To Scotland, With Love

  She slid her hands up his shirt, clutching the folds and drawing him closer. “Kiss me.”

  His gaze darkened, his hands tightening around her hips. “If I kiss you, I will not stop.” His voice was harsh.

  “I don’t want you to,” she said softly.

  His jaw tightened, his green eyes bright. “Then we will have to live with the consequences. You understand that? We will have to marry.”

  Marry? The word dashed her passion with freezing-cold reason. She stepped away from him so suddenly that she almost tripped. Whirling away, she crossed her arms over her chest as if to cover herself from his gaze.

  Gregor was left with his arms empty, his objective accomplished. With one sentence, he’d cooled the wanton ardor that had simmered silver hot in Venetia’s eyes.

  It would have been laughable if she hadn’t reacted so violently.

  For a moment, he understood Ravenscroft’s disappointment that his planned elopement hadn’t occurred. Though Gregor didn’t wish to marry, neither did he relish rejection. An instant sense of loss filled him, leaving him aching.

  God, he wanted nothing more than to take this woman, press her against the settee, lift her skirts, and sink into her softness. She’d been willing and ready, the air still heavy with their mutual desire.

  Damn the rum toddies and the snowstorm and the close proximity the inn had thrust upon him and Venetia. He wished he’d had a choice, but he hadn’t. If he’d allowed this tempting moment to progress into mindless passion, it would have locked them into a course that would destroy their friendship forever.

  Damn, it had been difficult to let her go, too. Venetia would have allowed them both to sink into the passion that threatened to swallow them whole. But afterward? What then? Gregor drew a deep breath, thrust his lust-laden thoughts away, and turned from Venetia in an attempt to collect himself.

  The chill of the room seeped through his clothing as he walked to the window and opened the curtains, relieved to see that Ravenscroft and Chambers had left. He leaned one hand over the window and rested his forehead against the cold glass, his body still thrumming with awareness of the woman who stood silently behind him.

  When Gregor’s hands no longer trembled and his loins allowed his brain to function, he straightened and turned. “Venetia, I—”

  The door swung open. Ravenscroft stood swaying in the opening, snow covering him from head to toe. Behind him, Chambers hovered anxiously.

  Venetia frowned. “What do you want?”

  Ravenscroft stepped into the room, his face contorted with fury. When his foot caught on something, he stopped and looked down.

  His foot rested on Gregor’s discarded waistcoat.

  Gregor started forward. “Ravenscroft, do not—”

  Ravenscroft roared with fury, his voice ringing throughout the inn. “MacLean, you blackguard! You have seduced her! I demand satisfaction!”

  Far to the south, London was slowly digging itself out from the unexpected snowstorm. After almost four days, people slowly made their way back onto the streets. Horses, carriages, and carts rattled and slid down the avenues, past mounds of snow, the roads a mess of packed ice and muddy puddles.

  At exactly half past five, a neat coach-and-six pulled up to the front stoop of White’s, a gold-etched crest glimmering in the fading sunlight. The butler, Mr. Brown, clapped his hands and sent a footman to inform the cook that the final member of the private party in the dining room had arrived. Then, smoothing his coat, Mr. Brown threw open the huge oaken doors.

  Lord Dougal MacLean paused on the portico, flicking an infinitesimal piece of lint from his sleeve. Mr. Brown waited patiently. MacLean was an acknowledged leader of society fashion, and it was easy to see why. His waistcoat was a deep red damask shot through with silver thread and adorned with exquisitely wrought silver buttons. His cravat was tied in an intricate weave that Lord MacLean had refused to name, to the chagrin of those who wished to ape him. Black breeches molded his powerful legs, while a single emerald, matching the green of his eyes, flashed on one finger.

  Every bit of his attire set off his muscular form and blond hair to perfection. Many ladies in London had been heard to sigh whenever Dougal MacLean passed their way.

  “Good evening, Brown,” that worthy young gentleman said as he peeled off his gloves. “Have my brothers arrived?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Brown took Dougal’s gloves and passed them to a footman. “They bespoke the dining room. Dinner is to be served within the half hour.”

  “Excellent.” Dougal shrugged out of his multicaped coat, revealing an evening coat that fit across his broad shoulders like a loving hand.

