Seduced by the Scot

by Eaton, Jillian

  Wise to the wily ways of foxes and rogues, she’d guarded her precious hen with all of the weapons at her disposal.

  Guilt being principle among them.

  He’d never forget the words she’d spoken to him when he came to call the next day. As if she was anticipating his arrival, she, not a servant, had greeted him at the door. And kept her foot wedged in the frame the entire time so that even if he wanted to, he couldn’t have entered. As if he were some sort of bloody vampire.

  “Lord Campbell,” she’d begun coolly, her blue eyes unblinking. “I had a feeling you would come. I am afraid Lady Brynne is not available.”

  “Should I return later, then?” He had tried to look past her into the foyer, but she’d blocked his view.

  “No, I do not believe that would be wise.”

  He’d rubbed his jaw. “Ye dinna like me, do ye, Lady Crowley? Is it the red hair?”

  “My personal opinion of you is irrelevant, Lord Campbell. It is what the ton thinks that matters.”

  “And what does the ton think?”

  “That Lady Brynne is destined for a most favorable match. A match that she will not make if you are hovering about.” Here the dowager countess had paused, as if weighing her words with great caution. What she wanted to say, and what she preferred to keep to herself. “Lady Brynne is…inordinately fond of you, Lord Campbell. That much is obvious. Were things different…if she were not the granddaughter of a duke and you were not…whatever it is that you are–”

  “The spare son of a Scottish laird who inherited a marquessate by ladder tragedy?” he’d interjected cheerfully.

  Lady Crowley’s mouth had puckered. “Precisely. Lady Brynne’s family has high expectations for her and her future husband. As you will never be suitable for that role, Lord Campbell, I wouldn’t want to give Lady Brynne the wrong impression by parading you in front of her.”

  “Like chocolate in a window,” he’d said with a sage nod. “Hard tae resist even though ye know it’ll go straight to yer waistline.”

  The dowager countess hadn’t bothered to deign such a comment with a response. “I hope I have made myself clear, Lord Campbell.”

  “Aye, ye have.” Still, he had hesitated as a question nagged at the corner of his mind. “But what if she doesna?”

  “Does not what?” Lady Crowley had snapped, her patience visibly wearing thin.

  “Find someone tae marry that ye deem favorable.”

  “Oh, she will.”

  “Ye sound certain.”

  “Because I am. Lady Brynne will do what is expected of her. Now do what is expected of you, Lord Campbell, and find someone better suited to your particular…rank. Good day.”

  He’d left.

  He could have stayed. Could have forced his way through the door. Could have demanded to see Brynne. He was even fairly certain he could have convinced her to run away with him.

  But instead he’d left.

  Not for himself.

  Not for Lady Crowley.

  But for Brynne.

  Because the dowager countess was right. He would never be suitable for her. Especially if she knew the truth of his situation. And she deserved everything she’d worked so bloody hard for while being locked in that gilded cage all those years. Which was a duke. Maybe a marquess, or even a wealthy earl. But not a damned Scotsman who would never inherit a formal title of his own, or a proper estate to go along with it. A Scotsman who was saddled with a crumbling castle, and a distillery that had yet to turn a profit, and two brothers to feed. Make that three and a sister, counting the newborn twins, which he was sure would arrive in a pretty basket on his doorstep any day now.

  They always did.

  Thus he had left, and he had stayed away, for the better part of two years.

  Until the invitation arrived.

  Maybe a better man would have ignored it, or sent his apologies for not being unable to attend. But he wasn’t a damned saint. And you couldn’t dangle a rabbit in front of a wolf and not expect it to give chase.

  He’d given Brynne two years to find a “suitable match”.

  Twenty-four months.

  One hundred four weeks.

  And when he had walked into Hawkridge Manor and their eyes had met from across the drawing room, it was as if not a single day had passed.

  “All right,” he said, untying the simple knot he had used to cover her eyes and shoving it into his pocket. “Ye can look.”

