To Scotland, With Love

by Karen Hawkins

  Ravenscroft’s eyes opened, and he flicked a confused glance toward Venetia. “B-b-bro—”

  Venetia gripped his arm.

  “Ow!”

  She pinned a smile on her face, acutely aware of the innkeeper’s sharp gaze. “There, there! I am sure you hurt everywhere, but one must not complain.”

  “Complain? But—”

  Venetia used her nails this time.

  “Argh!”

  “His poor head!” She moved in front of Ravenscroft yet left her fingers tightly wrapped around his arm, nails at the ready. “Mr. Treadwell, I wish I could take care of the horses. I am certain they would not complain near as much.”

  The innkeeper chuckled. “Call Mary if’n ye need anything.” With a nod, he left, his boots clomping down the hall.

  The second the door closed behind the innkeeper, Ravenscroft regarded her sullenly. “You told them we were brother and sister!”

  Venetia released his arm. “Yes. Unlike you, I have no desire to court scandal.”

  Ravenscroft rubbed his arm. “You left a mark!”

  “You’re fortunate that’s all I did. Ravenscroft, I know what you were doing. This is the North Road, and we were not on our way to my grandmother’s.”

  Ravenscroft’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.”

  “Oh? Is that all you can say?” She put her fists on her hips and glared. “My father doesn’t know of this, does he?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, I hinted to him—”

  “So you wrote that letter? And signed his name to it?”

  “Yes. But you wrote him a note and told him you were with me before we left, so he won’t be worried, if that is your concern.”

  “He will be worried when I don’t appear at Mama’s side!”

  “He won’t know that right away.”

  “Yes, he will. My mother and father write every day. They send one of the servants to carry the letters. By tomorrow, my father will know that I did not arrive.”

  Ravenscroft shook his head, then winced and grabbed his head. “Oh! It hurts so.”

  Venetia didn’t move.

  He peeped through his fingers, then sighed and dropped his hands. “You don’t feel the least bit sorry for me, do you?”

  “No,” she said shortly, although he appeared absurdly youthful with his hair over his brow, his nose and cheeks red from the cold, his lips pressed into a pout.

  He sighed. “You must allow me to explain. I have good reason for all for this. You cannot know, you cannot understand how I—oh, bloody hell!” He dropped from his seat to his knees, grasped her hand, and kissed it wildly. “Miss Oglivie—Venetia—I love you!”

  Her face hot, Venetia twisted her hand free and quickly stepped out of reach. “Do not do that!”

  Ravenscroft remained on the floor, his arms outstretched. “But I must, for I love you. I even eloped with you!”

  “Had I known this was an elopement, you would be alone.”

  “But you have always been so nice to me!”

  “I am nice to everyone. Ravenscroft, I am going to say this as plainly as I can. I don’t love you, and I will never marry you. Not now. Not ever.”

  Ravenscroft dropped his arms to his sides. “You must marry me. You are with me. Alone. In an inn. You are ruined.”

  “I don’t see why…” Her voice trailed off as realization sank into her stomach with cold surety. If word of this reached London, she would indeed be ruined. Blast it, that was unfair! She enjoyed London society and its amusements immensely. Now, they might be gone forever.

  Suddenly, the events of the day seemed too much. She whirled away and went to stand at the window, her mind in turmoil. Perhaps she could return to London before anyone realized she was gone. But how? Only a madwoman would travel alone in such weather.

  What a horrid coil! She was stuck. Completely stuck. How she wished Gregor were there. Whatever else he might be, he had a good head on his shoulders, and he never panicked or grew emotional.

  For a wild instant, she imagined that the thick snow parted to reveal a tall, black-haired man on a white horse, his multicaped coat dusted with snow, his curly-brimmed beaver hat shading his green eyes from the wind and cold.

  The image faded; Venetia stared morosely out into the snow.

  “We must come up with some sort of plan,” Ravenscroft announced in a loud, petulant voice.

  She didn’t turn to look at him but was certain he was attempting to appear senatorial. She bit back a frustrated sigh. Really, he was too much like her father, full of useless emotion, not a drop of common sense in his body.

