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

had nothing to offer them, nothing to give of himself. From the time he’d been a lad, he’d known he was destined to be alone. As a boy he’d stood apart from his peers, an observer, his hours spent in learning with the clergy. When he became a man, others trod lightly in his presence. It was the most he could have expected. Respect. Even if they didn’t quite see him as an equal, they’d respected him at least.
    And that had been enough.
    “What do you wish to be when you grow up?” David of Scotia had once asked him as a young child, in gratitude for Lyon’s defense of him.
    Piers had thought about it an instant and had shrugged and answered simply, “It matters not so long as I am happy.” And he had meant it.
    “That’s all you want?” David had asked in surprise, cocking his head and staring at Piers as though he were a two-headed calf. “Well,” he’d announced importantly, “I intend to be king. And when I am king,” he’d promised, “I shall give all my friends whatever they wish for. If you wish for happiness, Piers of Montgomerie, I shall find it for you and then wrap it up in golden fleece and hand it to you upon a silver platter. What do you think about that?”
    Piers had thought it a generous if pompous gesture, but decided he had best find happiness for himself, as the eighth son of a king—any king—was like never to sit upon any throne at all, except the one in his own garderobe. But he hadn’t said so, however. He’d simply smiled his appreciation at his friend.
    Imagine the turn of luck; David of Scotia had won his throne, after all, and he’d given Lyon the next best thing. He’d favored Lyon with land: good rich Scot’s soil, upon which he could build his own legacy. And suddenly, he was free to dream and plan.
    The woman sitting before him was a new beginning. An alliance with her brothers would bear him roots upon this land. He wanted that.
    He wanted her.
    It wasn’t merely that she was beautiful, although she was. Wildly so—with her luscious red hair and cool green eyes, a man could lose himself in those eyes. Aye, though she was more... she was the first brick in his foundation.
    “You are quiet,” he said at her back.
    She stiffened before him, and her reaction made him smile. She might not particularly like him, but she certainly wasn’t indifferent toward him, and that knowledge pleased him. Love and hate were not so disparate emotions that one could not be manipulated into the other. They, at least, were extremes of emotion, while indifference was another matter altogether; it was the lack.
    “And how would you have me sit before you?” she snapped, not bothering to peer back at him. “You’re a contemptible Sassenach who’s taking me against my will.”
    Nay, he thought, she definitely wasn’t indifferent toward him, and that pleased him immensely. Challenged him, even. Her animosity was like a gauntlet tossed at his feet. He couldn’t walk away. Nor did he wish to, as he sensed the prize was unparalleled.
    Nor had he lost a match as yet, and that knowledge gave him satisfaction as it never had before. He didn’t fight unfairly, but neither did he give any mercy. He fought to win.
    If it was the last thing he accomplished, he was going to inveigle the little harridan sitting before him. He’d once been told his tongue wove words of gold. No woman was immune to praise. He gently lifted a strand of her hair in his hand. She didn’t seem to feel it... or perhaps she simply allowed it.
    Soft.
    His fingers reveled in the texture, silky and thick. He brought the strand to his nostrils and inhaled its scent. He knit his brows. “Lovely,” he told her. “Quite lovely. But the scent eludes me.”
    She didn’t thank him for the compliment, nor did she seem to take the bait.
    “I like it,” he continued.
    “I noticed,” she answered, flippantly. “I can tell by the way you’ve buried your nose in it like a mindless hound. Enjoying yourself?”
    Lyon