To Scotland, With Love

  She peeked up at him. She had thought it. And loudly, from the dour expression on Gregor’s face. Blast it, what had happened to their comfortable friendship? They had been at loggerheads since his arrival and she wasn’t certain why.

  Of course, he was mainly at fault; he’d been quite rude in his treatment of Ravenscroft, which had sparked her protective nature. She rather glumly wished she hadn’t reacted quite so strongly and championed Ravenscroft; she was sure that had galled Gregor. But really, what else could she do when he’d practically called her a fool and worse?

  She sighed. “Gregor, I don’t know what’s happened to us since we arrived here, but we seem out of step in some way.”

  His expression softened. “Perhaps we are just experiencing each other under different circumstances.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the past, we’ve used each other’s company to alleviate our boredom with life. Now, we must accomplish something together—namely, saving your reputation. That is very different from enjoying a simple canter in the park.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you suddenly believe I’ve lost my common sense.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “I don’t think you’ve lost all of your common sense, just a portion of it.”

  She couldn’t smile back. Something else had changed, too. It had changed with the kiss neither of them was willing to mention aloud. They’d been friends since childhood; she’d seen him fall from his horse and knock loose a tooth when he was nine, and he’d seen her covered in mud at age seven after she’d climbed out of a window in a disastrous attempt to avoid a dreaded dancing lesson. These events and hundreds of others had given them a protection from any sort of romantic involvement.

  Venetia grimaced to think of her parents’ noisy, emotional relationship. She would never make a fool of herself over something as silly as “grand passion,” if it even existed—especially not with Gregor.

  She’d seen how he reacted to the heartsick women in London who’d succumbed to his devastating smile and brilliant green eyes, and she was not about to see him wince whenever she was present. She’d protected her heart by keeping a litany of his faults foremost in her mind and by chastising herself if her imagination should wander. But now, with one kiss, her layer of protection seemed to be tearing as easily as a gauze curtain.

  She straightened her shoulders, pushing away her unease. This was nothing. When they returned to London, things would return to normal and they could go back to their lovely, easy relationship. All she had to do was keep this tension between them at bay until they were in better circumstances. She glanced at him through her lashes.

  Unfortunately, she was still excruciatingly aware of him, and couldn’t help but notice the way his cravat was simply knotted to fill the opening at his neck, his strong throat rising from there. Despite her best intentions, she found herself imagining what it would be like to trace the line of his throat with her fingertips or, even better, her lips.

  The thought sent a cascade of shivers through her.

  “Venetia?” His voice was warm, concerned. He leaned closer, his gaze dark as he captured one of her hands in his. “Are you cold? Perhaps we should go inside—”

  “No, no! I am fine. I was just thinking about this mess.” Venetia looked down at his gloved hand, which was large and well shaped. She had placed numerous cups of tea in his hands and had grasped them getting in and out of carriages without ever noticing them.

  Yet suddenly they seemed so…virile. So seductive. The heat of his skin through the gloves tugged at her, and her blood leapt at the feel of that hand clasped between her own. Would their kiss feel as powerful now, when she wasn’t so tired, so drained? Surely, her powerful reaction last night was merely due to—

  “Venetia?”

  His voice seemed richer, deeper than she’d ever heard it; the soft timbre made her skin prickle in the most annoying way. She looked into his eyes. She had to think of something to say to break the spell, to stop herself from leaning toward him, from seeking yet another kiss like the one she’d had before, wondering if it would taste as good, if her body would leap in response the same way.

  Her hands were shaking, her knees weak, all from wondering about that embrace. Goodness, she couldn’t keep thinking like this! Yet it was a lost cause. She wanted him to kiss her again, she wanted to taste him, to have him touch her, mold her to him, take her—

  His gaze darkened. “Damn it, don’t look at me like that.”

  She tried to swallow. “What do you mean?” But she knew exactly what he meant; she could hide neither her excitement nor her curiosity.

  His brows snapped down, and an almost savage look crossed his face. “Don’t, Venetia. I am not used to resisting temptation, much less from you.”

  Heart pounding, Venetia ripped her gaze from his and stared down at the tips of her boots. It was madness to tempt him, to tempt this feeling, whatever it was. She’d stand there until her heart ceased pounding against her throat and her body stopped feeling as if she stood before a blazing fire.

  A small voice whispered, But what if she did look up at him? What if she threw her arms around him and kissed him the way they’d kissed last night? What if it not only felt as good but even better?

  Venetia fisted her hands, fighting the urge to look up and step forward…right into his arms. But that would be reckless and imprudent. Her relationship with Gregor was worth more than a mere kiss. She was in charge of herself and her feelings, and she would be utterly foolish to put their friendship at risk.

  But somehow, in thinking about why she shouldn’t look at Gregor, Venetia did just that.

  The second their eyes met, Gregor made a sound that was a cross between a laugh and a groan and swept her into his arms, pulling her hard against his chest. Instantly, warmth enveloped her. “I warned you,” he murmured against her ear, his breath hot and shivery. “Now, my love, you’ll pay the price.”