  Mr. Brown eyed the rose that adorned the gentleman’s left lapel, wondering how many other blades of fashion would appear thus over the next few days. Every nuance of his lordship’s clothing was studied and copied, sometimes within the same day.

  “How long have my brothers been waiting?” MacLean drawled, looking around with that sleepy manner of his.

  Some members of the ton had allowed themselves to be fooled by his lordship’s rather lazy manners, but Brown had heard that the men who sparred in Gentleman Jackson’s Bond Street Academy had learned that those sleepy eyes hid the prelude to a powerful right hook.

  “They have been here the last hour and then some. Except Lord Gregor MacLean.” Brown paused significantly. “May I say that your eldest brother seems a bit out of sorts.”

  Dougal sent the butler a look from beneath his lashes. “Alexander is always out of sorts. It’s his defining mark, as it were.”

  “I am glad to hear that, my lord. I thought perhaps we’d done something to make him angry.”

  “Oh, he rarely gets angry. But he is perpetually irritated.” Dougal sighed sadly. “It is most boring.”

  He slid a gold coin into the man’s hand. “I am sorry you’ve had to deal with the famed lack of MacLean humor.”

  “Thank you, my lord! I hope you enjoy your evening. Shall I escort you to the dining room?”

  “No, no. I can take myself.” Dougal smiled absently, then walked through the arch at the end of the entryway and turned left down a wide hall. Moments later, he paused beside a large mahogany door, one hand resting on the brass knob.

  Inside, he could hear two deep voices murmuring. With a sigh, he fixed a faint smile on his face and entered the private dining room.

  “There you are!” Hugh said from where he leaned against the mantel.

  Dougal’s eldest brother, Alexander, sat in a thickly cushioned red chair before the crackling fire. He regarded Dougal with disfavor. “Thank you for taking time from your social schedule.”

  “It was difficult,” Dougal said airily, ignoring his brother’s sarcasm, “but you are family after all.”

  Hugh almost smiled, but Alexander didn’t so much as glint. “We’ve been waiting an hour.”

  “I was asleep when I received your missive and had to dress.”

  “It was two o’clock.”

  “I never rise before four during the season,” Dougal said gently. “But to be honest, I am still a little pressed. I only have”—Dougal slipped out a large gold watch etched with silver swirls and regarded it—“twenty-one minutes.” He returned the watch to his pocket and said apologetically, “I am engaged to dine at the Spencers’.”

  “The Spencers can wait.” Alexander’s gaze flicked over him with disdain. “You have become a damned dandy.”

  Dougal took a seat, crossing one leg over the other as he withdrew his quizzing glass from a pocket and regarded his Italian leather boots. “I am certain you did not travel all the way from Scotland to critique my clothing.” He dropped the quizzing glass, which swung from a ribbon against his waistcoat. “At least, I hope you did not. A letter would have sufficed had that been the case.”

  Alexander’s jaw clenched.

  “That’s enough, the both of you,” Hugh said. “We’ve had enough weather already.” Tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired like most of
the MacLeans, Hugh was distinguished by a streak of white hair over his right temple and a playful temperament. If there was mischief to be made, Hugh was in the middle of it.

  Today, Hugh did not have his normal twinkle. He met Dougal’s gaze grimly. “We are worried about Gregor.”

  Alexander nodded. “People are talking. I don’t like that.”

  Dougal raised his brows but made no comment. Alexander was the tallest of his brothers, towering over them all. Dougal, at six-foot-one, was the shortest of the lot. Since he was the only one also to possess their mother’s blond hair, he’d taken more than his fair share of ribbing from his siblings, with the exception of his sister, Fiona. With such tall brothers, he’d learned the value of attacking first and fast.

  At the time, it had seemed a hardship to be different from his brothers and sister, but now he rather enjoyed it and was even glad. If he’d been as huge as his brothers, it would take an entire calf every time he ordered a new pair of boots.

  Dougal shrugged. “Don’t worry about Gregor. He can take care of himself.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “He went to assist Venetia Oglivie. He should be somewhere on the North Road, probably held by this storm. Why?”

