Chapter Thirteen

If Brynne had been beautiful in the ballroom, she was stunning in the night. With moonlight in her hair and mist pooling at her feet, she really did resemble a fairy princess. And while he was more dragon than prince, Lachlan still intended to make her his bride.

He wanted her– had wanted her, all these years past–with a fierceness that occasionally set him back onto his heels. The breadth of it, and the enormity, was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Which was fitting, as Brynne was unlike anyone he'd ever met before.

While their interactions had been painfully brief and stuttered, the impact of them was no less than if he would have spent every day in her company. Of this, he was certain.

Killed off long ago for their pelts and threat to livestock, wolves hadn't roamed the Highlands for centuries. But when they did, it was rumored that the wild creatures–savage to both man and beast–mated for life. Some met their partner early, others later. But when a male chose his female, they said there was nothing that could separate them aside from eternal slumber. Even then, the one left behind never took another mate for as long as it lived. Such was the strength of their allegiance. Their dedication. Their devotion.

Brynne was Lachlan's she-wolf.

And he'd loved her since he was sixteen.

That was not to say he hadn't let his head be turned by a pretty face or two in the nearly ten years between then and now. He was a Scot, not a saint. But no matter who he'd used to sate his physical urges, his thoughts had never strayed far from a girl with golden hair and an angel's face.

Finally, the day had arrived to claim the prize he'd waited almost a decade for. A prize he'd done his best to earn by sinking countless hours, money, and resources into a business venture that he hoped would give Brynne the life and the material possessions she was accustomed to. That she deserved. For the loneliness she'd endured. For the way she'd been dressed up and pranced about as if she were a show pony on display. For the pain she was hiding behind a vacant smile that no one ever seemed to notice except for him.

"I knew you'd come," she said simply as she rose from the bench in a waterfall of pale blue satin. Her hair was swept off her temple in a crown of curls adorned with sapphire combs. A loose tendril had escaped and dangled on her shoulder, drawing attention to the creamy sea of flesh revealed above the daringly low cut of her bodice. The gown fit her long-limbed frame to perfection, with nary a stitch that needed to be taken or given. While other women at the ball sought to bring attention to themselves with ornate bows and oversized bustles, this dress, while somewhat plain in design, allowed Brynne's natural beauty to take center stage. And oh, how she glowed.

His abdominal muscles clenching as desire rippled across his skin like the cool waft of a breeze on a hot summer day, he stopped and looked at the statue of a woman standing upon a marble pedestal who bore a striking resemblance to the one standing beside it.

"Yer mother?" he asked.

"Yes. My father had this built in her honor." Brynne's fingertips glided across the edge of the pedestal. "I like to come here when I've something important to think about. It's foolish, but there's a part of me that believes she can hear me when I sit next to her statue."

"Not foolish," he said. "There's a cliff not far from Campbell Castle where the waves wash shells upon the shore. I go there tae gather the shells for the wee ones, and every time I set foot on that beach, I swear I feel the warmth of me mum's smile on the back of me neck. She passed after birthing me, as yers did."

Brynne's lips parted. "You never told me that. I'm sorry, Lachlan. I…I assumed she was alive. I should have asked."

He rolled her sympathy away with a shrug. "It's not a pleasant thing tae have in common."

"No, it's not. But I am still sorry. Will you…will you sit with me?" She gestured at the bench. "We can speak freely here."

"Aye." Wood creaked as he settled his rangy frame, then canted his head. "Are ye going tae join me?"

"Yes. I…I am." But she remained standing, the whites of her knuckles gleaming bone white as she laced her fingers together. "But I want to say something first."

Although his throat tightened and his palms dampened with sweat, he masked his apprehension with a brusque nod. "Go ahead, then."

"You were right."

His teeth flashed in a grin. "Always something I like tae here. About what, exactly?"

"The marriage proposals. I turned them down…I turned them down because they weren't you. Oh, at the time, I gave myself an endless litany of reasonable excuses. Too old, too young. Too this, too that. But the truth is that their only fault was they were not Lachlan Campbell."

Was it possible for a heart to grow?

If so, his had just expanded two sizes.

