Chapter One

Lachlan smelled her perfume before he saw her.

It was a delicate, intimate scent. Difficult, if not impossible, to discern from the wild pink roses that surrounded the gazebo in a tangled sprawl of pale pink and deep green. Had he not held her in his arms, or pressed his mouth to the sensitive stem of her neck, or slept beside her when the only two things she wore were moonlight and that intoxicating perfume, he might have missed it.

But Lachlan had done all those things. And more. Which was why his nostrils flared and his eyes darkened with recognition the instant before he stepped around the side of Hawkridge Manor and saw her sitting in the gazebo, looking as pretty as a picture with her paintbrush in hand and her golden hair swept back from her countenance in an elegant coiffure.

She was the epitome of an English lady. Fair coloring, high cheekbones, a long, willowy frame. A top lip that was ever-so-slightly heavier than the bottom and curved in the shape of a cupid's bow. Hazel eyes, flecked with green, which could go as sharp as a scalpel or as soft as lamb's wool, depending on her mood. A faint dusting of freckles, so slight as to nearly be invisible, across the bridge of her nose.

In his humble opinion, Lady Brynne Weston was the most beautiful creature that God had ever seen fit to create. Was it any wonder he had fallen in love with her when he was a lad of sixteen? And had remained in love with her these eleven years past as he'd grown from a bairn into a man.

He'd loved her every month, every day, every second.

For Lachlan, it was always Brynne.

Which was why he had finally returned to claim her. To apologize for his wrongs, and to make her remember–she had to remember–how good they'd been together before he allowed secrets to tear them apart.

His boots sank silently into the grass as he approached the gazebo. Growing up in a rambling castle with a father whose hand had been heavy and vicious, particularly after a night of drinking, Lachlan had learned at a young age to walk without making a sound.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps and, for a moment, he simply allowed himself to drink in the sight of her. This was the closest they'd been in a year. And it had been eighteen months of torment. Eighteen months without hearing her laugh, or seeing the shape of her smile, or tasting the sweet nectar of her lips.

Surely there was no greater torture contrived by man than being kept from the woman he loved. Give him the rack, or the wheel, or that horrific metal box with the spikes in it. He'd take them all, gladly, if it meant never having to go another day without seeing his Brynne.

Her face was obscured by the large easel, but she'd stretched her legs out in front of her stool as she worked, affording him a tantalizing glimpse of her slender calves enclosed in silk stockings.

Not so very long ago, he'd peeled those stockings off of her…with his teeth. He would like nothing better than a repeat performance of that very memorable night, but he had a feeling that Brynne wasn't going to be nearly as happy to see him as he was to see her…considering the last time they were together she'd pointed a pistol at his nether regions and told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever dared approach her again she wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger.

Feisty lass.

"Could you step to the side please, Mae?" she said without bothering to glance up from her canvas. "I fear you're in my light."

Her voice, as lilting and musical as chimes in the wind, was like a balm to his soul.

"Is this better?" he drawled, moving slightly to the left.

Blue paint splattered across the gazebo's white floorboards as the paintbrush she'd been holding fell from her fingers. Lachlan unconsciously held his breath as Brynne rose to her feet, and released it on a spill of air from the corner of his mouth when her shocked, furious gaze met his.

"Get out of here," she whispered, pointing in the direction of the drive where his belongings, unbeknownst to her, were being unloaded and carried into the manor as they spoke. "Before I pick up that brush and stab you through the heart with it."

Like the roses her perfume reminded him of, Brynne's thorns were buried out of sight. Which made them all the more painful when they drew blood. Not that he'd been expecting a warm welcome with open arms (he was an optimist, not an idiot), but he had held out hope that they'd moved beyond death threats. Although considering what he had done to his beloved's fragile heart, a brush stabbed through the middle of his chest wasn't any less than what he deserved.

"Now, Bry, me love," he said with an admonishing cluck of his tongue. "Is that any way tae greet yer husband?"

