Chapter Four

"Lady Brynne, you must stop yawning," Miss Hardgrave scolded. "With your mouth open that wide, you resemble a masticating cow."

Brynne snapped her teeth together with an audible click .

"I am sorry, Miss Hardgrave."

The governess' eyes narrowed. "Were you up late reading again?"

"Yes." It may not have been the entire truth, but it wasn't a lie. She had been reading…before she fell asleep and Lachlan woke her by throwing stones at the window.

They'd managed to sneak back into the manor just before daybreak. She was fairly certain Lucy had seen them, but the maid wouldn't say anything. After stashing her stained, ruined nightgown under the bed, she had climbed beneath the covers and pretended to sleep until her lady's maid had woken her to get dressed.

She had hoped to see Lachlan at breakfast. To share a mischievous glance over sliced ham and broiled eggs. But there was no sign of him, and she'd eaten alone before being whisked off to her studies.

French first, and then German, a language that had undergone a resurgence in popularity since Queen Victoria married Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, a German dynasty that could trace it roots all the way back the 10 th century. While Prince Albert was fluent in English, it was rumored that he and Queen Victorian often spoke in his native tongue while they were in private. With an influx of German nobles currently populating the court, it was only natural that ladies of the ton were expected to learn their language.

Once those lessons were concluded, Brynne had gone straight the music room where she'd rehearsed her major scales in preparation for the recital she would be giving over the Christmas holiday when her brother and father returned to Hawkridge.

The piano was followed by embroidery in the parlor, and then tea in the drawing room where Miss Hardgrave had found her yawning over a plate of scones smothered in raspberry jam.

"You will ruin your eyesight with those books of yours," said the governess, her mouth thinning in disapproval. "Not to mention all of the silly nonsense they fill your head with."

"The book I was reading is a study in the historical significance of the industrial revolution and what it means for our future as a–"

"The industrial revolution?" Miss Hardgrave scoffed. "What need do you have to know anything about that? As I said, silly nonsense. If you insist on reading, I have the latest issue of The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine . There is an excellent article on the durability of porcelain dinnerware."

Brynne muffled a sigh. "It sounds enlightening."

Clearly unable to tell whether her charge was being satirical or not, Miss Hardgrave held Brynne's gaze for a moment longer before she sniffed and pulled the plate of scones out of reach. "I've noticed your dresses have been ill-fitting as of late. Best limit your sweets."

Brynne, too, had noted the subtle changes in her body.

Curves where there used to be straight lines.

Soft, plump hills where there used to be flat, bony meadows.

Her hips and chest, in particular, seemed to be the worst culprits.

Not for the first time, she felt a distant longing for the mother she'd never known beyond a portrait hanging in the library above the fireplace. A mother who could explain what was happening to her with kindness instead of shame. A mother who would foster her thirst for information instead of actively seeking to destroy it.

Instead, she had Miss Hardgrave. Possibly the very worst person in the history of existence to guide her as she blossomed from an uncertain, gangly young girl into an uncertain, shapely young woman.

"I fear you are right, Miss Hardgrave," she said abruptly. "Reading at night has strained my eyesight, and now I have a terrible headache. I–I need to rest."

"Rest? But your dance instructor is–"

"You should eat those." She glanced down at the scones, then back up at her governesses. "I've noticed your dresses have been ill-fitting as of late."

Miss Hardgrave's eyes widened. Her face flushed a deep, blotchy red. But before she could muster a sharp retort, Brynne leapt from her chair and ran from the room, her heart thumping wildly at her daring impudence.

Except she didn't go upstairs to her room. Before her rare surge of rebelliousness abandoned her, she darted outside in search of Lachlan.

Lachlan grinned when Brynne, out of breath and pink-faced, dropped down beside him in the middle of the same field that they'd sat in the night before. The stars were hidden in the light of day but the sky, clear and cloudless, remained pleasing to look at.

Almost as pleasing as Bry.

Today, she was as pretty as a spring daffodil in a yellow dress several shades darker than her hair. Swept off her temple in a braided twist, it shone as bright as gold in the afternoon sun. He was tempted to touch it. To stroke a loose tendril just to see if it was as soft as it appeared. But while he was practically a man full grown at sixteen, Brynne–as she'd shared last night–was two years his junior. A child, really. Barely out of the nursery. And his head ought not to be filled with lustful thoughts.

"I was wondering when ye were going to escape the witch," he said by way of greeting.

"You…you shouldn't call her that," she puffed. "Or a…a bat, either."

"Why not? She's both those things and then some."

"She is also my governess. I may not like her, but I should be respectful."

"Well she's not me governess, and I think she's a bluidy bat witch."

The corners of Brynne's mouth gave a tiny, betraying twitch. "What are your teachers like at Eton?" she asked. "Are they nice? In his letter, Weston said they were nice."

