Seduced by the Scot

by Eaton, Jillian

  “I can make my own decisions,” she said defensively.

  “Prove it,” he taunted. “Or are ye even more of a goody two-shoes than yer brother?”

  She mulled it over for a moment.

  He could almost hear the gears clicking in her mind.

  Part of her, he was almost certain, wished that she’d never come out to find him. That she remained tucked safely away in that marble monstrosity of a manor, learning how to wave a fan or curtsy or whatever it was that girls were taught to do. But there was more to Lady Brynne Weston than met the eye. And if he could use his time here to coax her out of the gilded cage they’d trapped her in, then he’d consider it time well spent.

  “All right,” she said after a lengthy pause. “What do I have to do?”

  A grin split Lachlan’s face from ear to ear. Picking a nameless flower with white petals from amidst the stalks of grass, he twirled it between his fingers before he held it out to her. “It’s simple, really…”

  As the wagon jostled over a dip in the road and the blanket draped over her head threatened suffocation, it occurred to Brynne, somewhat belatedly, that taking Lachlan up on his challenge was not the best choice she had ever made.

  Or even a good one, for that matter.

  But it was too late now.

  Tucked in the back of the dry supply wagon as it made its way towards the village to stock up on flour, grain, oats, and other necessities that would fill the kitchen for the next week, there wasn’t anything she could do but keep her head down and pray that she wasn’t discovered.

  Beside her, Lachlan’s teeth flashed white in a mischievous smirk as they struck another rut in the road and the entire conveyance rattled. Unlike Brynne, whose palms were damp with sweat and shoulders were tense with nerves, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “How are ye doing?” he whispered, sliding his hand across the roughly hewn floor of the wagon to grasp her fingers.

  “How do you think I’m doing?” she retorted even as his touch helped to lower the intensity of her unease. “This is a horrible idea.”

  “Ye agreed tae it.”

  Yes, she had. In some misguided attempt to prove that she wasn’t a captive in her own house (which she absolutely was, or else she wouldn’t have to sneak out underneath a blanket), she had agreed to accompany Lachlan into the local village, someplace she was never allowed to go without a proper chaperone.

  The wagon was her idea. She’d thought it rather clever. A secret means to escape Hawkridge without Miss Hardgrave being any the wiser. But she hadn’t taken into account how bumpy it would be. Or how stiflingly hot. Or how guilty she’d feel for breaking the rules.

  Lachlan was right.

  She was a goody two-shoes.

  Even more so than Weston.

  Except…except to her knowledge, her twin had never defied their governess by sneaking out of his lessons in the middle of the day. And he’d almost certainly never gone into the village when he wasn’t supposed to. And he’d definitely never hidden inside of a supply wagon. Did that make her braver than him? Or just more foolish?

  She really didn’t know the answer.

  “What are we going to do now?” she hissed, wedging her foot against an empty crate to prevent herself from moving as the wagon took a sharp left hand turn and then slowed. From outside the blanket draped over them, she could hear the sounds of harnesses jingling and people talking and the toll of a church bell. Given that the only church within twenty miles was the one that sat in the middle of the village square, she knew, that for better or worse, they’d reached their destination.

  Lachlan winked at her. “Whatever we want. Just be ready tae jump.”

  “Jump?” she said, horrified. “What do you mean, be ready to–”

  “One, two, three–JUMP!”

  He grabbed her arm and, together, they rolled out of the back of wagon and landed in a cloud of dust and tangled limbs. Laughing, Lachlan pulled her to the safety of the pavement just as another carriage, pulled by a matched pair of prancing chestnuts, came breezing past. The driver hollered something, but Brynne was unable to make out what it was above the dull roaring in her ears.

  “Well done,” Lachlan said approvingly, giving her hearty slap on the back.

  Gasping for air, Brynne doubled over and clutched her knees. Her hat, silk taffeta over wired buckram, slipped off and plopped onto the ground. “I–I cannot believe I did that!”

  “Ye mean ye’ve never leapt out of a moving wagon before?”

