Not for himself.
Not for Lady Crowley.
But for Brynne.
Because the dowager countess was right. He would never be suitable for her.Especiallyif she knew the truth of his situation. And she deserved everything she’d worked so bloody hard for while being locked in that gilded cage all those years. Which was a duke. Maybe a marquess, or even a wealthy earl. But not a damned Scotsman who would never inherit a formal title of his own, or a proper estate to go along with it. A Scotsman who was saddled with a crumbling castle, and a distillery that had yet to turn a profit, and two brothers to feed. Make that three and a sister, counting the newborn twins, which he was sure would arrive in a pretty basket on his doorstep any day now.
They always did.
Thus he had left, and he hadstayedaway, for the better part of two years.
Until the invitation arrived.
Maybe a better man would have ignored it, or sent his apologies for not being unable to attend. But he wasn’t a damned saint. And you couldn’t dangle a rabbit in front of a wolf and not expect it to give chase.
He’d given Brynne two years to find a “suitable match”.
Twenty-four months.
One hundred four weeks.
And when he had walked into Hawkridge Manor and their eyes had met from across the drawing room, it was as if not a single day had passed.
“All right,” he said, untying the simple knot he had used to cover her eyes and shoving it into his pocket. “Ye can look.”
He looked at her as she looked at the stream. Felt a rumble of pleasure in his chest when her gaze widened and her lips parted as she saw the checkered blanket he’d laid out and the wicker basket he’d paid a footman to sneak into the kitchens and fill with fresh melon, cheese, cold slices of beef…and a surprise, just from him.
“You…you’ve planned a picnic for us?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. At her display of stunned wonder, it was all he could do not to pluck her up in his arms and kiss her until the sun fell below the horizon and the stairs painted the sky in diamonds.
“Aye,” he said gruffly. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the blanket and gestured for her to sit, then poured them both a glass of the champagne he had nabbed from the grand white tent set up on the east lawn where the other guests were enjoying music, and drink, and caviar chilled in tiny porcelain bowls.
It wouldn’t be long before Brynne, acting as her brother’s hostess, was missed.
An hour at most.
But he intended to make use of every minute.
“Tae old friendships and new adventures,” he murmured, lightly clinking their crystal flutes together.
“To old friendships and new adventures,” she repeated solemnly. Then she took a sip of the champagne, and the lines of tension in her face–tension, it seemed, that only he was capable of seeing–eased and the stiff, formal lady of the manor who’d greeted him upon his arrival gave way to the bright-eyed, curious, happy lass who had stolen his heart on a bench underneath an old oak tree…and never returned it.
“Why go to all this trouble?” she asked. “There is food and champagne aplenty in the tent. A lovely string quartet, as well. Not to mention that Ireallyshouldn’t have snuck off. If someone notices my absence…” With a bemused shake of her head she trailed off, as if she weren’t quite sure how she’d gotten here.
“Wasna trouble tae me.” He lifted his shoulder. “I stole everything from yer brother.”
“Lord Campbell,” she chided with a sideways glance.
“LadyBrynne,” he mocked with a half-grin.
She gave him a censorious frown over the rim of her glass. Then the corners of her mouth twitched. “You’re still very much that young boy, aren’t you? Disobeying rules. Pushing boundaries. Flirting with trouble any chance you get.”
“I’m flirting with more than trouble,” he mumbled into his champagne before he tilted his head back and downed the entire flute.
Her fair brows knitted. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” he said easily. “Melon?”
“Yes, please.”
