School For Heiresses 3- Beware A Scot's Revenge (23 page)

Then saw her standing there. That cleared the scowl from his scarred brow. “You’re here,” he said inanely. His breath came in heavy gasps. “You didn’t leave.”

“I considered it,” she said archly. “After all, I don’t particularly like being dragged about the countryside with my hands bound.” She gestured to his bandaged arm. “But who would dress that? Who would torment you with hour after hour of ballads? And who—”

Jerking her to him, he gave her a thoroughly wanton kiss that sent her traitorous pulse thumping. Then he drew back, instantly contrite. “Forgive me, lass. I had no right—”

“It’s fine,” she said, breathless after such a show of ardor, even knowing it was only borne of relief. “I understood the sentiment.” Bending, she picked up his clothes and held them out. “You’ll need these. Leave the bandages in place until tonight. Then I’ll dress your wounds again.”

As she turned toward the door, he asked, “Where are you going?”

“To help Annie with breakfast.”

“Ask her if she’ll pack a lunch for us, too. I’ll pay her for it. Or if you’d rather, we can stop at an inn to eat.”

Hiding her surprise, she said, “What I would like even more is not to have to relieve myself by the side of the road.”

“All right.” His voice softened. “We’ll stop whenever you need to, wherever you want.”

“I would appreciate that.” She turned to smile at him. “In exchange, I promise not to sing at the top of my lungs.”

His eyes warmed. “I don’t mind the singing.” Then apparently realizing he was being too nice, he added gruffly, “But do you
have
to sing about hangings and jilted ladies?”

A laugh escaped her. “And what would you rather, sir? A ballad about dauntless Highlanders?”

“Or fearless Highland lasses.” He captured her hand, then stared at it pensively. “Why didn’t you leave?” He rubbed his thumb over her bare knuckles, warming more than just her flesh. “The real reason, not your teasing ones.”

She swallowed, wondering how much she dared tell him. She was already too vulnerable to him, and letting him inside her thoughts would give him another way to hurt her. Best to stick to the barest facts. “I want to determine the truth for myself: about Papa, about the loan,
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about what has happened in the Highlands. If I go back to England, I’ll never find out.”

She couldn’t stand living her whole life not knowing the full story of how Lachlan and Papa had come to despise each other. If Lachlan was reluctant to have her as a wife, she should at least find out if his reasons were sound.

“So you’ll go with me willingly now? You’ll see this to the end, no matter what happens?”

“No matter what happens,” she echoed.

She’d just have to pray that what happened didn’t break her heart.

Lachlan stared blindly ahead as he drove the gig, with Venetia sitting silent at his side. She’d stayed. She’d had a chance to escape, and she’d stayed.

God help him, why’d she have to go and do that? He would’ve preferred having to drag her back to his side. At least then he could have nursed his anger at her. But how could he be angry when she was so accommodating?

It had been hard enough to resist her when she was fighting him. Now that she wasn’t, it would be even worse.

The sweetness of it tempted him a good deal more than her half-clad body last night, and that made her dangerous as hell. Because naught had changed—if he married her, her father would never give Lachlan what was owed him.

“I would have found you, you know,” he said, trying to convince himself that her actions didn’t matter.

“You would never have made it to London alone.”

“I know.”

“I would have caught up to you on the road within an hour, and we’d still be here, driving north.”

“I realize that.”

Now she was trying to soothe his pride, devil take her. Or had she really abandoned her plan to escape because she thought she couldn’t do it? No, not the fearless Venetia. He began to wonder if she mightn’t be able to handle life in the Highlands after all.

Damn, what was he thinking? She was used to silks and satins, marble floors and fine paintings.

“Do you ever hear anything about Polly?” she asked. “What has happened to her and her husband?”

“Polly?” He glanced over to find her watching him with latent sympathy. Damn. “So Annie told you about her, did she?”

“Yes. I wanted to know.”

“You’re too nosy by half,” he grumbled. “But just so you won’t keep plaguing me with questions, I
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heard she has two young ones and a husband with a roving eye. Though I don’t guess that bothers her none, since he’s rich as Croesus and buys her all the pretty gowns she’d ever want.”

“I seriously doubt that pretty gowns make up for an adulterous husband.”

