No, Brynne wasn’t coming.
And he was a bloody fool for ever thinking that she would.
“Let’s go,” he growled at the driver, a thin man with a head as smooth as a billiard ball that he kept diligently covered with a black cap.
“Yes, my lord.” The driver hesitated. “Do you still wish to continue on to Gretna Green?”
Lachlan’s mouth twisted. “That depends. Am I tae marry meself?”
“Straight to Carlisle, then.”
“Aye,” he said bitterly. “Carlisle.”
Courtesy of an influx of new rail over the past decade, Lachlan could board a train in Carlisle, a growing city ten miles shy of the Scottish border, and be in Glasgow within five hours. From there, he’d board the Highland Railway, and after a stop to change trains in Perth, would arrive in Inverness, the closest major town to Glenavon, by day’s end.
Excluding the time it would take the carriage to reach Carlisle, a journey home that had taken two weeks when he was a boy had since been reduced to a mere twelve hours by rail. Begetting the question of what advancements in transportation the next decade might bring.
The world was changing. Old ways constantly being shuffled out to make way for new. But whether ships one day sailed the skies or trains hurtled down the tracks at the unthinkable speed of fifty miles per hour, one thing would always remain the same: he’d love Brynne Weston until the day that he died.
Stepping up into the carriage, he was about to slam the door shut when he heard her voice calling his name.
At first, he thought it was a cruel trick his ears were playing on him. A manifestation of his greatest desire to help fill the hole her absence had carved out of his chest.
“Bluidy hell,” he groaned, striking the back of his head against the wood paneling above the velvet-upholstered bench seat. Then he lifted his arm, and slapped the palm of his hand on the underside of the roof to signal his readiness to depart. But the pair of horses, a bay mare and a brown gelding, didn’t move.
“It appears there is a lady trying to get your attention,” the driver called. “Should I go around her?”
Lachlan erupted from the brougham with such force that the entire carriage rocked on its wheels. His heart lodged somewhere in his throat, he scanned the village square with the panicked, hopeful desperation of sailor spying a lifeboat as he churned water.
And there she was.
Walking, no, running towards him across a flat section of grass, her skirts flapping in the wind, her hat partially dislodged, and her blonde hair blowing in the breeze all the while clinging to a cumbersome leather carpet bag.
Passersby stopped and stared as he ran to her, picked her up by the waist, and spun her around. The carpet bag fell to the ground with a heavy thud, but neither Brynne nor Lachlan bothered to retrieve it. They were too busy gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing, like two people gone mad.
And maybe they were mad to be eloping together based on a vow they’d made as children. Or maybe it was everyone else, everyone who went about their daily lives without doing everything in their power to grab on to this sort of delirious, once-in-a-lifetime-love, that were the mad ones.
“Ye came.” He resisted–barely–planting a kiss upon her mouth the likes of which would have sent the elderly spinster observing them from the doorway of the teashop into a dead faint. Instead, he swung her around once more, and then reluctantly returned her feet to the ground.
“I apologize for being late,” she said breathlessly, brushing a tendril of hair out of her eyes. “I had trouble finding the dress I wanted to wear for our wedding, and then Drufus made off with one of my shoes. My maid found it in a flowerbed, and–”
“Ye came,” he repeated. “Nothing else matters.”
“Is that our carriage?” she asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Aye. I know it’s probably not as large as ye are used tae, but as long as the horses hold up, we’ll be in Gretna Green tomorrow eve.”
She ducked her chin, then peered at him from beneath her lashes as a demure smile played across her lips. “I would think a smaller carriage would lend itself to a more intimate seating arrangement, Lord Campbell. Don’t you agree?”
“Aye,” he managed to growl as lust gripped him by the bollocks and gave a tantalizing squeeze. “I do.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” She flitted past him and, after lifting her carpet bag, he quickly followed suit.
“Gretna Green,” he told the driver, who tipped his cap.