  She straightened and stared at him incredulously. “You have?”

  “At least half a dozen times.”

  “Half a dozen–”

  “The trick is in the landing.” Bending down, he grasped her bonnet and gave it a light shake before returning it to her. “Ye have tae keep moving so ye dinna get run over.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” she said faintly as she accepted her hat.

  Clearly, Lachlan was what Miss Hardgrave disparagingly referred to as a “ruffian”. That is, a man (or in this case, a boy) of mischievous character intent on committing various misdeeds. In short, he was not the sort of company that a young girl on the brink of womanhood should be keeping. Especially one who needed to maintain an impeccable reputation. And yet…and yet she was having fun. Real, honest-to-goodness fun. Well, except for almost being crushed to death by a carriage. But Lachlan had protected her. And Miss Hardgrave thought she was immersed in her French tutoring (when in actuality, she’d sent off a letter first thing in the morning telling her instructor, Monsieur Dubois, that she was ill). Which meant…which meant she was free. Free to have all of the fun that she wanted.

  “We should go in the confectionary shop,” she said, her eyes lighting. “I’m never allowed, but my father has an account with every merchant in the village, and we can buy whatever we want.”

  Half an hour later, they emerged from the shop, their arms overflowing with an assortment of twisted barley sugar sticks, strawberry drops, caramels, and–Brynne’s favorite–lime fruit, which consisted of a slice of dried lime dipped in lemonade and then rolled in sugar.

  They carried their bounty to a bench in the middle of the square, and sat beside each other in the dappled shade of a large oak tree.

  “Trade ye a strawberry drop for a caramel,” said Lachlan, speaking around a sugar stick jammed into the side of his cheek.

  Brynne studied the candy she’d arranged in neat piles on her lap. “One strawberry drop for two caramels and the last barley stick.”

  “Two strawberry drops for one caramel,” he countered, “and we’ll split the last barley stick.”

  “All right. What?” she asked when Lachlan shook his head at her as he accepted the candy. “What is it?”

  “Ye need tae learn how tae drive a harder bargain.” He popped a strawberry drop into his mouth and bit down with a loud crunch. “I would have given ye the whole barley stick.”

  “Well, why didn’t you?” she asked in exasperation.

  He shrugged. “Because ye gave in.”

  “Miss Hardgrave says that a gentleman should always make every effort to appease a lady.”

  “Never said I was a gentleman.” Cracking the barley stick into two pieces, he offered her half. Reluctantly, she accepted the stick and handed over two strawberry drops.

  “But you must be. A gentleman, that is. Or else you wouldn’t be at Eton.”

  “I’m at Eton because that’s where me brother went, and me father, and me grandfather.” Shoving the remainder of his candy into the pockets of his trousers (he wasn’t wearing a coat), Lachlan linked his hands together behind his head and leaned back. “But ye can trust me when I say there’s never been a Campbell who has ever been accused of being a gentleman.”

  “Then you won’t attend the London Season?” Brynne didn’t know why that should give her a twinge of disappointment. Even if Lachlan did go to London, and they did happen to meet at a ball, their social circles would
never intersect. In all probability, this was the closest they were ever going to be. Trading candy on a bench in the village square. And that made her feel more than disappointed.

  “I’ve another year of schooling, and then I’ll make me…what do ye women call it?”

  “Our formal debut.”

  “Aye.” His dimple flashed as he smirked. “I’ll do that.”

  “I don’t know if men can have formal debuts.”

  “Why not?”

  Her mouth opened. Closed. She thought it over. “I do not know, actually.”

  “Ye’ll be the talk of the ton when ye do it. Make yer debut, that is. Blokes will be stumbling over themselves tae put their names on yer dance card.”

  “Do you really think so?” she said, pleased. Wasn’t that exactly what she wanted? People to notice her. People to want to spend time with her. People to make her feel special and important.

  “Aye,” he said flatly, and even though she was fairly certain he meant it as a compliment, he didn’t seem particularly pleased. “Ye’ll have half a dozen proposals before the first week is out.”