  He looked at her as she looked at the stream. Felt a rumble of pleasure in his chest when her gaze widened and her lips parted as she saw the checkered blanket he’d laid out and the wicker basket he’d paid a footman to sneak into the kitchens and fill with fresh melon, cheese, cold slices of beef…and a surprise, just from him.

  “You…you’ve planned a picnic for us?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. At her display of stunned wonder, it was all he could do not to pluck her up in his arms and kiss her until the sun fell below the horizon and the stairs painted the sky in diamonds.

  “Aye,” he said gruffly. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the blanket and gestured for her to sit, then poured them both a glass of the champagne he had nabbed from the grand white tent set up on the east lawn where the other guests were enjoying music, and drink, and caviar chilled in tiny porcelain bowls.

  It wouldn’t be long before Brynne, acting as her brother’s hostess, was missed.

  An hour at most.

  But he intended to make use of every minute.

  “Tae old friendships and new adventures,” he murmured, lightly clinking their crystal flutes together.

  “To old friendships and new adventures,” she repeated solemnly. Then she took a sip of the champagne, and the lines of tension in her face–tension, it seemed, that only he was capable of seeing–eased and the stiff, formal lady of the manor who’d greeted him upon his arrival gave way to the bright-eyed, curious, happy lass who had stolen his heart on a bench underneath an old oak tree…and never returned it.

  “Why go to all this trouble?” she asked. “There is food and champagne aplenty in the tent. A lovely string quartet, as well. Not to mention that I really shouldn’t have snuck off. If someone notices my absence…” With a bemused shake of her head she trailed off, as if she weren’t quite sure how she’d gotten here.

  “Wasna trouble tae me.” He lifted his shoulder. “I stole everything from yer brother.”

  “Lord Campbell,” she chided with a sideways glance.

  “Lady Brynne,” he mocked with a half-grin.

  She gave him a censorious frown over the rim of her glass. Then the corners of her mouth twitched. “You’re still very much that young boy, aren’t you? Disobeying rules. Pushing boundaries. Flirting with trouble any chance you get.”

  “I’m flirting with more than trouble,” he mumbled into his champagne before he tilted his head back and downed the entire flute.

  Her fair brows knitted. “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” he said easily. “Melon?”

  “Yes, please.”

  They ate in companionable silence–Lachlan was hungrier than he’d thought–and when there was only a spattering of crumbs and a sliver of cheese remaining, he tossed the remnants of the basket into the water for the trout save a short, rectangular stick wrapped in a piece of brown paper.

  “Ye want tae know why I did this?” he asked as he lowered himself onto the blanket directly beside her. Another inch, and his muscular thigh would be pressed firmly against her hip. Despite not having a chair at her back, she sat straight as an arrow, her skirts, a frothy seafoam green that brought out the shards of emerald in her eyes, arranged in a prim half-circle that covered her legs all the way to her evening slippers.

  “I do,” she said, flicking a demure peek at him from beneath her lashes.

  He began to unwrap the paper, careful not to break what was inside. “I wanted tae do something just for ye.”

  She gave a short, bewildered laugh. “In case yo
u hadn’t noticed, we just left an entire house party that was for me.”

  “That tent, the music, the bluidy caviar–which is disgusting, by the way.” His face contorted in a grimace. “Who in their right mind decided tae yank a poor sturgeon out of the river, take its eggs, and serve them up in a fancy bowl?”

  “I believe it was Russian fisherman, and caviar is considered a rare delicacy.”

  “Delicacy me arse,” he snorted. “Might as well pour saltwater in a cup and call it a day.”

  “It is an acquired taste,” she admitted. Then she lowered her voice. “I don’t like it very much.”

  “No one does. But ye serve at yer parties because that’s what ye think ye’re supposed tae do, and everyone gobbles it up with a smile on their face because everyone else is doing it. And nobody stops tae think ‘bluidy hell, we’re eating the raw eggs of a fish’.”

