“What do you do?” George slurs, sloshing his drink on the table. Jane hurries to blot it with her napkin.
“I work in personal security for a duke on the continent,” Lachlan says calmly, slicing into his fish.
“Which duke?” George asks, leaning over me and pushing his arm against my breast. He’s trying to make it look unintentional, but I know him better than that. I shrink away, scooting closer to Lachlan. “I have loads of connections on the continent. Perhaps I know your employer.”
“I very much doubt that.” Lachlan bakes enough disdain into his answer to redden George’s already ruddy cheeks.
“Did she tell you I’m an earl? From one of the richest families in Breton. You seem a bit of a downgrade.”
Imogene stares daggers at George while Jane slumps into her chair and tosses down her fork.
“George,” I start, testing out some of the authority I’ve earned in the Otherworld, “you are being incredibly?—”
He barrels over me, increasing his volume to drown me out, “How did you two meet?” Beneath the table, his fingers dig into my thigh, and I yelp. “How long after you met did she spread her legs for you? Bet it wasn’t long, the little tramp. She’s a great lay, though, isn’t she? Best I ever had.”
Scandalized gasps overtake the table, and poor Jane chokes out a miserable sob. But the vocal commotion is buried beneath a jangle of glassware and cutlery as Lachlan pushes back from the table and slams George into the wall. At a normal human pace, thank goodness, though I know he could have done it far faster.
Lachlan holds George by the throat, expending no effort whatsoever as George scrabbles at his arm, feet kicking uselessly.
Several of the household staff rush over to intervene, but William stops them. Lizzie’s eyes sparkle with mad glee, and I have the most intense urge to hug both my cousins.
Lachlan calmly picks his teeth with a pinky, dislodging a speck of parsley and examining it instead of George’s purpling face. “Disrespect my wife again and I will rip out your intestines, then use them to fashion you a new cravat.”
He flicks the parsley away, then bolts his eyes to George, whose entire face slackens as a stain spreads down his trousers. “Is that clear?”
George nods furiously, and Lachlan drops him to the floor. One of my uncle’s valets whisks George from the room, Jane scurrying away behind him. I feel terrible for her. I cannot believe I ever envied her.
The thunderclouds lift, and the rest of the meal passes in easy conversation. No one remarks on George’s behavior—nor the things he just revealed about us—and I am, for once, grateful for the Bretonnic tendency to sweep unpleasantness under the rug.
William and Imogene share hilarious stories of little Edward’s misadventures, and it is obvious the entire family unit adore one another.
Over dessert—a raspberry meringue so airy it melts at first contact with my tongue—Charles describes the architectural plans for his and Lizzie’s new home, spending a particularly longtime detailing the four wardrobes he designed specially for her, one for each season. She beams at him, and he seizes her hand, pressing a long kiss to the back of her palm.
Even Aunt Teddy comes over to grill Lachlan about his financial status and land holdings and plans for the future. She’s being just as overbearing as she’s always been, and maybe it’s the food or the drink or the company, but I see it differently now. Less an act of control and more a means to ensure my safety in a world that can be dangerously cruel for women.
Throughout, Lachlan drapes his arm over the back of my chair, twirling my hair through his fingers or stroking my neck. The casual intimacies of two people who belong to each other. I can hardly bear it. Because I never want him to stop.
The evening ends, we say our goodbyes, and the lie tastes bittersweet when I promise we’ll visit again soon.
Still, I am glad we had time for this. I feel settled in a way I never expected.
That night at the inn, I am so exhausted from the past two days and the altercation with George and the impending sadness of never seeing my family again that all I manage is to let Lachlan strip off my dress, carry me to bed, and fold me up in his arms.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck and am asleep in seconds.
Chapter
Forty-Nine
The area of the woods that Lachlan leads me to the next morning is not far from where I used to take my daily drawing walks.
We woke early—too early, in my humble opinion—to ensure we’re in place as soon as dawn arrives and this special tree (about which Lachlan is being very secretive, if I’m honest) reveals itself.
We turn down a dark, overgrown path, and I can barely see a foot in front of me. I’m yawning, as wobbly-legged as a fawn, so I don’t protest much when, after I trip over a root, Lachlan scoops me into his arms.
“Probably should have let me work on my hiking skills,” I murmur, resting my head on his bulging shoulder. “I’ll face greater dangers than exposed tree roots during the Wild Hunt.”
He tenses, but doesn’t respond.
