The Lass Who Loved a Beast Page 6

Those innocent words, an innocent offer, had kept Lyon tossing and turning most of the night. The thought of being her first—which, in his mind, kept turning into much more than kissing—had him fisting his own cock not once, but twice.

  Just before dawn, he gave up on trying to get any sleep and rose, throwing on just enough clothes to head to the loch to bathe. Frankly, in the stupor he was in, thinking about Bonnie’s words, it’s a miracle he didn’t freeze to death.

  Today would be warmer, he could tell, which meant Phineas might come fetch her. If Lyon were honest with himself, he knew he could’ve arranged to send her away at any time since the snow had ended. He or Keith could’ve walked to the village and fetched a sleigh for her, or asked Mrs. Oliphant for her help, or any number of solutions.

  But he hadn’t. Because, despite knowing he deserved his reclusive life, he liked having Bonnie around.

  He liked her. He liked her teasing, her wit, her intellect.

  When he’d first seen her at the masquerade ball last summer, he’d watched her. Her beauty was a different kind than her sister’s, but Lyon’s eyes had been drawn by more than her beauty. She seemed like someone determined to have fun, determined to do what was right, no matter what society said she should do.

  And now he’d gotten to know her and understood she did buck acceptable behavior in order to achieve her dreams—including spending multiple days nearly alone with a strange beast of a man—he knew his initial assessment was correct.

  And aye, he liked her.

  Even though he knew he didn’t deserve to.

  I want ye to kiss me, Lyon.

  When she’d said those words, his first reaction had been disbelief that someone as innocent and kind as she was could want to touch him. But she had touched him, and not just last night, but from the very beginning.

  And when she’d touched his scarred face, he swore he could feel her fingertips, despite knowing that area of skin was long dead.

  I want ye to kiss me, Lyon.

  Groaning, he dunked his head back under the freezing water of the loch, but even that didn’t help.

  Kiss her?

  He’d been thinking of little else since she’d sailed into his life, damn him.

  And despite knowing they had no future together, the reasons for not kissing her were quickly diminishing.

  If she wants it, who are ye to deny her? Deny yerself?

  Last night, she’d won their game of chess—of course she had. He was long out of practice, with only Keith, who wasn’t very good, to play against regularly—and could’ve demanded anything. She might’ve demanded to be returned to Phin’s care. She might’ve demanded access to the library and Rose’s paintings.

  Instead, she’d demanded a kiss, and she’d left the timing of that kiss up to him. Lyon glanced up at the castle. Would she be awake by now? How awkward would it be if he burst into her room dripping wet and claimed her lips?

  Fairly awkward, all things considered.

  But…

  But there was something he could do for her. Not just a kiss, but something he could give her to show her she was worth far more. Throughout the trudge back to the castle, and the time he spent sparking the fire in his room to life, Lyon considered it.

  Once the flames were crackling merrily, he planted his hands against the mantel and leaned forward so his long hair draped around his face. He was still nude, but he’d learned long ago this was the fastest way to dry off and warm up.

  By the time he had to turn around—or risk toasting his bollocks—he knew what he had to do.

  Rose was gone. Her art was still here, but what good did it do if no one was allowed to appreciate it? Even he kept away from the library, locking the door so no one else could enjoy her creations.

  And that was as bad as forgetting Rose herself, wasn’t it?

  Bonnie would appreciate it, so he would share it with her.

  His mind made up, Lyon went to find his houseguest.

  She was in his study, but not at the little folding table Keith had set up for her. Lyon remembered how resentful he’d been that she could just sweep into his space and carve out a section for herself. But now, he knew when she was gone, he was going to miss glancing up and seeing her there.

  When she heard him at the door, she turned from where she’d been staring out the window and offered him a shy smile. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” he replied, knowing his tone was gruff.

  Her gaze flicked to the small table where the chess game was still set up from last night. Lyon had stared at that little fallen king for close to an hour, wrestling with himself and his desire, after she’d left. He’d finally given up and gone to bed, which hadn’t been a success at all.