  Alexander and Hugh exchanged glances before Alexander said, “I received a letter from Mr. Oglivie.”

  Dougal winced. Gregor had asked him to keep an eye on the old gent, a more difficult task than one might suppose. Oglivie had been an emotional mess, weeping one moment, threatening Ravenscroft with horrible death the next. Worse, he refused to stay home, dashing here and there so that Dougal had been hard pressed to keep up with him.

  Dougal had been glad when Oglivie had finally decided to stay out of town with an old friend for a few days. “What did this letter say?”

  “He told us about Venetia. He thinks something might have happened to Gregor.”

  Dougal made a face. “Oglivie is a fool. Alexander, you know Gregor. Do you think anyone could keep him from getting in touch with us if he wished?”

  “What if he cannot?” Hugh asked. “What if Gregor is ill or injured, or worse?”

  “What is worse than injured?”

  “Married,” Alexander said promptly.

  Dougal laughed. “Gregor would never marry anyone, much less Venetia Oglivie. She is like a sister to him.”

  “No, she’s not,” Hugh said, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “You’ve seen how Gregor talks to Fiona. He speaks to Venetia Oglivie in a very different manner.”

  Alexander nodded, his gaze hooded. “Gregor cares for Venetia.”

  “Just as she cares for him, but they are not interested in each other in that way.”

  Hugh shifted from one foot to the other. “Dougal, that doesn’t matter. Since Gregor does care for Venetia, his sense of chivalry might force him into extreme action.”

  Gregor’s greatest flaw was his rather antique sense of values, and a faint sense of unease began to grip Dougal. “Have you spoken to Mr. Oglivie?”

  “We can’t find him.”

  “He’s with Viscount Firth. I drove him there myself yesterday.”

  Alexander nodded. “We need to talk to him.” His gaze darkened. “This evening; the Spencers will have to wait.”

  Dougal frowned. “I will fetch him, though I still don’t see why—”

  “Dougal, it has been four days since Gregor contacted anyone.” Alexander steepled his fingers, regarding Dougal over the top. “I believe that means Gregor has failed in his first mission, which was to return Miss Oglivie to London with her reputation intact. Everyone seems aware of her absence and that something untoward has happened.”

  Dougal scowled. “That is Mr. Oglivie’s fault. I tried to keep an eye on him, but it was impossible.”

  Alexander’s jaw tightened. “He is a fool. And now Gregor is in a precarious situation. He is fond of Venetia, and he will feel honor-bound to protect her.”

  Dougal sighed. He hated becoming involved in this. “Very well. I will fetch Mr. Oglivie this evening. Should I bring him here?”

  “No,” Alexander said. “We’ll stay at Gregor’s town house until we hear from you.”

  “And then?” Dougal asked.

  Alexander’s gaze burned with intensity. “We will ride to Gregor’s aid.”

  “He won’t like that.”

  “I don’t care if he likes it or not,” Alexander retorted.“If he wishes us to stay at home, he should do a better job keeping us informed of his whereabouts.”

  “Or at least contact us when something this significant has occurred,” Hugh said.

  Dougal shook his head. “I think you are both being precipitous. For all we know, Gregor could have the situation well in hand.”

  Alexander’s jaw tightened. “You don’t have to come with us; we can manage without you.”

  Dougal stood, smiling slightly. “Oh, I’m coming—if only to witness Gregor’s expression when we arrive, ready to rescue him. That will be worth seeing indeed.”

  Chapter 14

  ’Tis a pity we canna see ourselves the way others do. If we could, we might act a wee bit differently. Sometimes it takes a distant eye to see a thing that’s too close to our own hearts.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  “T hat’s enough!” Gregor snapped. He grasped the furious Ravenscroft by the cravat and hauled the younger man off his feet. “Keep your voice down, you fool! People will hear you.”

  “I—”

  Gregor tightened his grip, lifting Ravenscroft even higher, until his toes didn’t quite touch the floor.

  Ravenscroft gasped, his face turning red.

  Gregor shook him. “There is a lady involved. You don’t even deserve to say her name.”

  Ravenscroft clutched at Gregor’s wrists, his toes shuffling madly for purchase. “Awk!” was all the sound he could make.

