Chapter Nineteen

Lachlan was gone for the rest of the day. Brynne offered to go with him to inspect the fields and see if anything could be done to salvage what the pigs had ruined, but he asked her to remain behind.

"Boars are nasty buggers," he'd told her tersely as he had retrieved his rifle from above the mantel in the drawing room, "and can take down a man if they've the inclination. I'll return when I can. It might not be until tomorrow."

He had given her a chaste kiss on the cheek, and then he'd left, leaving her to fret and wander the castle grounds for what seemed like a small eternity.

At last, unable to sit idly by any longer even though that was precisely what Lachlan had asked her to do, she prepared a basket with bread, cheese, and sliced meats and set off to the distillery to see if there was anything she could do.

She was halfway down the winding trail when she was met by a dark-haired woman with blue eyes and a smile as sharp as the edge of a scalpel.

"Lady Campbell," she said, stopping in the middle of the trail and lifting her lavender-colored skirts in a curtsy. "What an honor tae finally meet ye. I am–"

"Miss Allison Adair. Yes, I remember." Shifting the heavy basket, Brynne was careful to keep her countenance devoid of expression as she addressed her husband's former mistress. "I did not realize you'd be here."

"Once word reached the village of what had happened, we all came as fast as we could tae help. Not fast enough, I'm afraid. All of the seedlings were lost. Lachlan, of course, is absolutely devastated."

Lachlan.

Not Lord Campbell.

The distinction was slight… but purposeful , Brynne noted when she saw the gleam in Allison's eyes.

"Is that for yer husband?" the brunette asked, reaching for the basket. "I'm happy tae take it tae him and save ye the trip."

"That really isn't–very well," Brynne relented, automatically falling back upon her manners as Allison all but wrenched the basket from her hands. Well-bred ladies did not fight over chunks of cheese and peppered ham. "I'll accompany you. Is Lachlan in the fields, or–"

"He's resting in the lodge, but I shall make sure tae let him know that ye brought him this." Allison peeled back the blanket Brynne had covered the food with to peer inside. "What a kind wife ye are, Lady Campbell. Lachlan is a fortunate man."

How did Allison know where he was sleeping?

It was an ugly question.

One that she wished her mind hadn't procured.

But now that it had, it circled her head like a gnat, buzzing just out of reach as it searched for a place to draw blood.

"I heard that Robert Campbell came tae visit and take the wee ones besides." Allison arched a perfectly groomed ebony brow. "How did ye manage that trick?"

"It wasn't a trick," Brynne said defensively. "Lachlan's siblings should be in the care of their father, and I…"

I shouldn't be explaining myself to you, she thought crossly.

"Can you see that my husband receives that?" she said, nodding at the basket. "And have someone send word to me when he has awoken."

Allison curtsied again, although there was a detectable hint of mockery in her tone when she said, "Of course , my lady."

Brynne smiled thinly. "Thank you."

Against her better instincts, she went back to the castle, and spent a large portion of the night roaming the damp halls, the train of her wrapper fluttering behind her as she paced from one window to the next, searching the inky darkness for sign of a light, or a horse, or even a wayward pig. Anything to indicate that her husband was soon to return home.

He'd spent previous nights at the distillery. Too many to count. But they hadn't gnawed at her as they did now. She didn't know whether it was their argument, or her encounter with his mistress, or even the quiet…but something was lifting the hairs at the nape of her neck. Something was causing her breaths to shorten and her chest to fill with lead. Something was sending her into a near panic as she fought both sleep and the sly whispers of "what if?"

At the first streak of dawn across an ominous red sky, she was on her way to the distillery. Passing fields pillaged by rooting boars, the neat rows of barley torn asunder, the soil churned up, years of hard work utterly demolished in the span of a few hours.

Lachlan would rebuild, because that's who he was.

But as she climbed the steps to the lodge, a rectangular building made of crudely hewn timber tucked behind a line of aspen, she felt the ache of his loss–of their loss–as if it were a tangible being.

They'd just have to start over, she decided. Except this time, they'd do it differently. This time, they'd do it together . With no secrets or half-truths between them.

She'd write to Weston this day to let him know that she wasn't in Paris, as she had led him to believe, but married and living in a castle in the Highlands. Oh, but to see his expression when he read that letter! He'd be angry with her. Most likely disappointed. But he'd come around when he saw that she was happy. And she would be happy. As soon as she and Lachlan had the opportunity to clear the air between them, lay all of their proverbial cards upon the table (no more hiding their relationship from the ton out of some misguided attempt at retaining her social standing, no more hiding the truth from her out of some attempt to get the reaction or answer that he wanted), and begin anew.