  “Venetia,” he said dramatically. “We—”

  “Miss Oglivie.” She paused. “Actually, you should call me Miss West.”

  “Won’t everyone think that odd if I’m your brother?”

  She sighed. He was right. She was going to have to allow him that familiarity, at least. “Oh, blast you, very well.”

  “Venetia!” he said triumphantly. “Allow me to assure you I plan on making this right, whatever it takes.”

  Venetia closed her eyes against a sharp comment and began counting to ten.

  As she hit four, Ravenscroft suddenly said, “Good God!”

  Something in his voice cut through her irritation, and she opened her eyes to see a most welcome sight through the window.

  Climbing down off a large bay, his coat and hat powdered with snow, his face set in stern lines that only made him appear more handsome, was Gregor MacLean.

  Chapter 3

  Och, me lassies, I wish’t I could tell ye that the path to love is full of flowers and gentle breezes and pretty phrases. Sometimes ’tis, but sometimes the path travels through barren lands o’ harsh rock and icy winds. If ye make it through that, then ye’ll find the flowers and gentle breezes, and yer hearts will speak the pretty phrases and more, lassies. Ever so much more!

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  “W hy—that’s MacLean!” Ravenscroft said in a bright voice.

  Gregor? Here? How could that be? Her heart gave the oddest jump, her breath caught in her throat. Venetia smoothed her skirts nervously, her breath short, her skin tingling oddly. It must be relief that someone had come to help. It’s just Gregor, she reminded herself. It’s nobody special, just—

  She heard the front door open, heavy footsteps on the wood floor, then Mrs. Treadwell’s startled voice approached. A deep voice murmured answers to the innkeeper’s wife’s questions, and then the door flew open.

  Gregor stood in the doorway. Except for the blazing heat of his eyes, one would almost think him a statue. But those deep green eyes, framed in thick, dark lashes, burned with an inner fury that made her want to take a step back. He turned to Mrs. Treadwell and said in a voice tinged with caustic wit, “Thank you for showing me the way to my errant charges. I shall make certain that Mr. and Miss West are kept well in hand.”

  “Indeed, my lord, they’ve been no problem at all,” Mrs. Treadwell said, sketching a curtsey. “In fact, I was just making a bit of tea for the two of them.”

  “They don’t deserve tea.”

  With something remarkably like a simper, Mrs. Treadwell curtseyed once more and returned down the hallway. Gregor closed the door behind him and entered the common room.

  Venetia clasped her hands before her. Gregor’s face was flushed with the cold, but his lips were almost white—from the cold or his temper, she could not say.

  The gaze he threw at Ravenscroft, full of cold outrage, should have sent that young lord into a flurry of fear. But Ravenscroft, ever the eager puppy, saw neither the censure in the blazing gaze turned his way nor the thin-lipped regard he was being subjected to. All he saw was a well-connected acquaintance come to save them all.

  “Ravenscroft, you bloody fool,” Gregor said, sneering.

  Venetia’s pleasure at seeing him evaporated. She’d thought his arrival meant an improvement in her circumstances, the presence of
a trusted friend whose calm sense would help them navigate their way from this rocky shore of circumstances. Instead, he faced her and Ravenscroft as if they were less than the mud beneath his boots.

  It was almost too much. She was suddenly achingly tired, aware of a vague soreness in her body from her tumble from the carriage. She leaned against the window seat, rubbing her arms to remove the chill, her eyes blurring with tears.

  Pressing her lips together, she fought the wave of unfamiliar emotion. Good God, she was no vaporish miss to weep merely because Gregor didn’t appear pleased to see her. The thought made her stiffen. Why, the ass hadn’t even bothered to ask how she was! Had he no manners at all?

  Chin set, she wiped her eyes and turned a cool gaze toward Gregor. “We are glad to see you, too, MacLean. I trust you had a lovely journey from London.”

  He barely glanced her way, his attention fixed solely on his original quarry. “Well, Ravenscroft? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  Ravenscroft dropped his outstretched hand; his eager expression faded. “Lord MacLean! I don’t know—that is, what do you mean by—how can you—”

  “Sit down, whelp.”