Her eyes narrowing, she took a menacing step towards him with her fists clenched, as if she were a boxer capable of knocking him out with one mighty swing instead of a tiny slip of a lass whose head barely reached his chin.

"You're no husband of mine, Lachlan Campbell," she spat.

He arched an auburn brow. "The priest who married us might have a word or two tae say about that."

"Our marriage should have been dissolved a year ago." A beam of sunlight slid beneath the gazebo's domed roof and surrounded Brynne's head in a halo of glowing light as she lifted her chin. With the sun in her hair and fury in her eyes, his wife was half ethereal fairy, half wrathful sprite...and he desired all of her.

Even when they were little more than children, there'd always been two sides of Brynne. The obedient daughter who had diligently listened to every rule her governess set, and the rebellious lass who had snuck out her window at night to meet him underneath an alder tree where he'd carved their initials into the rough bark. The elegantly composed lady who had entertained everyone from princes to esteemed foreign dignitaries, and the seductive minx who had run away to Gretna Green to marry a brutish Scot.

"On what grounds would ye call for an annulment?" he drawled, his second eyebrow rising to join the first. "In case ye forgot, our union was consummated. Several times." As his mouth curved into a wicked, wolfish grin, twin blooms of color flooded Brynne's cheeks.

"On the grounds that you're a boorish lummox and I never should have married you!" Her shout was loud enough to spook a pair of nesting doves out of a nearby bush. They took to the air as she took another step towards him but, in her anger, she misjudged the depth of the stair and her foot slipped.

Lachlan lunged forward and caught her before she could fall, his arms wrapping around her slender frame like two steel bands as he settled her on her feet. And for an instant…just an instant …she leaned into him, the weight of her head on his chest as light as a feather on the wind. But it was there. He felt it as clearly as he felt the sun on his face and the ground under his legs. Then she made a ball with her hand and drove it into his gut, and he felt that as well.

"Bluidy hell," he grunted, letting her slip out of his embrace as he doubled over. "Ye knocked the wind right out of me, love." Stretching upright, he gazed at her flushed countenance with some amusement. "Have ye ever considered stepping intae the ring? Ye would do some serious damage with that right hook."

Brynne's hands went to her hips. "Do not call me that. I am not your ‘love'."

"Ye were once," he reminded her. "Not so long ago."

"A lifetime ago. What are you doing here, Lachlan? What do you want?"

It was the first time he'd heard her say his name in a year, and he savored the sound of it on her lips as he would the first sip of a vintage scotch straight from the oak barrel.

"Ye," he said roughly, dragging a hand through his tangled mane. Loose from the leather tie he normally used to bind them, the auburn locks brushed his shoulders. "I want ye , Bry. That's why I've come. That's why I'm here. Tae win ye back."

The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her as pale as the white sheets he'd seen flapping in the wind on the far side of the manor. Slightly alarmed by her lack of pallor, and the way she suddenly swayed on her feet, he reached an arm to steady her, but she slapped his hand away.

" No ," she said forcefully. "No to all of it. I do not know what possessed you to think anything has changed between us, but nothing has. Nothing will . All you've done by coming here is waste your time and tire a good horse." The flecks of emerald in her eyes intensified with her heightened emotions, giving the illusion that her irises had shifted from brown to green.

From personal experience, Lachlan knew they only did that when she was genuinely furious…or in the midst of lovemaking.

"We can change it if we want," he said with a Scot's bred-into-the-bone stubbornness. Unable to help himself, he closed the distance between them with a single stride and cupped her cheek in his large palm. She glared up at him, a she-wolf ready to bite. "I made a mistake, Bry. I should have told ye the truth–"

"Yes," she interrupted. "You should have. About a lot of things. But you lied, Lachlan. You lied. And you ruined us."

"I'm many things, mo lean nan ." As his temper flared, he unconsciously slipped into the native Gaelic that he'd learned at his grandmother's knee. "A liar isna one of them."

