Please let us leave soon.
The stable door opened, and Venetia heard Gregor speaking with the squire about the horses. She leaned forward, watching the two men walk toward the inn as they discussed the merits of various mounts.
The squire said something to Gregor about the fallibility of hired cattle, and Gregor laughed. The breeze teased his dark hair, ruffling it around his brow.
When the two men reached the inn door, Gregor opened it. As he stepped aside for the squire, he glanced up and met Venetia’s gaze.
For a long moment, neither moved. Then Gregor’s expression softened into a smile. He lifted his hand and gave her a quick wink. It was so much like the old Gregor that Venetia smiled back, her heart leaping. Perhaps nothing was changed after all. It was then that she realized how much she’d been worried about ruining the friendship she held so dear.
Venetia listened to Gregor’s footsteps as he joined the others in the common room. No doubt Miss Platt was even now wondering if Gregor’s welcoming glance meant anything. Venetia shook her head. Miss Elizabeth Higganbotham was a wealth of misinformation, although Venetia would wager her best shoes that the flighty Elizabeth wouldn’t have avoided Gregor after a mere kiss. No, she would have enjoyed the embrace, discussed it with all of her friends, and boldly gone back for more.
A wave of determination warmed Venetia, and she closed the window, then left the room and ran down the stairs, her boots clacking on each step.
“There you are.”
Gregor leaned against the wall at the bottom of the steps, his arms crossed over his chest. It wasn’t fair how good he looked.
He appeared perfectly groomed, his cravat straight, his coat smooth and well fitting.
He pushed away from the wall and came to the bottom of the steps. “Venetia, we must talk.”
He saw her hesitate, a shadow crossing her face. Then she straightened her shoulders and came down the last few steps. “Yes,” she said, “we do have things to speak about.” She looked up at him, her gaze clear and direct.
He smiled reluctantly. No woman ever looked him in the eye the way she did, without flirting or prevaricating. After her snowball attack, he’d imagined that she’d be contrite and would prettily beg his forgiveness, concerned about his good opinion and worried about his feelings toward her. Instead, she met his gaze without the slightest hint of apology.
His chest warmed a bit; her frosty attitude this last day had affected him more than he’d wanted to admit. He’d come to rely on Venetia in some ways, and being in her bad graces was not a position he enjoyed. She knew him better than anyone else, even his own family. She knew his likes, his dislikes, his family woes and successes, and about the family curse. And like a true friend, she accepted him, lumps and all. As he accepted her, appreciating her uniqueness.
Which was why last night, unable to sleep yet again, he’d decided that he couldn’t just walk away from the sparks that flared between them. He couldn’t.
She wet her lips nervously and said in a rushed voice, “Gregor, we need to forget what happened yesterday and go back to the way things were.” She peeped up at him through her lashes as she spoke. “Surely you agree?”
“I agree that would be the best course of action…if it could be done.”
Her shoulders sagged. “We can’t go back?”
“Venetia, I don’t think you understand how these things work.”
“What things?”
“Desire. Passion. Lust.”
“Oh,” she said in a small voice, “those things.”
“I cannot become unaware of you simply because you wish it or because it would be more convenient for us. We can ignore it, perhaps, though I’m not even certain of that.”
His gaze flickered to her hair, and he smiled. Every day seemed to find her with fewer pins until her usual neat hairstyle had softened, silky tendrils clinging to her ears, curling along the delicate line of her throat.
Gregor’s body tightened. This was what had changed. Now he saw Venetia as she actually was, not as he expected her to be. In London, she was the same little girl he’d met all those years ago, rebelling against her parents and laughing all the way. Over the years, she’d changed, but he’d been blind to it all.
Now he couldn’t look at her enough. Last night, tossing and turning in the small, lumpy bed, the squire’s deep snores punctuated by Ravenscroft’s sleep. murmurs, Gregor had been haunted with thoughts of Venetia. He’d told himself over and over that she was not for him, that the attraction would fade once they reached London—but some part of him whispered that it would be a waste to let that happen. That they should explore the tempting madness for their mutual benefit, if nothing more.
