Chapter 2
When was the last time someone had touched him the way she was doing now? Oh, he wasn’t without human contact, but when Keith landed punches, Lyon didn’t feel them…not the way he was feeling her hand on his bare skin.
And aching for more.
What was it about this woman? She was nothing special to look at, but…damnation! When she touched him—touched him as if she weren’t afraid of him, as if his scars didn’t disgust her—he’d felt a foreign warmth creep up his arm and into his chest.
And damn him, but he wanted more.
Which is why he made himself shake her hand from his arm. He didn’t deserve the warmth she offered. He lowered his voice to its habitual growl and jerked his chin toward the opposite side of his study. “The art is over there.”
She cocked her head and studied him a few heartbeats longer than comfortable, and he saw a curiosity in those dark blue eyes he didn’t like. He couldn’t afford this intriguing interloper to be curious about him…not when she was willing to touch him so fearlessly.
Finally though, she nodded and turned to the far side of the room, and Lyon exhaled. To keep himself from watching the sway of her hips as she walked away, he scooped up his shirt, which he’d tossed over the back of his chair when he’d finished taking Keith’s pummeling, and pulled it over his head.
He was buttoning it up—not that it mattered, now that she’d seen his scars bared to the world—when he heard her gasp.
“This is beautiful!”
He knew what she’d found. Lyon’s grandfather had mounted the necklace’s delicate gold links in a glass frame to protect it, and now it held the place of honor among the shelves.
“It’s rumored to have been made by Duncan Oliphant,” he said gruffly, surprised he was offering information.
From the way her eyes widened as she threw a smile his way, she seemed to realize it was unusual for him to offer conversation willingly. “The man who started the silversmithing school? He is the founder of Oliphant Engraving, is he not?”
Lyon folded his arms across his chest and rested a hip against the desk. “The engraving business wasnae started until many generations later. But thanks to him, it’s said the Oliphants are the finest engravers in the Highlands.”
Why in the hell was he still speaking to her? And why was he craning his head to get a better look at her as she bent to examine the necklace? He should be ignoring her and getting back to the new design he’d been working on…
But Bonnie Oliphant was impossible to ignore, especially when she made those alluring little hums and gasps when she found something new about the gold-work to enjoy. He liked the way she used the pad of one delicate finger to trace the design against the glass.
He didn’t want to like it, damn him.
“Has anyone worn it recently? I wonder how heavy it is.”
Would Rose have worn it eventually, had she lived?
“Nay,” Lyon growled.
His tone didn’t seem to dissuade Bonnie. She straightened and moved to the next shelf where—among the tomes on mechanics and engineering Lyon preferred to keep here in his study rather than the too-painful library—the framed fragments of embroidery rested.
“These are incredible,” she murmured, tilting her head to one side to study the linen fragments. “The colors have faded, of course, but imagine how vibrant they must have once been. I cannot quite make out the subject…”
Despite his intentions, Lyon found himself scooping the gas lamp from the desk and crossing to her, glancing toward the window. When had it started to snow?
He was only now realizing how dark the room had become, and not for the first time, wondering how difficult it would be to wire this room, and a few others, with electric lights.
Less risk of fire, at least.
That alone would be worth the cost.
When he arrived at her side with the lamp, she offered him a brilliant smile of thanks.
No words, just that smile, and Lyon was thankful social niceties didn’t require him to speak, because he didn’t think he could at that moment.
Her smile had knocked him with the same force as one of Keith’s blows, but he didn’t think he’d recover anytime soon.
“Oh, that is much better. Here, lift it higher,” she commanded, and numbly, he did. “Fascinating!”
She leaned closer to the glass-encased linen, her nose almost touching as she studied the tiny, ancient figures. “Why, it is a battle scene, is it not? Look, there is a severed limb, and this must be blood.”
Lyon had spent many hours poring over these embroideries, almost as fascinated as he’d been by the sketches and designs inside the connecting shelves. These were genuine works of art, even if the subject was a little…strange.
“Battles, aye.” He cleared his throat, unused to this strange desire to want to speak, but compelled to do so nonetheless. “I read somewhere that Nessa Oliphant, the woman who designed and created these, was a verra unusual lady.”
“She would have to be,” murmured Bonnie, her finger tracing the blow of a battle-ax. “Just remarkable. I am certain I can still see the facial expressions.”
