Chapter Three

Lachlan knew that he was supposed to be remorseful for what he'd done to Lord Wheeler. At least, that's what the headmaster had told him.

"A two-week suspension from your classes," the old bugger had croaked. "So that you may think upon your actions and what you can do to improve yourself. This is not your first incident, Lord Campbell. But it shall be your last, lest I inform your father that your schooling at Eton has been permanently terminated."

Truth be told, Lachlan did feel a wee measure of contrition.

If he had to do it over again, he would have hit Wheeler a hell of a lot harder.

The prancing roaster.

Wheeler had deserved to be laid out on his arse, and Lachlan was glad to have been the one to put him there. Suspension or no suspension.

Gits like Wheeler needed to be taught that just because they came from a wealthy and powerful family didn't mean they could get away with torturing the small and the helpless. Wheeler and his band of bullies were no better than children with magnifying glasses pointed at a hill of ants on a sunny day.

Lachlan shouldn't have been punished for knocking the sniveling little viscount down a peg or two. He should have been bloody commended . Yet here he was, stranded at a stranger's estate for the next fourteen days while Wheeler got to sleep snug in his own bed.

At least the scenery was pretty to look at.

And he wasn't just thinking about the gardens.

Lady Brynne Weston really was bonny. The bonniest a lass as he'd ever seen. Not that there were many lasses in the tiny village of Glenavon. Bonny or otherwise. A few at the local pub, but the only time he went there was to drag his father home before he drowned himself in a tankard of ale.

Lachlan wasn't the first Campbell to be suspended from Eton. He heralded from a long line of proud, violent Scots with an eye for pretty women and a penchant for drinking. On the day he'd arrived at the prestigious boy's finishing school, the headmaster's eyes had all but rolled into the back of his skull.

"Not another one," he'd muttered before ushering Lachlan inside.

Lachlan couldn't blame the old bugger for his trepidation. But he wouldn't mind an apology. After all, three years into his schooling and he hadn't burned down a building (as his grandfather, Robert Campbell II, who was now deceased, had famously done), or gotten pigs drunk on ale and set them loose in the dormitory (his father, Robert Campbell III), or chucked all of the Duke of Ashbury's belongings out a third story window into the lake (his brother, Robert Campbell IV).

Why, aside from the little skirmish, Lachlan was a bloody paragon of virtue!

But courtesy of his last name, he was labeled a mischief maker before he'd ever stepped foot through the gates. That was the trouble with reputations…sometimes you made them, and other times they were made for you. Either way, they were difficult things to change. People saw what they wanted to see. And even though Lachlan was different from his father and four brothers in any manner of ways, he'd already been painted with the same broad brush.

The headmaster had probably been itching for a reason to toss him out since he first walked in the door. Handing Wheeler his well-deserved comeuppance was just the excuse the school was waiting for to rid itself of another Campbell, albeit temporarily.

If Lachlan managed to stick it out another year, he'd be the first man in his family to actually complete all of his courses and attend convocation. As a general rule, Campbells enjoyed starting things–fights, business endeavors, marriages–but they were shit all at finishing them. Which helped to explain why Lachlan and his brothers all had different mothers…and why the once mighty and world-renowned Glenavon Distillery had been run straight into the ground.

But Lachlan had plans for that.

Not for the multitude of women his father had bedded, wedded, and either lost in childbirth, divorced, or simply forgotten about. There was nothing he could do about that particular family disgrace. As for the abandoned distillery, however…suffice it to say he had big plans for the whisky company that his great-great-grandfather, the very first Robert Campbell, had started under the cover of darkness in caves off the coast to avoid the bloody British and their excise taxes. And his children had subsequently bankrupted it through poor business practices.

Namely, they'd drank all the whisky and never gotten around to making more.

Before any renovations could begin, however, Lachlan needed to survive the next two weeks so that he could get back to his studies, finish school with high enough marks that he'd be able to secure a private loan, and hire an architect willing to work for the promise of what was to come.

It was a tall order.

Some might say impossible.

But in addition to their less desirable traits, Campbell men were also determined and stubborn to a fault. It wasn't a matter of if Lachlan would see his dreams realized. It was a matter of when . In the meanwhile, he'd serve his suspension. A punishment that was feeling a lot more like a reward now that he had a fair-haired companion to pass the time with.

He just needed to figure out a way past the dragon at the gate…but Lachlan was nothing if not inventive.

Tap.

Tap tap.

Tap tap tap.

Blinking groggily, Brynne sat up in her bed and drew off the covers. The floorboards were cold beneath her bare feet as she padded to the window and peered out, cupping her hands on either side of her face in an attempt to see through the darkness of a quarter moon.

Tap.

On a gasp, she leapt back from the sill when a small stone struck a glass pane. Given that her bedchamber was on the second story, she had been expecting a branch, or an owl, or some other naturally occurring nighttime noise that was responsible for rousing her from a heavy sleep. But there was nothing natural about a rock being twenty feet off the ground.

Someone was throwing pebbles at her window.

And she had a sneaking suspicion of who it might be.

