To Scotland, With Love

  Mrs. Treadwell looked around, blinking. “Why, so ’tis,” she said as if seeing it for the first time.

  Mr. Treadwell gave Venetia a proud smile. “I spared no expense for Mrs. Treadwell’s kitchen, though she’d never stepped more’n a foot in it.”

  “Why would I do something as ninny-hammered as that? You’d be expecting me to fix all of the meals then.” She winked at Venetia. “I may not be the smartest woman there is, but I know a trap when I see one, I do.”

  “A trap?” Mr. Treadwell protested. “I thought you wished to help me run me inn!”

  “And so I do, but not from the kitchen,” she said, fists planted on her hips. “I help as I can, greetin’ the guests and such.”

  “Runnin’ yer yapper is more like,” Mr. Treadwell said, humor in his eyes.

  Mrs. Treadwell grinned. “We all have our gifts.”

  Chuckling, they departed on their separate errands, leaving Venetia alone.

  She filled a pan with water from the cistern and hung it on the hook over the fire, then gathered potatoes, four rather dried-out carrots, a slab of bacon, some salted pork, a bundle of dried fish, some onions, and several bags of wheat. Further digging unearthed a small store of dried blueberries, a crock of sugar, and some yeast.

  Venetia decided to make a nice stew, followed by scones. “And maybe a comfit, if I can get the fire hot enough,” she said thoughtfully to herself. “That will be a nice touch.”

  “Yes, it would be,” came a deep voice.

  Venetia turned. There, just inside the door, stood Gregor.

  Chapter 15

  There comes a time in everyone’s life when they have t’ decide whether they wants t’ be right or if they wants t’ be happy.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  V enetia turned away, hot tingles making her breasts tighten in a most inexplicable way. She busied herself filling a bowl with water and setting it on the table in order to wash the vegetables. “I thought you’d be drinking port with the gentlemen.”

  He held up a half-filled glass, his eyes glinting with amusement. “It was, of course, delightful hearing Ravenscroft tell of his gambling woes, much to the squire’s disapproval, but I thought I’d be more entertained here.” He watched as she deftly chopped a potato. “I had no idea you possessed such a skill.”

  “How do you know I do? You may dislike my dishes.”

  “Because I know you. You wouldn’t have offered if you didn’t.”

  The praise sent a real smile to her lips. She picked up a potato and began scrubbing it in the water.

  “The real question is,” he said, “how did you learn to cook, and when?”

  “Who do you think prepared all those meals when my mother quarreled with that horrid French cook of ours?”

  “The fat one who could not speak a word of English?”

  “He could say ‘I quit’ well enough.” She took a folded cloth and lifted the burned porridge from the table.

  “Allow me.” Gregor placed his glass on the table and came to stand beside her.

  A prudent woman would have sent him away. But a prudent woman would also have ended up cooking the entire meal by herself. Venetia handed Gregor the folded cloth. “Thank you.”

  It wasn’t as if she could force him to leave, anyway. He was far too big to push around, she thought, eyeing the rippling of muscles in his forearms as he lifted the heavy iron pot.

  It always amazed her how Gregor managed to keep from becoming as soft as all of the other men in London. It was but one of the things that kept the women of London panting in his wake.

  Blast it, I wasn’t going to start doing this again! Venetia picked up Gregor’s glass and returned it to his hand. “Thank you for your assistance. I believe I have it now.”

  There. That was certainly direct. But all he did was take a sip, then lean against the table, his gaze never leaving her.

  Venetia chopped another potato. “Really, Gregor, I don’t need any assistance.”

  “I would rather stay. Ravenscroft is brooding.”

  “Miss Platt must find that exceedingly attractive.”

  “Oh, yes. I believe the word she used was Byronic.”

  “Goodness! No wonder you wish to escape.” Venetia glanced around. “If you must help, you could chop the carrots.” She gestured with a knife over her shoulder. “They’re in the storeroom.”