“From what I hear about London lasses, pretty gowns make up for a lot of things,” he muttered, uncomfortable with this conversation.

Suddenly, they rounded a bend to find their way blocked by a milling herd of Cheviot sheep. He pulled up on the reins, his already taxed temper exploding. “Get out of the way, you bloody bastards! Now you’re filling the roads, too, are ye?” He stood up and flapped his arms. “Go, go, damn you!”

A shepherd ran down the hill. “I’ll have them out of yer way in a minute, sir!” the boy cried, scarcely bigger than the sheep himself. “I’m sorry, I am, sir.”

“And well you ought to be,” he muttered, though his temper ebbed at the sight of a child given such responsibility. “Tell me, lad, who owns these sheep?”

“MacDonell of Keppoch, sir.”

He gritted his teeth. “And how many people did he serve with writs of removal to get his pasture-land, eh?”

The lad blinked. “I-I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m sure you do. It’s never a secret. They serve the writs, come for the people, drag them begging for mercy from their homes, and then burn their houses down around them—”

“Lachlan,” Venetia said in a low voice as the shepherd paled. “He’s just a boy. Leave him be.”

When she laid her hand on his arm and tugged, he stiffened, but sat down and took up the reins. “Well, then, get those bloody beasts out of the way, will you?” he barked at the boy. “We don’t have all day.”

As the young shepherd cleared the roads, Lachlan could feel Venetia’s eyes on him. After the sheep were headed once more down the slope, she said, “Are people’s homes really being burned?”

He snapped the reins, and the horse started. “Why don’t you ask yer father?”

When she uttered a noise like a wounded deer, he regretted the nasty comment. But he wouldn’t take it back. What he’d said was very near the truth. Even if her father hadn’t resorted to such measures, plenty of other lairds had.

They traveled a while in silence. Then she drew herself up. “I want to see.”

“See what?”

“What you and Annie keep talking about.” She sat rigidly beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, even though that took some doing in the turns. “The abandoned crofter’s cottages. The sheep taking over the land. All of it.”

He stared grimly ahead. “I can show you that easy enough, lass. It’s everywhere.”

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And he proceeded to prove it. The road led beside many an estate overrun with Cheviots, those bloody animals who devoured every blade of grass, whose fat flesh and rich fleece coaxed the owners into throwing out their tenants. He showed her cottage after abandoned cottage, many of them roofless and crumbling now.

At every posting stop, her mood became bleaker, her face longer. After a while, he couldn’t bear to look at her, and their conversation grew strained. During a long stretch past Inverness, she asked, “How long has this been going on?”

“Years,” he said. “Many crofters left before you and I were even born. The rest have been shipping out daily by the hundreds. They go because they’ve nothing left, or because the lairds convince them that things will be better in Canada.” He clenched the reins. “But not everyone survives those long voyages. A ship that left last year arrived in America with forty less people than when it sailed.”

With every word, he felt an abyss opening up between them. When, during the late afternoon, she fell into a nap, it was the side of the gig that she rested her head upon, not his shoulder. It was probably just as well. Otherwise, he’d have spent that hour futilely aching for her. Since it was still daylight when they entered the part of Ross-shire where he might be recognized, he was forced to meander along back roads. By the time they reached the thatched cottage on his estate where he meant to keep her, it was nearly sunset. “We’re here, lassie.”

She jerked awake, her face soft from sleep. “What?” Sitting forward, she surveyed the area. “This isn’t Rosscraig.”

“No. I told you—I don’t want my mother involved, and she doesn’t know this place. So until yer father comes, we’ll be staying here.”

“Together?” she said, alarm evident in her voice.

“There’s two bedchambers.”

“Oh.” She didn’t look reassured.

“I’ve got estate matters to occupy me,” he continued hastily, “so you won’t see me much anyway.” Not if he could help it. Many more hours in her company, and he’d soon be considering how to manage the impossible. “If you tell me what you like to read, I’ll have books fetched for you. And I’ll send the lads to Dingwall for needlework things and whatever else you like to occupy yer time.”

