Chapter 11 #2
“Easy, lass,” he murmured, holding the cup to her lips.
She greedily drank, the cool water feeling like heaven as it slid down her abused throat. All too soon, he was pulling the cup away.
“Ye can have a bit more soon. For now, let that settle.”
He began to shift her again, to lie her back down. But she grabbed his hand, stopping him.
“No,” she croaked. “Just…hold me?”
He huffed again slightly, and she thought it might’ve been a laugh.
But it worked; instead of resting her back down on the pillow, Lyon lifted his feet to the bed and stretched them out, crossing his boots atop the blankets and pulled her flush against him.
The movement jostled her head injury, but her aching leg was opposite him, so that allowed her to press her hip and shoulder against him.
Gently, slowly, she lowered her head to his shoulder, and he settled himself more comfortably.
“Better, lass?”
No, nothing was better. She was in agony, and her publishing house was gone. Her dream was destroyed.
But…but she was alive. Lyon had saved her and was holding her now, so that had to count for something. And her manuscript was safe too.
In the general scheme of things, didn’t her life’s work count more than her hair?
Still, the thought of her destroyed dream had the tears leaking from the corner of her lids.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, although she wasn’t certain she believed herself.
He noticed of course, judging from the little noise he made in his chest, under her ear, and his hold on her tightened momentarily. It hurt, but being reminded he was there with her, and she was alive…well, that was worth it.
Aye, it was worth it, she told herself as her eyes drifted shut.
It had to be.
The flames merrily licking at the logs in the hearth ought to fill Lyon with dread, but despite his past, they never did.
This old castle was drafty, and the large fireplace in his study—and another in the library, although that one had a glass shield—made the place livable. Although…
Lyon brushed his fingertips across the scars on the left side of his face and wasn’t surprised when he couldn’t feel the sensation.
Fire took life as easily as it brought it, didn’t it?
“St. James’s fingernails, Lyon! What are ye doing?”
At the sound of Keith’s frantic question, Lyon’s head fell to one side, just enough so he could see his younger brother.
“What do ye mean?”
Keith stepped into the room; his gaze fixed on Lyon’s hand. “Is that brandy? Ye’re drinking? Ye never drink!”
Oh, was that all?
Lyon hummed as he lifted the glass. “It seemed like the time for it.” He sipped and made a face. “Still tastes like shite though.”
“Then stop!” Keith darted forward, but gently tugged the glass from Lyon’s hand. Lyon let it go in bemusement and watched the younger man head toward the niche where the drinks cabinet sat.
“Ye havenae had liquor since the last of the laudanum, no’ even after Rose’s— Dear God!”
He swung around suddenly, the brandy spilling over the sides of the glass, a horrified expression on his face as if he’d just realized what it could mean.
“It’s no’ Bonnie, is it? Lyon! Bonnie isnae dead…?”
A wry smile tugged at Lyon’s lips. “Nay, she’ll live.”
“Oh, thank fook,” Keith breathed in relief, sinking into the opposite chair, the brandy still clutched in his hand. He took a gulp, then grimaced, then took another gulp. “This really is foul, eh?”
Lyon snorted softly, his head lolling back against the chair. He’d forgotten the warmth liquor could spread through him, but truthfully, he was pleased his brother had taken the brandy from him.
Keith was right. He hadn’t had a drink since he’d beaten the laudanum addiction, and he wasn’t certain why it had seemed like a good idea tonight.
Perhaps something to do with the hopelessness in Bonnie’s eyes.
“So? Are ye going to talk to me about it? If she’s still breathing, why are ye in here mourning? The doctors said we wouldnae ken what to expect until she wakes up and—”
“She woke up.”
Keith jerked forward, spilling the brandy again, cursed, then slammed the glass down on the table beside him. “How is she, Lyon? Dinnae lie.”
“She’s…” Sighing, Lyon closed his eyes. “She’s sad. She said her hearing and sight werenae affected, and I saw her move her limbs under her own power, so I think she’ll recover well enough.”
“But her mood? Do ye think the pain, the injuries…?”
Lyon understood what his brother was asking, so he just shook his head. “Nay, she didnae seem depressed to ken she’d lost her hair, and she handled the pain well.”
“So what is it?”
He remembered the way her beautiful blue eyes had looked when he’d told her the publishing house was gone. There’d been relief her manuscript was safe, and that she was safe, but her dream of publishing books for and by women was what had brought her to Oliphant Castle.
It was why she’d pushed him until he’d finally opened up about Rose and her artwork. It was why he’d been able to get to know Bonnie and allow her to know him.
It was why he’d been able to fall in love with her.
And now, through no fault of her own, that dream had been destroyed.
“For so long, she’d been hoping to own a publishing house, Keith.
Her sister and Lysander—and Athena—made it possible, but now…
” He exhaled and shook his head, opening his eyes to stare at the crackling fire.
“Ye should’ve seen the pain and loss in her eyes when I told her the whole damn thing had been destroyed. She looked as if she’d lost all hope.”
Keith leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. “Perhaps it was because of the pain from her injuries?”
“Nay.” Lyon’s voice sounded rough to his own ears, and he knew he needed a drink.
Of water.
With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet, pausing while he allowed the dizziness from the unfamiliar brandy to subside, then stalked toward the drinks niche.
“Nay,” he repeated. “There was laudanum mixed with the water I gave her.” He stared down at the glass of liquid he’d poured himself. “She’ll sleep through the healing, thank Christ.”
He threw back his head and allowed the cool water to slide down his throat, pushing out the toxins he never should’ve allowed himself in the first place.
He didn’t need them.
Not when he had to be strong for her.
As he poured himself more water from the pitcher, Keith asked, “So ye think it was finding out about the publishing house?”
“I think it was everything,” Lyon growled, as he carefully crossed back to his chair with the full glass of water. “Think about it. The last she kenned, she was dying, aye? Then she wakes up in terrible pain, only to learn that everything is gone.”
Such a blow hurt.
He should know.
It was Keith’s pitying wince which made Lyon realize what he’d said, and he blew out a breath as he stared down at the water. “I remember it well,” he whispered.
“I do as well,” Keith reminded him. “I was there when ye woke up. I was the one who told ye about…”
“About Rose, aye.” Lyon held his brother’s stare. “I’ve never thanked ye for that. For staying with me.”
“And ye’ll never have to.”
The answer was immediate, certain, and Lyon appreciated it. He nodded gratefully.