"That's because yer brother is a goody two-shoes."

"He is not!" At Lachlan's stare, she dropped her chin and muttered, "All right, maybe he is. Maybe we both are. But that's only because we were raised to follow the rules."

"Aye, and what has that gotten ye?"

He was equal parts fascinated and repulsed by what he'd glimpsed thus far of Brynne's upbringing. The poor lass was like a bird in a cage. A well-fed bird. A well-groomed bird. But a cage was a cage, even when it resembled the largest, bloodiest estate he'd ever clapped his eyes upon.

By contrast, Lachlan and his brothers had grown up without a single rule to abide by. Well, that wasn't completely true. They weren't to kill or otherwise permanently maim each other or anyone else. But other than that…other than that they were left wild and reckless.

The first–and only–nanny he'd ever had had run screaming out of the castle before her second day was through. His father, long distracted by drink and women, hadn't bothered to hire another. Which left Lachlan to care for himself. And then for his three younger brothers, as Rob, the heir, was as useless as tits on a boar, and all of the boys' mothers had either perished in childbirth (as Lachlan's had) or fled.

Mountainous and rugged, the Scottish Highlands weren't for the faint heart on the best of days. Add in a drafty old castle, a drunk laird, five rambunctious boys (the youngest of whom was in nappies), and the petite, pretty wives that Robert Campbell kept coaxing in from London couldn't leave fast enough.

At exactly forty years of age, Lachlan's father had been a widower twice over, divorced thrice, and was currently courting his sixth bride-to-be. If it went anything like his previous five marriages, he'd have her with child before the year was out and Lachlan would soon be saddled with another squalling brother to look after.

In short, the world he lived in was as different from Brynne's as night was from day. But even as tumultuous as it could be, he vastly preferred the chaos to this cold, orderly existence of rules and restrictions.

"Miss Hardgrave is raising me to be a proper lady." As she spoke, Brynne self-consciously pulled the hem of her skirts to cover her ankles even though her feet were properly covered today in stockings and shoes. "She's stricter than my past governesses, but she is only doing the job my father has hired her to do."

"Then he's tae blame," said Lachlan, canting his head.

Her smooth brow furrowed. "To blame for what?"

"Imprisoning ye here."

"I'm not…I'm not in a prison ."

"Can ye leave?"

"Not without permission, but–"

"Then it's a prison," he said smugly. "A fancy one, I'll give ye that. But satin curtains or stone walls, a prison is still a prison. Which makes ye a prisoner." He scratched his leg. "I bet ye have a schedule tae follow from the second ye wake up tae the second ye go tae bed."

Brynne's chin jutted, revealing a hint of stubbornness that he'd not seen before. With a gleam of obstinance in her gaze and wildflowers at her feet, she reminded him of a woodland fairy princess sprung straight from the pages of the old fairytales that his grandmother used to read to him.

"You've no idea what you are talking about."

"Maybe." His shoulder lifted in an amicable shrug. "Maybe not. Care tae prove it?"

"That I am not a prisoner?"

"Aye. That ye're free tae do as ye please. That ye can make yer own decisions."

"I can make my own decisions," she said defensively.

"Prove it," he taunted. "Or are ye even more of a goody two-shoes than yer brother?"

She mulled it over for a moment.

He could almost hear the gears clicking in her mind.

Part of her, he was almost certain, wished that she'd never come out to find him. That she remained tucked safely away in that marble monstrosity of a manor, learning how to wave a fan or curtsy or whatever it was that girls were taught to do. But there was more to Lady Brynne Weston than met the eye. And if he could use his time here to coax her out of the gilded cage they'd trapped her in, then he'd consider it time well spent.

"All right," she said after a lengthy pause. "What do I have to do?"

A grin split Lachlan's face from ear to ear. Picking a nameless flower with white petals from amidst the stalks of grass, he twirled it between his fingers before he held it out to her. "It's simple, really…"

As the wagon jostled over a dip in the road and the blanket draped over her head threatened suffocation, it occurred to Brynne, somewhat belatedly, that taking Lachlan up on his challenge was not the best choice she had ever made.

Or even a good one, for that matter.

But it was too late now.

Tucked in the back of the dry supply wagon as it made its way towards the village to stock up on flour, grain, oats, and other necessities that would fill the kitchen for the next week, there wasn't anything she could do but keep her head down and pray that she wasn't discovered.

Beside her, Lachlan's teeth flashed white in a mischievous smirk as they struck another rut in the road and the entire conveyance rattled. Unlike Brynne, whose palms were damp with sweat and shoulders were tense with nerves, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

"How are ye doing?" he whispered, sliding his hand across the roughly hewn floor of the wagon to grasp her fingers.

"How do you think I'm doing?" she retorted even as his touch helped to lower the intensity of her unease. "This is a horrible idea."