He’d tried to reason away that thought, to tell himself that Venetia was not a woman to enjoy trifling. But he could not deny the passion in her kiss, the way her lips had trembled beneath his, and how she’d unconsciously clutched him closer.
By morning, he’d been determined to speak to her. The only way to truly exorcise this madness was to embrace it, to follow it to its logical conclusion, whatever that was. Denying it only made it grow stronger, and God help them both if that happened.
He took her hands in his and said in a soft voice, “Venetia, though we can’t go back to what we had before, we can move forward.” He lifted his hand and slid it over her cheek.
Venetia shivered, her eyes closing for a moment, her lashes resting on the crests of her cheeks.
“Do you feel that?” he asked in a low voice. “Do you feel how the touch of my fingers makes your body react?”
She nodded, biting her lip in a way that made him ache.
“Venetia, we can still be friends, but we can also—”
“No.”
“At least listen to—”
“Gregor, we can’t let this attraction mean anything.”
He leaned forward so that his legs were pressed against her, his breath tracing over her cheek as he said into her ear, “At this very moment, I am raging with the desire to touch, to taste you. How am I to stop that? Are you certain you want me to?”
A shiver raced through her.
Gregor placed his hand on her shoulder, sliding it slowly down her arm. “I want to release your hair and watch it stream over your bare shoulders. But I can’t. Not here.” He dropped his hand and moved away. “But in London…when no one is about…” He let the words linger, filling the intimate space between them.
For the barest moment, she swayed as if she’d follow him, then caught herself and crossed her arms in a protective move.
Gregor watched her with a sense of satisfaction. Desire had darkened her eyes and flushed her skin. She couldn’t stop it, either, no matter what she said.
“Venetia, we would be foolish to let this opportunity slip away.”
Her lips tightened at his words. “Gregor, whether it was the snow, or being too close together, or just pure irritation boiling over into…whatever it was, I don’t want to know more about it, and I definitely do not wish to experience it again.”
He knew that with one touch, he could prove her wrong.
When her eyes met his, he realized that she knew it, too. Knew it and was fighting against it for all she was worth.
He took a step toward her, his blood simmering, his body tight with desire, but she whirled away, almost running to the common room. She sent him one last glance over her shoulder before she slipped into the room, then closed the door firmly behind her. Gregor started to follow, but the chorus of welcoming female voices from inside the room stopped him. She was not alone, damn it.
He stood for a long while, his gaze locked on the closed door, his body aching. Blast her for denying this physical attraction. It would never go away unless they dealt with it.
Never.
Gregor finally headed outside, the cool air welcome on his skin. Venetia might be safe from him now, but there would come a time when they’d be alone.
Things would be different then.
>
Chapter 11
The MacLeans are men of great, great passion, which can be a blessin’ and a curse.
OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING
G regor strode toward the barn. Damn it all, what did she expect from him? To ignore the passion that flared between them? That was a stupid way to handle the situation. They had to act on that passion, investigate it, find out what fueled it. Only then could they begin to control it. The only other remedy was to stop their friendship, and never again see one another, and he refused to do that.
Gregor paused outside the barn to let the sun warm his face. It was still too cold for the snow to melt, and he shivered a bit, wishing he’d stopped to get his greatcoat.
A noise from the stables caught his attention, and he saw the warm light that shone from the cracks in the doors. It would be warmer there than in the middle of the innyard.
As he headed to the barn, his boots crunched in the new snow, mocking him. What a horrid mess.
Gregor’s breath puffed into the frosted air as he reached the barn doors. He paused there and glanced back at the large window of the common room, but no face showed between the curtains.
He turned away, disgusted at his disappointment. What had he expected? That Venetia might be peering out, remorse on her face? He snorted loudly, grabbed the barn door, and swung it open, then closed it quickly behind him. The barn appeared empty, but the murmur of voices and the glow of a lantern in the far stall told him otherwise.