They would be honest, even when it was hard.

Especially when it was hard.

Because in their hearts, they loved each other. And there was nothing that could tear that love apart.

Except this , Brynne thought dazedly as she raised her fist to knock on the bedroom door and it swung inward beneath the slight pressure of her hand to reveal her husband sprawled on his back in the middle the bed…with Allison Adair draped across the top of him.

She didn't know how long she stood there.

Staring.

Just staring.

At the coverlet thrown on the floor. At the sheets tangled on the bed. Covering some parts of their bodies, but not enough to hide that they were both naked. At Allison's dark hair fanned across his shoulder. At the steady rise and fall of Lachlan's ribcage as he slept, blissfully oblivious to the presence of his wife in the doorway. Or the knife he'd plunged into her heart.

Oh, Lachlan. What have you done to us?

She must have made a sound, a tiny whimper of distress, because Allison's eyes opened and went straight to where Brynne stood frozen; a deer in the midst of a thicket right before the hunter's gun exploded.

"Lady Campbell!" she cried, grabbing onto a corner of the sheet and drawing it over her breasts. "I–I dinna know what to say ."

Lachlan stirred. His mouth stretched in a yawn that turned into a grimace. He scratched the side of the jaw where a rough shadow of beard had grown overnight and then–while Brynne watched and fought to contain the nausea rising within her throat–reached for Allison.

"This is a pleasant way tae wake up," he said, nuzzling her neck.

"Ye are right about that," Allison purred, rubbing herself against him without breaking Brynne's horrified gaze. "Unfortunately, it seems we've been caught. It was bound tae happen eventually. I'm so sorry ye had tae find out this way, Lady Campbell. But as they say, like father, like son."

"Wait," Lachlan began, his brow furrowing as he set himself up on his elbow and looked down at his mistress. "What–"

"How could you?" The words wrenched themselves from Brynne's broken heart. From her very soul . With an agonized cry, she spun on her heel and bolted out of the lodge. Picking up her skirts, she ran blindly, forgoing the marked path to plunge into long grass that slapped at her arms and legs. Somewhere behind her, she heard Lachlan calling her name, but she ignored him in her mad dash to escape what she'd seen. Never mind that it was already burned into her memory, never to be forgotten.

Without warning, the grass gave way to the sheer edge of a cliff. Below the rocky embankment, waves crashed against the shore and gulls flew amidst the surf, dodging in and out of the salty spray in a feat of aerial acrobatics.

Brynne's feet went out from under her as she slid to a stop. Her breaths uneven and jagged, her pulse pounding in her ears, she collapsed to the ground. Would have laid right there with her face pressed to the cool soil had Lachlan not appeared behind her.

He scooped her up as if she weighed no more than a bag of goose down, and carried her away from the cliff to a series of gray boulders covered in moss and seemingly carved from the earth itself.

"Let go of me," she demanded, clawing at his hands as if his arms were a steel trap and she were a wild animal hellbent on escape. "Don't touch me."

He released her and stepped back with his hands raised, palms facing outwards. A strong wind whipped across the valley, sending his hair, unbound, across his face. He shoved it out of his eyes. Eyes that were as dark and haunted as she'd ever seen them.

"Bry, ye have tae listen–"

"I don't have to do anything," she interrupted. Having reached the bottom of her despair, she was strangely…numb. A ship that had made it to the middle of a hurricane to bob listlessly amidst the waves. Not feeling. Not doing. Just floating in place while it waited for the next surge.

"Ye dinna see what ye thought ye did."

"I saw you naked in bed with your mistress." Her head tilted. "Was that not you?"

He gritted his teeth. "Aye, that was me. But Allison isna me mistress!"

"She was before," Brynne pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Ye know that I ended things between us long before ye and I were married."

"It didn't appear as if things were ended when you had your leg on her–"

"I realize what it looked like." He pressed the heels of his hands to his temple. Squeezed. "I do. But I dinna know how or when she climbed intae bed with me. I swear it."

"It is partially my fault, I suppose," she mused, not bothering to give his pitiful excuse so much as a sliver of consideration. Ice had begun to seep into her veins. She welcomed the coldness of it; a frosty balm to soothe the burn of Lachlan's betrayal. "You asked for my loyalty, but you never promised your own. I made an assumption that I shouldn't have, and now I have to pay the price for my naiveté."