  Bonnie made a little noise which had his attention snapping back to her. She was blushing, her gaze on his jaw instead of meeting his eyes. “About last night…”

  Did she regret her demand?

  “What about it?”

  She swallowed, then met his eyes. “I enjoyed playing with ye.”

  At a loss for what to say, he merely dipped his chin.

  She must’ve taken that as encouragement, because she continued. “I enjoyed getting to ken more about ye and Oliphant Castle. Thank ye for sharing that with me.” She paused, and when he didn’t respond, one corner of her lips twitched upward. “Thank ye for telling me about Keith.”

  He nodded again. Then, because she was clearly expecting something, he managed, “Keith’s a good man.”

  “He is.” She cocked her head, studying him. “Have ye bathed?” Then, as if having no idea how scandaleous that question sounded, she continued blithely, “I confess, as much as I’m enjoying my time here with ye, I look forward to a proper bath and change of clothes. The sponge baths arenae exactly luxurious, nae offense. I ken ye didnae expect a guest in the middle of a blizzard.”

  The reminder she’d be leaving soon spurred him into action.

  He stalked across the room, and although he knew he must look fearsome, Bonnie didn’t flinch. When he stopped in front of her and thrust out his hand to her, she didn’t hesitate to place her much smaller one in his.

  And as his fingers closed around hers, he had a sense of…rightness.

  He knew he should let her go—in so many ways—but he couldn’t make himself release her. Instead, he tugged her along, and she went oh-so-trustingly.

  “Lyon?” she asked, as they stepped into the corridor. Dozens of generations of Oliphants had walked across these stones, and although they were now covered by carpet, and although his surname was Prince, he felt the connection seep through the soles of his boots.

  “I’m going to show you something.” Give you something; a precious gift. He knew she’d understand.

  “Do I get to guess?”

  Silently, he shrugged, but guided her toward the end of the hall.

  “Hmm. Is it a nice, warm bath? Do ye have running water here after all? Is that room a bathing chamber?”

  They’d reached the door he’d been aiming for. The door which he normally avoided, despite knowing Mrs. Oliphant kept the room clean. Reaching for the knob, he paused and tilted his chin toward Bonnie.

  “This was once the women’s solar. My study was the laird’s solar, more or less his office. This chamber is where the women of the household gathered—those embroideries were likely completed here for the most part—and it connected to the lady of the keep’s bedchamber.”

  She was nodding along, but there was a sparkle in her blue eyes when she cut him a glance. “So it would have to be a verra large bathing chamber, if that’s what it is, hmm?”

  He took a deep breath. “No’ quite.”

  Then he opened the door.

  Her gasp told him, not only did she understand what she was seeing, but she appreciated it as much as he’d hoped she would. With wide eyes, she brushed past him, and he could see the awe in her expression as she tilted her head back to take in the shelves, which lined every wall but one, and reach
ed to the ceiling.

  And every single shelf was lined with books.

  Books about history, books about engineering, books about biology and physiology. Books about other cultures, books about sea trade, and every atlas he’d been able to find. And the novels took up one entire wall; romances and adventures and mysteries, each one certain to spark every imagination.

  This library had been his haven, his place of comfort. There were the pair of luxurious chairs in front of the long-cold hearth and the lamps just waiting to be lit. When he’d married Rose, he’d hoped she’d find the same joy in these books, but she wasn’t interested. He’d consoled himself by hanging her artwork on the remaining wall so she was with him, in a sense, even when he was alone.

  But he hadn’t taken refuge here since her death. The death he could’ve prevented, but hadn’t.

  If he closed his eyes right now, it wasn’t Rose he imagined sitting in one of those overstuffed chairs, it was the woman who even now was slowly spinning in the center of the room, with a look of wonder on her face.

  “Lyon, this is…amazing.”

  “Ye like it?” he asked, wanting to be certain she did and wasn’t just saying so.

  She halted, holding his gaze. “This is the most remarkable thing I’ve ever seen! If I owned a library like this, I’d never leave.”

