Chapter 3
It was still snowing the next morning, and Bonnie was surprised to realize the thought excited her.
Merely because it meant she’d have another chance to study the artwork in Oliphant Castle, she assured herself, and nothing at all to do with the man who stalked around the castle, all broody and sweaty and glorious and rude.
Really, he’d slurped his soup last night like some kind of barbarian, but she’d been almost certain he’d done it on purpose.
Smiling, she stood in front of the large window in the guest room she’d been given, the quilt from the bed wrapped around her shoulders, and watched the snow blow past. Her feet were cold but given the state of the rest of the castle, she supposed she should be grateful she wasn’t standing on medieval rushes.
After all, she’d only meant to come for a short visit and hadn’t planned on staying overnight.
Which is why, under the quilt, she was wearing one of Lyon’s shirts. She’d slept in it last night, after a blushing Keith had delivered it. When she’d asked if it had been his idea, or his master’s, the poor man had stammered something unintelligible and had quickly made his escape.
So Bonnie had spent the night wrapped in warmth and his scent, imagining it was Lyon touching her instead of his linen. Perhaps it was the memory of that intriguing embroidery she’d examined yesterday, or the completely scandalous medieval manuscript Tiffany had recently procured for her…
But aye, perhaps she’d touched herself last night—brushing her palms against her nipples, then lower—wondering what it’d be like to feel a man’s hand there— Nay, not just any man. Bonnie had been thinking about Lyon when she’d touched herself.
And strangely enough, the thought didn’t make her burn with embarrassment.
Why shouldn’t she imagine going to bed with a man? Just because he wasn’t her husband, just because it wasn’t proper? Why shouldn’t she appreciate a well-built man, whose growls made her thighs tremble, and her stomach twist with yearning?
She could do as she pleased because she was a strong, independent woman, dammit.
At least, she would be once she made her publishing house a success.
And that would happen—had to happen—once she published her book of Highland history.
She knew there were other like-minded women out there, women who would be fascinated to learn about their foremothers’ contributions to their country, and Bonnie was determined to bring that to them.
Once she did, she was certain she’d receive similar submissions, and she’d be able to support herself the way she wanted to.
And perhaps engage in an illicit affair or two.
No, just the one. There has only been one man to catch your fancy.
True.
Chin up, Bonnie tossed the quilt over the bed and defiantly pulled Lyon’s shirt over her head.
Nude, she strode to the wardrobe where she’d hung up her serviceable gown the previous evening.
Today, she was stuck in the castle, thanks to the snow, but her time there was limited.
If she wanted access to more of the Oliphant artwork than just the medieval embroidery—no matter how fascinating that was—she needed to convince Lyon to allow her access to the library.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t at breakfast. Keith was, however, and he was a cheerful fount of information…as long as she didn’t ask about Lyon’s past or Keith’s relationship to the laird’s heir.
Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she finished off the last of her eggs. “Keith, do you think you might be able to find a folding table?”
“Aye, of course. Do ye have need of one?”
A plan was forming as she stared out the small window in the wallpaper-over-stone wall in front of her. “I think I do.”
If Lyon wouldn’t allow her access to the library, she’d grant herself access to him. After all, her manuscript and all the artifacts were in his study, and with the snow still coming down, he was stuck inside the castle, the same as she was.
And that’s why, an hour later, she swept confidently into his study and didn’t bat an eye when his gaze snapped up from his schematics, and he growled, “What are ye doing here?”
“I am setting up my own office,” she told him breezily, then pointed imperiously to a spot in front of the window. “Over there please, Keith. I will move my own chair.”
The servant-who-was-more-than-a-servant winked at her as he manhandled the folding table into place.
“Keith, what in the hell is going on?”
“The lady’s setting up her own office, Lyon,” the young man declared cheerfully. “She has work to do on her book—ye ken she’s an author, aye?—and it’d be a waste to have to heat another room in this place.”
When Lyon glowered, Bonnie turned her head to hide her smile, impressed by Keith’s logic. Aye, the castle was drafty and made of stone, but the study had a cheerful fire going, which was lovely.