  Venetia raced over, grasped Gregor’s arm, and pulled. “Stop! You are strangling him!”

  “He deserves no less.” Gregor gave Ravenscroft another hard shake, then released him. Ravenscroft tumbled to the floor, where he lay gasping.

  “What is going on here?” the squire asked, coming into the room.

  Behind him, Venetia could see Mrs. Bloom, Miss Platt, and Elizabeth racing down the staircase. Her face burning, Venetia whirled on her heel and went to the window, her hand pressed to her forehead. How had things come to such a pass?

  “It’s nothing, squire,” Gregor said grimly. “A little disagreement between Mr. West and myself.”

  Ravenscroft gurgled something, but his voice seemed to have disappeared along with his breath.

  “Oh, my dear Mr. West!” Miss Platt said, sinking to her knees beside Ravenscroft.

  Elizabeth and Mrs. Bloom came to stand with Venetia.

  “My dear, what happened?” Mrs. Bloom’s gaze passed from Ravenscroft to Gregor, then back. “What did Mr. West say to upset Lord MacLean so?”

  Venetia rubbed her forehead. “They were just talking, and—”

  “Goodness!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Mr. West is holding Lord MacLean’s waistcoat. How did he lose that?”

  Gregor yanked the waistcoat from Ravenscroft’s weak grip. “I was in the barn, and one of the buttons came off my waistcoat. Miss West was kindly sewing it back on when her brother walked into the room and mistakenly assumed something improper was occurring. He protested, and I was forced to protect myself.”

  “A mill!” the squire said, his eyes bright. “I would love to have seen that!”

  Ravenscroft attempted to rise, but Gregor moved his foot slightly, trapping the young man by the edge of his coat and holding him to the floor. To the others, it appeared as if Ravenscroft was too weak to rise.

  “You tried to defend your sister’s honor!” Miss Platt pulled Ravenscroft’s head into her lap and pressed a handkerchief against his head. “You brave, brave man!”

  Ravenscroft slapped the ha
ndkerchief away, but Miss Platt refused to allow him to slip from her lap, holding him down with surprising ease. “Rest, poor man.”

  Mrs. Treadwell entered the room, her eyes wide. “What’s happened? I was with poor Elsie, who’s feelin’ quite low, when I heard the commotion.”

  Mrs. Bloom put her arm around Venetia and glared at Gregor and Mr. West. “Poor Miss West was forced to witness a brutal display!”

  For once, Venetia was glad for the older woman’s forceful personality. She found herself leaning a bit and realized that her knees were still weak, though not from seeing Ravenscroft so summarily disposed of. “I believe I should lie down,” she murmured.

  Mrs. Bloom went into action. She admonished the squire to help Mr. West to the settee, as he was blocking the doorway, then bustled Venetia from the room, declaring she was going to have Miss West rest in a darkened room with some smelling salts. As she passed Ravenscroft and Gregor, Mrs. Bloom said in a rather challenging tone that if anyone had a problem with that, they would have to speak to her, for Miss West would not be available.

  Just as Venetia passed the doorway, Gregor turned his head and met her gaze.

  As if drawn toward a flame, Venetia’s steps veered toward him, but Mrs. Bloom’s firm hand urged her past Gregor and out of the room to the peaceful quiet of her bedchamber. There, Mrs. Bloom, showing surprising restraint, asked her no questions but tucked her comfortably into bed, a lavender-scented cloth upon her head.

  Venetia slept late the next morning, far past the time for breakfast. Pleading a headache, she sent word through Elizabeth that she was staying in bed and didn’t wish to be disturbed.

  Elsie brought a tray at noon and set it on a small table by the window. “Sorry to hear ye are feeling poorly, miss.”

  “I’ll be better once this snow melts.”

  Elsie smiled, then winced, putting a hand to her jaw.

  “Are you well? Mrs. Treadwell said you’d taken to your bed.”

  “I’ve a bit of a toothache, but I’m feeling better,” the girl said stoutly, though her paleness belied this. “Mrs. Treadwell was going to send for the surgeon to take out m’tooth, but I told her it wasn’t necessary. It’ll stop hurting on its own.”