What a Spinster Wants - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,96

seized at the thought, but she did not know if she could bear to see him. She could not bring herself to ask if Lachlan had seen him or if he had tried to write.

She didn’t want to know. Not when she ached this way, not when she was so bound up in Sir Reginald’s demands.

But perhaps, with Lachlan’s help and encouragement, she could learn to resist. She could have no better instructor in resistance and rebellion, and now she knew she was not alone.

Now, perhaps, she could fight.

Chapter Twenty-One

A little creativity can change a great deal if one is bold enough to be creative in the face of convention.

-The Spinster Chronicles, 10 May 1815

“Lachlan! Lachlan, stop running about the house with Rufus!”

There was no response but that of the dog bellowing as he thundered down the corridor above her, a much larger, heavier tread accompanying it. Then, she heard a taunting howl that had clearly not come from the canine, which prodded the actual canine to howl, as well.

“Jeebs, Crivvens…” Edith muttered, shaking her head, using various colorful words from home silently as she attempted to complete her embroidery in the parlor.

Embroidery.

She could not remember the last time she had embroidered something, and now, here she was, finishing a project.

She’d actually had the time and the peace of mind to take the task on, and had completed four sketches, five watercolors, and three landscapes.

Time and peace.

She hadn’t had much of either in years.

For some reason, she had not seen Sir Reginald in some time, which was delightful, but also gave her cause to worry. Not for Sir Reginald, naturally, but that something far worse would be coming. He had not come by the house since Lachlan had come to stay, and yet he had to know he was there.

What’s worse was that Lachlan had begun to challenge Edith to go out on her own, without Owen. She was terrified of the idea, but he continually promised that she would be safe.

It was never entirely clear what that meant, but he had been talking so much about resisting and rebellion that it had begun to sound like a fair idea.

So, she had begun.

She had made a few small trips on her own, just brief walks and errands, keeping her head high and pretending she was not a pariah in Society.

One day, she had found that Owen was still following her, though at a very great distance. He was not exactly pleased to have been discovered, but Edith was comforted by it all the same.

A sharp jab of a needle shook Edith from her reflections, and she hissed, shaking the injured finger out as she looked over the embroidery. No harm done there, fortunately.

Rufus could be heard baying loudly now, and Edith looked up at the ceiling ruefully, Lachlan’s low voice audible, but not intelligible.

Lachlan had been wonderful since he’d come to stay with her. He’d kept her from growing despondent, made her smile when she would have been solemn alone, and provided warm conversation with every meal. He did give her time alone and privacy whenever she wished, but if he caught her looking morose, he would do what he could to improve her spirits.

And he was marvelously protective. Sir Reginald’s henchmen had tried to come into the house two days ago, and it had only taken a scant few words from Lachlan and two punches to convince them otherwise.

There had been no attempts by any to enter since then.

Edith knew better than to suspect that her troubles were over, but the temporary reprieve was blessed indeed.

A thundering down the stairs brought a smile to Edith’s lips, and she glanced through the open parlor door to them. “I ken that Noah had a fair few animals in his ark, but if they came oot of that boat in a stampede, I still think ye’d make more noise than the lot of them.”

Lachlan stopped and made a face at her, rather as he had done for most of their childhood. “Dinnae get yerself in a kerfuffle, mo piuthar. The stairs remain unharmed, and yer neighbors will only think yer lover is pleased as punch to be wi’ ye.”

Edith covered her face and leaned forward, laughing in embarrassed hysterics. “Aich, ye gomeral, haud yer whist, and take yer blatherin’ off wi’ ye.”

Her brother chuckled without restraint and came to her, patting her on the head. “Tha’s the mos’ Scottish I’ve heard from ye since…” He trailed off, his hand stroking her hair