After the door closed behind the young man, she busied herself by setting up her pen and ink, then arranging her papers.
One of the chapters, where she’d discussed women’s roles in the medieval household, would absolutely be enhanced by a sketch of one or more of Nessa Oliphant’s medieval embroideries…
assuming she could find one which wouldn’t be too shocking.
“What are ye doing?”
She turned from where she’d been peering at the framed embroideries to see him still sitting at the desk in the same position as when she’d entered the study; his forearms braced, and three open books spread out before him.
“I am looking at the needlework. What are you doing?”
He blinked, as if he hadn’t expected her to ask him the same question in return. “I’m researching.”
Well, now she was curious. “Researching what?”
Suddenly, his expression softened. Whatever he was doing didn’t make him scowl.
Unlike I do, apparently.
“Something ye said yesterday about—about printing artwork. It made me curious. Printing press technology has advanced in leaps and bounds over the last two decades.”
Her brows rose. The man was researching printing press technology, based on a passing reference she’d made?
“It certainly has,” she agreed. “The presses I bought are almost as old as the building they are in; no wonder old Mr. Grimm sold them to me at such a good price. They are outdated but”—she shrugged—”they do work, thank goodness.”
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but abruptly nodded and lowered his head over the sketch he was making. Was he sketching printing presses? How…interesting. The Beast of the Oliphants was of a mechanical bent. Bonnie tucked that bit of knowledge away to examine later.
To connect with him.
Humming under her breath, she turned back to the framed needlework and tried to focus on what she’d set out to do. After a minute or two, Lyon cleared his throat. “What are ye looking for?”
So he was curious, was he?
Confident he couldn’t see her expression, with her back to him, she grinned, then shrugged nonchalantly.
“I am looking for illustrations I could use in my chapter on medieval life. I am not the best at sketching reproductions, but I cannot print these as they are.” Nonchalantly, she tapped her finger against her lower lip, as if considering.
“Which do you think would be easier for a woman like me to draw; this one with the fellatio, or this one where two men are pleasuring the same woman?”
There was the choked sound of a muttered curse behind her, and a chair being slammed backward. She arranged her expression into one of curious innocence and turned to face him.
He was standing, his shoulders heaving as he breathed heavily; his glare impressive.
He was magnificent and not immune to her teasing.
Perhaps he likes hearing the word “fellatio” uttered from your lips.
She’d have to test that theory later.
“Is something wrong, Lyon?”
“Enjoy yer research,” he abruptly snarled, as he leaned over to slam shut one of the books. “I have need of some exercise.”
“But it is snowing,” she pointed out, hiding her grin.
“I’ll be in the great hall. The kind of exercise I have in mind involves Keith’s fists and lots of blood.”
As he stalked out, Bonnie tilted her head to one side and studied his kilt-enclosed arse.
Goodness, the man really is fit, is he not? And one big ball of confused emotions on top of it all.
He was going to be fun to tease.
Lyon was breathing hard by the time he was done with his workout with Keith. It likely had to do with the fact the younger man never stopped smiling, which irritated Lyon beyond reason.
Or perhaps the fact Keith seemed to never miss a chance to innocently bring up Bonnie. What did Lyon think she was doing up in the study? Did Lyon think she slept alright last night? Did Lyon know he’d taken her one of Lyon’s old shirts to sleep in?
That sort of thing.
Perhaps it wasn’t so innocent.
So aye, by the end of their sparring, Lyon’s fists throbbed, his jaw ached where Keith had landed a particularly devastating blow, and the other man’s nose was bleeding. They were both breathing hard, and the fire in Lyon’s blood was nowhere close to being cooled.
Every time he thought of Bonnie lying half-nude, covered only by his shirt…well, it raged again. And he didn’t like the feeling.
“I’m going to cool down,” he growled, snatching the offered towel from Keith’s hand.
The younger man grinned, of course. “I’ll get cleaned up as well. I’m planning on spending the afternoon practicing my butlering, unless ye’re frustrated enough ye feel the need to beat the shite out of me again?”