  In that moment, Gregor had to face a rather uncomfortable fact about himself. In the many months since he’d first gone to London, he’d gotten a bit spoiled. Somehow he’d become accustomed to being treated…not differently, exactly, but definitely with more than the usual deference.

  He’d thought he hated the fawning obsequies, the eager attentions, and the obvious invitations. Yet now, facing Venetia’s pragmatic orders to chop carrots, he found he rather missed the attention he’d once scoffed at.

  “When you are done with the carrots, you can also chop a few onions,” Venetia said, setting aside the scrubbed potatoes and finding a bright blue bowl. She poured in a measure of flour and then a little cream from a pitcher and began to mix it vigorously with a wooden spoon. “You do know how to chop an onion, don’t you?”

  Despite his irritation at being ordered around, Gregor grinned at her audacity. “No, I don’t know how to chop an onion, as I’ve never done so before, though I feel reasonably certain I will manage the intricacies on my own.”

  “I knew I could count on your excellent understanding.”

  Gregor wrinkled his nose at her and headed to the dry room. It was a small area, barely large enough to stand in, packed to the ceiling with barrels of salted pork and crocks of honey and lard and lined with bags of flour.

  The air was pungent with the scent of dried herbs and various vegetables that hung from the corners.

  He brought the carrots and several large onions back to the table and set them down, grimacing at the dirt on his coat. He was not a fastidious man, but he had already been reduced to blacking his own boots and brushing his own clothes.

  He took off his coat and hung it on a peg by the door, rolled up his shirt cuffs, and returned to the table to begin sorting the vegetables.

  Venetia kept her gaze on the table before her, but if she tilted her head ever so slightly, she could see his hands. The man had amazing wrists, thick and strong and faintly tanned.

  She found it difficult to swallow. He was all man, from his black hair to his booted feet. She turned a bit so she could see more of him without openly staring. His knitted breeches were molded to his muscular thighs, tucked into high-top boots that ensconced large, masculine feet.

  Hmmm. Didn’t they say a man’s feet echoed the size of his manhood? Of its own accord, her gaze darted up Gregor’s legs to where his deliciously tight breeches caressed his—

  “Knife.”

  She blinked, her gaze jerking up to his face, her skin flushing. Please, God, don’t let him know what I was thinking.

  “Knife,” he said again.

  “Knife?” she repeated dumbly.

  “Good God, Oglivie. I will need a knife if I’m to cut these vegetables. I can’t do it with my bare hands.”

  “The knives are in the block behind that red crock,” Venetia said hurriedly. Heavens, what had she been thinking? She hoped he didn’t notice her cheeks were as hot as the fire.

  To keep him occupied, she added in a rather breathy voice, “Please make certain you wash those before you cut them. We cannot eat dirty carrots.”

  His gaze narrowed. “And the onions?”

  “You peel the skins from those, so they won’t need washing.”

  “Ah.” Gregor lifted a brow. “I want to point out that I am not the finicky sort of man who pales at the thought of eating freshly blooded meat.”

  Venetia had to fight a grin at that. She didn’t appreciate Ravenscroft’s softer side, either. Yet neither did she relish Gregor’s less than sympathetic character. The
perfect man would be somewhere in the middle.

  She cast another glance at Gregor from beneath her lashes. No, the perfect man would be Gregor, with his black hair and lopsided smile, looking so intriguingly and deliciously male, and yet he’d possess…a touch of empathy, perhaps. Something that made him less stern.

  For all his handsomeness and breath-stealing maleness, he lacked passion. Oh, he had lust, but did he have the ability for love? Didn’t that take something more?

  Venetia realized Gregor was holding the dripping vegetables in his large hands, and she gestured to the other side of the table. “You may cut them there.”

  He lined the carrots in a row, watching Venetia as he did so.

  She was thinking about something serious. He could see it in the way her brows were lowered, her mouth set in a straight line. She dipped a finger in the batter and lifted a large dollop to her mouth.

