They ate in companionable silence–Lachlan was hungrier than he’d thought–and when there was only a spattering of crumbs and a sliver of cheese remaining, he tossed the remnants of the basket into the water for the trout save a short, rectangular stick wrapped in a piece of brown paper.
“Ye want tae know why I did this?” he asked as he lowered himself onto the blanket directly beside her. Another inch, and his muscular thigh would be pressed firmly against her hip. Despite not having a chair at her back, she sat straight as an arrow, her skirts, a frothy seafoam green that brought out the shards of emerald in her eyes, arranged in a prim half-circle that covered her legs all the way to her evening slippers.
“I do,” she said, flicking a demure peek at him from beneath her lashes.
He began to unwrap the paper, careful not to break what was inside. “I wanted tae do something just for ye.”
She gave a short, bewildered laugh. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we just left an entire house party that was for me.”
“That tent, the music, the bluidy caviar–which is disgusting, by the way.” His face contorted in a grimace. “Who in their right mind decided tae yank a poor sturgeon out of the river, take its eggs, and serve them up in a fancy bowl?”
“I believe it was Russian fisherman, and caviar is considered a rare delicacy.”
“Delicacy me arse,” he snorted. “Might as well pour saltwater in a cup and call it a day.”
“It is an acquired taste,” she admitted. Then she lowered her voice. “I don’t like it very much.”
“No one does. But ye serve at yer parties because that’s what ye think ye’re supposed tae do, and everyone gobbles it up with a smile on their face because everyone else is doing it. And nobody stops tae think ‘bluidy hell, we’re eating the raw eggs of a fish’.”
“And that’s why you planned a picnic?” she asked with a polite, albeit puzzled smile. “So that I wouldn’t have to eat caviar? That’s…that’s thoughtful of you, Lachlan.”
“Aye. Wait. No.” Hell, he was already bungling it, wasn’t he? At three and twenty, he had his fair share of experience with women. Had even kept a mistress for a time, a bonny village lass by the name of Allison Adair. Suffice it to say, he’d earned himself a reputation as quite the charmer. And he couldn’t remember when he’d ever lacked for the right words to say. But maybe that was because the words hadn’t carried any true weight or repercussions, and if he said the wrong thing, well, there was always another village lass to warm his bed on a cold night.
But there was only one Lady Brynne Weston.
He placed his hand on top of hers, his fingers–callused and tanned from hard work in the sun–enveloping her porcelain skin. “I brought ye here because this is where I knew ye would be happy. In the calm, and the quiet, where ye dinna have tae wear that mask on yer face. Where ye dinna have tae pretend. Where I can watch that pretty pink blush spread across yer cheeks when I tell ye how gorgeous ye are. Aye,” he said huskily as her color deepened. “Just like that.”
“Lachlan–” she began, but he wasn’t finished.
“I see ye, Brynne. Every piece of ye. And I wanted tae bring ye out of the shadows of that bluidy mausoleum and intae the sunlight so that ye could shine.”
He hadn’t planned to kiss her.
But neither had he planned to fall in love when he was a lad of sixteen.
With Brynne, there was never a plan.
From the first second her saw her out that carriage window, it was all heart, and hope, and feeling. So when he brushed his mouth across hers in a silken caress, it felt as natural as breathing.
Because it was always Brynne for him.
“Was that all right?” he asked, intently searching her gaze as he pulled back to gauge her reaction. He’d never do anything to hurt her. And his stomach plummeted when she gave a small, hesitant shake of her head.
“No,” she whispered as her hand splayed across the center of his chest, the tips of her fingers scalding his flesh with all the heat of a raging fire. “I want more.”
His breath caught, then quickened. When arousal hit him like a punch to the gut, he ordered himself to remain in control. Brynne was no lusty barmaid who’d be content with a roll in the hay. She was a lady. Delicate. Pure.Innocent.And as the flames of passion crackled and hissed, his entire body trembled with the force it took not to press her onto her back and sate the wild hunger howling for release inside of him.
Instead, he gently wound his arm around her narrow ribcage, supporting her slight weight as he once again lowered his chin to kiss her and this time…this time, she kissed him back.
A tad clumsily, as far as kisses went.
It was obvious she’d never done this before.
But the novice press of her plump mouth against his was more enticing than anything–or anyone–he’d ever had the pleasure of experiencing.
Kissing Brynne was a softly falling mist on a spring day.
It was the first star twinkling in the sky at sunset.
