Page 5 of His Beauty
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 am missing, and your brother kindly volunteered your collection.”
He seemed unmoved. “Which brother?”
“Lysander.” 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 thrice: once at the ball at the beginning of summer, once at Ember’s wedding to his bastard brother Max, and then again at Tiffany’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’dalsobeen 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.
“Whichcollection, 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. “Your medieval collection from your ancestors. Lysander said you have maintained all the artwork passed down. And the paintings, of course.”
“Paintings?” he growled.
Surely Lysander 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 your brother told me I could find here. The fact they were 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, andoh my heavensthe 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, Lysander hadn’t been exaggerating when he said his brother felt protective of the woman’s artwork, had he? “Not 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? Your brother indicated some of the artwork was produced by women.”
His shoulders were heaving with the strength of the breaths he was taking—You need to get your eyes off his chest, Bonnie—as he slowly straightened.