Unbidden, she thought of the Dowager Countess of Crowley and what her chaperone had said on the night that Lachlan proposed.

"…at least you will have followed your heart. I shall pray that will be a comfort, when nothing else is."

Yes, Brynne had followed her heart.

But there was no comfort to be found here.

"I am leaving," she said evenly. "Today, if I can arrange transportation. Tomorrow at the latest."

Some women might have stayed. To meekly abide by their husband's command, regardless of the wrongs he'd committed. Or to fight for his affection like a stray cat begging for scraps. She would do neither. Her pride–and the bloody, shattered thing beating feebly inside of her chest–refused to allow it.

Lachlan stared blankly at her, as if she had announced that she'd decided to turn into a unicorn. "Ye canna just leave ."

"What possible reason do I have to stay?" she scoffed. "The children are gone, the castle is falling apart, and I am wed to an adulterer. An adulterer who is more loyal to these fields of–of dirt than he is to his own wife. You're not married to me, Lachlan. You're married to the damned distillery. There is nothing for me here."

" I'm here," Lachlan said softly. His eyes, those gold-flecked orbs that she'd first fallen in love with under a sky filled with stars, pleaded with her to stay. He even held out his hand, fingertips stretched towards hers.

For a moment, she almost relented.

For a moment, she almost forgave the unforgivable.

And that frightened her so much, that she did the only thing she could think of.

She tried to hurt him as much as he had hurt her.

"You are not enough, Lachlan." It was a testament to the depth of her own agony that she didn't flinch when she saw the raw, vulnerable quiver of pain in his gaze.

Coverlet on the floor.

Sheets tossed carelessly over naked bodies.

Touching. Nuzzling. Kissing.

Her chin lifted a notch. Above it, her gaze was as frigid as the Arctic. "You will never be enough. And if you ever loved me at all, you will let me go."

He did let her go. For six miserable months he threw himself into his work at the distillery, doing more in a single day than three men could in two. From sunrise to sunset, he dug posts for fencing and hung barbed wire (a particularly nasty American invention intended to keep out even the strongest of boars) until his palms were blistered and his fingers were bleeding.

Then when the workers headed for the pub, sweaty and stinking and ready to quench their thirst with a pint, he went to the castle and tackled another sort of job altogether.

It shamed him that he'd asked Brynne to live in this place. Having run feral through the halls since before he could remember, he was accustomed to the crumbling walls and the holes in the ceiling and the cobwebs in the corners. Hell, he couldn't even see them anymore. Not until he made himself look at the dark, dingy rooms through the eyes of his wife. And felt a deep, burning embarrassment for having brought her here. For asking her to leave everyone and everything she knew behind, and then taking her to a place where rainwater was collected in buckets. On the inside of the house.

He ought to consider himself fortunate that she hadn't turned on her heel and fled back to London the first time she saw her new home. But she'd fought through it for as long as she was capable. Until she came up against a wall that, in her mind, was too hard to knock down and too high to climb. What other choice did she have but to walk away?

After the initial wave of hurt and fury had subsided, he was able to understand that. To see it through her perspective. To acknowledge why she'd given up the fight.

And to realize that he never would.

Brynne had been strong for as long as she could. While he'd chased his own dreams at the sake of her comfort, she'd done her best to make a life for them here. A home for them here out of peeling plaster and scurrying mice and screaming children. Until it became too much. Until she had to lay down her proverbial sword. A sword that he'd since picked up, because now it was his turn. His turn to fight for both of them.

He'd given it six months and a stone of his own weight. Probably a pint of his own blood as well, if he counted all the times he'd accidentally sliced his flesh open on that damned wire. But now he was ready to reclaim what was his. To take back what he had lost and take control of what might be. What would be, when he and Brynne were back together where they belonged.

If not for the bloody pigs and all that had followed after, they might be there already.

He arrived at Hawkridge Manor on the first night of yet another annual house party. His world may have stopped when Brynne left, but it was apparent that this world–this world of glamour and wealth and prestige–kept spinning no matter what...with Brynne at its center, once again playing her role as the perfect daughter, perfect hostess, perfect lady.