  “And that’s why you planned a picnic?” she asked with a polite, albeit puzzled smile. “So that I wouldn’t have to eat caviar? That’s…that’s thoughtful of you, Lachlan.”

  “Aye. Wait. No.” Hell, he was already bungling it, wasn’t he? At three and twenty, he had his fair share of experience with women. Had even kept a mistress for a time, a bonny village lass by the name of Allison Adair. Suffice it to say, he’d earned himself a reputation as quite the charmer. And he couldn’t remember when he’d ever lacked for the right words to say. But maybe that was because the words hadn’t carried any true weight or repercussions, and if he said the wrong thing, well, there was always another village lass to warm his bed on a cold night.

  But there was only one Lady Brynne Weston.

  He placed his hand on top of hers, his fingers–callused and tanned from hard work in the sun–enveloping her porcelain skin. “I brought ye here because this is where I knew ye would be happy. In the calm, and the quiet, where ye dinna have tae wear that mask on yer face. Where ye dinna have tae pretend. Where I can watch that pretty pink blush spread across yer cheeks when I tell ye how gorgeous ye are. Aye,” he said huskily as her color deepened. “Just like that.”

  “Lachlan–” she began, but he wasn’t finished.

  “I see ye, Brynne. Every piece of ye. And I wanted tae bring ye out of the shadows of that bluidy mausoleum and intae the sunlight so that ye could shine.”

  He hadn’t planned to kiss her.

  But neither had he planned to fall in love when he was a lad of sixteen.

  With Brynne, there was never a plan.

  From the first second her saw her out that carriage window, it was all heart, and hope, and feeling. So when he brushed his mouth across hers in a silken caress, it felt as natural as breathing.

  Because it was always Brynne for him.

  “Was that all right?” he asked, intently searching her gaze as he pulled back to gauge her reaction. He’d never do anything to hurt her. And his stomach plummeted when she gave a small, hesitant shake of her head.

  “No,” she whispered as her hand splayed across the center of his chest, the tips of her fingers scalding his flesh with all the heat of a raging fire. “I want more.”

  His breath caught, then quickened. When arousal hit him like a punch to the gut, he ordered himself to remain in control. Brynne was no lusty barmaid who’d be content with a roll in the hay. She was a lady. Delicate. Pure. Innocent. And as the flames of passion crackled and hissed, his entire body trembled with the force it took not to press her onto her back and sate the wild hunger howling for release inside of him.

  Instead, he gently wound his arm around her narrow ribcage, supporting her slight weight as he once again lowered his chin to kiss her and this time…this time, she kissed him back.

  A tad clumsily, as far as kisses went.

  It was obvious she’d never done this before.

  But the novice press of her plump mouth against his was more enticing than anything–or anyone–he’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

  Kissing Brynne was a softly falling mist on a spring day.

  It was the first star twinkling in the sky at sunset.

  It was a cozy hearth in the middle of winter.

  It was coming home.

  As they sank into each other, he followed the glass buttons running the length of her spine, all the way up from the small of her back to the nape of her neck where a tawny curl wrapped around his wrist.

  He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips; strolled leisurely within to taste her sweet nectar when her mouth parted on a surprised gasp. She stiffened, then relaxed on a mewling sigh that went straight to his loins as he traced the sensitive outer shell of her ear with the rough pad of his thumb before sliding his fingers into her elegant coiffure.

  Hair pins dropped to the blanket and her curls tumbled down over his hands in a spill of yellow satin as their kiss continued to deepen. To carry them someplace so high into the clouds he wondered if he’d ever see the ground again. But nothing could fly forever and, with great reluctance, he finally ended their embrace. It was either that or continue kissing her into the night. But as tempting a notion as that was, he’d need to return her to the manor sooner rather than later.

  “Here, let me help ye,” he said gruffly, scooping up whatever pins he could find hiding amidst the folds of the blanket and dropping them into her palm.

