“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 aprison.”
“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’venoidea 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 wagonjostled 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 thebestchoice 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 beenjoyinghimself.
“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 ablanket), 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.
