Your humble servant,
Michael
After his fine afternoon with Venetia soured so abruptly, Lachlan spent a long, restless night kicking himself for not securing the lady while he’d had the chance. He should have made her promise to marry him before he’d bedded her. Or somehow tricked her into speaking present consents.
Why was she balking, anyway? He’d taken her innocence, damn it! That alone should have made a proper lady like her beg him to marry her.
But no, she had to have everything her way, the meeting with her father especially. He scowled as he rose and did his morning ablutions. She was mad if she thought he’d let her give away what he’d fought for. Crying over empty crofters’ cottages was one thing, but she wanted to bargain with Duncannon for his clan!
Never, not while he had breath. The meeting would take place between him and her father, and that was that. She’d just have to trust him to keep his temper.
And what did she mean, he didn’t trust her? She didn’t trust him, blast it. She talked as if he were the same rash youth as when she was a girl.
You did kidnap her. And tell her you’d shoot people if she tried to escape.
But that had been at first, when they were at odds. Surely she didn’t consider him such a hot-tempered lout anymore.
You told your mother three days ago that you’d thrash your clansmen senseless if they talked about Venetia.
He winced. That didn’t put him in the best of lights, either. Nor did the sneaky way he’d gone about seducing her. Why should she trust him? She hardly knew him except as a villain.
Very well, then he’d have to show her his gentlemanly side. He had a few more days before Duncannon arrived—he’d use them to court her.
Because he wasn’t letting Venetia go back to London ruined and unmarried, no matter what fool notions she’d got into her head.
He glanced at the table and saw the plate of stale oatcakes that he’d been eating for the past couple of days. The courtship would start this morning. He didn’t care how Venetia and his mother protested—he was having a proper breakfast, with them.
Time to put an end to this sly behavior from his mother and his wife-to-be, their sneaking about to avoid him. And he knew exactly how to do it: he would blackmail her. It would set off Venetia’s temper at first, but he couldn’t court her if she avoided him, so he had to deal with that before he could go on.
He didn’t enter through Rosscraig’s front door this time. He slipped in through the servant entrance, tamping down his annoyance at having to sneak into his own house. He was rewarded by the looks of shock on his mother’s and Venetia’s faces when he sauntered into the dining room and took a seat at the table.
The maid who was serving the ladies started. “Good morning, sir. We didn’t expect…that is…” She trailed off with a helpless glance at his mother.
“Fetch the laird some breakfast, girl,” his mother said, quickly recovering her aplomb. She cast him a sweet smile, then rose. “Since you’re here, you might as well eat. But I’m afraid that Miss Ross and I have some matters to—”
“Sit down, Mother.” He glanced at Venetia, who’d also risen. “You, too, lass. Unless you want to have a long discussion about the fine properties of yer father’s fleece.”
Venetia paled.
“Fleece?” his mother asked, while she stubbornly remained standing.
Though Venetia’s expression of alarm tweaked his conscience, he ignored it. He was only playing the same game she’d played last night by threatening to scream and bring her father’s men running.
Besides, if he’d wanted to be truly underhanded, he could have told his mother what they’d done, then sat back and let her pressure the lass into marrying. But he didn’t want Venetia that way. He wanted her willing.
“Well, lass? Shall we talk about fleece?” Leaning back, he tucked his thumbs in the band of his trousers and stared her down. “Because I’d rather stay around and have you show me what you and my mother have been doing.”
“We’re not finished,” his mother broke in. “Come back in a couple of days—”
“No, I think we should show him.” Tearing her gaze from his, Venetia sat back down and ventured a smile for his mother. “We’ve done enough to give him an idea of how it will look in the end. And this way we can get his opinion on our other plans.”
Venetia’s sudden willingness made his mother eye him with suspicion, but when he merely arched an eyebrow, she took her seat, too. “So you want to see what we’ve done, do you?” his mother said.
“Aye.”
“Did you even notice all the changes in this room?”
