To Scotland, With Love

  “Gregor?”

  He realized he’d been staring silently, gawking like a lad of twelve.

  Damn it, this was not the way to win his wager! He cleared his throat. “I brought you something. Are you busy?”

  She shook her head, planting one hand on her hip and resting the other on the back of a chair. The gesture had the unfortunate effect of thrusting her breasts forward.

  Gregor couldn’t breathe, following the shadow under each full curve. He’d always known Venetia was pleasantly rounded, but somehow he hadn’t realized how magnificent her breasts were. Not the calm, cool magnificence of a painting but the warm, fleshy magnificence of a real woman.

  God, how had he missed those breasts? So full, larger than his hand could hold, and so beautifully rounded?

  Gregor forced himself to yank his gaze away from those seductive breasts to Venetia’s face. “I—I need air,” he rasped out.

  She frowned. “Air? Why? Are you ill?”

  “No, no. It’s just”—he waved a hand—“stuffy in here.” He pushed himself from the doorframe and strode to the window, lust firming his wobbly steps. He threw open the curtains and let white light bathe the room.

  There. Now he could face Venetia without worrying that she’d expose herself to him even more than she unknowingly had. He smoothed his coat, taking a deep breath to calm his thundering lust, and turned.

  Damn.

  The light from the window now highlighted the tops of Venetia’s breasts, tracing the full curves with a swoosh of creamy color.

  Gregor scowled.

  Venetia’s eyes widened, and she nervously crossed her arms.

  Unfortunately, that pressed her breasts upward until they were clearly outlined against the thin fabric of her gown, the nipples puckered and eager. Gregor could make out every ribbon on her chemise, every nuance of her mouthwatering bosom.

  A slow flush climbed through him. Damn that rum toddy.

  Of course, he hadn’t been drinking rum when he’d kissed her yesterday. That had been all him. And her.

  He’d enjoyed a wide range of women in his life, yet he had never felt such an intense pull.

  Familiarity should have been a protection. He’d seen her with tangled hair as a child, with spots when she’d been a lass, and woefully flat-chested until her fifteenth summer. He’d watched her moon over men, though never with enough intensity to be of concern. He knew her skin turned a mottled red when she cried and a pale white when she was startled.

  He should have been immune, damn it. Yet somehow, in racing off to rescue her and then seeing Ravenscroft’s obvious admiration, Gregor actually saw Venetia for what she was now rather than what she’d been while growing up.

  He now saw Venetia as a woman. And not just any woman but an intelligent, sensual woman, one he trusted more than…well, anyone. Perhaps even his own family.

  Outside, something moved. He glanced over and saw Chambers and Ravenscroft standing in the snow-filled innyard, bundled to the ears as they tried to look innocuous, as if having a casual conversation in the middle of the snow.

  Gregor looked down at the book in his hand. If he wanted those two to leave him be, he’d best get on with it. He shoved his hand into his pocket, retrieved the velvet sack containing the necklace, and held it out. “Venetia, I brought you something.”

  She eyed the sack obviously unimpressed. “What is it?”

  “It’s a present.”

  “For…me?”

  “Yes, it’s for you,” he said impatiently, shaking the bag at her imperiously. “It’s a necklace.”

  She didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stared at him as if he had two heads, a deep flush coloring her cheeks.

  Gregor fought a smile of satisfaction. She was different from other women! Other women he knew would fawn all over him, laugh with delight, and flirt madly when presented with a gift.

  He glanced out the window to where Chambers and Ravenscroft were openly staring. Heh! That would teach them to think he didn’t know her.

  Of course, she hadn’t actually taken the present yet. Since he’d paid for it and didn’t want it to go to waste, he grasped her wrist and set the sack in her hand.

  She blinked at it.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” he chided. “Open it!”.

  Slowly, she undid the sack and poured the necklace into her palm. It gleamed softly in the light, a ribbon of gold stretched over her delicate fingers. A flicker of pleasure warmed Gregor. Chambers had excellent taste; the groom deserved a bonus.

