Page 49 of His Revelation
True to his reputation as the Beast of the Oliphants, Lyon’s words were as short as his temper. He stopped beside the nook which held the shelf and the brandy decanter, and Lysander watched him stare at the liquor hard, before swiping up the crystal pitcher of cold water and pour himself a glass.
“I failed yer test then, brother,” Lysander admitted, staring down at his third glass.
“Not a test for ye. For me.”
Ah.
“Where’ve ye been? I’ve been waiting.”
“Out.” Lyon rested his hip against his desk. “Why are ye here?”
Judging from the sheen of sweat across his brother’s shoulders, and the way his kilt hung low on his hips, Lysander guessed he’d been sparring with his butler again. Lyon’s devotion to his exercise regimen was legendary.
And warranted, considering it had changed his life.
“I…” Sighing, Lysander pushed himself upright. “I needed to speak with ye.”
“Speak then,” grunted Lyon, as he lowered himself to the floor and began to push himself up using only the muscles in his arms. “I’ll listen.”
Lyon wasn’t being rude, it was just who he was.
And Tiffany’s observations weren’t completely wrong, were they?
He found himself telling his older brother everything. Well, perhaps noteverything; there was no need to explain how her scent caused his cock to harden, and how her lips were positively sinful, nor how he ached to possess her. But he explained the scheme he’d concocted with Athena’s help, and how he’d set it into motion.
And how it had been an utter success.
And an utter disaster.
“And now the lass willnae speak to ye?” Lyon growled, sitting on his arse on the worn rug atop the stone floor, with his arms resting on his knees.
“Wouldye, if ye were in her position?”
“I try no’ to talk to ye now, as it is.”
Lysander rolled his eyes at his brother’s attempt at humor. “And I so appreciate ye interrupting yer busy schedule of moping and beating the shite out of poor Keith.”
“What do ye want me to say, Lysander?”
“I want…” Shrugging, Lysander stared down at his almost-empty glass. “I guess I want advice.”
“On how to woo the lass?” Lyon rolled gracefully to his feet, the candlelight—I swear, it’s like he’s living four centuries in the past!—throwing the scars up the left side of his body in sharp shadows. “Ye want her back, I assume?”
Lysander blew out a breath and met his brother’s eyes. “I do. I shouldnae have done what I did.”
Lyon shrugged. “Then tell her that. Ask her forgiveness.”
“But…” Shaking his head, Lysander pushed himself to his feet, and was surprised when he stumbled slightly. “She said those things about ye. Terrible things,” he muttered, even knowing the words she’d said didn’t define her.
Lyon shrugged, and as Lysander moved past him on his way to the brandy, he stood. Before Lysander could pass, Lyon snatched the glass from his hand.
As Lysander blinked woozily down at his empty hand, his brother asked, “What sorts of things?”
“She said ye…” Why couldn’t he recall exactly what she’d said now? “She’d called ye barbaric for wearing that kilt. She said ye were scarred and brutal and didnae speak, but grunted.”
Instead of being offended, Lyon shrugged and turned away—taking the brandy glass with him, damnation. “All those things are true.”
“What?”
