Chapter 2 #3
“I’ll pass both yer compliments on to Mrs. Oliphant, milady.”
“Oh, please do call me Bonnie,” she corrected blithely, finishing off the last of the soup. “This seems to be a delightfully informal household. Do you and Lyon share all your meals?”
“Most of them—” Lyon watched the other man bite his words off with a wince, then shrugged. “That is to say, when Lyon isnae hosting a grand dinner or important guests, milady.”
Which was exactly never.
Humming speculatively, Bonnie propped her chin on her hand in the most improper dinner manner. As she studied Keith, the young man shifted uncomfortably, and Lyon had the impression she was seeing far more than she ought to.
Not that he should be surprised; she was certainly intelligent and empathetic enough.
“What did you say your position here at Oliphant Castle was, Keith?”
Keith shifted again. “Butler, milady.”
“Bonnie,” she corrected. “And what is it you do?”
“I buttle.”
Her gaze flicked from Keith’s cracked knuckles to the slight bruise fading under one eye, to Lyon’s equally abused knuckles, and she hummed again. “And when you are not buttling? Are you also sparring partner, and footman, and food server? Confidante? Friend?”
Keith’s nearly panicked hazel gaze flicked to Lyon, who merely shrugged. Of course Bonnie could see through their relationship.
“I— Uh…” Keith cleared his throat. “Shall I fetch the roast?”
Bonnie nodded and pushed her bowl forward.
“Only if you also fetch another place setting and join us.” When both men stared at her, she smiled almost shyly at Lyon.
“It is clear you usually dine together, and not in this too-large room. You do not have to attempt to impress me, Keith, and I do not want you to change your habits just because a little weather has trapped an unwanted visitor here with you.”
No’ unwanted. Never unwanted, though I’ll no’ admit that.
Perhaps she saw the unspoken thoughts in his expression because her smile turned knowing, then pleased, as she dropped her gaze to her wine glass. Keith cleared his throat and scurried off toward the kitchen, and Lyon knew he was doomed.
How in damnation was he supposed to make it through the rest of the meal with her smiling at him?
Perhaps he should ask Keith to pour him a glass of wine, so he could drink himself into a stupor, then mayhap he wouldn’t have to hear her witty observations or imagine what else she might do with those lips of hers.
Nay. He didn’t imbibe alcohol for a reason. He didn’t like the way it made him feel as if he had no control over his body, even if there were times he didn’t want to think or feel.
Like tonight.
“Well, Lyon, I do hope my being here will not upend your daily schedule too much. Once it is possible, I will be on my way.”
“Nay,” he growled, his fingers closing around his glass of water. “We have nae horses nor conveyances here at Oliphant Castle. Ye’ll have to wait for Lysander to come fetch ye.”
Instead of responding to that bit of bad news, she just nodded in agreement. “I noticed the stables appeared to have been burned. Did you lose your mounts in that fire?”
Rose had been worth more than the horses they’d lost, had she no’?
Unable to speak, Lyon nodded curtly.
Bonnie hummed sympathetically, then took a small sip of her wine. “And without a stable, you have no place to keep more animals.” Without lowering her glass, she eyed him over the rim. “Is that the fire where you were burned so horribly?”
The soup soured in his stomach. “Did yer mother no’ teach ye to stay out of a man’s private past?” he growled.
But she wasn’t intimidated. Instead, she shrugged.
“Mother tried to teach me many things. If you had ever spent any time with her, you would understand why I tried my best to un-learn all the lessons she thought important.”
Och, aye, Sander had told him some of the ways her mother had warped Tiffany. Had she done the same to Bonnie?
Now his visitor placed the wineglass down, her attention on the spot where her fingers toyed with the stem.
“If you are the kind of man who thinks a woman should be beautiful and empty-headed, or seen without being heard, or should keep her opinions to herself…then I am sorry to say you will be disappointed in me.”
It was said nonchalantly, almost challengingly. But the way she peeked up at him as the last words left her mouth told Lyon, for some reason, his answer really did matter to her.
He wanted to shout, I’ll no’ be disappointed! But he couldn’t. Because, ultimately, she’d be disappointed in him.
Trying to swallow down the growl which threatened to escape at the thought of this intriguing, exasperating, enticing, terrifying beauty spending the night in his castle, Lyon lifted his water to his lips and gulped desperately.
Nay, he wouldn’t be disappointed in her, but rather himself.
Because with her sleeping in one of the guest rooms—Oh God, what would she wear to sleep in that big bed all by herself?—there was no way Lyon wasn’t going to take himself in hand and frig himself senseless.