Of course, Ravenscroft was there. The youth had left the inn after breakfast, probably to avoid the overly female presence inside—especially Miss Platt, who’d seemed to hang on his every word.
Gregor made his way toward the glow in the back of the barn, pausing to pat the noses of the horses, their heads hanging out of their stalls for attention.
A large, sturdy bay whickered when Gregor approached. Gregor rubbed the animal’s nose and received a playful butt against his arm for his trouble. “Feeling your oats, hm?”
Ravenscroft’s head appeared around the corner of the far stall. “Halloo there, MacLean! Come and join us! Your man Chambers and I are enjoying a nice rum toddy!” Ravenscroft’s voice was slurred with drink.
“A bit early for that, isn’t it?” Gregor asked. The last stall door had been propped open, and a circle of barrels was placed around a small, glowing stove that Chambers was refilling with wood. A pot simmered on the stove, the pleasant scent of rum toddies sifting through the air.
Chambers closed the door of the stove and set the poker in a metal ash bucket. “Nothing like a good rum toddy to beat the cold weather from your bones.” The groom looked shrewdly at Gregor. “Ravenscroft here has been saying there are a few too many petticoats in the inn fer his liking.”
Gregor grunted in agreement.
The groom nodded. “I thought you might come out here sooner or later.”
“Yesh,” Ravenscroft interjected. “He tol’ us all you would be here, and he made us leave you the best barrel!” Ravenscroft found his way back to his own barrel and gestured for Gregor to join him on a nearby empty seat. “Isn’t thish the best parlor in the inn?” Ravenscroft’s face brightened. “Has Mish Oglivie missed me yet?”
“No.” Gregor made himself comfortable on the barrel. “Why is this barrel better than yours?”
Ravenscroft stood, turned, and bent over, displaying his rump to Gregor. “Splintersh.”
Chambers bit back a laugh. “Lord Ravenscroft, Lord MacLean does not need to see your, ah, posterior.”
Ravenscroft plopped himself back onto his barrel and winced. “It hurts like the dickensh, it does.”
“Then why do you continue sitting there?”
“Because it’s near the rum toddies.” Ravenscroft found his cup, which had fallen to the ground. He picked it up, stared deeply into it, ran his finger around the inside, and licked it. He sighed. “It’sh all gone.”
“So are you,” Gregor said.
The groom sent Gregor a sharp glance. “Seems like the weather has settled a bit.”
“Shnow!” Ravenscroft snorted. “In April! Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“Whoever indeed?” Chambers murmured. He picked up an empty cup and used a small pewter ladle to fill it, then handed it to Gregor. “Here, my lord. To warm you a bit.”
Gregor took the cup, the warmed metal sending feeling back into his numbed fingers.
“Where’s your coat?” Ravenscroft asked, suddenly sitting straighter.
“I left it inside,” Gregor said shortly.
Chambers quirked a brow. “On the run, are you?”
“What?” Ravenscroft said, outrage in his voice.
“Did thoshe—thoshe harridans throw you out, too?”
“No one threw me out. I came of my own free will.” Gregor took a sip of the toddy, the warmth spreading through him immediately.
“You are jusht trying to keep your pride. I undershtand.”
“No, I’m not. I came here because I wished to—”
“Ha!” Ravenscroft lifted his fist toward a wall. “Damn all of you, you—you—you women!”
Chambers poured himself a toddy and eyed the younger lord with mild curiosity. “That’s not the direction of the inn.”
Ravenscroft stared at the wall. “It’s not?”
“No. That’s the direction of the road.”
“Oh.” Ravenscroft grabbed the sides of his barrel and turned in the opposite direction. Slowly, he rose to his feet and stood swaying, lifting his fist again. “Here! Thish—thish—whatever I said before!”
“Well done,” Chambers said. “Perhaps you should sit down again.”