  Chapter 9

  Ah, me wee lassies, there’s only a very few who will tell ye how things really are. Cherish those as tell ye the truth, whether or not ye wish t’ hear it.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  H er pulse thundering, Venetia stopped thinking and gave herself up to the kiss.

  Passion roared through her, exhilarating her like the wild dawn rides through the park she and Gregor loved. The feel of his hot mouth over hers and the pressure of his strong hands as they molded her to him spurred her to want more. Her desire flamed higher, grew wilder.

  She moaned against his mouth, her body on fire. She pressed against him, restless and hot, her tongue teasing his.

  She savored the way he was holding her, his hands cupping her intimately, lifting her from her feet as he held her against him. Her hands slid down his back, over his hips, grasping him and—

  Gregor set her on her feet, grasped her wrists, and pushed her away.

  They stood panting heavily, their breaths puffing in the cold air as they regarded each other with a mixture of amazement and uncertainty.

  Gregor shook his head. “We are mad, the two of us.”

  Venetia’s cheeks flushed; her heart thundered in her ears. Mad didn’t begin to describe it. What had she been thinking? This was Gregor, for heaven’s sake. She knew the cost of such wanton behavior with him, knew the ultimate outcome.

  Embarrassed, she tried to free her wrists, but Gregor held her tight.

  “Be still,” he admonished, his gaze burning into hers.

  She wished with all her heart that she could run away or take back the last few moments and make them disappear.

  But that was impossibile. What had happened between them would be there forever.

  “Gregor,” she whispered, “what are we going to do?” The question hung between them.

  Gregor couldn’t look away from Venetia any more than he could release her. She stood before him, fully covered from neck to toe, her ha
ir mussed and barely held in a loose bun, a straw from the stables sticking out of the back. Her nose was shiny and sprinkled with freckles, her lips swollen from his kiss, their plush slopes glistening with moisture.

  He was fascinated with everything about her. It was all both endearingly familiar, exquisitely new, and completely wrong. He slowly released her wrists, sliding his hands to hers and lacing their fingers. He didn’t wish to release her yet.

  Her lashes trembled against her cheeks before she looked up at him, her cheeks becomingly flushed. She was amazingly sensual, something he’d somehow missed all these years.

  More than anything in the world, Gregor wanted to take her right there—push her to the ground, lift her skirts, and answer the passion he’d felt in her embrace, seen in her eyes. But he couldn’t. This was no ordinary woman but Venetia. He could never do something that might hurt her, even a little. Though he knew without question she would enjoy their lovemaking, afterward…He frowned. Therein lay the problem.

  A woman like Venetia deserved more than his usual “afterward.” He wasn’t a philanderer, but he’d had a healthy number of relationships, most of which ended amicably within a few months, as all good relationships should. All began with passion—though looking at Venetia now, at her pink nose and sparkling eyes, he had to admit that none of those relationships had offered the promise of this one. There was something about her now, here at this inn, in the snow, that fired his senses and stirred his imagination. He yearned to pursue it, to pursue her, but…

  He shook his head, slowly releasing her hands.

  Venetia turned away, her gloved fingertips resting on her lips a moment before she dropped her hand with a self-conscious blush.

  “Don’t,” he said gruffly, wishing he could ease the awkwardness of the moment.

  “I’m sorry, Gregor. This—” She gestured lamely at the space between them. “It never should have happened.”

  “No, it shouldn’t have, but it did.” He met her gaze. “And I can’t say that I’m sorry for it.”

  She managed a creditable smile. “I don’t suppose I am, either. But it would be stupid to allow it to continue.”

  She was right, though that didn’t make it any easier. Bloody hell, how had things gotten so out of hand. He never lost control.

  He caught Venetia’s eyes, a question lurking in their gray depths, and he heard himself say in a harsh voice, “You’re right. It won’t happen again. Ever. We must keep our relationship as friends and nothing more.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. Disappointment? That was certainly what he felt, as heavily as if a stone had been placed on his chest.

  Suddenly, it all seemed unfair. It was unfair that Ravenscroft had caused such disruption in their lives, unfair that they’d gotten stuck there by Gregor’s own damnable temper, and damned unfair that others had been snowbound with them and were cutting up their peace. Every irritation he’d had to deal with since discovering Venetia’s disappearance grew into a huge mass of palpable fury. “We must return to London as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes. Of course. Will we be able to leave today?”

  “No. But if the weather keeps on warming, we might make it tomorrow.” He sent her a level look, then added, “Venetia, when we return, things may be different for you.”

  “I know,” she said evenly. “I know Papa was worried about me, and since he wears his emotions on his sleeve, he may well have said something to the wrong people.”

  “I asked Dougal to make certain he didn’t say anything, but—” He shrugged. “That may not matter once Higganbotham arrives in town, for he will certainly recognize you. Unlike Mrs. Bloom’s, the squire’s eyesight is excellent.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Venetia, you must limit your time with the other guests until we can leave. The less you speak to them, the better.” He smiled grimly. “You have a tendency to make yourself memorable.”

  She eyed him incredulously. “I can’t promise that.”

  “You must. Your reputation is at stake.”