“With clear skies and smooth roads, we should make excellent time, my lord.”
Lachlan barely heard him. He was too busy admiring the plump curve of Brynne’s backside as she climbed into the brougham and settled against the far window, the narrower skirts of her emerald green traveling habit taking up far less room than her gown from the night before.
Every fiber of his being wanted to pounce on her the instant they set off. To be this close, with nary a hawkish chaperone in sight…suffice it to say, it took a considerable amount of self-control to remain on his side of the carriage.
“Ye packed lightly,” he remarked, having noted the inconsequential weight of her luggage before he’d pushed it beneath the seat.
She nodded. “Enough for a few days. I thought it would be easier to have my belongings sent to me once we reach Campbell Castle. My maid is packing a trunk as we speak.” As she shifted to face him, her eyes shone with curiosity. “Can you tell me more about it? The castle, that is. You’ve shared bits and pieces over the years, but I would enjoy having a clearer picture of where we are going to live. I’m sure it’s absolutely breathtaking.”
Aye, he thought silently. If ye dinna mind bats in the stairwell and fresh rain falling from the ceiling.
“It does have its own unique charm,” he allowed. “Given her age–nearly four hundred years–there’s always work tae be done and improvements tae be made. But she’s a sturdy old lady, whose walls have withstood many a battle with a flood thrown in here and there for good measure.”
“And your father doesn’t live there anymore?”
“When he inherited Kintore Manor, there was a lot of work tae be done. He stayed here for most of it, and then moved a few years after I left Eton. Fancies himself a real gentleman now.” Lachlan grinned as he recalled the last time he’d gone to visit his sire. Robert Campbell had been wearing an actual cravat, with a tailcoat to finish it off. He’d even carried a silver-tipped cane, which he had used to whack his son good-naturedly across the shins when Lachlan doubled over in laughter. “He wouldna lower himself tae be caught in a crumbling castle.”
“Crumbling?” said Brynne, her head tilting.
“A matter of speaking,” he said hastily. “What…what did yer brother have tae say when ye told him we were eloping? I willna lie, I expected tae see him hot on yer heels and tae be rocked back onto mine if he caught ye.” He grinned. “Not that I’d blame him, seeing as I’m running off with his one and only sister.”
“He…didn’t have much to say about it.”
“Really?” Lachlan said skeptically. “I find that hard tae believe.”
Brynne looked down at her hands that she’d folded neatly across her lap. She wore ivory kid gloves that extended past her delicate wrists and ended in a scalloped lace edge. “Maybe because I…I didn’t tell him.”
His eyes narrowed. “And why wouldna ye do that?”
“Just as you said. I knew Weston would try to stop me, and…and I didn’t want him to. This was my decision to make, Lachlan. Not his. Not anyone’s but mine.”
It was a plausible explanation, and yet…
“Then ye mean tae tell him by post after we’re married.”
“I…of course. I’ll send a letter straightaway explaining everything.”
The hesitation was slight, he’d given her that.
Less than half a second.
But the lack of sound it made was the equivalent of a cannon sailing through the air ri
ght before it blasted through a wall.
“Are ye ashamed tae marry me, Bry?” he said stiffly. “If ye are, then say it now, and I’ll have the driver return ye tae Hawkridge Manor before we go another step.”
Lachlan acknowledged that he wasn’t nearly as wealthy or highly titled as the sort of gentleman that Brynne and her family were accustomed to rubbing shoulders with. Her grandfather was a bloody duke, for Christ sakes. While Lachlan only had a “Lord” in front of his name because some bloke had fallen off a ladder and snapped his neck. The social distance between himself and his bride-to-be could span a large country. But while he was able to stomach others looking at him in silent judgment as they questioned how the hell he’d managed such a fine catch as Brynne Weston, he’d be damned if he gazed upon his wife and saw the same question in her eyes.
Money didn’t make a man.
Drive and determination did.
He had plans. Grand plans. And he wanted Brynne by his side as he executed them. But he was not without his pride, and he’d not have her there out of pity or hiding in his shadow because she was afraid of what others would think of her if she stood at his side.
“That’s not it at all,” she protested as the color drained from her cheeks. “I am not ashamed of you, Lachlan. What a horrible thing to accuse.”
“Then what reason–what real reason–do ye have for not telling yer brother?” he said roughly. “Yer father, I can understand. For all that the man’s given ye his attention, ye dinna owe him a second of yers. But there’s no one ye are closer tae than Weston, and lying tae him–”
“I didn’t lie,” she cut in defensively. “I…I merely did not dissuade him of the assumption he made that I was going to Paris to attend art school. Not because I want to hide our marriage, but because I want to celebrate it. And I won’t be able to do that if Weston is storming the blacksmith shop while we’re trying to say our vows. I’ll write to him once we’re settled at Campbell Castle. I will.” She reached across the space dividing them and placed her hand on his thigh. “I love you, Lachlan.”
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“What is it?” she asked uncertainly.
“That’s the first time that ye have said that ye love me.” Enveloping her small hand with his larger one, he shifted closer and rested his chin upon the top of her head. Her hair was soft and smelled subtly sweet, like honeysuckle warmed in the afternoon sun. “We’re going tae have a wonderful life together, Bry. We’ll chase down all those dreams ye told me about when we stared at the stars, and we’ll raise a beautiful family. There will be hard times, aye. There’s no use pretending that there willna.” He moved his fingers down her back. “But they’ll always be outweighed by the good.”
“I’m sure they will be, Lachlan.” On a quiet sigh, she slid her arm across his lap and closed her eyes. “As long as we’re together. That is most important.”
This time, he pretended not to hear the hesitation in her voice.
Chapter Fifteen
They arrived at the tiny parish of Gretna Green as the sun was setting. After changing horses in Kendal, they’d traveled through the night and all the next day, leading Brynne’s legs to fill with pins and needles as she descended from the brougham.
“Oh,” she gasped, and Lachlan was there to catch her before she stumbled.
“The train will make for an easier trip,” he said, looping an arm around her waist. “At least we can walk around and stretch our legs when the mood strikes us.”
As part of the reason her muscles were so cramped was due to the fact that she’d spent the majority of her time practically sitting on Lachlan’s lap, she didn’t know if the train would be much different. But if aching legs were the price for having a handsome rogue’s arms wrapped around her, she’d pay it gladly.
He hadn’t tried to kiss her again.
She’d somewhat hoped that he would.
But there was intimacy to be found in the quiet moments as well. In the holding, and the rhythmic stroke of a hand, and the subtle beat of a contented heart.
“I haven’t traveled this far since Weston and I spent a week on the coast in Scarborough. I forgot what to expect. But this…” Her eyes widening, she stopped short. “This isn’t what I expected at all.”
Admittedly, Brynne hadn’t known very much about Gretna Green before embarking. It was a destination associated with scandal and discussed in hushed tones, with rarely a positive word to be shared amidst Polite Society. She’d assumed it would be like…well, it would be like the time her driver had taken a wrong turn and they had ended up in the East End of London.
But instead of narrow alleys and broken windows, there were cobblestone streets and cheerful blue shutters and a wide main thoroughfare lined with quaint houses and shops. At the far end of the street, on the top of a short knoll, sat a building all by itself. Long and white, with large windows beneath and dormers above, it had a black door flanked on either side with green shrubbery and a wooden sign neatly printed with “Enter Here”.
Her stomach pitched; a rapid rise and fall of excitement and anxiety and an intangible feeling that defied description. She took a half-step towards the building, as if drawn to it by some magnetic force of destiny calling her name but, with a husky chuckle, Lachlan pulled her back.
“Aye, and that’s where we’ll be married in the morning. But for tonight, we’ve food and rooms waiting for us at The Queen’s Head.”