Careful not to rouse Miss Hardgrave, whose bedchamber shared an adjoining wall, Brynne quickly swept a wrap over her nightgown and tiptoed out of her room and down the stairs. She didn't know what time it was. Somewhere after midnight, as that was when she'd set aside her book and fallen asleep, and before five, as that was when the servants woke and began readying the household for the day ahead.

Regardless of the exact hour, she should not have been out of bed. The knowledge of which caused a tiny tingle of excitement between her shoulder blades. She, Brynne Weston, follower of rules and sufferer of anxious mannerisms, was being rebellious .

Miss Hardgrave would have an absolute fit if she found out. This was, by far, the most disobedient act that Brynne had ever committed. Which, depending on how one viewed it, was either very good or very sad.

She hesitated on the bottom step, her toes curling over the smooth wooden lip as her practical mind urged her to return upstairs with all haste while her rarely explored adventurous spirit cried for her to keep going. After a brief internal struggle, the latter side won out and, with a wide grin, she dashed across the foyer and into the kitchen where the servants' entrance provided her the most discreet pathway out of the house.

Her bedroom overlooked the rear of the estate which meant she had to go all the way along the length of the solarium, careful not to turn her ankle on the freshly dug piles of earth that were being used to build staggered flower beds, and around the back terrace before she reached the enormous alder tree that had stood guard beside her window long before even her father had been born.

Its massive canopy had obscured her view from above, but now that she was on the ground and her eyes had adjusted to the slivers of moonlight dancing across the rolling lawn, she picked out Lachlan's shadowy frame with ease.

"Took ye long enough," he said, stepping out from behind the alder's trunk.

"I thought it was you," she said smugly.

He cocked a brow. "Is there anyone else that would be throwing rocks at yer window in the middle of the night?"

"Well, no," she admitted.

"Didna think so."

They stared at each other. The volatile, hotheaded Scottish boy who had been suspended from school for fighting and the quiet, introspective English girl who had never met a rule she didn't follow.

They shouldn't have ever met, let alone been standing together in the darkness. Yet here they were. Two lonely souls who were (unbeknownst to even themselves) desperately seeking a connection with someone who understood them in a way their families could not.

"Want tae see something neat?" Lachlan asked.

"Yes," Brynne said, and this time there was no hesitation. "Very much."

"Come with me, then." He took her hand, his fingers sliding between hers until they were locked in a firm grip and, together, they plunged into the night, following a narrow trail lined with chipped marble.

She didn't ask how he seemed to already know the grounds surrounding the manor as well or mayhap even better than she did. Lachlan struck her as the adventurous sort, and it was easy to envision him exploring the paths, and the outbuildings, and the gardens that made up the estate while she'd been stuck inside practicing how to pour tea out of a long-stemmed teapot.

"Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly when they passed the stables and entered the woods. A thorn bush snagged at her nightgown. She gave it a yank, and winced when the fabric tore. But there was no time to stop and examine the damage done, not with Lachlan galloping ahead at full speed.

They twisted their way through the forest, leaping over exposed roots and jumping across logs. Twice, she nearly fell and, twice, Lachlan was right there to catch her, almost as if he instinctively sensed when she was in trouble even before she did.

Finally, they tumbled out of the woods and into a meadow. Despite having spent every summer and half of the winter at Hawkridge since she was born, Brynne had never visited this particular spot before. Filled with wavy grass that gleamed in the moonlight like an ocean of silver, it sat high on a knoll surrounded by trees.

"Here," said Lachlan, pulling her towards the center. "Stand right here and close yer eyes."

Brynne followed his instructions obediently. Her feet were smarting from running along the rough forest trail, a sticky layer of perspiration clung to her forehead, and the hem of her nightgown was in tatters, but none of that mattered. Despite their rough start this morning, she trusted Lachlan. As much as she trusted Weston, the person she loved most in the entire world. Which was strange and bewildering, especially considering she'd known her brother since the minute she was born and Lachlan for all of ten hours.

But the wonderful and wise thing about being young and na?ve was that she still trusted herself. The world hadn't had time to break her heart or make her hard. Thus, when that little voice inside of her spoke up and said that she was safe with Lachlan, and that he'd never do anything to harm her, she had no reason to doubt it.

"All right," he said, his warm breath tickling the wispy curls at the nape of her neck as he stepped behind her, "now drop yer head all the way back and open yer eyes."

Again, she did as he asked. Slowly, bit by bit, as if it were Christmas morning and she wanted to savor every second of joy that came from walking into the drawing room on that special day and seeing the mountain of presents piled beneath the tree, Brynne tipped her face to the heavens and opened her eyes.

"Oh," she gasped, stunned by the sight that awaited her. "It's…it's beautiful ."

She'd seen the night sky before, of course.

Countless times.

But not like this.

Never like this.

It was…it was infinite .

A sprawling cloak of black velvet dotted with millions and millions of stars, each one shining brighter than the last. There was nary a cloud to be seen. Only the sliver of the moon, a crescent of alabaster carved out of the abyss that glowed with its own special source of light.