  “Balderdash,” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “It’s too late now; the squire will recognize me already. Besides, there are things that I must do in order to—” She caught Gregor’s gaze and closed her mouth.

  “In order to do what?”

  Venetia shrugged, her chin tilted to a challenging level.

  “Venetia, you must stop meddling in the lives of others. Leave Ravenscroft alone and cease encouraging him to make a cake of himself with Miss Platt.”

  “He is helping to give her confidence.”

  “He is making a fool of himself, and nothing more. Just as he did when he abducted you, spouting all that nonsense about wanting to run away and live in a cottage. Ridiculous.”

  She tilted her head to one side and regarded him somberly, her gaze narrowed as if judging his every word. “Gregor, have you ever been in love?”

  “No, I’ve never been that foolish.”

  “Perhaps that’s what’s wrong with you, then,” she said with asperity. “You’ve been so undisturbed by pesky emotion that you have no sympathy for those around you who are.”

  Gregor’s mouth tightened. “If I have too little emotion, then you, my dear, have too much.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  Her words raked across him like the screech of a rusty nail. Fanned by her obstinacy and his own frustrated lust, his irritation burst into full-fledged anger. “Let’s stop this right here, shall we? I know you’re scheming something with Ravenscroft and Miss Platt, and I will not stand for it.”

  “Gregor, our relationship is one of friendship. Therefore, you have no claim over me or my actions.”

  He scowled. “Because of the difficult situation we are in, I have a claim whether you like it or not.”

  Her mouth tightened and she plopped her fists on her hips. “I don’t like your tone of voice.”

  “You don’t have to like it,” he said baldly. “Your right to like things ended when you were so foolish as to climb into that carriage with Ravenscroft.”

  Her chin tilted up. “I thought the note he’d written was from my father and—oh, blast, I’ve explained all of this to you already!”

  “And it’s still not sufficient,” he retorted, his temper and lust both bubbling to the surface. “I used to think you a woman of good sense, but since yesterday, I have decided that what you really need is a keeper.”

  “Oh! How can you say that? I’ve done nothing but attempt to help, first with Mama, and then with Miss Platt—” She met his gaze boldly. “Never mind. I don’t have to explain myself to you. You, Gregor, are the most demanding, arrogant, selfish person I’ve ever known.”

  Gregor’s eyes seemed unusually bright. “At least I am not a meddlesome brat who tries to run the lives of those around me, and thinks my opinion more important than that of those directly involved. You, my dear, have a certain amount of conceit when you think you know everything.”

  “Do not say another word,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “I can and will. If you wish to return to London with your reputation intact, you will not get involved with Miss Platt and her perceived problems.”

  Too furious to answer, Venetia rammed her fists into the pockets of her pelisse, shivering as a cold breeze stirred the branches overhead and knocked snow to the ground around them with soft plops.

  Gregor raked a hand through his hair, eyeing her furiously. “This entire situation has been nothing but a bother and a mess since the beginning. This is what happens when you try to help someone; everything goes awry.”

  The bitterness in Gregor’s voice hurt Venetia. Did he mean she was a bother and a mess, too?

  Gregor eyed her in a way that answered her question all too well. “If you wish to return home and enjoy your life as it was, then you’ll do as I say. No more meddling.”

  She stiffened. “I am not one of your servants, so you can stop barking orders at me right now.”

  “No, you are not on
e of my servants; they are far more cooperative.”

  “And neither am I one of your—your—ladybirds”—the word dripped distastefully from her lips—“who are always panting after you, willing to do anything to garner your favor. I don’t care what you think about my ‘schemes,’ as you put it. I am a grown woman and know what I’m about, so keep your opinions and your overbearing attitude in your own pocket.”

  Gregor’s lips thinned.

  A ripple of thunder rolled in the distance.

  Venetia frowned up at the sky, realizing with chagrin that as they’d talked, clouds had moved in and had almost obscured the sun. “Blast it, Gregor! Keep your temper. I’d like to leave this inn sometime before next year.”

  His mouth whitened, and thunder cracked overhead, a brilliant fork of white fire crossing the sky.

  She jumped at the sound, her hand pressed to her heart. “Stop that!”

  “You know I can’t control it after it comes. That’s why it’s called a curse,” he snapped.

  “You had better find a way to control it.” She eyed the sky overhead, pulling her pelisse closer to ward off the suddenly cold air. “Perhaps if you stop now, it will not collect as before.”

  “I can keep my temper just fine, providing you don’t try it. I want your promise to stay out of the other guests’ business.”

  She turned, presenting him a profile of her raised chin. “I have no obligations to you. If I think something needs to be done, I will do it, will you, nil you.”

  Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the ground, the sky darker still. Small snowflakes began to sift down.

  Venetia pointed to the sky. “Look what you’ve done now! We’ll never leave.”

  Gregor leaned down, his nose level with hers. “I came a damned long way in this miserable snow just to save your precious hide. The least you can do is stay out of trouble.”

  Her skin flushed a delicate pink, her lips quivering slightly, her bottom lip glistening. Painful awareness tore through him, igniting something hotter than anger, something deep in his veins.

  He wanted to reach out and yank her back into his arms, to press her lush curves against his chest and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe.