The Lass Who Loved a Beast Read online

  Her stomach gave a little flutter at the thought of being so close to her goal. Which, she had to remind herself, was the collection of paintings Lyon Prince guarded so jealously, not the man himself. “I do hope I’m able to convince him to share them with me.”

  Phineas winced as he guided the horses up the slope to the crumbling outer wall of the bailey. “He is no’ inclined to show the oil paintings. But I’ve seen them and can tell ye that Rose Oliphant was one of the best painters the Highlands have ever seen. It’s only a shame she died before her work could reach the renown it deserves.”

  “Well, if I’m able to convince yer brother to share, I’ll reproduce them in a fine binding and share them with the world. I believe they would be a beautiful complement to my work on the history of the area.”

  “Oh, most definitely.” There was no one manning the ancient portcullis—did that thing even still work?—as they drove into the courtyard. “I am excited to finally be able to read yer completed manuscript.”

  Fondly, she patted Phineas’s arm, “I’ll have to dedicate it to ye, in thanks for yer help finding all the sources. The last of which I hope to find here.” This was said in a distracted murmur as they passed a burned-out building tucked along one of the outer walls. Her fingers curled in until her fist was resting uncomfortably on his forearm, and she snatched it away, her attention on the ruins. It was rumored that Lyon Prince’s wife had died in a fire which had given him his scars.

  Was the heap of burned rubble, now covered in a dusting of snow which did little to hide its menace, where it had happened?

  She had twisted in her seat, her attention still on the remains of what must’ve been a stable, when Phineas halted the team in front of the stairs leading up to the keep. He hurried to help her down, and she tilted her head back to stare up at the imposing old edifice.

  “I do hope yer brother will agree to help me.”

  Phineas was nodding as he helped her down, then hurried her up the stairs to the old landing. “I’m sure Lyon will be thrilled to welcome ye to Oliphant Castle.”

  She was just as certain the reclusive man wouldn’t, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask if she could take a peek at his collection. At the door, Phineas pounded on a door knocker which looked as if it had been added only within the last generation or two, and Bonnie continued to study the structure. She knew the castle had been built in the medieval period, so it was in remarkable condition, despite its initial dilapidated appearance. The fact it was still standing, let alone inhabitable, told her it had been well-maintained.

  But there likely isnae hot running water.

  She’d become accustomed to that luxury while staying at her brother-in-law’s home.

  A cold wind swept the courtyard just as the door was finally pulled open, and she was met with a surprisingly young man wearing a friendly smile, dozens of freckles, cloths wrapped around his hands, and trousers.

  And nothing else.

  Bonnie averted her eyes.

  “Hello, Keith. We’re here to see Lyon. Dinnae try to tell me he’s no’ home, because—”

  The young man—pugilist? Butler?—chanted along with Phineas, “Where else would he be?”

  Still smiling, Keith pulled the door open. “Well, come in then. He’s no’ expecting ye, but why would he? He’s in his study. Need me to show ye the way?”

  “I remember,” Phineas intoned wryly. “Ye should put on some clothes before ye scare the respectable folk.”

  Rather than being made uncomfortable, the young man’s grin turned cheeky, and he tipped an imaginary hat to Bonnie, who was determinedly not looking below the freckles sprinkled liberally across his cheeks. “Plus, I’ll freeze. Good luck, Phin. Ma’am.”

  And then he turned and started for the rear of the house, whistling as he began to unwrap the pugilism cloths.

  Bonnie was about to ask about him—what kind of servant addressed a guest by a nickname like that?—but as Phineas led her into the foyer, she realized she was, in fact, standing in a foyer. And Keith had, indeed, headed off toward the back of the house…not “medieval ruin.”

  Someone had renovated the interior of this building—at least this level—to a remarkable standard. It wasnae standard architecture of course, but as they passed a cozy parlor, Bonnie could see it was completely usable.

  Then Phineas led her up a set of stairs, through a door, up another set of stairs, and spread out to her right was what must have once been the great hall. Someone in the last hundred years had made an effort to restore it, it was clear, but the empty grand hearths still dominated the room, and the stone floor was covered with faded rugs and no furniture.