  Venetia didn’t seem able to look away from the gleaming necklace.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I—I—” Her fingers closed over the gold chain, and she held it to her. “What’s it for?”

  Gregor frowned. Good Lord, he hadn’t expected her to ask that. “It’s for—for—” Hell and damnation, how was he to answer that? He glanced outside to see Ravenscroft and Chambers staring back.

  Venetia turned to follow his gaze, and Gregor pulled her around to face him, away from the window.

  She gasped, then frowned down at his hand encircling her wrist.

  He’d never realized how delicate her wrists were; his fingers overlapped around the smooth warmth of her skin.

  Damn, but she looked delicious. The flickering light from the fire kissed every inch of her peach-tinted skin.

  Would she taste like the blush of a peach? Or the cream and sugar that she loved in her tea? Or the faint hint of smoky desire sweetened with passion?

  It all sounded good, and he decided that he had to taste her. He sent a scowling glance to where Chambers and Ravenscroft now skulked behind a thin bush. If not for them, he might be discovering her intriguing flavors this very moment.

  He pressed a kiss to her wrist, letting his breath brush over her skin.

  Her lips parted; her eyes widened. “Gregor!” she breathed. “What are you—you shouldn’t—I don’t—”

  She turned pink and yanked her hand from his grasp. “Gregor, I won’t be made an experiment.”

  Experiment? He blinked, confused before his memory returned. “Ah! What I said in the hallway. It was a very poor choice of words. I don’t know what I meant to say, but that wasn’t it. Will you forgive me?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, obviously deflated.

  He smiled a bit. Venetia used anger like a shield. Take it away, and she was bared before him.

  He liked that thought! Now, what had they been doing? Oh, yes, he’d given her the gift. Next came the poetry. As soon as Venetia was through laughing uproariously at that, he would excuse himself and collect his funds.

  Feeling rather pleased with the way things were progressing, he flipped the book open to a page Ravenscroft had marked.

  Gregor lifted the book and read, “‘When I rose and saw the dawn/I sigh’d for thee—”

  Venetia looked astounded. The poor girl must be hard pressed not to burst into whoops of laughter. best to get it over with and put her out of her misery. Gregor cleared his throat and continued, adding a bit of whimsy by placing his hand over his chest, “‘When light rode high, and the dew was gone/And noon lay heavy on flower and tree—’”

  How could noon lie on anything, much less heavily? He’d once read a poem about a mighty ship that sank in a great storm. Now that was a good poem!

  “Gregor?” Venetia’s voice quivered the slightest bit.

  He flashed her a wink. “Let me finish. ‘And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest/I sigh’d for thee.’”

  He snapped the book closed, unable to stand another word. “There. Poetry. For you. What do you think?”

  Venetia could not breathe. She looked at the necklace that glittered in her palm. Then she looked at the book of poems that Gregor held.

  This could not be happening.

  Gregor could not be there, armed with gifts and poetry, reading to her as if—as if—

  Dared she think it?

  Venetia clu
tched the necklace, the metal warm in her hand. Perhaps…perhaps he cared.

  Her heart lifted and expanded. She could not help it. The words he’d spoken swelled about her—I sigh’d for thee—sending prickles across her skin, down her back, and lower. “I sigh’d for thee,” she repeated wonderingly, and something inside her broke free. She stepped forward and threw herself against his broad chest, lifted her face to his, and pulled his mouth to hers.

  For a stunned second, he stood stock-still. Venetia let the swell of passion sweep through her. She ran her tongue across his lips, her breasts flattened against his chest, her hands clutching at his lapels as she tried to pull him closer.

  A thunk sounded as Gregor dropped the book, his large hands sliding down her back, cupping her to him, holding her closer, nearer. His mouth opened, and suddenly he wasn’t kissing her but possessing her, bending her back, pressing against her—

  He stopped, his eyes opening. Then he lifted his head and looked out the window.

