Seduced by the Scot

by Eaton, Jillian

  Except Lord Lachlan Campbell was no child.

  And a shattered heart was no easy thing to rebuild.

  Thus, she’d made the decision to pretend it had never happened. Their secret engagement, their giddy elopement, their blissful honeymoon, everything that had come after…all of it, gone. She had carved it out of her mind, and out of her memory, and put it in that damned box. Where the feelings and emotions couldn’t be seen, or heard, or touched. Then she had gone on with her life as if nothing was amiss. As if she really had been on holiday in Bath, which was the excuse she’d given everyone to explain her absence. They’d believed her because…why wouldn’t they? She was Lady Brynne Weston, after all.

  Perfect, pristine, practical Brynne.

  And she’d done such a good job at concealing her hurt, her shame, her brokenness, that no one–not even her twin brother, Weston–had suspected that her entire world had been tilted on its axis and all of its contents dumped out, leaving her to pick up the pieces without anyone being the wiser.

  Which was why it was so important–vital, really–that she not have an Episode.

  And she hadn’t.

  Until today.

  When Lachlan had strolled back into her life looking as devilishly handsome as the day she’d married him. The bastard. But he hadn’t just unlocked the trunk and released the memories she had tried so hard to forget. Oh, no. Her estranged husband wasn’t nearly that subtle. Instead, he’d smashed it open with a hammer, wrenched the box out, and proceeded to stomp it into smithereens.

  Now she couldn’t breathe.

  She couldn’t breathe. Courtesy of strict tutelage, she was fluent in six languages, could perform a curtsy with a glass bowl resting on top of her head, knew every step to every waltz ever created, and could play the piano with such proficiency as to nearly be considered a master. But she was unable to breathe. The most basic of all subconscious human actions, and she was struggling to remember how to do it. Because of him. Because of what his reappearance meant. Because of what he’d unleashed inside of her.

  “A cold compress,” she murmured, pinching her throbbing forehead between her thumb and index finger. “If you please, Mrs. Grimsby.”

  “Right away, my lady.” The housekeeper dashed from the room. In the silence left by her departure, the ticking of a longcase clock in the corner of the parlor tolled as loudly as church bells on Sunday morning.

  Wincing from the sound, Brynne reclined all the way back onto the sofa Mrs. Grimsby had guided her to, and dragged a pillow over her face.

  In and out, she reminded herself. In and out. Like waves upon the shore.

  By the time Mrs. Grimsby returned with a damp cloth that she draped across Brynne’s temple before whisking the curtains closed and quietly excusing herself, Brynne had managed to regain control of her racing pulse. Such a small thing, but a step in the right direction nevertheless.

  As her breathing evened, the weight sitting on her chest began to subside, and her fingers tingled as sensation returned them, like the tiny prick of a hundred little needles. Eventually, the shadows in the corners of her vision receded, and her heartrate steadied, then slowed.

  Goodness, but she hadn’t missed that. Years since her last Episode, and yet it was exactly as she remembered it. Just as she still recalled the first time she’d ever had one. Of course, back then, she hadn’t known what was happening. Or if she would even survive it.

  She’d been fourteen. The same age, minus seven minutes, as Weston. Their mother had died birthing them. Their father had left them to be raised by a handful of rotating nannies and governesses. Mrs. Grimsby was just a scullery maid, and the housekeeper–Mrs. Pembroke–was to be avoided at all costs.

  In a household of servants and no parents, Weston was the constant in Brynne’s life.

  Her brother was her rock. Her most trusted confidant. Her best friend.

  And as she had watched his carriage, destined for Eton, roll away, something inside of her had snapped, like a clock screw twisted a tad too far. At least, that was the best way she could describe the terrible, suffocating feeling of having the air suddenly thin and her heart race and the awful, awful pressure gathering somewhere deep inside of her chest.

  Panicked and gasping for breath, she’d clawed at her throat as she had dropped to her knees, and then collapsed onto her side. Until she opened that bedroom door and saw Lachlan sprawled on the rumpled bedspread, it was the single worst moment of her entire life.