"Come here," he said gruffly, and this time she sat beside him, her voluminous skirt nearly taking up the entire bench. He reached for her hand and when she gave it, all it took was a slight tug to have her nestled into the crook of his arm. "I'll make ye so happy, Bry. I swear it. Anything ye want, and I'll find a way tae make it yers."

"I…I have not agreed to marry you, Lachlan."

He stiffened, and she lifted her head, hazel eyes wide and wary.

"I wish to," she said before he could speak. "I want to. But there's so much we haven't discussed. So many questions that I still have."

"Like?" he said, his brows gathering as he struggled to temper his annoyance. Having waited this long, he was loath to waste another second. But he also recognized that while his personality had always directed him to leap before he looked (the distillery being case in point), Brynne's descent was much more cautious and careful.

"Like where would we be married?" she asked.

"Aye, and that's easy enough tae answer. Gretna Green."

She nodded slowly, as if that had been the answer she'd been expecting. "Where would we live?"

"Campbell Castle, tae start. The lands hold the distillery, and with neither me father nor eldest brother taking an interest in the grounds or the keep itself, I've become the unofficial laird." His mouth twisted. "More or less."

It would have been an excellent time to add that in addition to the castle and the thousand acres surrounding it, he'd also taken over the care of Callum and Blaine, with the twins likely to join any day. But if Brynne was already wavering at having him as she thought he was, what would she do if she learned the full truth of what she was marrying into?

Run , he answered grimly. If she'd any sense in that pretty head–which she did, his Bry was as sharp as a whip–then she'd run for London and the ton as fast as those delightful calves could carry her.

His plan was to introduce her to the reality of it in pieces. He already had three nannies waiting in the wings to swoop in and care for his brothers when he returned. There wasn't the money to pay for them to stay longer than a month, but surely Brynne would be used to the children by then and her kind, caring heart would be able to look past their grubby cheeks and feral antics to the sweet cherubs underneath all of the grime and mischievousness.

Then there was the castle itself, which a stern wind had a good chance of knocking over. But he'd taken care of that as well. In so much as he'd started renovations on the master suite…and only the master suite. Given that he had no plans for them to leave their bedchamber for the first half-year of their marriage, Brynne would hardly have cause to notice the holes in the roof or the walls being supported with wood and prayers.

It'd be fine, he told himself. First, he just had to get her willingly to Scotland. After that, everything would fall into place.

Or the castle would simply fall down.

Either way, they'd have each other.

He lifted her hand. Kissed the back of it where her skin was smooth and slightly chilled. "Do ye trust me, Brynne Weston?"

A short hesitation, and then…

"Yes. Yes, I trust you Lachlan. But–"

"Then what else is there tae discuss? I've already arranged travel. A carriage that will take us straight across the border, and lodging in Gretna Green. Ye are of the age tae marry here, in England, if ye'd like. Ye dinna need anyone's permission."

"No," she said hastily. "If we are to do this, I–I would rather elope."

Lachlan nodded. It didn't make a damned bit of difference to him where they were married, as long as he was able to call her his wife when it was all said and done. A cathedral in London or a blacksmith shop in Scotland. What did it matter? The location wasn't important; the woman was.

"Then there's only one thing left tae do." He settled his hands around her waist. God, but she was a tiny little thing. Delicate and fragile in some places, hard and determined in others. He was very much looking forward to exploring every luscious curve, every slim line. Her body was a banquet of hidden delights that he wanted to feast upon. But for now, for this night, he'd settle for a slight taste of the heaven that was to come.

"What–what's that?" she said, her voice caught somewhere between a gasp and a whimper when he trailed his fingers up her ribcage and stopped just shy of her breasts. Lifted by the heavy boning of her corset, they were but begging to be caressed. The flesh firm and plump. The nipples, already budding, barely concealed beneath a thin layer of satin.

"Practice our wedding kiss," he rasped before he bent his head and captured the sweet silk of her lips with his own.

Almost immediately, the kiss burned hotter than the one before it.

That kiss was gentle, innocent, gradual. And while there had been fire–there had always been fire–it had smoldered low and steady, like coals left behind to keep the hearth warm until morning.

