Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance by Tanya Anne Crosby, Alaina Christine Crosby Page A

managed to pique his curiosity despite the fact that he knew she was baiting him. “What curse?” he pressed her.
    She peered coyly back at him. “Och, now, surely ye dinna believe in curses, Sassenach? Not the almighty Lyon?”
    Vixen.
    He could tell by the sparkle in her eyes that she was mocking him. And quite well, besides. Well, two could play at this game.
    “You are correct, of course,” he relented. “Never mind. I’ve no longer any desire to know about your curse.”
    She went still before him, and quiet too for an instant. Lyon smiled.
    “Well truly ’tis naught more than silly babble at anyway,” she said after another moment’s silence.
    “Yes, I’m certain.” He suppressed a grin.
    They came from the forest into the bright afternoon sun. Lyon could make out the pounding of hammers and the clamor of voices in the distance, and the sound made him feel a fierce sense of pride unlike any he’d ever experienced. This was his land, his home: his men were at work rebuilding, and there was something incredibly rousing about bringing this particular woman into his demesne. Something about the occasion made him sit a little straighter in the saddle... compelled him to suck in a breath.
    The scent of wild heather permeated the air... laced now with a more elusive and intriguing scent. His gaze returned to the woman sitting before him. Aye, something about her inspired him in a way he hadn’t been inspired in much too long.
    She made him feel alive.
    Nay, she made him feel .
    All of his senses were heightened.
    He leaned closer, unable to keep himself from it, inhaling the sweet scent of her beautiful hair once more. Marrow, was it? The mere thought made him smile. Nay... what he scented was the faintest trace of rosemary... and sunshine.
    There was nothing ostentatious about the woman sitting before him, nothing embellished. She was earthy and honest, and while there was nothing naive about her, she had an air of innocence that was decidedly refreshing. Unlike the women he’d known in his life, her eyes did not speak of seduction all the while her lashes fluttered with affected innocence.
    But she seduced him nevertheless.
    She sighed audibly and Lyon felt the breath leave his own lungs. How was it that she affected him so keenly?
    What was it about her that made him so attuned to every breath she took and every word she uttered?
    “Och, I shouldn’t have said anything,” she lamented.
    On the contrary, he thought, he relished hearing her voice. Somehow it was the embodiment of both woman and child at once—her tone both sweet and alluring. It bewitched him, made him yearn both to coddle and to kiss her both at once.
    She sighed again, and he smiled to himself, knowing it was torturing her not to be able to elaborate, and he decided to put her out of her misery once and for all. “Though I suppose now that you have,” he prompted, smiling, “you’ll expound?”
    “Well,” She relented quickly. “If you insist!”
    Lyon’s grin widened.
    “But if I tell you, ye must not believe it,” she said quite firmly. “Swear it.”
    “How can I promise such a thing, lass, when I’ve no idea how your disclosure will strike me? Tell me your tale and I shall tell you quite frankly whether I believe it or nay.”
    She seemed to consider that an instant. “Fair enough,” she replied. “’Tis wholly untrue, of course, and unfairly said, but they claim we Brodie women are cursed.”
    He sensed where she was leading with this, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing. “How so, wench?”
    “Well,” she continued, “’tis rumored that madness runs in Brodie blood—but I swear it isn’t true.”
    Lyon had no doubt.
    “And quite unkind to say… dinna ye think?”
    “I’ve never heard such a thing,” he said. He wondered if she could possibly be speaking the truth, and decided that probably not, as she was clearly enjoying this far too much.
    “Ye haven’t?” She sounded so disappointed