Then she was gone, and he was left to wonder if he’d fallen for a fairy from the woods and wilds or a real, flesh-and-blood woman.
A bit of both, he decided as he waited to follow in her footsteps, not wanting to arouse suspicion by having them both return at the same time. Spying a champagne flute that had rolled off the blanket, he went to retrieve the glass…and stopped short when something crunched beneath his heel.
It was the gift he’d brought for Brynne; he must have dropped it when he’d leaned in to kiss her. Wrapped such as it was in a piece of plain brown butcher paper, the small package had blended perfectly with the autumn grass.
There’d be no giving it now, he reflected wryly as he picked up the paper and the gift it contained. The weight of his foot had turned the barley stick to sugar dust.
Inexpensive and easily replaceable, it was no great loss.
Which didn’t explain the abrupt sense of foreboding that overcame him as he folded the paper up and returned it to his pocket…or the unease that slithered between his shoulder blades as he set off for the manor.
Chapter Ten
Present Day
Hawkridge Manor
With some bemusement,Lachlan shook his head to clear it of old memories and went to gather his horse.
His grandmother, a crafty old crone who’d lived to the ripe old age of ninety, had been of the Old Lore. She’d believed in selkies and sprites and kelpies as clearly as she’d believed in anything, and he’d learned all about the Ghostly Piper of Clanyard Bay, and the dragon that killed the Five Maidens of Dundee (a bloody tale that had kept him up for weeks after its telling), and the haunted ships that sailed along the sea of Solway.
He had also learned–but never fully believed–that fate pulled strings mere mortals could not see, and when a person felt a chill in a warm room, or a prickle on the nape of their neck, or (in his case) a quiver of unexplainable disquiet, it was a harbinger of things yet to come.
Which was bollocks, of course.
He made his own way, his own decisions, and fate had no say in what had passed or what was yet to come.
Breaking that barley stick hadn’t sent him and Brynne on their path to ruin. They’d skipped along miserably enough all on their own. And now it was up to them, not some higher mystical power, to fight their way back through the brambles and the brush.
A groom was waiting to take Aislyn when he returned to the stables, and he handed the mare off after feeding her the carrot he’d kept hidden in the inside of his jacket.
“See that she’s given a good rub down,” he instructed. “With a liniment for her legs. Menthol and calendula, if ye have it.”
“We do, my lord,” said the groom before he led Aislyn, happily crunching on her treat, around the back of the barn to the washing stall.
Going to a nearby trough, Lachlan removed his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and splashed cool water on his face and arms. It was hotter out than he’d anticipated, and with the temperature creeping upwards of seventy, he found himself in need of a good rub down as well.
In more ways than one.
As if his thoughts–wicked as they were–had the power to summon, Brynne appeared, walking out of the barn and into the light with her left hand slanted across her brow and her right holding the reins of a gray gelding.
To his fascination (and appreciation), she wore breeches that clung to her shapely thighs and derriere in such a way that they could have only been custom made for her tall, willowy frame. Her torso was concealed beneath a tweed coat with a high collar and stock tie, and her hair was gathered in a twist beneath a narrow hat that tilted jauntily to the side.
If Lachlan wasn’t already in love, he was fairly certain he would have fallen right there. As it stood, he barely managed to keep his tongue from falling out of his mouth as he pushed away from the trough and sauntered across the freshly raked courtyard.
“Would ye look at that,” he drawled, allowing his gaze to travel across every possible inch of her delectably exposed body. “As I live and breathe, Lady Brynne Campbell is wearing trousers.”
Ducking her head, she glared at him beneath her horse’s neck. “It’s Lady BrynneWeston,” she hissed with a quick, furtive glance behind her. “What are you doing here, Lachlan? Why are you forever turning up where you’re not wanted?”
“That’s the bad penny in me, I suppose.” He pushed his fingers through his hair, combing the thick, unruly mane off his temple as he continued to drink in the sight of his wife in men’s clothing. If this was a new fashion trend, it was one he adamantly supported, unlike the bloody crinoline.
A hooped petticoat made of whalebone or wood, a man needed a damned saw to hack through it…and then there were the half-dozen layers of undergarments to contend with. Brynne’s current attire was much more practical. A few buttons, and he could have her stripped to her drawers in a matter of seconds.
If she was even wearing drawers.
Bloody hell.
Did she haveanythingon underneath those arse-hugging breeches?