  The parlor had swirled. Her vision had dimmed. And just as she’d been about to slip into unconsciousness, Mrs. Grimsby–who back then was simply Lucy–had come rushing in. She’d immediately called for a doctor, and then helped Brynne sit up.

  “Breathe,” she had said urgently. “You must breathe, Lady Brynne. In and out, in an out. Slower. Slower.”

  “I–I can’t,” Brynne had gasped, but Lucy–stalwart and dependable, even then–had refused to accept such an answer.

  “You can and you must,” she’d insisted. “Think of…think of waves on the beach. Rushing up to the shore, then falling back into the ocean. Up and back. Up and back. There. There you are.”

  The doctor had arrived within the hour and he’d examined Brynne quite thoroughly before reaching a diagnosis.

  “I’ve only seen this once before, when I first began my practice,” he’d said as he returned his stethoscope–a curious wooden instrument in the shape of a stick with a circle at each end–into his black medical bag and snapped it closed. “In a woman with a newborn baby who had just received news of her husband dying on the battlefield. Horrific business, war. How fortunate we are that Queen Victoria has proven herself to be such an excellent diplomat and has kept us from conflict.”

  “Did the woman have a disease of some sort?” Although shaky and pale, Brynne had managed to stay upright in bed through sheer force of will…and the mountain of pillows Lucy had placed behind her.

  “A disease? No, no, nothing like that. There is not a name for it, I am afraid. Too rare. As I said, you’re just the second case I’ve ever seen.” He’d stroked his salt and pepper moustache. “But the symptoms–dotted vision, heart palpitations, cold sweat–are almost exactly the same. Too similar to be a coincidence, at any rate. You, my dear child, have suffered from what I shall refer to as an attack of anxious mannerisms in my research paper.”

  “An attack of anxious mannerisms,” she’d repeated. “What–what is that? How do I treat it? Is there medicine? Or a tonic?” Her nose had wrinkled. “My brother had to take a tonic once when he was ill with a cough. I tried a spoonful. It was very bitter.”

  “No medicine,” said the doctor as he’d put on his coat and gone to the door. “No tonic. This is a simple case of mind over matter. If you start to feel this way again, tell yourself not to.”

  “Tell myself not to?” Puzzled, she had shaken her head. “But–”

  “I’ve another patient waiting in the village. Drink plenty of broth and get lots of rest,” he’d advised. “You should feel better in the morning. If there’s been no improvement within twenty-four hours, ring for me again and perhaps we’ll try a tonic.”

  That was the last time Brynne had called for the doctor.

  Over the course of the next few months, she had two more attacks of anxious mannerisms. Or Episodes, as she and Lucy began to call them. Once, when she received a letter from Weston that he would not be returning home for Christmas. And again, when she’d missed an entire sequence of notes during practice for her piano recital and her instructor labeled her as “completely hopeless”.

  With time, she came to realize that the Episodes were tied directly to her emotions. When she became too mentally overwhelmed, whether it was due to the prospect of facing a holiday alone, or failing to reach the high bar her tutors had set, her mind was unable to process the additional pressure. Almost like a tea kettle that began to whistle and blow steam after being left too long on the stove.

  Not surprisingly, the doctor’s sugge
stion–that she merely tell herself not to have an Episode–had little effect. But with practice, and Lucy’s unique breathing techniques, she was able to keep her symptoms to a minimum. As she grew older, and learned how to exert more control over herself and her emotions, they occurred with less and less frequency.

  Finally, much to her relief, the day came that the “attack of anxious mannerisms” stopped altogether. She’d truly believed they were behind her. A relic of a miserable adolescence that she’d done her best to forget…along with her horrible mistake of a marriage. But while she had successfully managed to sweep her lonely, unpleasant childhood under the proverbial rug, it seemed large, arrogant Scots were too big to fit beneath carpets…or inside trunks.

