Page 37 of His Beauty
With a low growl, which sounded remarkably like Lyon’s, she pushed herself upright and turned back to her papers.
“Tomorrow I am going back to Inverness,” she repeated, as much for herself as for her sisters. “I am going to publish my book. My book will be a glorious success, and then I will start to publish books by other women.” She nodded firmly. “I will help usher in a new wave of women’s accomplishments, andthatis what I want from life.”
Not love. Not marriage.
Right?
Her back was to her sisters, so she couldn’t see their reaction. But from the absolute silence back there, the two of them were exchangingSignificant Looks. Well, to hell with them!
She pushed away from the table, clutching her papers close to her chest, and turned around to face them. “Now, I am going to lock these up, then I am going down to luncheon. Ember, you will join us, will you not?”
Before Ember could do more than nod, Bonnie’s grin turned wicked. “I have heard we are havingsoup.” Tiffany pressed her lips together. “Creamsoup.” Tiffany’s cheeks paled. “Salty,oystercream soup.”
“I hate you,” whispered Tiffany weakly as she slumped against the cushions.
Bonnie grinned triumphantly and swept from the room.
No matter what her feelings were for Lyon Oliphant, they were in the past, and she now had a future to create.
And she could do it without crying over losing him.
She had to. There was no other choice.
“Come on, auld man! Ye’re slowing down!” Keith danced just out of reach, his fists held up to protect his face as he taunted Lyon. “My grandmother could fight better than ye!”
Growling, Lyon stalked forward, jabbing uselessly at the air where his younger brother-turned-companionusedto be. “Stay still for once, ye fooking butterfly!”
Chuckling, Keith twirled out of reach again, then darted back in for two quick jabs to Lyon’s side. “What’s wrong with ye? Ye’ve been slow for the last week!”
That’s because when Bonnie left, she took his fire with her.
Still, Lyon couldn’t admit that out loud, so he concentrated on his sparring partner, managing to land a blow across Keith’s shoulder when he turned at the last minute.
“Oof! That’s more like it. Come on, man. Ye’re hitting like a weakling!”
He was. It was true, and Lyon wasn’t sure how he felt about it. There’d been a time when Keith’s taunting would fire his blood, and his anger—at the accusations, but more importantly, at his injuries and his slow recovery and the world itself—would push him into a blind rage.
When Bonnie had been there, that rage had been replaced by a lust he couldn’t contain, and sparring with Keith helped him find a different kind of release.
But when Bonnie had gone, the rage hadn’t returned. The lust was still there, but now, the emotion sitting on his chest, making it hard to breathe, was…sadness?
Contemplating feelings during a match was a stupid idea, as evidenced by the fact Keith used his distraction to slam his fists into Lyon’s chest twice, knocking him backwards. Now it was hard to breathe for an entirely different reason.
And as he stumbled back, dazed, Keith landed a vicious uppercut, which slammed Lyon’s head back, his teeth knocking together hard enough to loosen them before he fell backward on his arse.
And since he’d already been knocked on his arse, he might as well just lie his head back against the cold stone of the great hall’s floor and pretend that’s what he’d meant to do the entire time.
Above him, the distant ceiling swam into focus, and he could imagine it festooned with banners and tapestries, the sounds of raucous feasts and medieval music lingering just past his hearing.
Well, fook. Must’ve hit my head harder than I thought.
Then Keith’s concerned face interrupted the vista. “Lyon? Are ye alright?”
“Ye hit me hard enough to hallucinate,” Lyon mumbled, his jaw aching.
“Och, well, ye were distracted.” Shrugging, Keith lowered himself to sit cross-legged beside the supine man and began to unwind his fist-wrappings. “When are ye going to talk about it?”
“Never.” And when he was feeling well enough to stand, Lyon had every intention of stalking off to the loch and easing this headache with ice water. But judging from the way everything was fuzzy, perhaps he ought to lie here a bit longer.