"Ye agreed tae it."

Yes, she had. In some misguided attempt to prove that she wasn't a captive in her own house (which she absolutely was, or else she wouldn't have to sneak out underneath a blanket ), she had agreed to accompany Lachlan into the local village, someplace she was never allowed to go without a proper chaperone.

The wagon was her idea. She'd thought it rather clever. A secret means to escape Hawkridge without Miss Hardgrave being any the wiser. But she hadn't taken into account how bumpy it would be. Or how stiflingly hot. Or how guilty she'd feel for breaking the rules.

Lachlan was right.

She was a goody two-shoes.

Even more so than Weston.

Except…except to her knowledge, her twin had never defied their governess by sneaking out of his lessons in the middle of the day. And he'd almost certainly never gone into the village when he wasn't supposed to. And he'd definitely never hidden inside of a supply wagon. Did that make her braver than him? Or just more foolish?

She really didn't know the answer.

"What are we going to do now?" she hissed, wedging her foot against an empty crate to prevent herself from moving as the wagon took a sharp left hand turn and then slowed. From outside the blanket draped over them, she could hear the sounds of harnesses jingling and people talking and the toll of a church bell. Given that the only church within twenty miles was the one that sat in the middle of the village square, she knew, that for better or worse, they'd reached their destination.

Lachlan winked at her. "Whatever we want. Just be ready tae jump."

"Jump?" she said, horrified. "What do you mean, be ready to–"

"One, two, three– JUMP !"

He grabbed her arm and, together, they rolled out of the back of wagon and landed in a cloud of dust and tangled limbs. Laughing, Lachlan pulled her to the safety of the pavement just as another carriage, pulled by a matched pair of prancing chestnuts, came breezing past. The driver hollered something, but Brynne was unable to make out what it was above the dull roaring in her ears.

"Well done," Lachlan said approvingly, giving her hearty slap on the back.

Gasping for air, Brynne doubled over and clutched her knees. Her hat, silk taffeta over wired buckram, slipped off and plopped onto the ground. "I–I cannot believe I did that!"

"Ye mean ye've never leapt out of a moving wagon before?"

She straightened and stared at him incredulously. "You have?"

"At least half a dozen times."

"Half a dozen –"

"The trick is in the landing." Bending down, he grasped her bonnet and gave it a light shake before returning it to her. "Ye have tae keep moving so ye dinna get run over."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," she said faintly as she accepted her hat.

Clearly, Lachlan was what Miss Hardgrave disparagingly referred to as a "ruffian". That is, a man (or in this case, a boy) of mischievous character intent on committing various misdeeds. In short, he was not the sort of company that a young girl on the brink of womanhood should be keeping. Especially one who needed to maintain an impeccable reputation. And yet…and yet she was having fun . Real, honest-to-goodness fun. Well, except for almost being crushed to death by a carriage. But Lachlan had protected her. And Miss Hardgrave thought she was immersed in her French tutoring (when in actuality, she'd sent off a letter first thing in the morning telling her instructor, Monsieur Dubois, that she was ill). Which meant…which meant she was free . Free to have all of the fun that she wanted.

"We should go in the confectionary shop," she said, her eyes lighting. "I'm never allowed, but my father has an account with every merchant in the village, and we can buy whatever we want."

Half an hour later, they emerged from the shop, their arms overflowing with an assortment of twisted barley sugar sticks, strawberry drops, caramels, and–Brynne's favorite–lime fruit, which consisted of a slice of dried lime dipped in lemonade and then rolled in sugar.

They carried their bounty to a bench in the middle of the square, and sat beside each other in the dappled shade of a large oak tree.

"Trade ye a strawberry drop for a caramel," said Lachlan, speaking around a sugar stick jammed into the side of his cheek.

Brynne studied the candy she'd arranged in neat piles on her lap. "One strawberry drop for two caramels and the last barley stick."

" Two strawberry drops for one caramel," he countered, "and we'll split the last barley stick."

"All right. What?" she asked when Lachlan shook his head at her as he accepted the candy. "What is it?"

"Ye need tae learn how tae drive a harder bargain." He popped a strawberry drop into his mouth and bit down with a loud crunch . "I would have given ye the whole barley stick."

"Well, why didn't you?" she asked in exasperation.

He shrugged. "Because ye gave in."

"Miss Hardgrave says that a gentleman should always make every effort to appease a lady."

"Never said I was a gentleman." Cracking the barley stick into two pieces, he offered her half. Reluctantly, she accepted the stick and handed over two strawberry drops.

"But you must be. A gentleman, that is. Or else you wouldn't be at Eton."

"I'm at Eton because that's where me brother went, and me father, and me grandfather." Shoving the remainder of his candy into the pockets of his trousers (he wasn't wearing a coat), Lachlan linked his hands together behind his head and leaned back. "But ye can trust me when I say there's never been a Campbell who has ever been accused of being a gentleman."