  In hindsight, it was foolish–if not downright naïve–to believe that she’d seen the last of Lachlan Campbell. Like a bad penny, it was inevitable her husband would show up again. The husband she despised. The husband who had betrayed her. The husband she was still madly…irre­vocably…com­pletely in love with.

  Chapter Two

  Eleven Years Ago

  Hawkridge Manor

  When Brynne heard the wheels turning on the stone drive, her young heart pattered with excitement. Weston was home! Four weeks prematurely, as it so happened, but with no other visitors scheduled and their father in the wind, who else could it possibly be but her brother, returned early from Eton?

  How she’d missed him. With the exception of a brief–and intimidating–visit from her grandfather, the Duke of Caldwell, she had spent the last month in relative isolation. Which wasn’t anything new, in and of itself. Brynne and Weston were often alone. But they were alone together. A distinction that became notable only after she found herself roaming the whitewashed walls of Hawkridge without her twin by her side.

  She had the servants, of course. Lucy, in particular, was a comfort, especially since Brynne’s newest governess, Miss Hardgrave, possessed all the warmth of an iceberg.

  But it wasn’t the same.

  That didn’t matter anymore, however.

  Because Weston had returned.

  Except when she burst out the front door (ignoring the sharp call of her governess that ladies did not run) and took the steps two at a time to meet the shiny black coach before the prancing pair of chestnut geldings had even come to a full halt, it wasn’t her brother’s face peering out the square window, but an unfamiliar boy with a spill of red hair and an arrogant smirk.

  “Who are you?” Brynne demanded when he hopped out of the carriage without bothering to wait for the footman to bring the mounting step around.

  Taller than her by several inches, with a broad frame that needed to fill out in places and a face that was all jutted angles and peaks, the boy stuck out his hand and grinned at her. “Lachlan. Ye must be West’s sister, Lady Brynne. Please tae meet ye.”

  Scottish, she thought silently as she regarded his hand with some suspicion. And a student at Eton as well, as evidenced by the coat of arms on his navy blue jacket. Three lilies on the bottom, a golden lion on the upper right hand corner, and a fleur de lis on the left. When she attended Cheltenham Ladies’ College next year, a boarding school for girls of distinguished families, she would have a similar insignia.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she touched the very tip of his fingers in a quick, fleeting handshake before tucking her arms behind her back. She peered past him into the carriage, hopeful that her brother was sitting within but, to her disappointment, the seats were empty. Her gaze returned to her unexpected visitor, and she frowned. “Where is Weston?”

  Instead of answering her questions, Lachlan rocked onto his heels and let a whistle pass between his lips as he stared up at the front of the manor. “Now I see why West is so high in the instep.”

  “My brother isn’t ‘high in the instep’,” Brynne said defensively. Already resentful of this stranger who should have been her twin but wasn’t, she followed the direction of his gaze as her frown deepened into a scowl.

  While most admired the stately country estate for its sheer size, she’d always considered it to be more of a prison than a palace. The outside may have been beautiful with its walls of ivy crawling up gray sandstone, a solarium encased in glass, and matching chimneys in red brick, but there was no cheer to be found within.

  Her mother had died here.

  Her father had abandoned her here.

  And her childhood–what remained of it–was withering here. Like an apple left too long on the branch, she remained glossy on the surface, but she could already feel herself slowly hardening on the inside.

  Without family, without friends, without anyone that genuinely cared for her well-being (who wasn’t being paid to, that is), how long would it take until her dreams, and aspirations, and hopes for a future beyond this place rotted and fell to the ground?

  Now, she had this boy to contend with.

  Whoever he was.

  In the single letter she’d received thus far, Weston hadn’t mentioned anyone by the name of Lachlan. And she found it difficult to believe that her stern, serious brother would have anything to do with a rude, contentious Scot.

  “I think there has been some mistake,” she began. “This is Hawkridge Manor. Your driver must have gotten confused, and brought you to the wrong place.”

  “Oh, I’m in the right place.” Lachlan slid his hands into the pockets of his coat before he slanted her a sideways glance and grinned, revealing a roguish dimple in the middle of his cheek. “West failed tae mention what a bonny lass his sister is.”