“Yes,” Gregor said, noting how the younger lord was swaying. “You might fall against the stove and I do not wish to hear you howl.”
Ravenscroft sat, holding his empty cup.
As Gregor drank, he began to relax and feel more like himself. Some of it was the toddy, but a good bit was the distance between himself and Venetia.
He sighed. He’d handled his conversation with Venetia with the finesse of a fishmonger. She didn’t understand desire. But how could she? In many ways, she was more innocent than the squire’s painfully naive daughter.
Which was yet another reason her passion astounded Gregor. He took a fortifying drink, wishing Venetia had been willing at least to discuss the issue with him, but she’d rejected him before he’d even gotten the words out. In all of his years, no woman had ever been so adamantly set against him.
For a long moment, he simmered over that. Yet even as he did so, he realized he should have agreed to follow whatever course Venetia desired. Then at least he still would have had the easy contact with her that he’d always enjoyed. Now she would regard him with suspicion no matter what he did. If he ignored her, she’d think he was still angry, and if he paid attention to her, she’d think he was attempting to seduce her.
Good God, what a mess! Perhaps…perhaps if he just acted normally, things would go back to the way they had been. Perhaps when they returned to London, the usual bevy of beauties would dull the attraction that had sprung up between him and Venetia, and it would disappear.
He slowly sipped the toddy. Perhaps that was what it was: a lack of competition. If he’d been caught in this infernal storm with any woman, he would most likely see her in a different light.
Ravenscroft found his mug again and held it out to Chambers, who informed him the first batch was gone.
Ravenscroft fell into a fit of sullenness, mumbling about ill fate, uppity servants, and capricious women.
Sighing, Gregor stretched out his legs toward the stove. It was snug and warm inside the stall, the fire blazing merrily, the wood crackling and popping, the sweet smell of cloves and brandy from the toddies soothing.
Ravenscroft suddenly lifted his head. “Know what I think?”
Neither Chambers nor Gregor answered.
“I think that it’s warm
enough in here to melt one of those big icicles hanging on the barn door.”
Chambers, mixing more toddies, looked disgusted.
“Of course ’tis warm enough. We’ve a fire.”
“I know that,” Ravenscroft said indignantly. “I just think it would melt really fast.”
Chambers’s thick brows rose. “Oh? How fast?”
“Very fast.”
“Hmm. Suppose I bring one of those icicles inside, and we make a wager.” Chambers shot a cautious glance at Gregor. “A small wager, of course.”
Gregor shrugged. “Make it as big as you wish. Ravenscroft may sound like a child, but he is not.”
Ravenscroft looked behind him. “Who is not a child?”
“You,” Gregor said. “If you wish to throw your money away, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.”
“Excellent!” Chambers rubbed his hands together, then left to fetch an icicle.
Moments later, the groom returned, pulled an empty barrel forward, and placed a large icicle in the center. “Well, Lord Ravenscroft? How long do you think it will take?”
The young lord bent to squint at the icicle, wavering as he did so. Finally, he said in a triumphant voice, “I give it twenty-two minutes!”
“Twenty-two minutes ’tis. I think it will take less time m’self.” Chambers took his seat, pausing to refill his own and Gregor’s mugs as he did so.
Gregor took a sip. “Chambers, you’ve outdone yourself. This is the best toddy I’ve—”
“Shhh!” Ravenscroft said, staring intently at the barrel. A few drops of water dripped from the icicle. He whispered in a dramatic voice, “If you talk, you will warm the air, and it will melt fashter!”
“I am not going to be silent because of a silly wager.”
“This is not shilly,” Ravenscroft said with great dignity, ruining the whole effect when he fell off his barrel.
Chambers set down his mug and helped the lad back onto his seat. “Stop squirmin’ about, or you’ll fall forward and hit the stove next time.”
Ravenscroft held on to the sides of his seat and resumed his dogged stare at the icicle.
Gregor flicked a glance at Chambers. “You’ve not named your stakes. What do you win if you’re right?”