A reluctant smile tugged at Lyon’s lips, and he blew out a breath at Keith’s teasing. “It wasnae that bad.”
“Aye, it was. Perhaps I’ll see if Bonnie has any knowledge of medical procedure.”
And just like that, Lyon’s scowl was back.
He was still wearing his boots with his kilt, so he tossed the towel over his shoulder and strode for the steps leading down to the first level and the door leading to the courtyard.
Thankfully, some ancestor had replaced the ancient double doors—suitable for welcoming a medieval army—with a more accessible portal, so he was able to slip out without letting in too much snow.
Aye, it was still coming down outside, although perhaps not as hard as it had the previous night. Lyon tilted his head back and took a deep breath, relishing the way the snowflakes melted as soon as they touched him.
Perhaps that fire in his blood was useful after all.
With the towel thrown over his shoulders, he began to trudge through the courtyard.
The snow was past his knees, and the exercise reminded him he needed to work his leg muscles as hard as he did his upper body.
After the fire, the doctors had informed him he’d lose most of the strength and mobility on his left side, including his left arm and shoulder.
He’d given them a mighty, “Fook ye,” and devoted himself to his exercises.
Keith might think he enjoyed beating the shite out of him, but in reality, Lyon was desperate to keep his body working. It had failed him once already.
His pensive hike took him past the ruined stables, but he didn’t allow himself to linger.
He hadn’t allowed himself to linger ever since the fire, and couldn’t do so now.
One of these days, he promised himself he’d tear the damn thing down, but not now.
Once it was gone, there’d be nothing to remind him of his failure besides the scars.
And he deserved to be reminded as much as possible.
By the time he reached the rear of the castle, he was reconsidering his plan. Normally, after a workout with Keith, he’d go to the loch to wash up. But during winter, when the snow piled up around the keep, throwing himself into a convenient snowbank did the same job just as well.
Now, having dropped backwards into a large pile of snow, he wasn’t steaming anymore, and in fact, the cold was beginning to seep inside him.
He decided it would be best to cut through the kitchens.
But when he pushed open the back door, he was met with an unexpected sight. Instead of the plump and cheerful Mrs. Oliphant, the woman standing at the scarred oak table was none other than the lady who’d haunted his dreams last night.
“What in the hell are ye doing here?”
Bonnie straightened from where she was kneading a pile of bread dough and blew at a piece of hair which had fallen from her simple bun. She smiled, and the sight warmed him more than the heavy iron stove did.
“Why hello, Lyon.” She used the back of her hand to push the errant lock of hair out of her face again. “I was just thinking of you.”
“What—”
Dinnae ask what she was thinking of, ye idiot.
“Where’s Mrs. Oliphant?” he snapped instead.
She didn’t seem bothered; she never seemed bothered by any of his growls or glowers. Instead, she shrugged, grinned again, and went back to kneading the dough. “I do not know. I have yet to meet her. Are you certain she exists?”
When she sent him a teasing sideways look, the hair fell into her face again, and Lyon was moving before he realized it, his gaze locked on that out-of-place piece.
“Perhaps she cannae come because of the storm,” he murmured, stepping up in front of her.
And before he knew what he was doing, he reached up and lifted that piece of hair, tucking it into her bun the way he used to do for Rose.
It was only then he realized she was holding her breath as she stared up at him with those beautiful eyes, and he jerked away, stepping back to put distance between them.
Idiot! Ye’re half-naked and standing entirely too close. Ye touched her!
But yesterday, when she’d arrived, he’d been wearing just a kilt as well, and she hadn’t minded touching him.
Now, she cleared her throat and focused not-entirely-believably on the bread dough in front of her. “I offered to make a simple luncheon. The potatoes are baking in the oven.”
And that was when Lyon realized two things: there was a delicious scent wafting around the kitchen, and he was suddenly very ravenous.
For food, he told himself.
But still, she hadn’t pulled away from him. So he swallowed down the instinct which told him to hide away, to mope and mourn, and instead, took a deep breath. “How can I help?”
He was rewarded with a brilliant smile, which made him feel like some kind of hero.