He'd dressed for the occasion in formal attire, even though his invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. Tricky, those Highland roads. No telling when a mail coach was going to turn left instead of right and find itself halfway back to Glasgow before the driver was any the wiser. Might as well dump the letters and start again at that point. Which was as reasonable an excuse as any to explain why he hadn't received a fancy beige envelope with the Earl of Hawkridge's wax seal.

Except when he tried to enter through the foyer and join the rest of the guests in the dining room where they were enjoying a seven-course meal, he was stopped by a portly fellow holding a paper list. A list, apparently, that Lachlan was not on.

"I am sorry, my lord, your name is not here," said the servant. A footman, by the look of him. "If a name is not here, I am not allowed to admit them."

"Give me that," he growled, snatching the list.

The servant immediately paled and took a step back.

It wasn't until Lachlan read to the bottom that he realized why.

Underneath a long row of names, neatly scrawled in Brynne's own handwriting, was a simple, damning instruction.

Should he arrive, Lord Lachlan Campbell is not permitted inside under any circumstances.

She'd known, he thought with a surge of annoyance and sliver of grudging admiration. She'd known that he'd come for her. That there wasn't a bloody thing on heaven and earth that would keep him away. And she had planned accordingly.

How sweet of the wee lass to believe that she'd succeed.

"Are ye tae stop me then?" he asked the footman whom he towered over by at least seven inches.

To his credit, the servant did not move from the doorway. "If I have to, my lord." Then he lowered his voice. "Please don't make me have to."

"I'll go without a quarrel," said Lachlan, holding up his hands.

The servant smiled with relief. "Thank you, my lord."

"Aye." With that, he walked out the way he'd come in...but he had no intention of leaving. Instead, he waited, lurking in the bushes like some sort of besotted Romeo for Juliet to make her appearance. Excluding the part where they died at the end.

Eventually, the dinner ended and the guests took advantage of the warm evening air, venturing outside onto the various walkways and terraces to drink their wine and smoke their cigars while they congratulated themselves on being invited to such an exclusive affair.

The self-important bounders.

There was no one on these grounds, with the exception of Weston, who loved Brynne as he did. Who cared for her as he did. Who saw her–the real her–as he did.

These people didn't know her.

They just knew the person she pretended to be when she was around them.

When she stepped out of a doorway and stood with candlelight at her back and moonlight on her face, he was temporarily stunned by her beauty. Six months without gazing upon her countenance and she took his breath as if they'd been apart for six years.

Not another day , he vowed as he cut a silent swath through the shadows.

Not another damned day.

He caught her before she could descend the stairs. Enclosing her wrist between his fingers, he pulled her into an alcove out of sight of those who might wonder what Lady Brynne Weston was doing with the likes of Lachlan Campbell.

" You ," she hissed, yanking free of his grasp and causing him to frown.

"Well ye needna say it like I'm the villain," he scowled.

"Why?" Her hands went to her slender waistline, the tips of her gloves disappearing into heavy folds of pale yellow satin. "That is precisely what you are. I was under the impression that I'd made myself clear that we were through, Lachlan."

"Aye, that's what ye said ," he acknowledged, and there was a part of him that still ached when he remembered the words she'd used. "But it's not what ye meant. We all say things when we're angry, little bird."

"Look at me carefully." She tapped her chin, drawing his attention to her lovely face. Silky cream with golden brows and the barest hint of rose in those high, high cheekbones. "Do I look angry?"

His first instinct was to say yes. But upon further consideration, he saw that all that white-hot fury from the day on the cliffs had faded and ebbed. In its place...in its place was a quiet, determined resolve that chilled him to the bone. Because it meant that whatever his Bry said now, it wouldn't be spoken out of anger. Instead, it'd come from a place of calculated thought.

And that was much harder to take back.

"Bry–" he began, but she cut him off with a sharp jerk of her arm.

"You need to leave. Right this minute."

"Or what?" he challenged.

"Or I'll shoot you."

She said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that he started to laugh.

Right up until she reached inside a reticule he hadn't even noticed she was carrying and withdrew the tiniest, most adorable pistol he'd ever seen. At least it was adorable until she drew back the hammer with a loud click that made the weapon sound much more deadly than it appeared.

"Are ye going tae kill me?" he said incredulously.

Annoyance flickered in her gaze. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Well that's a relief tae–"

"A bullet of this size would not cause lethal harm." She straightened her arm and, to his horror, pointed the pistol right at the middle of his groin. "But I imagine it's not going to feel very good."