  This cavernous space obviously wasn’t being used, and Bonnie couldn’t blame Phineas’s brother. The only thing she could imagine it’d be good for these days would be as a ballroom, and even then, it would be a beast to heat and light. If she lived here, she’d wall it off and ignore it, since it was huge and empty, and would suck up so much heat.

  Ye dinnae live here. Kindly remember that before ye begin to redecorate.

  Right. Right. She was here to make a good impression so Lyon Prince would share his resources with her.

  Up the stairs, they entered a much cozier hallway with closed doors off to each side. Phineas led her unerringly to the far end where he knocked on the door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer.

  Bonnie followed him into what had to be a gentleman’s study, as evidenced by the modern furniture, the shelves of identical ledgers, and the large wooden desk. And just as soon as she could look at the rest of the room, she was certain she’d be very impressed. But for now, her brain was one-hundred percent occupied looking at the man behind the desk.

  When they’d stepped into the room, Lyon Prince had looked up from whatever he was writing, his golden hair falling away from his face as he scowled in irritation. He had the most impressive face for scowling, she had to admit, but even that wasn’t what occupied her attention.

  Nay, it was his chest. His scarred, sweaty, massive, muscled, verra much naked, chest.

  Oh my.

  Bonnie swallowed, unable to even drag her eyes up to meet his angry gaze. If she’d been a man, and he a woman, and she’d been staring at his breasts so intently—

  Wait, no, that analogy was far too awkward. Suffice it to say, were their positions reversed, and he was staring at her chest this hard, this hungrily, she would slap the—

  Nay, that wasn’t true either.

  If Lyon Prince stared at her as intently, as interestedly, as she was staring at him right now, Bonnie would likely offer to remove her blouse and allow him to look harder. With his hands. And tongue.

  Dear God, ye’re getting off topic, are ye no’?

  Right.

  Right.

  With supreme effort, she dragged her attention back to his face, which really was locked into a frozen glower, thanks to those scars.

  “What are ye doing here?” he growled, and Heavens, but that sound seemed to reverberate all through Bonnie’s chest in the most delightful way, before settling between her thighs.

  She opened her mouth to answer, before realizing the Beast of the Oliphants was glaring at his brother. When she turned, Phineas was smiling that easy-going grin of his.

  “I told ye I’d be stopping by, Lyon. Remember?”

  “Alone.” He didn’t even look at her.

  But he also didn’t seem to care that he was standing, shirtless, in broad daylight, in his study, with a woman in attendance.

  Phineas waved dismissively. “I didnae mention the state I’d be in during my visit.”

  “Phin.”

  “Lyon, this is Lady Bonnibelle Oliphant. Ye might remember her from Roland’s wedding to her sister, Lady Vanessa.” Then, as if he hadn’t just unnecessarily recounted their family relationship to the laird’s heir, he turned to Bonnie. “Bonnie, my perpetually grumpy oldest brother, Lyon Prince. Ye may call him Lyon.”

  “Why is she here, Phin?” gr
owled Lyon.

  And since the man was doing a remarkable job of not acknowledging her, Bonnie also directed her comment to Phineas. “To be fair, Phineas, if I had a stranger drop in on me unannounced while I was in a state of undress, I too would be grumpy.”

  “I’m no’ completely undressed; I was sparring with Keith.”

  She pretended to startle as she turned back to him and said brightly, “Oh, we’re speaking directly to one another now? Excellent! I’m pleased ye take yer physical health so seriously, and it’s good to ken this isnae just a castle full of half-dressed inhabitants.”

  She could swear his lips twitched, but then he pressed them so tightly together she couldn’t be certain.

  “Bonnie is here to see yer collection, Lyon,” Phineas announced, and it was only then she realized he was backing toward the door. “I’ll let her explain it to ye.”

  Both she and Lyon asked, “And where are ye going?” at the same time, which might’ve been comical, had she not been struck with sheer panic at being left alone with Lyon Prince.