"Then you won't attend the London Season?" Brynne didn't know why that should give her a twinge of disappointment. Even if Lachlan did go to London, and they did happen to meet at a ball, their social circles would never intersect. In all probability, this was the closest they were ever going to be. Trading candy on a bench in the village square. And that made her feel more than disappointed.

"I've another year of schooling, and then I'll make me…what do ye women call it?"

"Our formal debut."

"Aye." His dimple flashed as he smirked. "I'll do that."

"I don't know if men can have formal debuts."

"Why not?"

Her mouth opened. Closed. She thought it over. "I do not know, actually."

"Ye'll be the talk of the ton when ye do it. Make yer debut, that is. Blokes will be stumbling over themselves tae put their names on yer dance card."

"Do you really think so?" she said, pleased. Wasn't that exactly what she wanted? People to notice her. People to want to spend time with her. People to make her feel special and important.

"Aye," he said flatly, and even though she was fairly certain he meant it as a compliment, he didn't seem particularly pleased. "Ye'll have half a dozen proposals before the first week is out."

"Will yours be one of them?" She'd meant it as a jest. A little teasing. Not something to be taken seriously. But when Lachlan's eyes darkened and his gaze flicked, just for an instant, to her lips, she instinctively sensed that there was nothing the least bit humorous about the sudden electrical charge she felt pulsing in the air.

At fourteen, Brynne knew nothing of passion or desire beyond the books she had stashed beneath her mattress. Books written by the likes of Jane Austen and Emily Bront? and her sister, Charlotte. Books that made love seem like such a complicated, difficult endeavor that she wasn't at all sure if it was something she wished to partake in. But when Lachlan looked at her like that, as if she were…as if she were the most delicious strawberry drop he'd ever seen, she wondered if the books weren't on to something after all.

"The second-born son of a Scottish laird offer marriage tae the daughter of a marquess?" With a snort, Lachlan sprang off the bench. "Yer father would laugh me out of drawing room."

"He wouldn't," Brynne protested.

If only because he probably wouldn't be in the room , she added silently.

"Aye, he would." A swath of auburn hair tumbled across Lachlan's brow as he stretched his arms up and grabbed on to a low-hanging branch. After adjusting his grip, he lifted himself off the grass and gave a few experimental swings before kicking his legs out, spinning in midair, and landing in rather spectacular fashion.

Brynne clapped politely, then shook her head.

"All right," she admitted, smiling. "Maybe you would not be my father's ideal candidate for a husband. If I am to follow tradition, I'll marry an earl, or a marquess, or maybe even a duke. They'll be practical, and proper, and perfect in nearly every way."

Lachlan wiped his hands off on his trousers, then regarded her with a lifted brow and a mocking tilt of his mouth. "Aye, but can they climb a tree?"

"I'm quite sure they will have never tried."

"Sounds like a bunch of boring lunkheads tae me."

"Maybe." Her brow creased. "But when the times comes, I'll get to choose who I marry. No one else."

He snorted again. "Because ye are so free tae make yer own decisions."

"I came here, didn't I?" she said, proudly lifting her chin.

"That ye did." His gaze softening, he held out his hand. "Should we strike a bargain, Lady Brynne Weston?"

She eyed his hand dubiously. "The last time I struck a bargain with you, I lost out on half a barley stick."

"In ten years, if ye havena married some wealthy bounder, we'll meet back here, at this very spot. And we'll marry each other."

She started to giggle.

Stopped when she realized he was serious.

"Oh. Oh. But…" Her mind whirling, she stood up slowly, and as if from a faraway distance, watched her palm slide tentatively along his until their hands were clasped together. "Ten years."

"Ten years," he said solemnly. Then he grinned. "Have ye ever been in a pub before?"

"Of course not. Why do you ask?"

"Come on." Rolling his eyes, he gave her arm a tug and, together, they ran across the village square.

Eleven days later, as she watched Lachlan's carriage drive away, Brynne realized two very important, life-altering things.

Firstly, she desperately wanted to be more than what she was becoming. While Miss Hardgrave, and her father, and even her brother believed that her entire destiny was to marry well and have children and preside over an estate just like this one, Brynne wanted more . More happiness, more fun, more leaping out of wagons and gazing at the stars and sneaking into pubs. She'd lived more in these fourteen days than she had in fourteen years. And she'd laughed . How she'd laughed. She wanted to laugh like that again. She wanted to be like that again. The person she was when Lachlan was near. Which brought her to her second life-altering realization.

She, Brynne Weston, at all of fourteen years of age, was in love.

With Lachlan Campbell.

And even though it was a child's love, a sweet love, a love born of innocence and wonder, it was real. It was strong. But most importantly, it was true.

Until it wasn't.