  Gregor’s breath stopped. Knife suspended, he watched her pink tongue flick out to taste the batter. Her gaze narrowed, then she took another delicate lick.

  It was all Gregor could do not to groan. She had no idea how tantalizing she was. Gregor forced himself to look away from her plump lips as she added a large dash of cinnamon from a small tin.

  Gregor lifted the knife and slammed it down. The tops of the carrots rolled across the table, some hitting the floor.

  Venetia jumped, her gray eyes wide. “What on earth are you doing?”

  He slammed the knife again, more carrots scattering. “I’m chopping carrots.” He lifted the knife again.

  She reached across the table and grabbed his wrist, her fingers warm on his skin. “Gregor, they are carrots! Not tree branches.”

  “I fail to see the difference.” He shook his wrist free and slammed down the knife once more, the tip biting into the wooden table this time.

  He went to lift it, but it would not budge.

  “Here.” She walked to his side and twisted the knife free. Then she placed a carrot before her and, rocking the knife back and forth, deftly cut the carrot into tiny pieces.

  “Oh.” He watched as she picked up another carrot and did the same. “You really do know how to cook.”

  She made a face. “So would you if your parents had a tendency to argue with the cook before every dinner party.”

  His lips twitched. “I can imagine.”

  “Mama would get in a tizzy thinking something hadn’t been done, and before we could stop her, she’d be in the kitchen, berating the poor cook.” Venetia sighed, her full breasts pressing against the thin material of her dress. “Mama can be quite demanding, especially about justice.”

  Gregor forced himself to look away from her breasts, wondering about the color of her nipples. “I’m sorry?”

  “She felt the cooks were cheating her of their salary when things did not turn out as she wished.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve known for the longest time that you were the only sane member of your family, yet I still keep trying to make sense of them.”

  “I just accept and love them as they are.” She laughed, her white teeth flashing between her rosy lips. “Otherwise, I’d go mad with them.”

  He laughed, too. Even when he was at his sourest, Venetia had a way of making things seem brighter, her humor contagious, her unusual beauty appealing. That damned young upstart, Ravenscroft, had recognized her value all too well.

  Damn Ravenscroft. Gregor’s hand tightened on the knife.

  “If you do not stop massacring those carrots, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the kitchen.”

  Gregor looked down. He’d chopped the carrots, tops and all, into minutiae.

  Venetia frowned at the mess. “Those are the last carrots, too.”

  “I can pick out the greenery.” He used the tip of the knife to flick little bits out.

  “Gregor! That went into my scones!” Venetia walked around the table, sending him an irritated glare. “Stand back; I’ll do it.”

  As she bent over the table and began to remove the leaves from the carrot pile, Gregor eyed the exposed nape of her neck. Of all the sensitive places on a woman, it was his favorite. What would she do if he nuzzled her there, tasting the sweetness of her skin?

  He knew what she’d do. She was a tinder box of passion, ready to burst into flame at the smallest strike. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her.

  Now was the time to tell her of his plan to save her reputation, and explain how marriage was their only recourse. Yet as he opened his mouth to do so, she moved to one side, still bent over the table. He found himself looking down at her skirts as they curved over her lush bottom, so perfectly rounded to fit his hands.

  His mouth went dry and he was suddenly unable to speak a word. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? This was Venetia, not some ladybird who knew lust and how to use it to her advantage. Venetia’s allure was completely unconscious and he’d damn well better remember that. His lack of control had caused them enough trouble as it was.

  He closed his eyes. He supposed he should just be thankful that he’d only recently discovered Venetia’s dangerous combination of vitality and sensuality. If he’d discovered it sooner, their friendship wouldn’t have lasted.

  He wondered how many men other than Ravenscroft had noticed Venetia’s attractions? His jaw tightened at the thought. Thank God she’d never shown any interest in any of the men her parents had paraded before her. They were determined to see her wed, though as the years passed and she remained steadfastly unattached, they’d been less aggressive in their efforts.