But this kiss…this kiss roared . And crackled, and set off a wave of such intense heat that they were both singed by the flames.

A humming sound vibrated in Brynne's throat as she opened her mouth and his tongue slid inside. She tasted of champagne and something a tad more decadent. Chocolate, perhaps. Or a rich, velvety cake.

He angled his head, kissed her jaw, then lightly took her earlobe and suckled as her fingers threaded into his hair and pulled. On a growl, he traced a fiery path down the slender column of her neck, following the edge of her collarbone out to her shoulder where he pulled at the top of her bodice with his teeth.

More flames, more heat, as her gorgeous breasts, dusky nipples bathed in moonlight, spilled into his waiting hands.

Her eyes, closed until now, fluttered open and filled with shock, then flooded with desire as he lavished his complete, undivided attention upon the sensitive ivory globes. First with his fingers…and then with his mouth as her head lolled back and a mewling cry of pleasure escaped from her lips.

Fascinated by a freckle on the underside of her breast, he nuzzled the tiny imperfection. She raked her nails across his shoulders, digging them into muscle and sinew as he drew her nipple between his teeth and rolled his tongue around it. Another whimper, the tiniest, instinctive lift of her hips, and it was all Lachlan could do not to lift his face to the sky and howl at the moon.

He would have taken her then and there. He wanted to.

Bloody hell, did he want to.

His entire body was filled with need.

His cock was throbbing with it.

But he wasn't about to let Brynne's first experience with lovemaking occur on a bench in the dark with her skirts rucked up around her waist.

Reluctantly, he raised his head and kissed her, one last time. A kiss to tide him over until tomorrow, where there was ample room in the carriage to see if she had freckles hiding anywhere else.

He helped her lift and straighten her bodice. Secured a button that had come loose between her shoulder blades. Held a sapphire comb in his hand as she repaired her coiffure.

"Thank you," she murmured, adorably shy when he returned it to her. "Do I look all right?"

His eyes glinted. "If ye're asking if ye look like ye were just thoroughly ravished, the answer is aye. But I'm the only one tae know, and ye can blame that pink in yer cheeks on a second glass of champagne. Would ye like me tae escort ye back?"

"I know the way, thank you. And…it would probably be best if I went alone."

Although he nodded in agreement, he was ready for the day when he was able to walk into a room with Brynne next to him, to hell with anyone who didn't think an English rose belonged on the arm of a Scottish briar.

"I'll see ye tomorrow, then. At noon in the village square."

"Lachlan…" When her gaze dropped to the ground, his blood ran cold.

"Bry–"

"I'm not saying no," she interrupted. "Or that I refuse your proposal, or that I don't want to marry you. It's just…once I do this, once I leave, there won't be an easy way back for me. I need time to think it over."

For Lachlan, there was no question. No doubt. His heart, his soul, his life–they belonged to Brynne. He'd walk through hell to stand by her side, and the pain of knowing that she wasn't certain if she was ready to stand by his was sharp and swift, like the slice of blade.

How much more did he have to give? What else could he say to convince her? That he was enough. That they were enough. That she didn't need the trappings of a society that would rather see her caged than open her wings and fly.

"Tomorrow," he said flatly. "Noon."

"Lachlan–"

But he was already walking away.

No sooner had Brynne returned to the ballroom than she found herself besieged by Lady Crowley, almost as if the dowager countess had been lying in wait.

At the age of three and twenty, she no longer required a formal chaperone at events such as these, but the dowager countess remained both a friend and a wise confidante. Which was why, the instant Lady Crowley's sharp blue gaze met hers, Brynne knew what she was going to say before she said it.

"I noticed a specific guest was in attendance tonight," the dowager countess said archly. "I was of the mind that we'd seen the last of Lord Campbell."

"What gave you that impression?" Stepping out of the way of a servant carrying a tray overflowing with an assortment of empty plates and glasses, she linked her hands together behind her back and adopted an expression of bland indifference. This was not a conversation she wanted to have. Not when her nerve endings continued to hum from Lachlan's passionate kisses and her heart felt as if it were being torn in half. Unfortunately, Lady Crowley was not easily dissuaded, or set aside.