"What is an omission, if not a lie that hasn't been spoken yet?" Deftly, she twisted her head to the side and ducked under his arm. "You may not have lied outright, but you didn't tell me the truth, either. If you had–" She stopped short. Gave a clipped, irritated shake of her head. "It doesn't matter. The past cannot be changed, and there is no possible future where we are together."

He'd been expecting this reaction.

Had braced himself for it.

But it still hurt like a bloody son of a bitch.

Especially since he couldn't help but compare how they were now to what they'd been. To who they'd been. Two young, na?ve lovers ready to tackle the world and all the troubles it contained. Never guessing that the troubles on their own doorstep were far larger than any ills that awaited them beyond it.

"There are things we need tae discuss," he said roughly. "Matters that need to be handled. If we could sit down and have a civil discussion over tea and biscuits–"

"Tea and biscuits?" she said incredulously. " Tea and biscuits? There's no amount of tea in the world that would fix what you broke, Lachlan. And the only thing that needs to be handled is our annulment. Which can be done through our solicitors. I'll send a letter to London in the morning."

He gritted his teeth. "I dinna want an annulment."

"And I do not want to go through this again. I refuse. Do you understand me? I refuse ." Her chest rose as she took a deep breath, and fell as she released it. "You need to leave."

"Little songbird–"

" Leave! " she cried, and the glitter of tears he saw in her eyes stopped him cold.

His Bry never cried.

Never.

Lachlan knew he was a right bastard for bringing her this pain again. But he wasn't the only guilty party…and she wasn't the only one hurting. There were two sides to this Shakespearean tragedy, and while he may have shouldered most of the blame for what had happened to them, he didn't lay claim to all of it.

"Right then," he said. "I'll go. There are some supplies I need in the village."

"Supplies?" A line of bewilderment creased her fair brow. "Supplies for what?"

"Why, for me stay." At her blank stare, his smile hardened. "Ye didna think I came all this way tae just turn around and leave again, did ye? Ye're my wife, Lady Brynne Campbell. I'm yer husband. And it's high time we shared the same roof...and the same bed."

Her eyes widened, her lips parted in outrage, but before she could muster a reply, he turned on his heel and loped away.

Brynne's legs felt as if they were carved from wood as she staggered into the manor. One look at her, and Mrs. Grimsby, the housekeeper, ushered her straight into the parlor and nudged the door closed behind them.

Soft and plump with a merry smile and a perpetual twinkle in her brown eyes, Mrs. Grimsby was the eldest daughter of the previous housekeeper, a dragon of a woman who had often sent Brynne scurrying away in terror. She had a husband, who worked as the head groundskeeper, and three daughters of her own, all grown with families. Both she and Mr. Grimsby had begun discussing their retirement, but they were loyal above all else, and loath to leave the family they'd served so diligently for more than two decades.

"Sit down and drink this," Mrs. Grimsby said gently, pressing a cool glass of water into Brynne's numb hands. "That's it. Slowly now. Good, good. Head between your knees if you're feeling faint, just as we talked about."

Wordlessly, Brynne lowered her forehead towards the ground as the housekeeper took the glass and then began to rub her back in large, soothing circles.

"My poor dear," Mrs. Grimsby clucked. "I haven't seen you in such a state in ages. Deep breaths, my lady. Deep breaths."

Year s, Brynne thought silently as she inhaled through her mouth and exhaled through her nose, just as Mrs. Grimsby had taught her. It had been years since she'd had an Episode. So long that she thought they were a thing of the past. Why, she hadn't even had one when she walked into the bedroom and saw Lachlan–no. Best not to think about that now. Or ever again, if she could help it. Which was why she'd buried that brief period of time in a box, and she'd put the box in a trunk, and she'd locked the trunk with a key.

For eighteen months, almost to the day, she'd kept that key tucked away and the trunk closed. For eighteen months, she'd avoided dwelling on what she had seen that day when it all came crashing down. Her life, her love, her happily-ever-after. Like wooden blocks knocked asunder by a child's clumsy hand.

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 suggestion–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 na?ve–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.