  Panic, but of a good sort.

  Should I take my shirt off as well, to fit in?

  Phineas didn’t seem to notice. He nodded toward the window, which had thankfully been modernized with glass rather than a bearskin or something equally medieval. “We’re expecting snow, and I need to see to my team. My estate isnae too far, and I’ll come fetch ye when ye’re ready, Bonnie.”

  It was entirely inappropriate. It was scandalous.

  It was thrilling.

  “Phineas!” they both called—her in exasperation, him in warning—as the man in question waved cheekily.

  “I’ll see myself out. Ta!”

  And then he was gone and Bonnie was left alone in a man’s study, with said man wearing not nearly enough clothing.

  Or—hear me out—just the right amount, eh?

  Well, she couldn’t argue with that. Why was it such a hardship to keep her attention on his face, and not on those glorious muscles of his shoulders, where it belonged?

  It seemed to take a long moment before the man in question was able to look at her, and when he did, she was startled by the anger she saw in those hazel eyes. Perhaps she reacted, because he closed his eyes and shook his head, just slightly, before sighing and sinking back down into his chair again.

  “Forgive me, Miss Oliphant, but I suspect ye’d prefer if I hid back here for the moment.”

  Not true! she wanted to shout. Instead, she straightened her shoulders, hefted her case, and stepped closer.

  “Since my cowardly brother has already decamped, ye’ll have to tell me why ye’re here.”

  His tone was harsh and abrupt, just like the rest of him, but she found she didn’t mind. Too often, in her experience, men spoke the way her brother-in-law Roland did, full of charming phrases and flowery praise. It made it difficult to understand the true meaning of a man’s words.

  But with Lyon Prince, she didn’t have to guess. He didn’t like she was here, and it was refreshingly honest.

  So, inclining her head slightly, she stepped up beside a small table and laid her case upon it, then clicked open the latches and lifted the lid to reveal all her work.

  “Milord,” she began, but his growl interrupted her.

  “I’m nae lord.”

  Surprised, she met his eyes. “I ken that.” His father was an earl, but besides being Laird Oliphant, the man held no other rank to bestow upon his heir. The Laird’s second wife had been a titled lady, and it was through her that Roland, the second son, had inherited a viscountcy. But this man, hiding behind a desk so as not to disturb her with his glorious body, was nothing more than a mere “mister.”

  Nay, there was nothing mere about Lyon Prince.

  She cleared her throat. “Would ye rather me call ye Mr. Prince?”

  “It is better than the other things I am called,” he growled, and aye, this was most definitely a growl.

  It took a moment for her to realize what he meant.

  Beast.

  That is what he was called—the Beast of the Oliphants. Her own sister, Vanessa, had once disparaged him quite thoroughly, not realizing Roland could hear her. And to be fair, “Beast” seemed to fit him.

  But surely there was more to this man than only a beast? Surely he deserved more than to be reminded of his brusque manners and scarred countenance?

  She swallowed, then reached for the papers she needed, keeping her attention on them, as she casually said, “What if ye call me Bonnie and I call ye Lyon, and we leave it at that?” She straightened. "We are family, in a sense, are we no’?”

  He was studying her silently, not appearing to be anywhere near willing to reply to her offer. Finally, with lowered brows, he reached again for the pen he’d thrown down when they’d entered the room, as if dismissing her. “Why are ye here, Bonnie?”

  Oh.

  Oh.

  The sound of her name on his lips—even if it was supposed to be sarcasm—sent a shiver down her spine in the most delightful way. She wanted to crawl across the wide desk and straddle him and explain exactly why she was there, and what she’d been dreaming of since she first saw him glaring at her across the ballroom on that night, which seemed so long ago now.

  Professionalism, lass. Try to remember the meaning of the word.

  Right.

  Clearing her throat, she lifted her chin. “I am an author, Lyon, and I own a publishing house. It is my hope that my manuscript, a history of the area written from a woman’s point of view, will appeal to a female audience. There are a few items of interest I feel I’m missing, and yer brother kindly volunteered yer collection.”