  Brynne blushed.

  She couldn’t help it.

  Stuck in that indeterminate phase between adolescence and adulthood, she was too tall, too gangly, too thin, too everything wrong and nothing right. But this boy–this Lachlan with the devilish grin and arrogant way about him that made her want to gnash her teeth with annoyance even as part of her was quietly thrilled by it–thought she was bonny.

  “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

  “Suspended from school for fighting,” he said cheerfully, as if such an admission was something to be proud of instead of ashamed by. “Two weeks until I can return. Yer brother invited me tae stay here instead of making the trek all the way back tae Glenavon. By the time I got home, I’d just have tae turn around again.”

  Brynne didn’t even know where to start. But if Lachlan was an invited guest (and she had no reason to believe he was lying), then it fell upon her, as the only Weston currently in residence at Hawkridge, to be a gracious host.

  This was what she’d been trained to do. While boys were raised on arithmetic and philosophy and war history, girls were taught how to properly manage a household and when to bring out the good silver and the correct order to serve tea in accordance with the guidelines set forth by the all-important social hierarchy. Dukes first, then marquesses, earls, viscounts, and so forth and so on.

  “Why don’t you come into the parlor for a glass of lemonade,” she said with the polite poise of a lady twice her age. “The staff will see to it that a bedchamber is readied, and your personal belongings are put away. If you need anything during your stay, you have only to ask me or the head housekeeper, Mrs. Pembroke.”

  Lachlan’s grin widened. “Aye, yer grace,” he said, bending forward in an exaggerated bow that brought a fresh flush of heat to her cheeks.

  “I am not a duchess. You–you can just call me Brynne.” It wasn’t proper to encourage such familiarity, but if it was to be just the two of them over the next fourteen days, surely there was no harm in addressing each other without the pomp and circumstance of their titles.

  “Brynne. That’s Celtic, ye know. A form of Brenna.” A swath of auburn hair fell across his brow as he canted his head to the side. “Do ye have Scots blood in ye, Bry?

  She bit the inside of her cheek, an anxious habit her governess had not yet been able to quell. “Not–not that I am aware of. And it’s Brynne.”

  Mischief and a glint of someth
ing else, something she wouldn’t come to understand for a few more years yet, gleamed in Lachlan’s eyes. Framed with lashes a shade darker than his hair, they were amber with a hint of copper, and reminded of her of a lion. Come to think of it, all of him reminded her of a lion. Lanky and lean and not quite grown, with a sleek auburn pelt instead of gold, but a lion nevertheless.

  “I like Bry better,” he said, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “It suits ye.”

  And she liked the way he said it. Soft, and husky, as if they were sharing a secret. But even as butterflies hummed in her belly, a warning tickled in her ear. Her governess had told her about boys like these. To watch for them, and be wary of them, and to avoid them at all costs. For even though Brynne wouldn’t have her Season debut until she turned sixteen, it was imperative that she learn early on which type of man would make a proper husband, and which ne’er-do-well to steer clear of…no matter how charming he might have been.

  Why, no doubt Lachlan flirted with all the girls. She wasn’t special. But then, she didn’t need a rogue-in-training to tell her that.

  If she were special, her father and brother wouldn’t have left her here. If she were special, she wouldn’t have been kept sheltered. If she were special, she wouldn’t have been forgotten. Because special things weren’t hidden away to collect dust while life continued on without them. They were polished, and proudly displayed, and talked about.

  One day, she told herself. One day, she’d escape Hawkridge, and she would never–ever–come back. She’d be the toast of London, and everyone would want to be her friend, and she’d be invited to so many balls and soirees that she would lose track of them all.

  But until that day came, she was stuck here. In the middle of the countryside. Like a princess in an ivory tower waiting for her prince to swoop in and rescue her. Except instead of a prince, she’d gotten Lachlan the Lion.

  She swallowed a giggle.

  They’d both come up with their own monikers for each other, it seemed.

  Although she thought hers was far cleverer.