Chapter 4 #2
After the mid-day meal, on Keith’s suggestion, Lyon invited Bonnie for a stroll around the courtyard.
That was too good an offer to pass up, even though her boots weren’t intended to trudge through the high snow, and she was shivering under her coat.
But it was entirely worth it for the look on his face when she scooped up a handful of snow, packed it into a ball, and threw it at his chest.
“What the hell was that?” he growled.
“A snowball, Lyon. I am throwing snowballs at you.”
“Nay, ye’re no’. That was just one snowball. Snowballs is plural.”
She pursed her lips and hummed, pretending to consider his semantics, all the while leaning subtly to the side so she could sneak another handful of snow into a ball. Unfortunately, she wasn’t subtle enough.
With a sudden roar, he leapt forward, and just when she began to think he might tackle her, instead, he leaned over and scooped up a huge armful of snow. Before she could understand what was going on, he’d dumped the entire thing atop her head.
The laughter quickly overcame the outrage, and she came up sputtering. She lobbed snowball after snowball at his chest, face, shoulders…but he just stood there, his arms crossed, with a faintly bored expression on his face, and the slightest sparkle in his hazel eyes.
Soon, she realized he’d made all of his moves, and it wasn’t as much fun without his reaction, but chuckling, she fell against his side. He offered his arm, as if they were out for a mere stroll, and she held on as she struggled back to the front door.
Tomorrow, would Lysander come for her? Or, as she suspected, had he left her there at Oliphant Castle to be alone with Lyon…on purpose? If so, he might not be in any hurry to retrieve her.
But still, her time there was limited, and she didn’t want to spend another frustrated night lying in that big bed, dreaming of Lyon Oliphant, without knowing if there was something between them or not.
So that evening, aided by the overcast skies and threat of more snow, she asked Lyon, “Do you play chess?”
He eyed her for a moment, as if trying to determine her reason for asking, before finally inclining his head slightly. “Aye,” he answered cautiously.
“Excellent. I propose a match.” There was a set in his study; she’d stared at it more than a few times over the last several days, hoping for inspiration. “And we will make it interesting.”
When they were settled in front of the board—since he took the dark pieces, she was seated before the whites—he leaned back against his chair, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and asked, “How interesting?”
Excellent. She knew his curiosity wouldn’t be able to hold out too long. Smiling, she shrugged. “The loser owes the winner a favor. And for each forfeited piece, the loser owes an answer to a question asked by the winner.”
When he eventually nodded, she pressed her lips together to keep from crowing. She was a very good chess player.
Indeed, he was the first to forfeit a pawn, and he gestured impatiently to her. “Ask yer question.”
It wouldn’t do to jump right into the things which really mattered, so she decided to ease into it slowly. “Why do you wear a kilt, even in the winter?”
He blinked, obviously expecting something more personal. But he glanced down at himself, as if surprised to discover he was wearing a jacket and waistcoat with his kilt. “I wear it because it’s expected.”
“As the laird’s heir?”
“As the Beast of the Oliphants.” Something bitter flashed in his eyes before his gaze landed on the merry fire in the hearth. “I ken I’m thought of as barbaric.”
She scoffed. “Yes, but that would be mitigated if your clothing was not two hundred years out of date.”
“Why no’? This castle is two hundred years out of date. Remind me to show ye the hidden passages.”
There were hidden passages? She smiled, pleased he was willing to show them to her. “What is the real reason for the kilt, Lyon?”
The roll of his eyes was slight, but she caught it.
“The real reason? It’s terribly comfortable and verra freeing.”
She was about to ask what he meant by that, when he met her eyes and unfolded his arms to reach down and adjust himself.
There.
In front of her.
Part of her wanted to blush and slam her eyes shut, but the rest—the academic part, which was always curious of course—couldn’t help but stare, fascinated. She remembered the medieval embroidery where the woman fellated the man and wondered what Lyon would look like under that kilt.