  “I am surprised your father countenanced Ravenscroft,” he said.

  Venetia looked over her shoulder, surprise in her expression. “Why wouldn’t Papa countenance him? He is a gentleman in every sense of the word.”

  “Except in abducting you.”

  She straightened, her hips brushing him in a very uncomfortable place. Unaware that she’d just sent a jolt of awareness through him more potent than any brandy, she said, “Gregor, I was picking stems from your carrots. What made you say such a thing about poor Ravenscroft?”

  “He abducted you. I find his presence more and more onerous.” He paused, then said in a deliberate voice, “Once we are married, I will not countenance that puppy in our house.”

  Venetia turned to face him, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What did you say?”

  He reached over and removed the knife from her hand. “You don’t have any choice,” he said grimly. “You are ruined.”

  “But that’s—I don’t know why you—” She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward, unwittingly giving him a direct view down the front of her gown. “Gregor MacLean, how much port have you had?”

  Her bosom rose and fell in outrage, the very bosom he was staring at as if he’d never seen one.

  Her breasts were remarkably full and ripe, the tops curved enchantingly against the material of her gown. Her chemise was plainly visible where it held the tantalizing curves together, pressing them upward as if offering them to him. The delicate scrap of lace at the top of her chemise seemed to be straining with the weight.

  Gregor’s mouth watered as if he’d just been offered a piece of his favorite cake. No wonder Ravenscroft had been so demented as to face possible ruin. Well, Gregor would make certain that neither Ravenscroft nor any other man besides him received such a view again. Once he married Venetia, he’d purchase a whole new wardrobe of high-cut gowns. Red ones and green ones and pink ones and—

  “Gregor?” Venetia followed his gaze. She gasped and crossed her hands over the top of her gown. “Gregor!”

  He grinned wickedly. “Sorry, my love. You were saying?”

  “You shouldn’t look at me that way!”

  “You are my intended. I can look at you any way I wish.”

  “Even if we were engaged, which we are not, I wouldn’t countenance that!”

  His brows rose. “No? I think you’d enjoy it.”

  She opened her mouth to
retort but could find no words. Venetia passed her hand over her eyes. She couldn’t believe Gregor was asking her to marry him.

  Actually, he was telling her. “You said you would never marry.”

  He shrugged. “I see no other solution.”

  His words flicked across her like hot ash on bare skin. “No.”

  Gregor frowned, disbelief in his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said no.” She went back to her side of the table and began to stir the scone batter. “I would rather be ruined than married to a man who didn’t care for me.”

  “I care for you.”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “Oh?”

  “I do,” he said stiffly. “I have always been fond of you.”

  “Fond is not enough.”

  He knew, then, what she wanted. Love. After a moment of silence, he said, “It’s all I have.”

  They looked at each other a long moment. Disappointment filled her eyes with tears.

  Gregor’s chest ached. “Venetia, be reasonable. I am fond of you, and I’m also attracted to you. Most marriages are based on less.”

  “Not my marriage. And if I have to explain that to you, then you definitely are not the man for me.”

  Gregor raked a hand through his hair. “Do you realize what is going to happen once the squire sees you in London? You will be shunned, abandoned.”

  “That is my problem. I will deal with it on my own.” She wiped her eyes and then pointed to the onions. “Please cut those; I need them for the stew.” She went to the fire and removed the lid of a large pot, sprinkling an assortment of herbs into whatever bubbled there.

  Gregor couldn’t absorb her refusal. He’d never thought she would say no. He’d assumed her arguments would be about when and how rather than why. He’d been prepared to be magnanimous about those things, to let her plan whatever sort of service she desired and spend a ridiculous amount of his money if she so desired.

  But to say no in such a way? He didn’t know what to say. Gregor grabbed an onion and raised the knife.

  “Peel those first,” Venetia said, her voice tight as she returned the lid to the pot over the fire.