  The younger lord stiffened and said in an awful voice, “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me. Sit down, and let me think. I came to see what is to be done to rescue the two of you from this mess. A pity you’ve run your carriage aground.”

  Ravenscroft’s face burned redder. “That was an accident.”

  “It was foolish of you to continue in this weather. And to be pressing the horses—” Gregor’s gaze suddenly turned to Venetia. “I would have thought that you, at least, would have known better.”

  Venetia stiffened. The annoyingly superior glint in Gregor’s green eyes set up her hackles even more. “I objected to traveling at such a dangerous speed. I also asked to stop, since the weather was worsening.”

  “That’s true,” Ravenscroft interjected. “She was against it all.”

  Gregor lifted a brow. “Then you not only abducted Miss Oglivie, but you put her life in danger by not heeding her advice.”

  Ravenscroft’s hands balled into fists at his side.

  Venetia realized her own hands were fisted. Why, oh, why had she thought Gregor’s presence would help?

  Ravenscroft sputtered, “There is no need for that! Miss Oglivie and I aren’t in a mess of any kind. In fact”—he stuck out his chin—“we are doing perfectly well.”

  He cast a pleading glance at Venetia. She almost winced at Ravenscroft’s desperation, though she completely understood it. For years, she’d witnessed Gregor burn impertinent servants, encroaching mamas, brazen fortunehunters, and clinging fashionmongers with his cutting green gaze. But never once, in all the years of their friendship, had he turned it on her. Now that he had, she didn’t like it, not one bit. His coldness sparked a flicker of staunch pride and something else, something hot and impatient, that simmered through her. Something that made her refuse to bow before his imperious manner, something that made her blurt out, “Really, Gregor, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, riding to our rescue. We are fine. We were just saying how lovely it was to have found this snug inn during such a horrendous snowstorm.” Her gaze narrowed on Gregor. “It’s so unusual to see a snowstorm in April, don’t you think?”

  Ravenscroft didn’t seem to catch the accusation in her tone, for he nodded vehemently. “Exactly! It’s most unusual, or I’d have planned things differently.” He paused, then added stiffly, “Not that we need any help now, do we, Miss Oglivie?”

  Gregor took in Venetia’s disheveled appearance, a look of obvious disbelief on his face. “Oh?”

  It was a “That’s a falsehood, and you know it” sort of “Oh?” which didn’t sit well with Venetia at all. “Yes,” she said in a firm tone. She couldn’t stand the way he was looking at her and Ravenscroft as if they were the silliest creatures on earth.

  Gregor scoffed at those he called “the weak-kneed and the weak-willed,” an attitude she’d always found insufferable. They’d had plenty of arguments about it, too. However, things had changed in this instance. She could not stand the mockery she saw in his eyes, and suddenly it was imperative that Venetia not appear incapable, no matter the cost. Though Ravenscroft’s silly plan had been a setback and had foolishly led her to wish for a rescue, she’d be blasted if she’d let Gregor know that. “You wasted your time coming here,” she sniffed. “I’m not certain why you bothered.”

  Gregor unbuttoned his long coat and pulled it off, tossing it onto a chair in the corner of the room. “Your father sent me and begged me to return with you posthaste.”

  “But it is his fault this happened to begin with! He encouraged Ravenscroft.”

  “No matter what your father did, you were the one who was so foolhardy.”

  “Oh!” Venetia fumed. “I did nothing wrong!”

  “No, she di—” Ravenscroft began again.

  “Oh?” Gregor said without taking his gaze from Venetia. “Did you or did you not willingly climb into a carriage with an unknown man?”

  “I know Ravenscroft!”

  Ravenscroft opened his mouth, but Gregor spoke over him. “You barely know Ravenscroft.”

  “I know him well enough,” Venetia huffed.

  Ravenscroft dropped his head into his hands.

  “Then tell me about him,” Gregor said. “Explain his circumstances. Explain how you both came to be overturned in a carriage on the North Road.”