  “Will yours be one of them?” She’d meant it as a jest. A little teasing. Not something to be taken seriously. But when Lachlan’s eyes darkened and his gaze flicked, just for an instant, to her lips, she instinctively sensed that there was nothing the least bit humorous about the sudden electrical charge she felt pulsing in the air.

  At fourteen, Brynne knew nothing of passion or desire beyond the books she had stashed beneath her mattress. Books written by the likes of Jane Austen and Emily Brontë and her sister, Charlotte. Books that made love seem like such a complicated, difficult endeavor that she wasn’t at all sure if it was something she wished to partake in. But when Lachlan looked at her like that, as if she were…as if she were the most delicious strawberry drop he’d ever seen, she wondered if the books weren’t on to something after all.

  “The second-born son of a Scottish laird offer marriage tae the daughter of a marquess?” With a snort, Lachlan sprang off the bench. “Yer father would laugh me out of drawing room.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Brynne protested.

  If only because he probably wouldn’t be in the room, she added silently.

  “Aye, he would.” A swath of auburn hair tumbled across Lachlan’s brow as he stretched his arms up and grabbed on to a low-hanging branch. After adjusting his grip, he lifted himself off the grass and gave a few experimental swings before kicking his legs out, spinning in midair, and landing in rather spectacular fashion.

  Brynne clapped politely, then shook her head.

  “All right,” she admitted, smiling. “Maybe you would not be my father’s ideal candidate for a husband. If I am to follow tradition, I’ll marry an earl, or a marquess, or maybe even a duke. They’ll be practical, and proper, and perfect in nearly every way.”

  Lachlan wiped his hands off on his trousers, then regarded her with a lifted brow and a mocking tilt of his mouth. “Aye, but can they climb a tree?”

  “I’m quite sure they will have never tried.”

  “Sounds like a bunch of boring lunkheads tae me.”

  “Maybe.” Her brow creased. “But when the times comes, I’ll get to choose who I marry. No one else.”

  He snorted again. “Because ye are so free tae make yer own decisions.”

  “I came here, didn’t I?” she said, proudly lifting her chin.

  “That ye did.” His gaze softening, he held out his hand. “Should we strike a bargain, Lady Brynne Weston?”

  She eyed his hand dubiously. “The last time I struck a bargain with you, I lost out on half a barley stick.”

  “In ten years, if ye havena married some wealthy bounder, we’ll meet back here, at this very spot. And we’ll marry each other.”

  She started to giggle.

  Stopped when she realized he was serious.

  “Oh. Oh. But…” Her mind whirling, she stood up slowly, and as if from a faraway distance, watched her palm slide tentatively along his until their hands were clasped together. “Ten years.”

  “Ten years,” he said solemnly. Then he grinned. “Have ye ever been in a pub before?”

  “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

  “Come on.” Rolling his eyes, he gave her arm a tug and, together, they ran across the village square.

  Eleven days later, as she watched Lachlan’s carriage drive away, Brynne realized two very important, life-altering things.

  Firstly, she desperately wanted to be more than what she was becoming. While Miss Hardgrave, and her father, and even her brother believed that her entire destiny was to marry well and have children and preside over an estate just like this one, Brynne wanted more. More happiness, more fun, more leaping out of wagons and gazing at the stars and sneaking into pubs. She’d lived more in these fourteen days than she had in fourteen years. And she’d laughed. How she’d laughed. She wanted to laugh like that again. She wanted to be like that again. The person she was when Lachlan was near. Which brought her to her second life-altering realization.

  She, Brynne Weston, at all of fourteen years of age, was in love.

  With Lachlan Campbell.

  And even though it was a child’s love, a sweet love, a love born of innocence and wonder, it was real. It was strong. But most importantly, it was true.

  Until it wasn’t.

