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 veryworstperson 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 whenBrynne, 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 waspracticallya 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 notmegoverness, 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.”