Gazing about the clearing, she murmured, “I’ve never been good with a needle, I confess. But books would be wonderful. And I should like some herbs and a few items from the apothecary.” She cast him an accusing glance. “If you and Papa insist upon shooting each other, I need to be prepared for patching you up.”

He ignored her tone and the lurch in his gut at the thought of her wanting to take care of him after all he’d put her through. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Hopping down from the gig, he came around to help her. The minute his hands clasped her waist, she sucked in a breath, and the faint sound did something wicked to his insides. So did the flash of awareness in her eyes, the luminous glow of her face in the light of the dying sun, the trembling of her body beneath
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his grip.

He set her swiftly on the ground and released her before he could do something he’d regret. Like kiss her again. Like lay her down here in the secret woods and take her in slow, easy strokes—

A door slammed behind them, and he stepped back. But when he turned to greet the intruder, it wasn’t one of his clansmen who met his gaze with steely eyes.

It was his mother.

Chapter Eighteen

Dear Charlotte,

Forgive me if my letter sounded sharp. Family difficulties presently cause me concern. But I
understand your curiosity. I just prefer you don’t indulge it.
Always your servant,

Michael

S
ince Venetia was still trying to contain her wildly veering emotions after Lachlan’s hungry look, it took her a moment to register who’d come to greet them.

Then she recognized the wiry auburn curls, velvety brown eyes, and strong jaw of Lachlan’s mother, and realized it was Lady Marjorie Ross who regarded her with a wary gaze. Which turned angry when it moved to Lachlan.

“So you went and done it,” she bit out. “You took Duncannon’s daughter.”

Duncannon’s daughter again. Didn’t
anyone
use a person’s name in Scotland?

“You shouldn’t be here, Mother,” he said, every inch the Highland chief, though the stiffening muscles in his neck betrayed his unease. He gestured to the cottage. “How did you even know—”

“About this place? I’m not the fool you take me for, you know.”

“I’ve never taken you for a fool,” he said, his voice placating.

“No?” Hurt twisted her tone. “They drag you from the bracken half dead, beaten to a bloody pulp, and you spout a tale about fighting the Scourge, thinking to pacify me like I’m a slack-jawed idiot.” She clapped her arms over her chest. “I didn’t press it, not while I fought to keep you alive through that fever, and not afterward. I told myself that after nearly dying, you’d surely give it up.”

Lachlan eyed her warily. “Give what up?”

“Riding the roads. Robbing Duncannon’s friends.” Lachlan looked as if someone had just walloped him with a whisky jar. Venetia rolled her eyes. So Lachlan’s mother
did
know of his activities. She wasn’t terribly surprised.

Anger flared in Lady Ross’s thin face. “In the past few years I’ve often wondered if the Scourge might be you, but I convinced myself you’d never do such a thing. Until the beating.” Her voice hardened. “I
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shouldn’t have told you about that loan. ’Twas foolish of me.” She set her chin. “I wanted you to
talk
to the man, shame him into paying us back. Not take yer life in yer hands.”

Her gaze swung to Venetia. “And now this. Kidnapping a lady. I never thought to see a son of mine behave so.”

“It’s not a kidnapping,” Venetia said, though she wasn’t sure why she bothered to defend him. “I came willingly.”

“Quiet, Venetia. As she says, she’s no fool.” Lachlan’s voice turned brittle. “And no doubt one of my clansmen blathered the truth.”

“Aye,” Lady Ross snapped, “Jamie told me the whole thing.”

“Damn that insolent pup, he’s supposed to be in Aberdeen!”

Lady Ross sniffed. “He thought I should know what you were doing, on account of the lady and her reputation. And he was right.” She stepped to Venetia’s side. “That’s why I’m taking charge of her.”

“Over my dead body.” Fury swelled visibly in Lachlan, pulsing from him in waves. “The lady and her reputation are
my
concern. I won’t have you interfering.”

“And I won’t have you ruining her,” she told Lachlan stoutly. “If I could, I’d take her back to her father”—she held up her hand when he started to interrupt—“but since he’s probably already on his way here, it’s best to wait until he arrives. In the meantime, we have to protect her reputation. Bad enough you traveled alone with her for two days. You’ll not live unchaperoned with her, too. She’ll stay at Rosscraig. And you’ll stay here at the cottage.”