Page 15 of His Beauty
“Where’s Mrs. Oliphant?” he snapped instead.
She didn’t seem bothered; she never seemed bothered by any of his growls or glowers. Instead, she shrugged, grinned again, and went back to kneading the dough. “I do not know. I have yet to meet her. Are you certain she exists?”
When she sent him a teasing sideways look, the hair fell into her face again, and Lyon was moving before he realized it, his gaze locked on that out-of-place piece.
“Perhaps she cannae come because of the storm,” he murmured, stepping up in front of her.
And before he knew what he was doing, he reached up and lifted that piece of hair, tucking it into her bun the way he used to do for Rose.
It was only then he realized she was holding her breath as she stared up at him with those beautiful eyes, and he jerked away, stepping back to put distance between them.
Idiot! Ye’re half-naked and standing entirely too close. Ye touched her!
But yesterday, when she’d arrived, he’d been wearing just a kilt as well, and she hadn’t minded touchinghim.
Now, she cleared her throat and focused not-entirely-believably on the bread dough in front of her. “I offered to make a simple luncheon. The potatoes are baking in the oven.”
And that was when Lyon realized two things: there was a delicious scent wafting around the kitchen, and he was suddenly very ravenous.
For food, he told himself.
But still, she hadn’t pulled away from him. So he swallowed down the instinct which told him to hide away, to mope and mourn, and instead, took a deep breath. “How can I help?”
He was rewarded with a brilliant smile, which made him feel like some kind of hero.
CHAPTER 4
It stopped snowing sometime during her second night in Oliphant Castle, and Bonnie had never been so disappointed when she woke up to blue skies and realized this might be her last day with Lyon.
The day before—after Lyon had helped her prepare luncheon—they’d spent the afternoon in his study, working in what she imagined was companionable silence. Since the cook had never returned, they helped Keith make dinner as well, then the three of them ate in the cozy little room by the kitchens. Most of the conversation was between her and Keith of course, but every once in a while, Lyon would chime in with a piece of Oliphant history.
And she was completely intrigued. Not only was he a walking, talking source for her book, but she loved hearing his opinion on things. It was clear the man—the future Laird Oliphant—was proud of his heritage, and that made her smile.
Of course, a lot of the things he did made her smile.
To her surprise, he joined her and Keith for breakfast that clear morning, and the first thing he announced upon entering the cozy little room was, “There’s too much snow out there. Sander willnae be able to come fetch ye today either.”
And the joy which bloomed in her chest was nothing compared to the realization he didn’t want her to leave right away either.
So it was with a light step that she hurried to settle herself in at her little desk in Lyon’s study. She pulled out one of the source books she’d discovered the day before, and was smiling as she leafed through it to find the chapter she wanted.
And when he stomped into the room, scowling at nothing in particular, and threw himself behind his desk? Well, her heart gave a contented little sigh. As if…as if they were both where they belonged.
His pen scratched across the paper, working on designs for things she didn’t recognize, and Bonnie felt herself slipping into a contented sort of meditation. Unfortunately, this meant that the fire had burned low by the time she’d realized she’d been reading aloud.
It wasn’t intentional.
It never was, when she found something particularly delightful; the words simply began to spill from her lips before her brain caught up with her manners. She’d done it as a child, driving her mother to distraction, and she’d done it at Lysander’s dining table often enough that Tiffany had taken to kicking her under it.
But there was no Tiffany here to kick her, and so she read on, barely aware she was doing it.
“The women of the household were not merely decorative,” she murmured, tracing her finger along the faded print. “They managed the stores, the medicines, the correspondence, the care of the sick and dying, and in times of siege, the defense of the walls themselves. That their names do not appear in the histories is not evidence of their absence, but of the historian’s limitations.”
She paused, delighted, and looked up.
Lyon was watching her.
Not his schematics, not the ledger he’d been frowning at earlier, buther.He was leaning back slightly in his chair, his pen set aside, his arms folded, and he was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read; something between arrested and cautious, as if she were a bird that had landed unexpectedly on his windowsill and he didn’t want to startle her into flight.