  He seemed unmoved. “Which brother?”

  “Phineas.” See? She could be brusque too, if called upon.

  When he frowned—which she had to admit, was frequently—the scars on the left side of his face prevented his lips from moving as far, so it seemed almost lopsided. The same would be true of his brows, except his left eyebrow had been burned away completely, and was now replaced with a mass of thick scars surrounding his eye socket. But the damage couldn’t hide the way his hazel eyes were burning angrily.

  The times she’d seen him formally—granted, it had only been twice: once at the ball at the beginning of summer, and then again at Vanessa’s wedding—he’d worn his golden hair tied back, since it was far too long to be proper. But “improper” seemed to define the man, not least of which was because said hair now hung alongside his cheek, and he impatiently brushed it behind his ear.

  Of course, the times she’d seen him, he’d also been fully dressed, where “fully dressed” meant a formal kilt. He’d been wearing a shirt then was her point. Now, however, she could see the scars were spread down the left side of his neck, across his shoulder and his upper arm, and it was impossible not to allow her eyes to follow them, wondering at the strength it must’ve taken to overcome that pain, to regain the movement he so obviously had, judging from the size of those muscles.

  Did he spar with that young man—Keith—in order to maintain those muscles?

  How…intriguing.

  Clearly, he wasn’t fond of the way she was studying him, judging from the way the pen oscillated back and forth between his fingers. He was likely to splatter ink that way, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “Which collection, Bonnie?”

  This time his tone was almost exasperated, and she had to think back on their admittedly short and stilted conversation to figure out what he was asking.

  “Oh!” Shaking her head, she adjusted her grip on her papers and hurried over to his desk, trying not to notice how he leaned slightly away as she grew closer. “Yer medieval collection from yer ancestors. Phineas said ye have maintained all the artwork passed down. And the paintings of course.”

  “Paintings?” he growled.

  Surely Phineas hadn’t lied to her about the paintings?

  She halted beside his desk and laid out the relevant pages on the oak. “These are the
sections of my manuscript I believe would be enhanced by the landscapes yer brother told me I could find here. The fact they’ve been painted by a woman would only add to the finished product, I believe. Rose Oliphant’s work will be—”

  There was a sudden roar.

  That was the only description her shocked mind could come up with for the sound he made as he surged to his feet. He roared a denial, and Bonnie would absolutely find a way to counter his objections…once she got over the fact she could see his knees.

  He was wearing a kilt.

  He was wearing a kilt, and since he’d been sitting behind that desk, she hadn’t been able to see it, only now she could, because he was standing, and oh my heavens the man had beautiful knees, did he not?

  Apparently unwilling to allow her the time to think—or get her desire in check—Lyon planted his palms flat against the papers on his desk and leaned forward. Now that she was looking, she could see he’d been working on some sort of mechanical design, and they were, in fact, ink splattered.

  “Bonnie—Miss Oliphant—let me be verra clear. Rose’s work will no’ leave my library. No’ for ye, no’ for anyone.”

  Her brows rose. Goodness, Phineas hadn’t been exaggerating when he said his brother felt protective of the woman’s artwork, had he? “No’ even to publish her paintings to share with the world?”

  “Nay,” he ground out.

  Well, hell. Bonnie felt herself frowning, but was determined not to give up so easily. In the meantime…

  Pretending indifference, she shrugged. “May I at least have access to your medieval collection? Yer brother indicated some of the artwork was produced by women.”

  His shoulders were heaving with the strength of the breaths he was taking—ye need to get yer eyes off his chest, Bonnie—as he slowly straightened. “I think it best if ye left.”

  Well, double hell. She couldn’t leave now, not without seeing what she’d come to see. “Please, Lyon? I swear I’ll no’ publish anything without yer permission, but the artwork will help fill a hole in my manuscript. I have so few sources from the medieval period.” Without thinking, she reached out and placed her hand on his arm, attempting to convey her sincerity.