Page 24 of Lyon of Scotland
“A Scotsman. Lord Lyon, he is called.”
A pause. Hannah stirred.Lyon. Lord Lyon.It was so familiar. She could not quite place it. She felt again that she might be sick.
“Lord Lyon! Truly! Scottish? I wonder if my late husband had Scottish relatives. Very well, I will meet him and then decide. When will he arrive?”
“He is upstairs now, though somewhat, uh, incapacitated.”
“That Scotsman from last night? The one you said was too ill to leave? You did not say he was this Lord Lyon!”
“I had no chance. He had a rough night, so I put him in the upstairs parlor. I promise, this is a good match. He can pay handsomely. I made inquiries to be sure.”
“Is he a true gentleman or a wastrel? A libertine? I cannot be associated with a poorly made match. Word gets around.”
“Well-mannered and well-respected. A war hero, they say.”
“War heroes are thick upon the ground these days. I am reluctant, Freddie Dove. This is entirely on your head. Take her away to rest and let me consider this. One of the Wolves can carry her upstairs to sleep it off. Titan!” she called.
“Yes,” Dove said as the door opened. “Let her bridegroom deal with her proclivities. Titan!” he called. “Take this young lady to the upstairs parlor.”
Arms slid under her and picked her up like a sack of potatoes. Hannah was aware of a giant of a man carrying her somewhere, surprisingly gentle even as she protested.
“I do not like this, I tell you,” the woman said. “Best get Lord Lyon down here once he sleeps it off. I need some hot tea—with brandy.”
“Is breakfast still set out in the dining room? I am famished,” Dove said.
“Sometimes you can be a heartless pig, Freddie,” the woman said.
As the giant ascended the stairs, Hannah felt inky blackness take her over.
She was dreaming…
She floated through darkness on a river strewn with flowers and stars, flew upward, then fell. Someone caught her in his arms, hard, warm, safe. Leaning into that strength, feeling his soft linen shirt against her cheek, hearing his heartbeat, she sensed his calm power and absorbed it, felt stronger, clearer.
Lyon. Lyon—something.The thought faded.
His hand soothed over her hair, comforting. Her hand, resting on his chest, slipped into a gap in the linen, finding warm skin and a heartbeat. His pulse sustained her and kept her from floating away.
They sat close and silent, breathing in tandem, as if waiting for something. She was not sure what that was or where they were. She only knew that he was with her, strong and peaceful, and that she had dreamed of him somewhere and it was good.
“My love,” she whispered. That seemed right. That felt familiar.
“My lass.” As she tilted her head—or did it roll that way—she felt his lips on her brow, her cheek, and she wanted that—so she kissed him, and he let it linger. His lips were gentle, his touch like heaven. She melted into his embrace, her hand slipping deeper beneath his shirt, while she let her lips seek his, wanting more. His hands shaped her body, shoulders, arms, bodice—she moaned, ached as his fingers skimmed over her bosom and found the small buttons, freeing her little by little. She reached up to undo the buttons herself, eyes closed, fingers familiar and quick. As his hand slipped under wool, under silk and cotton and lace, teasing and then swirling, she moaned and shifted and pleaded with lips and hands and the press of her body to his, craved more as his kisses deepened and his deft touch thrilled through her.
This felt like heaven, and she knew he was the one she had always wanted, knew these secret, sensual moments were somehow completely honest, hearts open, desire clear within the curious fog that surrounded her. Under his hands, she was a hot glow of feeling, of yearning, her desire for him released. Her hands soothed over his chest, his abdomen, soft hair and hot skin, the texture of wool fabric, the pulse of his body—
Then he pulled back, lifted away his lips, his hands, cool air replacing warm love. She moaned in protest.
“Sorry, dear God, sorry, what am I doing,” he whispered. His hand tucked her head against his shoulder. Threading his fingers into her tousled hair, he murmured something she could not hear. She clutched his soft shirt and kissed his bristled jaw, wanting his lips again. He kissed her brow, set her hand down, caged her fingers.
“Love,” she whispered, “we can—” Her voice sounded oddly at a distance. She felt as if she might float away, but for the anchor of his arms and heartbeat.
“We cannot,” he said, his voice slurred too.
Was he foxed? Was she? Tangled memories slid past.Lyon did not leave the gambling. Wastrel. Libertine. I do not like this, Freddie Dove... reprobate...
Lyon! Strathburn? “No,” she said, trying to get up. She did not want to believe ill of him, did not want to learn he was like Whitworth. Not Strathburn. Nor did she want him to know about her unsavory situation.
“Sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “Just sleep. Both—need sleep.”
