Seduced by the Scot (The Perks of Being an Heiress #3) - Jillian Eaton

Chapter One

Lachlan smelled her perfume before he saw her.

It was a delicate, intimate scent. Difficult, if not impossible, to discern from the wild pink roses that surrounded the gazebo in a tangled sprawl of pale pink and deep green. Had he not held her in his arms, or pressed his mouth to the sensitive stem of her neck, or slept beside her when the only two things she wore were moonlight and that intoxicating perfume, he might have missed it.

But Lachlan had done all those things. And more. Which was why his nostrils flared and his eyes darkened with recognition the instant before he stepped around the side of Hawkridge Manor and saw her sitting in the gazebo, looking as pretty as a picture with her paintbrush in hand and her golden hair swept back from her countenance in an elegant coiffure.

She was the epitome of an English lady. Fair coloring, high cheekbones, a long, willowy frame. A top lip that was ever-so-slightly heavier than the bottom and curved in the shape of a cupid’s bow. Hazel eyes, flecked with green, which could go as sharp as a scalpel or as soft as lamb’s wool, depending on her mood. A faint dusting of freckles, so slight as to nearly be invisible, across the bridge of her nose.

In his humble opinion, Lady Brynne Weston was the most beautiful creature that God had ever seen fit to create. Was it any wonder he had fallen in love with her when he was a lad of sixteen? And had remained in love with her these eleven years past as he’d grown from a bairn into a man.

He’d loved her every month, every day, every second.

For Lachlan, it was always Brynne.

Which was why he had finally returned to claim her. To apologize for his wrongs, and to make her remember–she had to remember–how good they’d been together before he allowed secrets to tear them apart.

His boots sank silently into the grass as he approached the gazebo. Growing up in a rambling castle with a father whose hand had been heavy and vicious, particularly after a night of drinking, Lachlan had learned at a young age to walk without making a sound.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps and, for a moment, he simply allowed himself to drink in the sight of her. This was the closest they’d been in a year. And it had been eighteen months of torment. Eighteen months without hearing her laugh, or seeing the shape of her smile, or tasting the sweet nectar of her lips.

Surely there was no greater torture contrived by man than being kept from the woman he loved. Give him the rack, or the wheel, or that horrific metal box with the spikes in it. He’d take them all, gladly, if it meant never having to go another day without seeing his Brynne.

Her face was obscured by the large easel, but she’d stretched her legs out in front of her stool as she worked, affording him a tantalizing glimpse of her slender calves enclosed in silk stockings.

Not so very long ago, he’d peeled those stockings off of her…with his teeth. He would like nothing better than a repeat performance of that very memorable night, but he had a feeling that Brynne wasn’t going to be nearly as happy to see him as he was to see her…considering the last time they were together she’d pointed a pistol at his nether regions and told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he ever dared approach her again she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

Feisty lass.

“Could you step to the side please, Mae?” she said without bothering to glance up from her canvas. “I fear you’re in my light.”

Her voice, as lilting and musical as chimes in the wind, was like a balm to his soul.

“Is this better?” he drawled, moving slightly to the left.

Blue paint splattered across the gazebo’s white floorboards as the paintbrush she’d been holding fell from her fingers. Lachlan unconsciously held his breath as Brynne rose to her feet, and released it on a spill of air from the corner of his mouth when her shocked, furious gaze met his.

“Get out of here,” she whispered, pointing in the direction of the drive where his belongings, unbeknownst to her, were being unloaded and carried into the manor as they spoke. “Before I pick up that brush and stab you through the heart with it.”

Like the roses her perfume reminded him of, Brynne’s thorns were buried