I’m content where I am.
His simple announcement had rearranged something in her chest, because she understood, without anyone having to explain it, that Lyon Oliphant was not a man who said such things. That Keith’s stunned silence had confirmed it. That the slight shift in Lyon’s posture now, the faint tension that told her he was aware he’d revealed something, confirmed it further.
She turned a page she hadn’t read.
He said nothing.
She was still composing herself when he stood, and she heard his footsteps cross the room toward her shelves. She didn’t look up—she was making a very dedicated study of a sentence about grain stores—until his arm appeared beside her head, reaching past her to the shelf she’d been working through, and the world contracted to the few inches between his chest and her shoulder.
He smelled of woodsmoke and the same soap she’d been using these past evenings.
Her sharp inhale kept her breath in her chest, savoring his scent—savoringhimbeing so close.
Lyon was very still for a moment, and she had the sudden, dizzying sense that he was as aware of the distancebetween them as she was. That he could feel her stillness. That the question hanging in the air was not about books at all.
If he turned his head just slightly, if she stretched just slightly…they would be touching. Skin to skin. Lips to lips.
In that moment, Bonnie knew:I want that. She wanted that touch, that kiss.
Wanted it with this man.
The man everyone else called a beast, but whom she was coming to realize hid his heart deep beneath layers of scars and surliness.
Then Lyon drew back, and something was placed gently in her hands.
She looked down. A slim volume, older than the one she’d been reading, the spine soft with handling.
“Here.” His voice was slightly rougher than usual. “Ye might enjoy this one more.”
She turned it over and her breath caught in disbelief and delight.
The Household Management of Lady Elspeth Mackay, 1612.A primary source, a woman’s own words, written in her own hand andsomehow, miraculously, preserved and printed.
She looked up at Lyon. He was already moving back toward his desk, his shoulders set, his footsteps heavy.
But he’d known. Without her asking, without her explaining what she was looking for or why it mattered, he had simplyknown.
“Thank you, Lyon,” she said softly.
He picked up his pen. “Dinnae read it aloud,” he said. “Or I’ll never get any work done.”
She pressed her lips together very hard, and failed entirely to hide her smile.
The rest of that day passed in quiet coziness; cooking, researching, occasionally finding something so perfectly wonderful shehadto read it out loud, while Lyon listened indulgently.
That afternoon, Bonnie pulled out one of Mrs. Oliphant’s cookbooks and tried her hand at making cookies, which both men declared were really quite good. Their compliments made her glow with accomplishment, but she was grateful when, the following day, the cook herself finally managed to return to the castle, wading through the thick snow.
After the mid-day meal, on Keith’s suggestion, Lyon invited Bonnie for a stroll around the courtyard. That was too good an offer to pass up, even though her boots weren’t intended to trudge through the high snow, and she was shivering under her coat. But it was entirely worth it for the look on his face when she scooped up a handful of snow, packed it into a ball, and threw it at his chest.
“What the hell was that?” he growled.
“A snowball, Lyon. I am throwing snowballs at you.”
“Nay, ye’re no’. That was just one snowball. Snowballsis plural.”
She pursed her lips and hummed, pretending to consider his semantics, all the while leaning subtly to the side so she could sneak another handful of snow into a ball. Unfortunately, she wasn’t subtle enough.
With a sudden roar, he leapt forward, and just when she began to think he might tackle her, instead, he leaned over and scooped up a huge armful of snow. Before she could understand what was going on, he’d dumped the entire thing atop her head.