"A vain hope, I suppose." The dowager countess was quiet for a moment. "I may be old, but I am not blind. I see the… appeal of such a suitor. But he is not for you, Lady Brynne. He never was, and he never will be."

As Lady Crowley's thoughts echoed her own doubts, Brynne found it difficult to disagree. Guilt gnawed at her, as if she were betraying Lachlan in some way by not jumping into his arms and running away with him into the sunset. But if she did that without giving herself time to come to a decision on her own, then she'd be betraying herself.

Still, she wasn't about to let anyone denigrate the man she loved.

Not even Lady Crowley.

"He understands me better than anyone else ever has," she said, lifting her chin.

"He will never inherit a meaningful title, or an estate. Should you marry him, you would be required to rely upon earned wealth." Wrinkling her nose as if a particularly bad odor had just wafted in from the kitchens, Lady Crowley leaned heavily on the silver-tipped cane she'd taken to using after a fall down a slick step last winter. "Not to mention that your father would surely disapprove of such a match."

"Given what little interest he has shown in my pursuits thus far, I sincerely doubt he would be bothered to notice." Here, Brynne's voice cooled. Only a fraction, but in addition to her sight, the dowager countess possessed excellent hearing.

"The Marquess of Dorchester has provided you and your brother with everything you could have ever asked for."

Except for love , Brynne added silently. Affection. Acknowledgement.

Weston had responded to their father's lack of attention by putting up an icy shield. As a man, her brother had the luxury of choosing to isolate himself without suffering repercussions. He could be hard without being thought of as mean. He could be arrogant without being considered overbearing. He could be callous without being accused of being cruel.

But as a woman, especially a woman in High Society whose reputation was constantly being scrutinized, Brynne's choices were far more limited. Her actions were much more harshly judged. Which was why she'd taken to wearing a smile on the surface, and shivering with cold where no one could see.

Except for Lachlan.

"Our father has been exceedingly generous," she acknowledged. "But I am not a girl anymore, in need of governesses and pretty dresses."

Lady Crowley's mouth thinned. "No, you are a woman rapidly approaching spinsterhood in need of a good husband."

"Lord Campbell is a good man," she said defensively.

"That may be true. But is he–will he–be a good husband ? That is the question you need to ask yourself. Why, your children wouldn't even be titled ." By the horrified inflection in the dowager countess' tone, she might as well have said Lachlan and Brynne's future offspring would be thrown to the wolves upon birth. "Where would you live? To the best of my knowledge, Lord Campbell does not have a permanent residence in London. Or even England, for that matter. How would you maintain your social standing?"

As Brynne felt her breathing begin to accelerate, she closed her eyes and counted to three. "Perhaps I wouldn't. Perhaps I'd leave Society altogether. To be a wife to a man that loves me, and a mother to children who, while not titled, shall be adored beyond measure every day of their lives." Her eyes opened. "Surely there are worse things than that."

"If you marry Lord Campbell then all of your training and tutelage will have been wasted," Lady Crowley said flatly. "Along with all of the sacrifices that your father has made. You must–"

" He has made?" Brynne had never–not once–interrupted Lady Crowley before, but she refused to let such a bold–and verifiably false–statement stand. "My father has had as much to do with my upbringing as Queen Victoria."

"Your father has been through more hardship than you know."

She threw out her arms in a rare display of uncontrolled emotion. "Because he won't tell me! I barely see him, let alone speak with him about personal matters."

"It is not a parent's job to burden their child with their personal heartache."

"I know that my parents were separated sooner than they could have ever anticipated, but I am not under any illusion that it was a love match."

"I was not referring to the late marchioness," Lady Crowley said evenly.

That took Brynne aback. "You're…you're not? But–"

"There was someone else, after your mother. A young woman your father loved dearly."

Brynne was stunned. Her father, the epitome of frigid reserve, in love ? It was all but impossible to fathom.

"Who was she? What happened? Where is she now?"