  Venetia glanced at Ravenscroft, who didn’t even look up. She took a deep breath. “I don’t have to explain myself to you or anyone else. Ravenscroft is a—a fine young man who—ah—is quite well spoken,” she said, trying not to remember that less than ten minutes ago she’d wished the poor young man at the bottom of a very deep snowdrift. “He has been nothing but gentlemanly since we left London.” More or less.

  Gregor’s brows lifted. “Except for the fact that he abducted you—”

  “I was going to marry her!” Ravenscroft said, though no one looked his way.

  “—lied to you—” Gregor continued.

  “I told her the truth, once we were here.”

  “—and has kept you imprisoned ever since—”

  “I did not!” Ravenscroft said, his face now as red as his waistcoat. “Had it not been for the snow, we would have been married and on our way to the continent by now!”

  Venetia’s mouth opened, then closed. “The continent?” There was a decided squeak to her voice.

  Gregor smiled. “I thought you knew the, er, gentleman?”

  Venetia ignored him. “Ravenscroft, what is this about the continent?”

  Ravenscroft sent a resentful glare at Gregor before answering, “I was going to tell you, but I wasn’t sure when to say something and if, perhaps, it wouldn’t be better just to wait until—”

  “Oh, for the love of Zeus, just spit it out,” Gregor said impatiently. “Explain why you wished to travel to the continent right on the heels of your surprise nuptials.”

  Ravenscroft stiffened. “There are many reasons.”

  “We just want the real one.”

  “Perhaps I like Italy.”

  Gregor crossed his arms, his broad chest framed by his powerful arms. Beside him, Ravenscroft appeared even younger and more narrow-shouldered than usual.

  “Ravenscroft,” Venetia said, “why the continent? You aren’t fleeing because of debt, are you?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “It’s worse than mere debt,” Gregor said.

  Ravenscroft glowered. “Look, MacLean,” he blustered. “My lord, I know you don’t mean to insult me, but—”

  “Come, come, cub! Of course I mean to insult you.”

  Ravenscroft’s mouth opened. Then closed. “You mean to insult me? On purpose?”

  “Yes. I find your company unbearably tedious and your actions in regard to Miss Oglivie selfish. Therefore, I do not bother to speak in a polite tone, or even in a po
lite manner.”

  The younger lord drooped as if his bones would no longer bear his frame. “Oh. I see.”

  Venetia stamped her foot. “Ravenscroft! Do not let Gregor beat you down in such a way.”

  The young lord’s cheeks reddened. “I am not allowing him anything. I was merely attempting to understand, that is all.”

  “He is insulting you. If I were you, I would be furious.”

  Gregor’s low voice drawled with an amused undertone. “I believe she would have you challenge me to a duel.”

  Venetia whirled to face him. “I do not believe in such idiocy, and you know it. I was merely suggesting that he stand up for himself.”

  “It’s no matter. If Ravenscroft challenged me to a duel, I fear I would have to stand in line and await my turn.”

  Venetia frowned. “What?”

  Ravenscroft suddenly came to life, gulping as he spoke. “Lord MacLean! Perhaps we should discuss this elsewhere—”

  “No,” Venetia said, her gaze narrowing on Ravenscroft. “Is there something you have not told me?”

  “Yes—no—a very minor thing, to be sure.”

  “What is it?”

  Ravenscroft winced. “Venetia, don’t—”

  Gregor grinned, pulled a chair into the center of the room, sat down then crossed one booted foot over his knee. “Continue,” he invited.

  Venetia placed her hands on her hips. “Would it kill you to be of assistance?”

  “I put my neck at risk traveling here in this weather to do just that, but you informed me that I was not needed.” He shrugged. “So I might as well enjoy myself.”

  “That is no excuse to make things worse.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Gregor said with that devastating half grin that made her stomach warm in the most annoying way. “How could I possibly make things worse?”

  Venetia hated it when Gregor was right. She forced herself to turn to Ravenscroft. “You might as well get this over with. Lord MacLean is not leaving until you’ve aired everything.”