  Venetia followed his gaze. Outside, Ravenscroft and Gregor’s groom stood in the snowy innyard, wearing identical expressions of shock and awe.

  Gregor gave a muffled curse. He went to the window, threw it open, fished something out of his pocket, and tossed it into the snow. Then he yanked the curtains closed.

  “Gregor, I—”

  He went to the door and kicked it shut.

  Venetia’s heart raced; her hands grew warm; her heart beat against her throat. “Gregor?”

  He stalked back to her. “Venetia, I want to kiss you and I will not be denied.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, unable to say a word.

  Gregor slid an arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him.

  “It—it’s snow madness,” she said breathlessly.

  His body warmed hers through their clothes. “Yes,” he growled. His lips grazed her cheek.

  “It’s also because we’re in close proximity,” she said breathlessly.

  His lips caressed the sensitive skin on the side of her neck. “Mmmm.”

  Venetia tilted her chin, giving him more access. She clutched him closer, her breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. “This…doesn’t…mean…a…thing.”

  “As you wish,” he murmured against her ear, his tongue flicking across it and making her moan.

  Venetia threw her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth back to hers. Within seconds, he was kissing her with all the passion he’d sworn to withhold. The kiss in the forest had been but a prelude to this encounter. Venetia’s passion exploded to the fore, her body reacting so swiftly, so thoroughly, that all thought was suspended.

  Gregor, too, was mad with lust, with wanting. She tasted of fresh snow and cream, of secret smiles and pure passion. He tasted her, devoured her, unable to think, unable to do anything but experience her delicious artlessness.

  She slipped her hands beneath his waistcoat and clutched at his shirt. She undulated against him as she tried to get closer, her mouth as frantically seeking his as his was seeking hers.

  Her passion and physicality practically begged to be touched, tasted, tempted. He trailed his lips along her cheek to her ear. “This is madness,” he whispered, his heart thundering in his chest.

  “Snow madness,” she whispered back, her lips grazing his chin.

  A shiver traced over him at her touch. God, she was as seductive as any woman he’d ever known. Her hands smoothed over his chest, down his arms, lingering as if memorizing every line, every muscle.

  “Venetia, I want you.”

  Her gaze met his, shadowed and intriguing. “I know.”

  “You…you agree?”

  Her eyes never left his. “Oh, yes. Ever so much.”

  Yes, his body demanded. No, his mind tried to shout. To his shock, Venetia slid her hands to his waist and, with a simple twist, undid the top button of his breeches.

  Her eyes darkened, her cheeks flushed, even as she briskly undid the next button. This one was a bit harder, and she had to struggle, the backs of her hands brushing against him in an agonizing manner.

  “Good God,” he muttered.

  She paused, looking at him in surprise, then withdrew her hands. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No!” he exploded, grabbing her hands and returning them to his buttons, pressing them against the fullness of his manhood.

  Her eyes widened, and he moaned. He should stop. He knew it, and yet he was powerless to do so. He felt like an adolescent faced with his first encounter. She was so seductive, so alluring—perhaps because she was forbidden, the one woman he should never touch, never kiss. But his body was tempted beyond thought.

  “We shouldn’t,” she said, yet her fingers were busy with the third button.

  “We could regret this,” he managed, his hands caressing the curve of her back and lower.

  “I’m certain we will.” Her hands moved to his waistcoat, and in a remarkably short time, she was pushing it from his shoulders. She tossed it behind her, then went to work on his shirt, pulling it free from his waistband.

  Never could he remember a woman who had been so determined. She was now seducing him, while he enjoyed every minute of it.

  She wanted this, wanted him.

  Pure passion ripped through his veins, and he slid his hands into her hair and kissed her deeply, giving up the last vestige of control.

  There was no going back.