  Chapter Five

  Present Day

  Hawkridge Manor

  After prying herself off the sofa by sheer force of will, Brynne managed to go about the rest of her day with a modicum of normalcy. With Weston temporarily in London, it fell to her to see that personal notes were sent to every guest that had attended their annual house party, as well as collect any belongings that had been left behind and send them on their merry way. Then the kitchen needed to be restocked, all of the linens refreshed, the bedrooms–all twenty-two of them, not including the master chambers–cleaned. Tasks that would ultimately fall upon the shoulders of Mrs. Grimsby and the staff, but Brynne liked to have a hand in the organization of it all.

  She also had a lingering guest to look after.

  Well, two.

  But only one was human.

  Barely.

  “It stinks in here,” she said, her nose wrinkling as she strode into the library and began flinging open the drapes, letting streams of light in the dim, stuffy room that smelled vaguely of cigar smoke, brandy, and a duke badly in need of a good bathing.

  Preferably outdoors.

  “I’ve gone blind,” Sterling Nottingham, Duke of Hanover, covered his face with a pillow as sunlight drenched the library in a spill of light gold, revealing that he was wearing the same clothes she’d seen him in yesterday, and hadn’t even bothered to remove his boots before drowning himself in a bottle of her brother’s liquor and passing out on a chaise lounge that would in all likelihood need to be burned.

  “You’re not blind.” The first time she’d happened upon Sterling in a similar situation, Brynne had felt a stirring of sympathy. A friend of Weston’s, who had also become a friend of hers over the years, the duke was, under ordinary circumstances, a jovial, well-kept, gentlemanly individual. But after his mistress was violently murdered–and he became the prime suspect in the eyes of the ton–Sterling had sunk into a state of…well, whatever this was.

  Drinking until the morning. Sleeping until the afternoon. Dragging himself about with disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes and wrinkled clothing.

  It was pitiful.

  Embarrassing, really.

  And while she was happy to offer Sterling refuge at Hawkridge Manor for as long as he’d like to continue avoiding the vicious gossip that awaited him in London, such destructive self-indulgence was not to be permitted.

  “Sit up,” she said briskly. “There’s a pitcher of water on the table beside you, and your breakfast–while cold by now–is waiting in the solarium. Once you’ve eaten, you will bathe, and put on clean garments. Then a walk is in order, to clear your head.�
�

  Sterling slowly lowered the pillow. “Can’t I just go upstairs and sleep?”

  “No.”

  “But my head hurts.”

  Her gazed went to the empty bottle of brandy laying halfway under then chaise lounge, then returned to the duke. “I imagine it does. I am having a locksmith install a lock on Weston’s liquor cabinet and the wine cellar. Today.”

  That got Sterling to his feet.

  “You can’t,” he protested, shoving his hands through his hair, black and tangled, as he stumbled to his feet, toddled to the left, and just barely avoided crashing into a chair before he caught his balance. “What am I supposed to drink?”

  “As I said, there is a pitcher of water on the table.”

  “Water?” he said, aghast. “But that tastes terrible.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t taste like anything.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it terrible.”

  “Your Grace…Sterling…I say this as a friend.” She hesitated. “And someone who has experienced the pain of heartbreak. You cannot continue down this path you’ve set for yourself. Nothing good shall come of it.”

  His eyes, several shades lighter than Weston’s stony gray, hardened. “Are you responsible for your best friend’s death?”

  “You are referring to your brother,” she said quietly. “But you’re not to blame for what happened to him.”

  Sterling’s mistress was not his first encounter with tragedy, or with death. Brynne did not know all of the details. No one did, except for the men who had been there on the day of the duel that had taken the life of Sterling’s brother…the rightful Duke of Hanover. There’d been whispers, even then. Ridiculous, hurtful stories that Sterling had planned the entire thing in order to inherit the title. A title that otherwise never would have belonged to him, as the second-born son.

  And then to be accused in the court of public opinion (perchance even the House of Lords, once they convened) to murdering the woman he’d loved…

  It was clear why Sterling would want to drink himself into oblivion.

  It was even clearer that he’d kill himself in the process.