When he cleared his throat, she realized she was still staring and snapped her gaze back up, half-horrified, half-amused. He raised his good brow, and her lips twitched.
“Your move,” she managed hoarsely, and he leaned forward to examine the board.
They went back and forth, each forfeiting trivial answers. He asked about her life with Tiffany and Ember at the Oliphant Inn, and what their mother was really like. She asked about the castle, the passages, and why he was comfortable with so few servants.
It was fascinating and wonderful, and she was half in love with him by the time the match was finished.
Or rather, not quite finished. In one languid motion, she moved her rook into position and took his bishop. “Check.”
His queen would be able to counter, but that would leave his king open to her bishop, and judging from the scowl on his lips, he knew it. But first…
“One more answer, if you do not mind.”
He blew out his breath in one giant heave, as if it were a major inconvenience, and flopped back against his chair. “Fine,” he barked.
This was a question she’d had since she’d arrived at Oliphant Castle, and since it seemed as if she’d win the match and be owed a favor, she could waste this opportunity on a question which had been bothering her.
“Who is Keith to you?”
“He’s my butler.” The answer was immediate and flippant.
She propped her elbow on the table and lowered her chin into her hand as she studied him.
“He said the same thing, but he calls you by your first name and joins you for meals. He is frankly terrible at footmanning— Wait, is that a verb?” She frowned in concentration.
“Footing? Footmandering? Footmaneering? Anyhow, he is not very good at serving meals. And he spars with you daily.”
Lyon was still watching her. “I need a sparring partner, and nae one else will live here with me.”
She dropped her voice. “Who is he, Lyon?”
He held her gaze, and she could see the debate raging behind those hazel eyes, so similar to his not-a-butler’s. Finally, he dipped his chin once in acknowledgement. “He’s my brother. A bastard my father sired with a local lass during his second marriage.”
She exhaled, and he echoed it. Then she nodded.
“That makes sense.” Laird Oliphant made all the gossip columns last summer when he announced the arrival of another illegitimate son, Max Deville.
Bonnie’s sister Ember was now married to him.
“The two of you are close. As close as you are with Phineas and Lysander?”
Shrugging, he dropped his gaze to the chess board, as if his answer didn’t matter. “Keith was with me after the fire. He’s stayed with me the entire time. Nae matter how bad it—I—got.”
But she knew it did matter.
He cleared his throat, reached out, and moved his queen into the only position available. Just as quickly, her bishop darted forward and knocked over his king.
They met one another’s eyes over the chess board, and his lips twitched slightly. “The game is yers, milady.”
“Bonnie,” she corrected in a whisper, already feeling the heat between them.
He inclined his head slightly. How could he appear so at ease, but also a hunk of coiled masculinity, both at the same time?
“Bonnie,” he repeated, “what favor will ye ask?”
As if her body was reacting to stimulus outside of her brain, she stood and stepped around the table. He watched her as she moved up beside him, only his eyes moving, and she could swear he was holding his breath, same as her.
And then she stood next to him, over him, close enough to see the short golden hairs on the smooth side of his jaw, and the flecks of gold in his eyes, and the ridges of the scars along his ruined eye socket.
Even as she was absently wondering what they would feel like, her hand was rising, until she cupped his cheek.
They both sucked in a breath, together, and it was one of the most intimate things she’d ever experienced.
“I want you to kiss me, Lyon.”
His eyes widened, and she only then realized what she’d said. He looked half-sick at the prospect, and her lips curled wryly, deciding she didn’t want to ask him to do anything which would make him uncomfortable.
“Not now,” she whispered, brushing her thumb over his scars once, before dropping her hand. “But someday. I have never been kissed, and I want you to be my first.”
He made a noise which might’ve been a groan, might’ve been a laugh, but she didn’t have the courage to find out which it was.
Instead, she curled her hands into fists to keep herself from reaching for him again, then brushed past him and hurried out of the study. Tonight, she’d pull on his shirt, curl herself around a pillow, and dream someone as magnificent as Lyon Oliphant might actually want someone like her.