  Aye, that’s what he was afraid of.

  He shrugged. “I nae longer come here.”

  Her mouth opened, her lips forming the word, but she stopped herself from asking why, thank God. Shaking his head, Lyon stepped into the room. He meant to move around Bonnie, toward the wall where Rose’s art hung, but instead, he went right to her, lifting her hand in his again.

  As he turned her, Bonnie made a little noise of question, but he didn’t look at her. Instead, he stepped up to the window and pulled open the heavy velvet curtain with his other hand. Although the window was small by modern standards, it still let in enough light to illuminate the wall of oil paintings hanging on either side.

  Bonnie gasped again, her fingers tightening around his.

  “Oh, Lyon…they’re beautiful,” she eventually whispered.

  And she was right.

  Rose had been the most talented painter he’d ever met. Her landscapes had managed to not just capture the appearance of the Highlands around Oliphant Castle, but the essence as well. When he studied her paintings, Lyon could smell the heather and feel the wind off the loch ruffle his hair. He could almost hear the crossbills and the geese, and he knew this was what he loved most about his home.

  Hesitantly, Bonnie lifted her hand and brushed her fingers across one of the frames. “These are Rose Oliphant’s, are they no’? The paintings ye told me I couldnae use for my book?”

  Mutely, he nodded. But the silence stretched, awkward now, and he felt compelled to fill it up.

  “She was my wife.”

  Bonnie whirled to face him, her blue eyes wide with shock, and he dipped his chin in acknowledgement. He should’ve told her sooner.

  His gaze crept to one of his favorite paintings, that of a lone oak tree on a hill. It was mainly done in greens and blues, but somehow, the feel of the image was haunting, not cheerful. It was an old, silent tree, used to being alone…and he understood its pain.

  “Rose was a Mackenzie, and our fathers arranged the match. She didn’t particularly want to marry me. I’ve been gruff and harsh and cruel since before—this.”

  He gestured weakly to his ruined face, but her fingers tightened around his.

  “Ye are no’ cruel, Lyon. Ye are stoic and gruff, aye, but no’ harsh or cruel.”

  Let her believe that.

  “All she wanted was to paint, and once I saw her work, I was determined to allow her any opportunity she craved. She asked for a separate building to work, and I had the stables renovated for her use. I believe, once she saw I appreciated her talent and wouldnae keep her from using it, she began to soften toward me.”

  She squeezed again. “I’m glad,” she said softly. “So yer marriage was happy?”

  He shrugged. “Happy enough. We were married for three years, and I loved her. How could I no’ feel something for someone who could produce such splendor?”

  Bonnie was silent for a long moment, gazing up at the paintings. “I think I understand.”

  And he thought maybe she did.

  Taking a deep breath, she tilted her head back to stare up at the highest framed artwork. “I also understand why ye didnae want to share this with me. If this is all ye have to remember yer wife, I understand no’ wanting to share it with the world.”

  He was already shaking his head. “Last night—” Nay, that was not how he wanted to start this. “I kenned ye’d appreciate this library. I kenned ye’d understand her paintings.”

  There. That much was true.

  “Thank ye,” she breathed, turning to face him. She reached out and took his other hand so they were standing facing one another. “Thank ye for sharing all of this with me. It—”

  Was it his imagination, or did her voice catch on some thick emotion?

  “Thank ye for trusting me,” she said.

  “I do,” he whispered, before he could think better of it. “Last night—” Nay, not that again. “I want ye to ken ye have access to anything in this library for as long as ye’re at Oliphant Castle. Longer.” He shook his head, knowing he sounded like a fool. “I mean, for yer writing, yer books.”

  “Thank ye,” she repeated. “But…?”

  When she trailed off, and glanced up at the paintings again, he was the one to squeeze her hands. “What?”

  “I came here hoping to find one or two paintings I could reproduce for my manuscript. Ye ken, a view of Highland history from the paintbrush of a woman. But…” Sadly, she shook her head and met his eyes, one side of her lips curly wryly, drawing his attention to them.

