Seduced by the Scot

by Eaton, Jillian

  “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 naïve 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.

  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 10th 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.”