Her relief must’ve shown on her face because he huffed slightly and reached for her.
“Slowly, lass. I’m going to sit ye up, alright?”
It was agony to move her head, but he was there to support her. She decided it was worth it when he moved to sit on the bed beside her, his arm around her and supporting the back of her heavily bandaged head.
“Easy, lass,” he murmured, holding the cup to her lips.
She greedily drank, the cool water feeling like heaven as it slid down her abused throat. All too soon, he was pulling the cup away.
“Ye can have a bit more soon. For now, let that settle.”
He began to shift her again, to lie her back down. But she grabbed his hand, stopping him.
“No,” she croaked. “Just…hold me?”
He huffed again slightly, and she thought it might’ve been a laugh. But it worked; instead of resting her back down on the pillow, Lyon lifted his feet to the bed and stretched them out, crossing his boots atop the blankets and pulled her flush against him. The movement jostled her head injury, but her aching leg was opposite him, so that allowed her to press her hip and shoulder against him.
Gently, slowly, she lowered her head to his shoulder, and he settled himself more comfortably.
“Better, lass?”
No, nothing wasbetter. She was in agony, and her publishing house was gone. Her dream was destroyed.
But…but she was alive. Lyon had saved her and was holding her now, so that had to count for something. And her manuscript was safe too.
In the general scheme of things, didn’t her life’s work count more than her hair?
Still, the thought of her destroyed dream had the tears leaking from the corner of her lids.
“Perhaps,” she whispered, although she wasn’t certain she believed herself.
He noticed of course, judging from the little noise he made in his chest, under her ear, and his hold on her tightened momentarily. It hurt, but being reminded he was there with her, and she was alive…well, that was worth it.
Aye, it was worth it, she told herself as her eyes drifted shut.
It had to be.
The flames merrily licking at the logs in the hearth ought to fill Lyon with dread, but despite his past, they never did.
This old castle was drafty, and the large fireplace in his study—and another in the library, although that one had a glass shield—made the place livable. Although…
Lyon brushed his fingertips across the scars on the left side of his face and wasn’t surprised when he couldn’t feel the sensation.
Fire took life as easily as it brought it, didn’t it?
“St. James’s fingernails, Lyon! What are ye doing?”
At the sound of Keith’s frantic question, Lyon’s head fell to one side, just enough so he could see his younger brother.
“What do ye mean?”
Keith stepped into the room; his gaze fixed on Lyon’s hand. “Is that brandy? Ye’redrinking? Ye never drink!”
Oh, was that all?
Lyon hummed as he lifted the glass. “It seemed like the time for it.” He sipped and made a face. “Still tastes like shite though.”
“Thenstop!” Keith darted forward, but gently tugged the glass from Lyon’s hand. Lyon let it go in bemusement and watched the younger man head toward the niche where the drinks cabinet sat.