  “But what?” he demanded, knowing his voice was harsh. He couldn’t help it—not with her lips so close, and so goddamned kissable.

  “She deserves better. I ken the technology exists, the printing presses exist, to do her paintings justice, to faithfully reproduce them…but I don’t own any. When I bought Mr. Grimm’s publishing company, I had nae idea I’d still mourn what I didnae have.” She shrugged. “But to sketch one of Rose’s paintings to reproduce it in my book would be a travesty. Besides, I’m no’ nearly good enough at sketching reproductions.”

  “I am.” When her brows twitched in surprise, Lyon didn’t have time to wonder why he was volunteering. “I’m verra good at sketching designs and schematics. I could reproduce artwork for yer book.”

  She cocked her head to one side and stepped closer. “Ye would do that for me?”

  I would do anything for ye.

  Where had that thought come from? He’d only just met the woman, so why did it feel as though he’d known her forever?

  “Aye,” he croaked.

  And suddenly her smiled bloomed. God Almighty, had he ever thought her plain? Not a beauty? When she smiled like that, he felt it in his chest. He felt it in his bollocks, certainly, his cock stiffening beneath his kilt.

  “I will take ye up on yer offer, Lyon,” she said briskly, nodding emphatically, “but no’ for Rose’s paintings.”

  Confused, Lyon frowned. She was still grinning, her eyes twinkling.

  “I will ask for yer help to reproduce some of the embroideries in yer study. I still think those will be useful in my chapter on medieval life, but my efforts have been rather sub-par.”

  He swallowed, his voice still tight when he managed, “Ye want me to sketch medieval pornography for ye?”

  Her smile turned impish. “I’ve chosen a few of the tamer ones for my book. But…”

  The way she leaned forward as she trailed off told him she’d absolutely done it on purpose, to tease him. And he found himself leaning forward as well, absolutely not minding it one bit.

  “But what?” His gaze was on her lips. Because of course it was.

&nb
sp; “But I believe I will request ye reproduce a few of the other, less proper pieces of needlework. For me.”

  “For yer personal use?”

  He’d meant it as teasing, but even as he uttered the words, he knew they’d fallen flat.

  But her lips curled upward, wickedly. He noticed because he couldn’t look away.

  “I was thinking I could use it as a sort of study guide.” Her tongue darted across her lower lip. “Do ye think ye could do the fellatio one for me?”

  That was it.

  That was his breaking point.

  Her words—clever innuendo that they were—and the image of Bonnie lying in her bed, studying the sketch he’d made of the woman with her lips around a man’s cock…?

  Well, Lyon was already damned, and this sent him well over the edge.

  With a groan, he used his hold on her hands to pull her closer, and his lips claimed hers.

  As soon as they did, he was overcome by a multitude of emotions. Joy, because she tasted of everything good in the world…but also fear and shame and guilt. He shouldn’t have touched her, not without her approval, but he couldn’t stop himself now, not when she whimpered slightly against his lips and opened her own.

  He froze, wondering how he was going to gain the strength to pull away, but three things happened at once.

  One: Her tongue darted between her lips to caress his, which told him she was very much interested in this kiss, if a bit unsure how to go about it.

  Her first kiss, remember.

  Two: Her arms came up to wrap around his neck, holding him in place, and pressing her glorious breasts against him. Beneath his kilt, his cock swelled against her belly, and he groaned with need.

  Three: He knew with absolute certainty that Bonnie Oliphant would be trouble. Now that he’d tasted her, now that he’d experienced life with her, now that he’d pictured her sitting in his library, laughing at something she’d read or debating theory with him…how could he possibly afford to let her go?

  How could he possibly afford not to?

  When his palm clamped around her breast, she moaned and arched against him, allowing his lips to trail down her jawline. She was panting as hard as he was, and when she gyrated her hips against his hardness, he knew she was ready for him. He could lift her skirt, slide his fingers along her lower wet lips, lift her against the windowsill, and plunge into her. It would take little effort, and from the way she was straining and wriggling and moaning, she was as desperate for it as he was.