“I’ll be fine over here,” she said primly, sweeping her skirts to the side as she sat next to her painting box which contained everything from turmeric powder to mix the deep hue of a sunset to brushes specifically carved to fit her hands and tipped with horsehair from her beloved pony, Peach, who had passed five years ago but whose spirit she felt whenever she worked on a canvas.
Peach had been a present from Weston.
The powders and pigments she used to mix her paints she’d bought herself.
And the set of brushes…the set of brushes was an engagement gift from Lachlan.
Or maybe they were a wedding present.
Things had happened with such unprecedented quickness, there’d hardly been a line distinguishing her from a fiancée to a bride. And then, just as fast, an estranged wife.
She’d worn so many crowns in such a short period time.
Was it any wonder that none had fit as she hoped they would?
“You should know that I’ve already sent word to my solicitor,” she began. “I’ll be traveling to London to meet with him in person at the end of the week.”
Leaning forward, Lachlan balanced his chin on the heel of his hand. “And what is it ye’re paying him for?”
“To find a rapid and relatively painless way to dissolve our marriage.”
“We canna get a divorce,” he said, almost smugly. “I’ve already hadmysolicitor look intae it, and we meet none of the standards.”
“No, but we can apply to the courts for judicial separation.”
As his smirk swiftly changed to a scowl, he sprang to his feet and began to pace while Brynne looked on, using every facial muscle she possessed to keep her expression from revealing the tumultuous waves of emotion that were crashing inside of her.
She knew, of course, that they’d have to eventually have this conversation.
She just hadn’t expected it to be this soon…or in person. Where she couldseethe impact it had on him and feel the weight of it on her own shoulders. Pushing her down below the water where the past and the present were impossibly entwined. Down where she couldn’t see the light. Down where she couldn’t draw a full breath.
“What the devil does that mean?” he demanded. “Judicial separation. Sounds like a bluidy disease.”
“Essentially, it is what we have been doing. But–but we’d be making it permanent.” When her heart rate started to accelerate and her throat tightened, she reminded herself to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth. When that didn’t work–when it only made it worse–she staggered to her feet and turned blindly towards the house. “I…I need to lie down.”
Lachlan’s countenance darkened. “The hell ye do. We’re going tae have this out, Bry. Right bluidy here and right bluidy now. No more excuses. No more running. We’ve both things we need tae say, and we’re going tae say them.”
“You–you don’t understand,” she gasped as spots danced in front of her eyes and the earth tilted beneath her feet. “I…I…”
“Brynne!” Lachlan’s shout of alarm echoed in her ears as if from a great distance.
With a graceful spin, she started to slide bonelessly to the ground and would have collapsed in a heap of satin and crinoline if her husband hadn’t been there to catch her, his strong arms sliding around her ribcage to support her against the hard, flat plane of his chest.
“Easy, little songbird,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ve got ye.”
He guided her into the gazebo and placed her in the shade, then flagged down a maid and, within minutes, a glass of cool lemonade was pressed into her trembling hands.
A few moments in the blessed quiet, a few sips of tart lemonade, and her vision began to clear, the awful pounding began to subside, the slippery taste of copper in the back of her mouth began to recede. As her internal balance was reasserted and the world righted itself, she saw that Lachlan was kneeling beside her, his hand on her knee and a line of worry etched between those thick warrior brows.
“Thank you,” she said, managing a grateful, albeit weak smile.
“What happened? Are ye ill?” For an instant–just an instant–his gaze slipped to her belly and his face paled. “Are ye…?”
“No. No. I haven’t…since we separated…that is to say…”
“I’m glad tae hear it. The idea of someone else touching ye…I wouldna be able tae bear it.” His grip on her leg intensified, fingers curling possessively around her thigh. “Ye’remewife, Bry. No other man has a right tae ye but me, and I’d meet any who tried with pistols at dawn.”
For some husbands–for most–such a statement would have been hyperbole. She found it hard to imagine any of her brother’s friends being bothered enough by their wife’s indiscretions to put down their cigar, let alone put their lives as risk. But then Lachlan had as much in common with those foppish dandies as a wild wolf did with a lazy house cat.