"Bluidy hell! Let's not leap tae any hasty decisions." Holding up one hand to ward her off while the other protectively cupped his bollocks, he retreated a step into the inky darkness. "I came here tae have a productive conversation, Bry. Not tae have me bits blown off. What happened tae a lady's civility?"

A muscle clenched in her jaw. "It disappeared when I walked into that bedroom. I am not going to warn you again, Lachlan. You're not welcome here. I don't want you anymore. And you need to leave. Now."

She may not have fired the pistol, but her words cut through him like a bullet. Words that he never dreamed his Bry, his beloved, the girl he'd loved since he was a lad, would be capable of saying. As hurt flared, followed closely by a red-hot flash of rage, he opened his mouth to tell her how wrong she was...but then the clouds over the moon shifted, and silver light illuminated the well of tears in those magnificent hazel eyes, and he gritted his teeth together.

Brynne was hurting, too. Trying her best to hide it, but pain recognized pain. Wasn't that one of the first things that had drawn them together? The English girl ignored by her family, and the Scottish boy tossed out of his school.

"All right," he said stiffly. "I'll leave ye in peace, Bry."

But even as he turned and disappeared into the shadows, Lachlan knew that he'd be back. When the hurt settled and the pain wasn't so fresh and they could have that civil discussion without fearing for his poor bollocks, he'd return.

Brynne wasn't a prize he was keen on giving up.

No matter how much time it took to win her back.

Chapter Twenty

Present Day

Hawkridge Manor

"I remember everything." As the past and the present converged to form a lump in Brynne's throat, she swallowed with difficulty and forced herself to look directly into Lachlan's eyes. She owed him that for what she'd said. For her part in the pain they'd caused each other. For her side of the marriage that had failed.

Because it wasn't just him.

It was never just him.

And she was a coward for letting herself pretend otherwise for the past eighteen months.

Gazing at him kneeling in front of her, she wished (oh, how she wished) that they'd guarded their words more carefully. That they'd practiced more kindness. Not only with each other, but with themselves. And while she couldn't go back and change the past, she was determined to take responsibility for it.

"I was wrong, Lachlan." She put her hand on top of his. "About so many things. I should never have kept our marriage a secret from my family. It wasn't something to hide, it was something to be celebrated. And I should have listened to you that morning by the cliff. I was hurt, and angry, and I lashed out."

"Ye had good reason tae. Had I walked in and seen what ye had, I would've reacted much the same." His mouth twisted in a humorless smile. "After I broke both of the bastard's legs, that is. But I should have told ye about what ye would be walking intae when ye married me. The true state of things; not what I hoped one day for them tae be. The castle, and the children, and the distillery not yet turning a profit."

"Yes," she agreed. "We both could have been more honest with each other. We both should have been. But in the end, my most horrible day with you was better than any day spent without you. Over these past eleven years, you've always been where I needed you, Lachlan. When I needed you most. You helped me become a stronger woman, capable of more than I ever thought possible." The corners of her lips curved. "Certainly, I never envisioned myself retrieving toads from the rafters or changing nappies in the middle of the night."

"Aye, and it's a wonderful mother ye will make when the times comes." Again his gaze dropped to her belly, but this time it was with warmth instead of fear. "But ye are wrong about one thing. This isna the end, little bird. It's just the beginning. For ye, and for me. For us ." He lifted her hand. Kissed the back of it. "We can start again. Knowing what we do now, there'll be nothing tae stand in our way that we canna overcome together."

How tempted she was. But just as she couldn't change the past, neither would she allow herself to forget it…or the lessons it had taught her.

That sometimes loneliness was better.

That pain, even with one you loved, was inevitable.

And that you couldn't lose your heart if you didn't give it away.

It was ironic, really.

Over the course of the house party, she'd urged Weston over and over again to seek out Evelyn Thorncroft because she'd seen the possibility of love between them. She had told him to risk everything for the sake of happily-ever-after, and if the letter he'd sent her was any indication, it had worked out splendidly. But she wasn't going to follow her own advice for the same reason that she didn't wear chartreuse despite recommending the color to Lady Nelson.

What worked for one person didn't necessarily work for another. Having pieced together a broken heart once, she wasn't keen to do it a second time.

Logically, she understood that there was no guarantee she and Lachlan would end up destroying each other again. However, there was also no guarantee that they wouldn't . Which was why this time…this time, she was going to take the safer path.

"I am having my solicitor go forward with the judicial separation, Lachlan." When he stiffened, she tried to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but her arm was knocked aside when he surged to his feet.