  Biting her bottom lip, she averted her gaze as she fixed her coiffure, then adjusted her sleeves and bodice. Save for the rosy flush in her cheeks and the slightly dazed gleam in her eyes, no one would ever guess she’d stolen away from the party to be ravished by a Scot beside the stream.

  Which was, Lachlan knew, how it needed to be.

  At least for now.

  Shyly, she peered up at him, and the uncertainty he saw in her eyes tugged straight at his heart. “That was my…that is to say, I’ve never…um…”

  “Been kissed?” he asked bluntly.

  Adorably, her blush intensified until her entire face was the shade of an apple ripe for the plucking. “Yes. I take it…I take it you have?”

  “Dozens of times,” he said, and crowed with laughter when those hazel eyes tempered with green flashed. “Are ye jealous, little songbird?”

  “No,” she snapped. Rising to her feet, she stepped off the blanket. “And you shouldn’t laugh at my expense.”

  He stood as well, and put his hands on her shoulders. “I wasna laughing at ye, Bry. Not in the way ye mean. Yer innocence isna something tae be embarrassed about, and neither is me experience. I’ll freely admit ye are not the first woman I’ve kissed, and I’ve done a great deal more than that.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “I really don’t want to hear about your conquests.”

  “I’ve no plans tae share them, as intimacy is a private thing.” When she would have looked away, he caught her chin on the crook of his finger and lifted it so that their gazes met. “As I said, ye are not the first. But I’d like ye tae be the last.”

  He could see that the importance of his words didn’t strike her immediately. But when they did, the color drained from her countenance and she simply stared, unblinking, while he questioned if he was about to go down in history as the world’s largest arse.

  He gritted his teeth. “Say something.”

  “I…you…we…”

  He gave her a harmless shake. “Bluidy hell. Ye’re going tae kill me. Say something that’s more than a syllable.”

  “Lachlan–”

  “That’s a start.”

  “I–”

  Just then, a loud spill of raucous laughter sounded from the east lawn, and Brynne froze.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she said, her gaze darting as if she half-expected Lady Crowley to come springing out of the bushes. Given the dowager countess’ dedication to her young charge, it wasn’t a completely unfounded fear.

  “I’ll walk ye back,” Lachlan offered, scooping up the blanket and tucking it under his arm along with the basket.

  “No, I…thank you.” Her smile was fleeting, and already beginning
to freeze along the edges. “But it would probably be best if I went back alone. I’ll say I went for a brief walk in the stables.”

  “Aye.” Ignoring the twinge of hurt that came from the woman he loved needing to use an alibi to conceal the time she’d spent with him, Lachlan brandished his grin like a shield. “The stables. As tried and true a way tae cover up a scandalous tryst that there’s ever been.”

  Her eyes still slightly wider than they should have been, Brynne nodded slowly, then started towards the trail that would take her back to the estate. But before she disappeared into the trees, she paused and partially turned, affording him a glimpse of her profile as a beam of dwindling sunlight filtered through the leaves to place a golden crown upon her head. “I want to be your last, Lachlan.”

  Then she was gone, and he was left to wonder if he’d fallen for a fairy from the woods and wilds or a real, flesh-and-blood woman.

  A bit of both, he decided as he waited to follow in her footsteps, not wanting to arouse suspicion by having them both return at the same time. Spying a champagne flute that had rolled off the blanket, he went to retrieve the glass…and stopped short when something crunched beneath his heel.

  It was the gift he’d brought for Brynne; he must have dropped it when he’d leaned in to kiss her. Wrapped such as it was in a piece of plain brown butcher paper, the small package had blended perfectly with the autumn grass.

  There’d be no giving it now, he reflected wryly as he picked up the paper and the gift it contained. The weight of his foot had turned the barley stick to sugar dust.

  Inexpensive and easily replaceable, it was no great loss.

  Which didn’t explain the abrupt sense of foreboding that overcame him as he folded the paper up and returned it to his pocket…or the unease that slithered between his shoulder blades as he set off for the manor.