Chapter 11 #3
Keith took a deep breath. “I remember thinking I’d do anything I could to alleviate yer pain, but there was nothing.
Drugs for yer physical pain, aye, but the pain in yer heart…
?” He shook his head. “I watched ye struggle with the knowledge Rose was gone, and I watched it slowly eat away at ye, until ye had this backward notion it was somehow yer fault—”
Holding up a hand to interrupt him, Lyon shook his head. “Bonnie has, at long last I believe, gotten it through my head Rose’s choice wasnae my fault.”
The younger man’s eyes went wide, and he slumped back against the chair. “Well, bless me, finally. Was this when ye realized ye loved her?”
Lyon’s lips twitched at the not-so-subtle hint. “Nay, it took her running into a burning building for me to figure that one out. But it was when she told me she loved me.”
Nodding, as if he’d always known this truth, Keith’s familiar lopsided smile pulled up one side of his lips. “So the woman ye love is in pain, and ye came down here to drink away the fact ye cannae help her?”
“Something like that,” muttered Lyon, lifting the water to his lips once more.
His brother was silent for a long moment, studying him. Finally, he pushed himself upright and took a deep breath.
“Lyon, have I ever told ye about the last time I got drunk?”
Frowning, Lyon considered it. Now he thought of it, Keith drank as infrequently as he did, preferring to keep his body as pure as possible as they pushed themselves to extremes.
“Nay, I dinnae think so.”
“It was the day I told ye about Rose.” Keith nodded when Lyon’s brow rose questioningly.
“We—me, the doctors, everyone—we kenned ye were out of danger and were improving. We thought it was time for ye to ken the truth of her death, so we started to decrease the amount of laudanum ye took until ye were coherent for longer amounts of time each day.”
His brother took another deep breath and stared down at his hands.
“When I told ye Rose was dead and long buried, there was such pain in yer eyes, in yer voice, that I kenned I’d do anything to take it away.
Only…” He shook his head and met Lyon’s gaze.
“I couldnae. She was gone, and nothing I could do would bring her back. So I came down here, and I finished one of yer bottles of whiskey.”
“Did it help?” Lyon asked quietly.
“I puked my guts out and stayed abed for two days.” Keith’s lips twitched. “So nay, it didnae help.”
Scowling, Lyon gulped at the cool water. “Ye’re saying I shouldnae have poured myself that brandy?”
“I’m saying the situations arenae completely similar.”
Lyon finished the water and carefully placed the water glass beside the spilled brandy. “Speak some sense, before my head starts to ache too much to understand.”
“I would’ve done anything to help ye, but there was nothing I could do. Is that how ye feel about Bonnie’s pain? She’s lost her dream, and ye said that’s what’s caused her sorrow?”
Slowly, Lyon nodded. “Aye,” he drawled, considering the words. “And I suppose that is why I poured that drink. Because I couldnae take away her pain. Her dream literally burned around her.”
“Her dream was owning a publishing house, Lyon. No’ necessarily that publishing house.”
“What are ye saying?” Lyon growled.
Keith’s freckled cheeks pushed upward as his smile bloomed. “I’m saying, Lyon, that ye live in a great bloody castle. With a huge, unused open space downstairs, just waiting to be filled.”
Lyon pushed himself straighter as he began to understand his brother’s idea. “Filled with what, exactly?” he whispered, already guessing the answer.
And Keith’s smile seemed to grow. “Do ye, or do ye no’, have a portfolio of sketches of new printing presses in the top drawer of yer desk?”
He did.
Lyon had been researching the new designs because the advances made in the last decade in mechanical designs were just fascinating. Lyon had several books on the concepts, and he’d been trying his own hand at some sketches.
But instead of letting Keith know how hard his heart was pounding, he pretended to scowl. “And how in the hell would ye ken that?”
“Who do ye think tidies up yer desk each night, ye wee dobber?” Keith shook his head in amusement. “The little people? The paperwork fairy? The housekeeper?”
“Mrs. Oliphant—”
“—hasnae stepped foot in yer study since ye yelled at her about rearranging yer ledgers when she dusted,” Keith finished triumphantly. “I’m the puir bastard who cleans this place up.”
Lyon hummed. “How much am I paying ye?”
“No’ nearly enough,” the younger man cheerfully informed him.
“Remind me to increase yer salary tomorrow.”
Keith nodded. “Since I’m also in charge of household expenses and ledgers, how about I just double it?”
For the first time in a long while, Lyon felt like chuckling.
Bonnie was alive, and her manuscript was safe. And Lyon, thanks to Keith’s prodding, had an idea to bring her dream back to life.
“Fine, do that,” he snapped. “But first, pour me some more water, and then fetch those sketches.” He pushed himself to his feet, feeling stronger than he had since before he’d taken his heart in his hands and traveled to Inverness.
“And where will ye be?”
Lyon’s lips twitched. “I’m going to fetch the manuals on printing presses. We have a great hall to renovate!”