"Why the devil would ye do that?" he scowled, a shadow rippling across the rigid set of his jaw as he took a step back.

"Because that's what we are." Wanting even footing for what was to come, she rose as well, and took a measured breath meant to both calm any lingering anxiety and reassure herself that she was doing what needed to be done. What was right. What was necessary . And while Lachlan likely wouldn't thank her for it now, he'd eventually realize–as she had–that they were better off apart. "We are separated. We've been separated. This will just…make if official."

"I dinna want tae make it official." He raked a hand through his hair. "I dinna want tae be separate any longer. That's why I came here. Tae make amends. Tae sort what needed tae be sorted. And we did. We have. I'm sorry for the mistakes I made, Bry. For the missteps I took. I'm not a perfect man–"

"You don't have to be perfect. That is not what I'm asking."

"Then what are ye asking?"

She smiled sadly. "You were always so certain of us, Lachlan. Even when we were children. I used to believe that that certainty meant we were supposed to be together–"

"We are," he cut in roughly.

"–but people who belong together don't hurt each other as we did. As we might again, if given the opportunity. Which is why I am asking you, once again, to let me go. To let us go. I don't want to start over. Not if there's the chance we might end up exactly where we are."

"When ye build something magnificent, there's always the chance it will fall apart." He crossed the gazebo. Took her hands. Cocooned them in his. "But if it does, ye build it again."

How simple he made it sound!

And for him, maybe it was.

But not for her.

"I have made my decision, Lachlan."

His eyes flashed. "Well it's a bluidy stupid one!"

When annoyance stirred, she slipped her hands free of his embrace and put them on her hips. "Why? Because I am the one who made it? For as long as I can remember, people have made decisions for me. What I ate, what I wore, what I did, where I went–even you, Lachlan. When you proposed marriage, it wasn't so much a question as it was a forgone conclusion. You assumed what my answer would be before you even asked the question."

"Ye said yes, didna ye?" he snapped.

"I did. And now I am saying no."

"Bry–"

"My mind is made up. You cannot change it. I…" When tears unexpectedly threatened, she pressed her lips together until she was able to gain control of her emotions. "I am sorry. I know this isn't what you wanted to hear. The decision you wanted me to make. But it is my decision, and I'd like you to honor it."

He went to the edge of the gazebo. Braced his arms on the railing and stared out across the lawn. Gray clouds were beginning to roll in, a preemptive warning of an afternoon storm. But the warning was too late. The storm was already here.

"A judicial separation," her husband said bitterly.

"That's right."

A long, heavy sigh. And then…"What do I have tae do?"

"Sign the papers when they're given to you. My solicitor has told me that we won't be required to present ourselves to the court." Thank goodness for small favors, she thought silently. This was terrible enough. If she had to end her marriage in front of a room filled with solemn-faced strangers in wigs… "It shouldn't take long. A month or two, at the most."

"Nearly ten years tae make something, and a month tae destroy it." The wisp of a smile captured his mouth as he looked at her over his shoulder. "This isna where I thought we'd end up, little bird."

Without anger to dull it, the pain of loss sliced through her with all the force of a Scottish claymore. When her knees wobbled and her breath stabbed, she curled her fingers inward so tightly that her nails left crescent furrows on the palms of her hands. This is what you wanted, she reminded herself sternly. It will get easier once he's gone, and everything can return to normal.

It would have been easier if he'd never come at all, but–for once–she was grateful for his stubbornness. They'd needed to have this time together. To rip bandages off old wounds. To heal old hurts. Now they'd be able to move forward without resentment or regret. Lachlan could return to Campbell Castle to pursue his dreams, and she'd go to London to ensure her brother had his. Then someday, when she had a clearer picture of what she wanted, she would go after her own.

It wasn't happily-ever-after.

But it was close enough.

"If you see the children, please give them my best," she said softly.

"Ye could see them yerself, if ye wanted."

Her hands squeezed tighter. "I've kept in correspondence with Lady Heather. She says they are well, and have enjoyed the presents I sent them for their birthdays and Christmas."

"And there it is." He canted his head. "I never saw it before. Maybe because I didna want tae. But it's as clear as a day now."

"What is?" she asked, self-consciously unfurling her hand to brush her thumb across her cheek.

"Yer father, Bry. Ye're the spitting image of him." With that, Lachlan left.

And Brynne was finally, irrevocably, completely alone.