“Married, yes! For more than a year and a half. It’s a very long story, and if you release him unharmed, I’d be more than happy to share it with you.”
“Lachlan Campbell is your husband,” Weston said slowly.
“Yes.”
“Well, in that case, I don’t feel bad doing this.” Drawing his arm back, Weston punched it forward in a blow that caught Lachlan completely unprepared on the side of his chin and sent him stumbling sideways into a table.
“Weston!” Brynne cried, shocked and dismayed.
“It’s all right, Bry.” Wincing and working his jaw back and forth, Lachlan staggered to his feet. “I deserved that.”
Weston snorted. “You’re damned right you did. Now, pour all three of us a glass of brandy, let’s have a seat, and discuss how it is I’m just now learning that I have a Scot for a brother-in-law.”
They sat and they talked. At some point, they were joined by Evie, who took one glance at Brynne and Lachlan sitting side by side on the chaise lounge holding hands while Weston glowered at them from his chair like an overprotective father, and all but hopped in delight.
“See?” she said, flitting across the room to stand behind her husband-to-be. “I knew you would fly!”
Weston turned his head to slant his fiancée a narrow-eyed glare. “You knew about this?”
“Only for a few days,” she said with an airy flick of her wrist.
“A few…” Growling something indecipherable under his breath, he shook his head. “You should have told me. I’m going to be your husband.”
“Yes, but she is my sister.” Evie grinned at Brynne, who smiled back.
How fortunate she was. A husband who loved her, two sisters who supported her no matter what, and a brother who adored her (just as soon as he recovered from finding out one of his best mates had married his twin).
They were like individual stars that made up the same constellation, she thought. Separate but always connected, even when they didn’t know it yet.
And Lachlan, well, he was her North Star.
Pointing her to home, and hope, and happily-ever-after.
Epilogue
“Lachlan, it’s…it’s beautiful.” Stunned, Brynne traced her fingertips across an antique tapestry as she wandered through the newly renovated foyer of Campbell Castle.
Her husband told her before they left London that he’d begun to work on his childhood home, but he had neglected to specify just how much work he had done.
The old stone floors had been ripped up and replaced with kiln-dried oak harvested from the forests behind the castle. The wide planks, sanded smooth and polished with beeswax, brought a much-needed warmth to the room. As did the tapestries hanging on the walls and the removal of the cobwebs from the ceiling beams. Even the roof had been patched, with nary a bucket in sight. The parlor was done as well, and the sight of it stopped her in her tracks.
“Lachlan Campbell,” she said. “Is that real furniture?”
Crossing his arms, he rocked onto his heels and grinned at her. “Aye.”
As Brynne gazed at the beautiful set of matching chairs in striped silk and elegant settee and mahogany sideboard, it occurred to her–somewhat belatedly–that her husband had taken this task upon himself well before their reconciliation. He’d done this for her without having any true confirmation that she would ever return to see it and, once again, she found herself humbled by his faith in her.
His faith in them.
Lachlan had always believed.
Even when she hadn’t.
When she couldn’t.
And how she loved him for it.
Which was why, at the dinner party where her brother had clocked her husband in the side of the face (a story, no doubt, that would be retold at many a family gathering), she’d discreetly pulled Lady Theresa aside and casually let her marriage to Lachlan slip. Not to prove her love, but to show how proud she was of it.
Oh, to have been able to capture Theresa’s expression!
The shock, the awe, the sheer delight of being handed the juiciest piece of gossip to hit the ton since it was discovered that the Marquess of Dorchester had an illegitimate American daughter.
Brynne had made certain to ask Theresa not to tell a soul, all but guaranteeing that the news would be printed in the London Caller come morning. And while it hadn’t gone quite that far, it wasn’t long before everyone knew that Lady Brynne Weston had married the barely titled second-born son of a Scot.
More than that, she was happy about it.
Blissfully so, as anyone with eyes in their head could see as she and Lachlan proceeded to finish out the Season in London before taking a short holiday in Edinburgh, and eventually making their way back to Campbell Castle. In two weeks, they’d return to Hawkridge Manor to celebrate Christmas with Evie and Weston, Joanna and Kincaid.
Sterling as well, if he hadn’t moved out by then.
But in the meantime, Brynne was looking forward to being alone with her husband. Not to make up for memories they’d lost out on by being apart, but to create new ones for the future they were building together.
Already, they’d discussed how they would divide their time between here and England. With the distillery at long last turning a profit, Lachlan would need to be here, at Campbell Castle, more than anywhere else to oversee the day-to-day management of his fledgling business, while the rest of Brynne’s family was divided between London and Hawkridge. Then there were Lachlan’s siblings to factor into the equation…but they’d already made a plan for that.
Beginning this June, all of the children–Callum, Blaine, Tavish, and Eara–would spend their summers here at the castle. In September, Brynne and Lachlan would travel to Hawkridge Manor where they’d stay through the annual house party and then go on to London for the beginning of the Season, before returning to Glenavon and Campbell Castle before the first snow fell. Spring would be for planting, and then they’d repeat it all again, adjusting things here and there as necessary.
“Come upstairs to our bedroom,” Lachlan said, taking her by the hand. “There’s something else I want tae show ye.”
Our bedroom.
How she loved the sound of those two words side by side.
Despite her laughing protest, he covered her eyes at the top of the winding staircase and guided her down the hall to their private chamber. She heard the creak of the door on its hinges as it opened, and then he slowly lowered his hands.
At first, she didn’t know what she was looking at.
Unlike the foyer and the parlor, the bedroom appeared unchanged.
Then she saw it on what had once been a span of empty stone wall, and her heart all but melted into a puddle at her feet.
“Lachlan. I…this…how?” she managed as she ran across the room and stopped short in front of the Monet painting that she’d last seen hanging in the Duke of Oxford’s gallery. “How did you get it?”
Grinning smugly, Lachlan came up behind her and looped his arms around her waist. Tucked her snug against his chest. “I can be very persuasive,” he murmured in her ear.
Yes, he certainly could.
“And who knows?” he went on between kissing his way down her neck and across her shoulder. “Maybe it will be worth something someday.”
Maybe it would. But even if the painting’s value never exceeded a single pound, Brynne would treasure it. Always and forever. Just as she treasured the man who had given it to her. The man who had just scooped her off her feet and was carrying her over to their bed.
“Lachlan,” she squealed as he dropped her onto the coverlet.
Bouncing down beside her, he lifted himself up on his elbow and arched a brow. “Aye?”
“It’s the middle of the day! Hardly past noon.”
“And?” Bending his head, he lightly grasped the edge of her bodice with his teeth and gave it a sharp yank downwards, spilling her breasts into his waiting hands.
On a sigh, Brynne let her head fall back onto the pi
llow as a contented smile curled her lips. “And I suddenly forgot what I was going to say.”
THE END
About the Author
Jillian Eaton grew up in Maine and now lives in Pennsylvania on a farmette with her husband and their three boys. They share the farm with a cattle dog, an old draft mule, a thoroughbred, and a mini-donkey—all rescues. When she isn’t writing, Jillian enjoys spending time with her animals, gardening, reading, and going on long walks with her family.
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