No. He’d been too busy making sure they didn’t run off so he could begin his courting. But he pasted a smile on his lips and lied. “I did indeed.”
Mother’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you think?”
He gave a quick glance around, as if trying to form his opinion. The oak paneling had been newly cleaned and polished. The tablecloth he remembered as tea-stained and ugly had been dyed a pretty dark green so that the spots were hardly noticeable, especially when the table was set with sparkling silver.
He started to ask where they’d found such expensive tableware, then realized that the pattern looked familiar. Damned if it wasn’t the same stuff he’d eaten off of for years. He’d just assumed that the dull gray metal was pewter.
“It’s very nice, all of it. My compliments to you ladies.”
The maid brought in a plate of fried black pudding, toast, and rashers and set it before him. As he fell upon it eagerly, Venetia picked up a shining silver pot.
“Some coffee, Lachlan? Or do you prefer tea in the morning?”
Her prissy tone reminded him that this wasn’t a regimental camp, or even his slovenly cottage. Mindful of his manners, he slowed his eating. “Tea, no milk.” He glanced at his mother. “When did we start serving coffee at breakfast?”
“The lass likes it,” his mother said. “She says they drink coffee in London a great deal. Chocolate, too, though we can’t have that, seeing as how it’s so dear.”
“So you like chocolate, then, do you, lass?” he asked.
Venetia handed him his tea without looking at him. “I fancy a cup from time to time, yes.”
“Then I’ll send a lad to Dingwall to fetch you some. And anything else you might require.”
Her gaze flew to his, startled.
“Before my overzealous mother came and whisked you away the other night,” he went on, “I told you I wanted you to be comfortable. So if you fancy chocolate or books or ribbons or whatever else a lady needs, just say the word, and I’ll make sure you get them.”
“How about twenty yards of muslin for curtains? And some lime for washing the floors?”
He frowned. “I was speaking of things for you, not Rosscraig.”
“I’d rather see the money spent on your lovely home,” she persisted.
“And why is that, pray tell?” he asked in a husky voice. “Have you got a sudden itch to feather yer future nest, lassie?”
He ignored his mother’s gasp at this clear evidence of his intentions, focusing his gaze on Venetia.
Two spots of color formed high on her cheeks before she dropped her gaze to her plate. “I’m trying to help your mother, that’s all.”
He let that pass, but the conversation cheered him enormously. Mayhap she wouldn’t be so hard to court after all. Especially when his mother’s beaming face showed she was more than willing to help.
He finished eating, then pushed his plate away. “Well, then, let’s take that tour now. I’ve a fierce hankering to see what you ladies have been doing.”
“And what of the muslin?” Venetia asked. “Can you get it for me…us?”
With a lazy smile, he rose. “Write down everything you’re wanting, and I’ll send Jamie over to Dingwall for it.” If the way to her heart was with curtains and lime, then he’d find a way to get them for her, even if he had to buy on credit.<
br />
Rounding the table, he offered her his arm. “Shall we go?”
An uncertain look crossed her face, but she stood and took his arm. He suppressed a grin as they left the dining room, with his mother walking behind, her delight obvious.
Let the courtship begin.
It was the third morning after she’d lost her innocence to Lachlan, and Venetia was even more rattled now than she’d been then. She’d expected him to remain absent from the manor. Indeed, she’d hoped for it, so she could avoid the temptations he presented.
But no. He’d not only spent every waking hour here, he’d behaved as courteously as any London gentleman. He’d climbed ladders on her behalf, despite his stiff leg. Ignoring his mother’s sly smiles, he’d fetched cushions and, yes, even held curtains.
So she was disappointed to discover that today he’d left after breakfast, with no word as to where or why he was going and how long he’d be gone. All she could learn was that he’d taken the coach, which was unusual, according to Lady Ross.
At first Venetia simply missed his hanging about. But by late afternoon, she started to worry about him. So when the butler said the laird had returned and was wanting her in the dining room, she practically flew there, not bothering to find out if his mother was there, too, to chaperone.