"That is not my story to share." Lady Crowley tapped her cane on the floor. "I wouldn't even say this much, but I feel it is my duty to impart whatever knowledge I can to prevent you from repeating past family mistakes. Your mother and father were an excellent match. One of the best the ton has ever had the fortune to witness. Because your father had the good sense to follow his head instead of his heart. Had the marchioness lived, I am certain they would hold the most celebrated positions in High Society to this day.

"By the contrary, the woman whom the marquess fancied himself in love with after your mother died was wrong from the start. Had he married her, they'd have risked alienation that would have also affected you, and your brother."

"If he loved her, why didn't he marry her?"

"I've no doubt he would have, if given the opportunity. Thankfully, she had the common sense to return to where she'd come from, and aside from a small scandal, no permanent damage was sustained."

"No permanent damage," Brynne said quietly.

Except that the Marquess of Dorchester was all but a ghost, preferring to spend his time in his remote hunting cabin or traveling across Europe or setting sail for weeks at a time. Anything other than remaining in England where he'd be forced to interact with his children.

Was this woman–the one who he had loved and then lost–the reason for his absence? Surely the two were somehow connected. At the very least, it helped shed some light on his prevailing bitterness that she could always sense, even as a child, but could never quite pinpoint the cause of.

"Lachlan would never leave me." She squared her shoulders. "It wouldn't be the same."

"I should hope not, or else what would you do? Trapped in a foreign country, isolated from your family and friends. Shunned by those who once admired you. Pitied by those who expected such great things from you." Lady Crowley gave her an appraising look, then clucked her tongue. "But at least you will have followed your heart. I shall pray that will be a comfort, when nothing else is."

When the dowager countess made a slow, stiff departure, Brynne remained behind to oversee the final waltz. There was nothing she wanted more than to seek her bed, but duty and obligation demanded she stay until the last guest had quit the ballroom.

Fortunately, it wasn't a responsibility she had to undertake alone.

"Everything all right?" asked Weston as he joined her, the cigar smoke clinging to his clothes indicating he'd come straight from the terrace. "You look…unsettled."

"Tired," she said, mustering a wan smile. "Only tired."

"It has been a long night. A long month, at that. I'll be glad to watch the carriages leave in the morning." He loosened his cravat. "I saw that Lord Campbell decided to finally make an appearance."

"And I saw you dancing with Lady Martha Smethwick," she said in a deft attempt to change to subject, as she didn't want to discuss Lachlan any further tonight. She couldn't . Not until she had a chance to sit by herself, and wrap her head around everything she'd learned…and all that she'd been offered. After all, it wasn't every day that a girl received a wedding proposal ten years in the making and was subtly threatened not to accept it.

Fortunately, her maneuver worked.

"What do you think of her?" Weston asked. "Lady Martha."

Taller than his sister by six inches, the Earl of Hawkridge had the lean build of a blueblood thoroughbred. His dark hair and gray eyes were the opposite of Brynne's fair coloring (he took after their father), but the twins shared the same straight nose and stubborn chin.

"I think she would be a fine wife for the Earl of Hawkridge."

"But?" He gave her a tiny bump with his elbow. "Go on, I can hear it in your voice."

"But what about a wife for Weston? Do you love her?"

He started to chuckle. Stopped when she didn't join him. "Oh. You're serious."

"I do not understand why that is not a requirement when deciding with whom to spend the rest of your life with," she said with an agitated stomp of her heel.

"Because…it isn't important?" he ventured.

"Not important. Not important. So much is said of titles, and wealth, and estates. But no one ever says anything about love, or commitment, or–or passion . Aren't those things the most important?"

Weston regarded her suspiciously. "Have you nipped into the brandy?"

On a sigh, she dropped her head back to gaze at a chandelier. The candles, over three hundred of them, had all but sputtered out. Those that didn't extinguish on their own would be doused by a servant, and the entire thing would be taken down on the morrow for a good cleaning, along with the rest of the manor once all of their houseguests had departed.

"Be a dear and get the stragglers to bed, West. I'm going upstairs."

"Glass of water and a cold compress for when you wake up."

She rolled her eyes at him. "I am not foxed."

"Then what are you?"

In love, she replied helplessly. I'm in love, and I don't have the faintest idea what to do about it.