerating when he said his brother felt protective of the woman’s artwork, had he? “Not even to publish her paintings to share with the world?”
“Nay,” he ground out.
Well, hell.
Bonnie felt herself frowning, but was determined not to give up so easily. In the meantime…
Pretending indifference, she shrugged. “May I at least have access to your medieval collection? Your brother indicated some of the artwork was produced by women.”
His shoulders were heaving with the strength of the breaths he was taking—You need to get your eyes off his chest, Bonnie—as he slowly straightened.
“I think it best if ye left.”
Well, double hell. She couldn’t leave now, not without seeing what she’d come to see.
“Please, Lyon? I swear I will not publish anything without your permission, but the artwork will help fill a hole in my manuscript. I have so few sources from the medieval period.” Without thinking, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm, attempting to convey her sincerity.
And as soon as her fingers touched his skin, they both froze.
She couldn’t be certain why he had stiffened—perhaps he was direly offended by her impertinence—but for her part, she was arrested by the warmth, the burning, which began where she touched him and traveled up her arm.
It seemed to creep across her chest, making her itchy, and she wanted nothing more than to close her entire hand around his arm, to touch his bare chest and scarred cheek… to lick him.
Lick him? It is a good thing you do not care about propriety, apparently.
And then he exhaled, the lids of his eyes lowering, and Bonnie swore she felt him shudder. Shudder beneath her touch, which is when her fingers did tighten, as if she couldn’t stand to lose the connection.
Maybe she couldn’t.
When he swallowed, the long, golden column of his throat moved in the most intriguing way, making her wonder what his skin felt like at the base of his throat. But then he was looking at her again, and as she met his eyes, she saw something in those hazel depths she couldn’t identify.
“Just the medieval embroidery,” he finally said, and it wasn’t a growl or a grunt or anything. Just…words, and it took her a moment to realize he was making a peace offering. He was allowing her access to part of his collection.
She allowed her gratitude to show as her smile bloomed. “Thank you, Lyon,” she breathed.
And when he nodded curtly, she could swear that something she’d seen in his eyes had now turned to uncertainty and confusion.