When she entered, Lachlan rose from the table, which held a steaming pot, two cups, and some fresh scones. It was the first time she’d ever seen him in anything but rough attire or regimentals, and she had to admit he looked quite fine. His waistcoat was embroidered silk, and his coat of fine, dark green merino made her think of shaded glens and sheltering oaks. His buff trousers fit his muscular build to perfection, reminding her just how fine his thighs were.
Her cheeks heated. “The butler said you asked for me?” she said formally, trying to keep her emotions in check.
“Aye. I brought you something.” He pulled out a chair for her next to his, and that’s when she saw the sheaf of broadsides stacked up on the table.
Her gaze flew to his. “Where did you…how did you…”
“I rode over this morning to Inverness. I’m not known there, you see. We do most of our business in Dingwall.”
That was because Dingwall was a few miles away, while Inverness—a town eight times larger, with libraries and an academy and lots of shops—was a good two hours’ ride each way. She walked to the table in a daze, then stood leafing through the pages, acutely aware of Lachlan watching her.
“Will they do?” he asked.
“They’re lovely,” she said in a choked whisper, then sat down to examine them further. No one had ever given her such a thoughtful gift. Not only were there unusual versions of ballads she already owned, but three of the broadsides contained lyrics to ballads she’d never encountered, and one was even in Gaelic.
She couldn’t believe he’d ridden four hours to obtain these. The very thought of it brought tears to her eyes. She brushed them away quickly, before they could fall and ruin the ink of her precious copies.
He poured her a cup of what was in the pot. “Can you read Gaelic, lass?”
That’s when she realized she was staring at the one in Gaelic. “Not as well as I’d like,” she said evasively.
Shortly after her arrival, she’d determined that the Ross clan held in contempt any Highlander who didn’t speak Gaelic. She wasn’t about to call attention to her lack, especially in front of Lachlan.
She darted a quick glance at him as he handed her the cup and sat down beside her. “You must have had a difficult time locating such a wide variety,” she murmured.
“It took a bit of doing, but I managed.” With a smile, he pushed the cup at her. “See how this tastes. Cook wasn’t sure she made it properly.”
Blinking, she stared down into the cup and caught her breath. Chocolate. He’d got her chocolate, too. She sipped some, then promptly burst into tears.
“Here now, lass, don’t be doing that!” he cried, laying his arm about her shoulders. “Surely it can’t taste that bad.”
“No, no, it’s perfect,” she said, feeling like a fool as she dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “That’s the trouble. It tastes exactly like the chocolate at home.”
He tensed. “London, you mean.”
With a nod, she drank some more, relishing every velvety-sweet drop. Heaven. Pure heaven.
“Do you miss the city very much?” he asked in a strained voice.
She glanced up to find him staring at her with an unfamiliar vulnerability. Forcing a smile, she set the cup down. “Only when I drink chocolate.”
His gaze locked with hers. “Then I’ll never buy you chocolate again.”
When he lowered his head toward hers, she didn’t stop him. How could she, when he was being so adorable? He kissed her, and it was better than before, better even than chocolate. His tongue dipped inside as if to test her resistance, then plunged more boldly.
She probably shouldn’t let him do this. She doubted that he’d changed his mind about the meeting with her father. But didn’t he deserve at least one kiss after he’d ridden all the way to Inverness for her? Just one…sweet…unending…
Someone cleared his throat nearby, and the two of them sprang apart to find Jamie watching from the doorway.
The poor lad wore a look of betrayal that cut her to the heart. She’d known he was nursing an attachment to her, but she’d thought it nothing more than a boyish crush. She’d certainly done nothing to encourage it. Still, judging from how he clenched his hat in two bony fists and glowered at her, that didn’t matter.
He thrust out his chin, then turned his scowl on Lachlan. “Yer mother sent me to tell you to stay out of sight, sir. Some of the lads saw McKinley headed this way with ten men or more.”