When she reached up and took the lamp from his hand, her fingers brushed against his, and he instinctively tightened his hold, which resulted in a brief tug-of-war, until his brain caught up and commanded he release his hold.
She smiled again, and part of him numbly wondered if it’d be worth it to hold on to the lamp longer if only she’d smile at him again.
Keep yer cock in check, lad. She’s a lady, and ye’re a…
A beast.
Aye, the reminder was helpful.
She’d taken the lamp and moved on, murmuring thoughtfully as she went. She found another collection of ancient embroidery, framed together by some long-dead ancestor. “Just beautiful. Look! In this one, the couple appears to be embracing. This woman was one of your grandmothers?”
He shrugged. “Likely no’ a direct line. There’s family trees in the library which show her as a sister to Duncan and Malcolm Oliphant.”
She straightened; her brows high. “The Duncan Oliphant who made that necklace?” When he shrugged—Duncan was a common enough name—she pressed on. “And who was Malcolm Oliphant?”
Now that his hands were free, he crossed his arms in front of his chest again as he nodded to the shelves to the right of the now-gray window. “An inventor. Some of his sketches and designs are preserved over there.”
She lifted the lamp and peered in their direction, but soon glanced back at the embroidery. That’s right; she likely wasn’t as interested in the mechanical inventions of his ancestor as he was, since she’d come all this way to procure sources for her book on women’s history.
“Oh, this one appears to—” Frowning, she shifted the lamp and leaned closer. “That is not an embrace, is it?”
It was the speculative tone of her voice which made his lips twitch. This woman had barged into his private study and didn’t bat an eye at his near nudity, then demanded she be shown his personal family heirlooms. Of course a little thing like embroidered medieval pornography wouldn’t bother her.
“Nay,” he said drily. “It’s a bit more.”
“Good heavens, her leg is up over his shoulder!” Bonnie cocked her head to one side. “I did not think such a thing was possible, despite my reading.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, he was compelled to point out, “It is.”
She glanced over at him, her lips curling upward.
But as soon as their gazes met and she saw what he suspected was smirking knowledge in his eyes, her eyes widened. Bonnie’s mouth opened in a silent “oh,” and a blush stained her cheeks pink.
So she could be embarrassed? Good.
Only…she wasn’t embarrassed by seeing him half-nude.
Oh, her eyes had gone right to his scars—how could he have missed that?
—but instead of the revulsion he was used to seeing, or the pity, as strangers examined the burn marks on his face…
instead, he saw interest. Intrigue. She’d seen his naked chest and had studied his scars, but he’d seen desire in the way her blue eyes had widened and in the way her lips had parted.
And he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
Feeling vindictive, he held her gaze for a long moment, watching the blush creep up her cheeks as she realized they were standing beside one another—virtual strangers, and him half-dressed, without even a waistcoat—viewing embroidered depictions of athletic sexual congress.
“The next panel is even better,” he murmured.
She sucked in a breath and tore her gaze away from his, hurrying to step over to the next shelf where a well-meaning relative had secured the naughtiest of the ancient needlework carefully behind glass.
It had been Lyon’s favorite as a lad, and he’d made certain to show them to his younger brothers when the time had been right. Da had also enjoyed them, as had generations of other young, aroused male Oliphants.
“Goodness,” she breathed, as she peered at the new depictions. “There are more than four legs in that embrace. Is that— What is that woman doing to him? I cannot tell if it is torture or not.”
“It’s called fellatio,” he said in a dry tone.
Maybe it was the scientific term, but when she glanced over at him, her lips were twitching, and her cheeks were aflame. “Oral stimulation performed upon the penis?”
Ah, she was being scientific as well. Nodding somberly, he intoned, “She put his cock in her mouth.”
The noise which came from her lips might’ve been a snort, or an aborted laugh, but she raised her fingertips to cover them as she turned back to the embroidery. “And the other woman? What is she doing?”
“Forcing him to suck on her tits, looks like.”
Good God, had he really just said that out loud? To a lady?
“Hmm. So it is torture then, eh?”
Of course, said lady was standing with him, alone, peering interestedly at pornography, so perhaps it wasn’t all that strange.
And this time, he was almost certain the noise she made was a sort of strangled moan.