  Chapter 13

  ’Twas a hot summer’s day when I first met yer grandfather. I was comin’ in from helpin’ me pa in the fields, me hair tied up in a kerchief, me gown sticky from sweat, me feet jammed into boots twice’t too big fer me feet. On days like that, I burned fer a better life. Yer grandfather was new, come t’ town to see his aunt. He took one look at me, mussed and all, and said, “This is the woman I’m t’ marry! Where have ye been all me life, me love?” And without a blink, I replied, “Don’t start with me, ye scoundrel! If ye come with an empty purse, ye can leave now, fer I’d rather be unwed than unfed!”

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  V enetia’s mother liked to say that she’d swooned the first time Mr. Oglivie had embraced her. Venetia had thought that merely Mother’s propensity to dramatize things, but now, caught in Gregor’s heated embrace, she felt the same fainting, head-pounding, knee-weakening rush of emotion.

  Her resolve never to breech propriety, never to allow her virtue to be thrown away on an impulse, weakened, folded, then disappeared, blown away like wisps of smoke before a strong wind.

  She couldn’t help but kiss him back, her hands unfastening his clothing. His coat and waistcoat dropped to the floor with satisfying quickness. Some small part of her realized that if she continued, there would be a cost. But right now, any cost seemed reasonable.

  Her life until now had been so staid, so predictable. She deserved some unrepentant wildness. One moment, she’d been calm and in charge of herself, and then, because of a certain touch or the way he looked at her before turning to the window—

  The image cut through the desire encircling Venetia. Gregor had thrown something into the snow. It had flashed like a coin of some sort. Why had he thrown that—

  His lips trailed down her neck, and Venetia lost her train of thought, as well as her ability to stand. Her knees sagged, and he caught her to him; every line of his muscled body burned against hers.

  His mouth was hot and possessive, his hands molding her to him, his body hard against her softer curves. He was passion and heat, danger and desire, and for this one instant, he was all hers.

  His hands tightened on her shoulders, and he suddenly lifted his head and looked into her eyes. His mouth—his wonderfully carved, deliciously firm mouth—was open, his breath harsh between his lips. His skin was flushed; she smelled the faint scent of his cologne and the barest hint of rum.

  Her body cried out at the fact that his lips were no longer on hers. She met his gaze, saw the return
of reason, a flash of regret. Her heart ached that their mad, passionate moment was about to be over.

  Desperate to prolong it, she sank her hands into his shirt and pressed her hips forward, brushing against him.

  An expression almost of pain passed across his face, a moan breaking from his lips. “Venetia,” he gasped. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what? This?” She rubbed her hips against his again, tossing dignity to the wind.

  He groaned and yanked her to him, his arms wrapping tightly around her.

  Against her hip, she felt a hard ridge. It wasn’t his hip, for that was to one side, and this was directly center, pressing against her in a most insistent way.

  Venetia had been around horses far more than the average young lady; she knew the basic facts of life and what was pressing against her. She couldn’t help but close her eyes and press back, gently rocking back and forth.

  Gregor moaned deeper this time, his expression a cross between agony and ecstasy, closing his eyes and tipping back his head.

  For this one instant, he wasn’t thinking of any other woman but her. His expression of pure, pained pleasure burned through her, making her breasts ache, her thighs quiver, the longing in her burn hotter.

  She pressed her hips forward again. Gregor gave a muffled curse, his hands tightening painfully on her arms. “Don’t tempt me,” he rasped out.

  “Why not?”

  He met her gaze solidly. “You know why not.” His brows lowered, his mouth suddenly grim. “Venetia, you will have to stop this. I can’t.”

  He wanted her to send him away. But the fact that it was so obviously difficult for him made her want to prolong it all the more. If she ended this now, she knew she’d never again feel his arms around her, his lips on hers.

  It was heady, realizing that she had the power to make Gregor MacLean burn with passion. He’d conducted his affairs the same way he did everything else in his life, controlled and calm. Never had she seen him swept away by desire; he selected his mistresses with the same dispassionate interest with which he chose his horses.

  A flash of pride rippled through her. And in asking her to regain control, Gregor had forgotten one little item: she was an Oglivie. She embraced life, and she wanted Gregor to kiss her, to touch her and answer the hunger in her body.