"Here," said Lachlan, patting the space beside him as he folded his legs and lowered himself to the ground. "Ye can see it better when ye're laying down."

Slipping out of her wrap, she gave it a quick shake and then placed it on the grass like a blanket before sitting next to Lachlan with her knees drawn to her chest. Their shoulders bumped. Accidentally at first, and then on purpose when he gave her a playful nudge.

"See that?" he said, raising his arm and pointing to a section of sky straight above their heads. "Where the stars come together tae form a line with a spoon at the end. That's called The Plough. It's a constellation."

"A constellation?" she repeated, unfamiliar with the term.

"Aye," he said, sounding surprised that she didn't know what it meant. "We've a massive telescope at Eton. It has its own room and everything. Havena ye looked through one before?"

Shyly, she shook her head.

Dresses and embroidery. Teapots and dancing. Such silly, useless things when compared to the vast openness of the universe and all of the wisdom it contained. While she was learning how to be a perfect wife, Lachlan was looking through telescopes.

She knew that young girls weren't meant to be curious.

But all Brynne had were questions.

"Can you teach me?" she asked. "About the constellations."

Resting her head on Lachlan's shoulder, she followed the direction of his finger as it swerved from one cluster of twinkling stars to another.

"There's Aquarius. The first I ever found. And that one, there. The zig-zag? That's Cassiopeia. Over here we should have…aye, there it is. Leo. It's my favorite because it looks like a–"

"A horse," she said, her eyes shining as she traced invisible lines between the cluster of stars.

Lachlan grinned. "I was going tae say lion."

"Who named them all?"

"Greek astronomers, for the most part."

"Is that what you hope to be one day? An astronomer?"

His shoulder lifted her head ever-so-slightly as he gave a small shrug. "I like tae look at the stars, but I'm meant for other things. My dreams are here, on the ground. What about ye, Bry? Where are yer dreams?"

"Everywhere. And nowhere." Her lips twisting in a rueful smile, she sat up straight and hugged her legs more closely to her chest. "My future is already planned out for me. Next year, I'll attend Cheltenham, and then make my debut in London Society. If all goes according to plan, I'll be engaged before Christmas and married in the spring. Children will follow after that. Two boys, preferably."

"And is that what ye want?" Lachlan asked, studying her closely.

No one had ever asked her that before.

What she wanted.

Not even Weston.

Perhaps because there was no point.

What else could she want from her life, other than what was already planned for her?

Were she a man in possession of her own fortune, she might have been an astronomer. Or a doctor. Or a philosopher. Even a detective. Or nothing at all. Instead, as a girl on the brink of womanhood, her path was clearly marked. She was to become a wife and then a mother. With no way to make her own fortune (even her dowry wasn't her own), there weren't any other avenues available to her. No other achievements to be made. No other dreams to pursue.

Oh, she might always choose to be a spinster. Live alone in a cottage on the sea with her knitting and her cats. Except even then, she'd be relying upon the generosity of her father and brother. They'd never go so far to turn her out into the cold. But she would live with the knowledge that she was a disappointment to them, and that she hadn't done as she was meant to.

"I don't know," she said honestly, scratching her fingernail at a spot of mud on her skirt. "I should think that I would like to be a wife, someday. Maybe. I guess. And a mother after that. But is that what I want because I've been told that is what I should want? Or do I want it because it is something I really do desire?"

Lachlan frowned. "Ye should never do something just because it's expected of ye."

"No, I suppose not." She was quiet for a moment. "I'd like to travel. I've never seen much of the world. London, and Bath, and Sussex. A bit of Scotland. But I'd like to see Paris and Brussels. New York and Boston. Egypt and Mumbai."

"What would ye do there?"

"Paint," she said impulsively. "That's what the great artists do. They travel the world and they paint what they see for those who cannot go where they've been. But I don't want to spend my life staring at the proof of someone else's adventures. I want to make my own."

Lachlan nodded, as if he understood. And she felt as if he truly did. As if he were the only person who could. Because surely a boy who studied the stars knew what it was like to want more from the universe than what it had given you.

"If ye want tae be a traveling artist, then that's what ye should be." Plucking a long piece of grass, he stuck the end between his teeth and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "What's stopping ye?"

She giggled at the absurdity of the question.

Where to even begin?

"Miss Hardgrave, for one. Being just fourteen, for another."

"That old bat," he snorted. "She's all bark and no bite. Leave her tae me. And ye willna be fourteen forever. Soon ye'll be full grown, and then what?"

"You ask a lot of questions," she noted.

He spat out the grass. "Because I'm interested in the answers."

Did that mean he found her interesting? She liked to believe that it did. Thankful for the darkness as a rosy blush unfolded across her cheeks, she returned her attention to the sky.

"Do those have a name?" she asked, pointing at a collection of stars in an unusual pattern.

"Aye. That's Ursa Major." Shifting closer, he gently moved her arm to the left. "And there is Ursa Minor."

Side by side, they gazed at the galaxy until dawn.