“Well, in that case, I don’t feel bad doingthis.” Drawing his arm back, Weston punched it forward in a blow that caught Lachlan completely unprepared on the side of his chin and sent him stumbling sideways into a table.
“Weston!” Brynne cried, shocked and dismayed.
“It’s all right, Bry.” Wincing and working his jaw back and forth, Lachlan staggered to his feet. “I deserved that.”
Weston snorted. “You’re damned right you did. Now, pour all three of us a glass of brandy, let’s have a seat, and discuss how it is I’m just now learning that I have a Scot for a brother-in-law.”
They sat and they talked. At some point, they were joined by Evie, who took one glance at Brynne and Lachlan sitting side by side on the chaise lounge holding hands while Weston glowered at them from his chair like an overprotective father, and all but hopped in delight.
“See?” she said, flitting across the room to stand behind her husband-to-be. “I knew you would fly!”
Weston turned his head to slant his fiancée a narrow-eyed glare. “You knew about this?”
“Only for a few days,” she said with an airy flick of her wrist.
“A few…” Growling something indecipherable under his breath, he shook his head. “You should have told me. I’m going to be your husband.”
“Yes, butsheis my sister.” Evie grinned at Brynne, who smiled back.
How fortunate she was. A husband who loved her, two sisters who supported her no matter what, and a brother who adored her (just as soon as he recovered from finding out one of his best mates had married his twin).
They were like individual stars that made up the same constellation, she thought. Separate but always connected, even when they didn’t know it yet.
And Lachlan, well, he was her North Star.
Pointing her to home, and hope, and happily-ever-after.
Epilogue
“Lachlan, it’s…it’sbeautiful.” Stunned, Brynne traced her fingertips across an antique tapestry as she wandered through the newly renovated foyer of Campbell Castle.
Her husband told her before they left London that he’d begun to work on his childhood home, but he had neglected to specify just how much work he had done.
The old stone floors had been ripped up and replaced with kiln-dried oak harvested from the forests behind the castle. The wide planks, sanded smooth and polished with beeswax, brought a much-needed warmth to the room. As did the tapestries hanging on the walls and the removal of the cobwebs from the ceiling beams. Even the roof had been patched, with nary a bucket in sight. The parlor was done as well, and the sight of it stopped her in her tracks.
“Lachlan Campbell,” she said. “Is thatrealfurniture?”
Crossing his arms, he rocked onto his heels and grinned at her. “Aye.”
As Brynne gazed at the beautiful set of matching chairs in striped silk and elegant settee and mahogany sideboard, it occurred to her–somewhat belatedly–that her husband had taken this task upon himself wellbeforetheir reconciliation. He’d done this for her without having any true confirmation that she would ever return to see it and, once again, she found herself humbled by his faith in her.
His faith inthem.
Lachlan had always believed.
Even when she hadn’t.
When shecouldn’t.
And how she loved him for it.
Which was why, at the dinner party where her brother had clocked her husband in the side of the face (a story, no doubt, that would be retold at many a family gathering), she’d discreetly pulled Lady Theresa aside and casually let her marriage to Lachlan slip. Not to prove her love, but to show how proud she was of it.
Oh, to have been able to capture Theresa’s expression!
The shock, the awe, the sheerdelightof being handed the juiciest piece of gossip to hit thetonsince it was discovered that the Marquess of Dorchester had an illegitimate American daughter.
Brynne had made certain to ask Theresa not to tell a soul, all but guaranteeing that the news would be printed in theLondon Callercome morning. And while it hadn’t gone quite that far, it wasn’t long before everyone knew that Lady Brynne Weston had married the barely titled second-born son of a Scot.