“Rooms?” she asked, questioning the plurality as he effortlessly hoisted their luggage–her small carpet bag and his slightly bigger valise–over his shoulder and proceeded to the inn while she walked beside him, her head on a swivel as she attempted to take in all of the sights and the sounds of her surroundings without letting any detail, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, escape her notice.
She wasn’t a girl who had dreamed about her wedding day at St. Paul’s Cathedral, which was where both her grandparents and parents were married. She hadn’t envisioned hundreds of guests lining the pews, or the half-dozen attendants it would take to carry the heavy train of her gown, or the smell of incense burning.
That day had always remained blank. A canvas yet to be painted. And now that she knew what colors to add, she did not want to miss a single one.
“As we’re not yet husband and wife, I thought ye would be more comfortable in a room of yer own,” Lachlan explained as they entered through the pub and were greeted by the innkeeper. Money was exchanged, the luggage was handed off, and then they were free to find a table.
Her appetite barely that of a rabbit’s, Brynne managed a bowl of broth and a slice of the most delicious bread she’d ever eaten. Still warm from the oven, crispy on the outside, and soft as a pillow within, it tempted her into a second piece, and then–feeling slightly self-conscious–a third.
“What is this called?” she asked, swallowing a moan as she sank her teeth into a fresh slice.
“Fife bannock. A Scottish staple,” he replied, his gaze pinned to her mouth with such blazing intensity that she stopped eating.
“Do I have a crumb on my face?”
“Aye.” But instead of handing her a napkin, he reached for her hand.
She gasped when he took her thumb between his lips and slowly swirled his tongue around it, his eyes–molten shards of garnet–never leaving hers.
“Lachlan!” Her voice was a whimper. A pleading. Although whether she was asking him to stop or to continue, even she wasn’t certain. Shrinking low in her seat, she darted a glance to the left, then the right. The dining room, such as it was, was dimly lit with a combination of wax candles and lanterns, but it wasn’t completely dark. And their table, while positioned in a corner, was hardly hidden from view. “There are people all around.”
Releasing her thumb with a pop of suction, he guided her hand and pressed her thumb, still damp from being inside of his mouth, against her chin.
“There,” he said huskily. “I got it. And I wouldna worry about anyone disapproving of us
. In case ye havena noticed, this is a place for lovers. No one is looking further than the lad or lass sitting right across from them.”
Another surreptitious glance around the room confirmed that he was speaking the truth. Of all the inn’s occupants, only one–the barkeep–was without a partner. But an entire lifetime of propriety was a difficult thing to disregard.
As was the humming in her blood or the slippery wetness between her thighs.
She pushed her chair back. “We should go upstairs.”
“Poor wee lamb,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a rueful smile as he joined her in standing. “Ye must be exhausted, and we’ve another day of travel in front of us after the ceremony. Let’s get ye tae bed.”
By no means would Brynne describe herself as brazen. She was well aware of her sexual inexperience. Her innocence. Her naivety with all things having to do with the bedroom. That wasn’t to say that she was not aware of how the act was done in its most rudimentary form. She’d read books, and Hawkridge Manor had plenty of foals every spring which did not exactly appear out of thin air. Yet watching something as a bystander, and being an active participant, were two entirely different things.
If she were being completely honest, she’d have to admit that she was somewhat intimidated by the idea of sharing her body–her entire body–with Lachlan.
But she was also intrigued.
And having thoroughly enjoyed everything he’d done to her thus far, she could only assume that committing the deed itself would produce just as much (if not more) pleasure than all their kisses combined.
“Yes, I am ready to go to bed,” she said demurely. Then she swallowed, and before she lost her nerve, blurted out, “Except I’ve no intention of sleeping.”
He went very, very still. But for the sudden throb of his pulse at the base of his neck, he might have been frozen.
“Lachlan?” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Do you…do you understand what I mean, or–”
“Aye, I understand,” he said hoarsely. “If this room was empty, I’d already have ye stretched across this table and ye would soon know just how much I understand.”
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