McKinley? Papa’s factor? That couldn’t be good.
In an instant, Lachlan turned from ardent lover to chief of his clan. He rose and strode to the doorway. “Is Duncannon with him?”
Venetia held her breath, praying that Papa hadn’t come. She wasn’t ready.
“No sign of him yet,” Jamie said. “And McKinley is coming from the estate, not Dingwall. Probably just wants to make trouble again about the lads taking the short way through Duncannon land when they head to the main road.”
“I hope that’s all it is,” Lachlan said tersely. “Where’s Mother?”
“Out front, pretending to be gardening. She figured it was best if McKinley didn’t see what we’ve been doing inside the house. He might wonder what has got her started with fixing up the place.”
“Aye, he might. God knows she’s never done it before.” Lachlan rubbed the back of his neck. “All right. Go up to the north field and tell the lads to come down. Tell them to bring their sickles, but not to be seen unless things turn ugly.”
He strode out into the hall, still barking orders at Jamie. “Send Roarke to warn the fellows doing the mashing to stay out of McKinley’s sight. He’ll use any excuse to make trouble for us. The last time the bloody devil reported seeing an illegal still near Duncannon land, we had excisemen plaguing us for days after.”
Curious to see this “devil” she’d heard so much about, Venetia wandered to the front of the house to peer out the window near the front entrance.
“Venetia!” Lachlan called out. “Stay inside, ye ken?”
“Of course.”
A voice from outside arrested them all. “Good day, Lady Ross.”
“Mr. McKinley,” Lachlan’s mother answered. “And what brings you to Rosscraig this fine morning?”
“Go!” Lachlan hissed at Jamie, who disappeared through the servants’ entrance. Then he turned to Venetia and whispered, “Come away from the window.”
Mouthing the words “in a minute,” she carefully drew aside the heavy velvet drape just enough to give her a view of the front drive.
Lady Ross stood near a badly overgrown rosebush that she’d apparently been hacking to death in her zeal to look like she’d been gardening. Facing her was a burly man wi
th a coarse reddish beard who sat atop a beautiful bay mare that would rival any costly one in London.
Venetia scowled. Where did a factor get the money for such exquisite horseflesh? She couldn’t imagine that Papa paid him enough for that. The factor probably lined his pockets by throwing tenants off the land they loved, then filling it with sheep. She began to wonder if Papa actually knew. He paid so little attention to his Scottish property.
The rude Mr. McKinley didn’t even bother to climb down from his mount. “I was at Braidmuir to collect the quarterly rents, where I was informed that your people have been trespassing on the earl’s land.”
The factor’s smoothly sinuous voice was that of a man who sowed discord wherever he went. If she hadn’t already been predisposed to dislike him, she would hate him just for that.
“My men encountered a woman leaving a cottage where we store fleece,” he continued. “When they counted the bags, they discovered one missing.”
Venetia’s gaze flew to Lachlan.
“Yer blood stained it,” he said softly. “It didn’t seem right to leave it there for anyone to find.”
Wincing, she returned her attention to the drama outside.
“And what makes you think the thief is one of my people?” Lady Ross asked, though her voice shook. Venetia wondered if she was remembering Lachlan’s mention of fleece.
“The woman fled here, my lady. And you know better than anyone that Lord Duncannon doesn’t tolerate thievery on his land, even by a neighbor. I heard about the punishment administered years ago to your own son after an incident of thievery. So I don’t imagine he’ll regard this with any kinder an eye.”
Her heart sinking, Venetia glanced to Lachlan again, who was glowering at the front door so blackly, she was surprised it didn’t erupt into flames.
Is that what Lachlan had meant about being humiliated? What had Papa done to him, for heaven’s sake? And why hadn’t she heard of it? It must have occurred before Lachlan joined the regiment.
“My employer is sure to demand restitution for the stolen fleece,” Mr. McKinley went on. “That’s why I’m here. We can either handle this between us, or I can go to the authorities.”
Beware a Scot's Revenge Page 23