School For Heiresses 3- Beware A Scot's Revenge (29 page)

As she gaped at him, he said, “Take it, damn you! Or put that toothpick down so we can discuss this rationally.”

His flinty gaze didn’t waver, but she took comfort in the fact that he’d offered her a blade. With a sniff, she laid down the “toothpick,” then planted her hands on her hips. “How long have you been the Scourge’s accomplice?”

He slid his knife back in the drawer. “What makes you think I am?”

“I had my manservant investigate to discover who you sent after the scoundrel.” She choked down the anger roiling in her belly. “He visited every regiment situated in the area, then informed me tonight of what he’d learned. No one has been tapped for any secret missions. No one.”

He visibly tensed. “The men I sent weren’t soldiers.”

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“Then give me the names of the men you did send.”

Feathering his fingers through his graying hair, he muttered a curse.

“You can’t, can you? Because there are none.”

“It isn’t what you think,” he growled. “I didn’t want to risk your niece’s life by doing what the Scourge said not to.”

“Try another excuse, sir.” She glowered at him. “My manservant learned that until a few days ago, you’d been seen several times in the company of two Highlanders. You told me that day on the mountain that the kidnappers had gone north to the Highlands.”

“An idle speculation, nothing more,” he said.

“One of the men you were seen with was scarred in the same fashion as that fellow at the masquerade ball. The fellow you claimed not to know, who made a point of dancing with my niece before disappearing mysteriously later.”

He groaned.

“So who is he? Who
is
this ruffian who is probably at this very moment debauching my poor niece?”

“He wouldn’t,” Hugh protested. “He’s a gentleman.” When she stared at him, shocked that he’d actually admitted his culpability, he sighed. “If I tell you everything, will you muzzle yer manservant before he does more harm than good?”

“It depends on what you have to say,” she retorted, her heart aching. After years of protecting herself from bounders and cads, how could she have been swayed by a scoundrel? “I shan’t let some villain hurt Venetia.” She leaned over the desk to scowl at him. “
Who is he?
Tell me, or I swear I will go straight to—”

“Enough!” His heavily whiskered jaw flexed spasmodically. “The man is Sir Lachlan Ross. Chief of the Clan Ross.”

Shock kept her motionless. “Alasdair Ross’s son? But he’s dead!”

“No, though not for want of Duncannon’s trying.”

She blinked. “It can’t be…how can…young Lachlan is the Scourge?”

“You know him?”

“Of course I know him. The boy’s parents were my brother-in-law’s friends for years. I saw them often when I visited.” She shook her head, unable to fathom it. “Lachlan always was a wild one, but for him to become a thief…”

“He only wants what Duncannon owes him. That’s why he takes it from the man’s friends.”

“Owes him?” She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

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“Don’t you?”

“No, I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”

He stared at her, seemingly perplexed by that. “Well, then, perhaps we’d better puzzle it out together.”

He nodded toward a chair. “Sit down, lass. It’ll take me a while to tell you the whole of it.”

She did as he asked, her chest tight with apprehension.

He paced his study, relating a tale of deception and broken promises. When he was done, she sat back in the chair, stunned. She’d never heard of the loan between Quentin and Alasdair, but it explained so much—Lachlan’s becoming the Scourge, Quentin’s odd refusal to hunt the man down, everything. Thank heaven for one thing: Lachlan wasn’t likely to hurt Venetia. He knew her and had even seemed to be fond of her when she was a girl. Besides, if he meant to get what he wanted, he didn’t dare harm a hair on her head.

Maggie glanced at Hugh, who’d halted near her chair. “Are you sure that Lachlan doesn’t know why Quentin never repaid the loan?”

“I’m sure. Duncannon brought all of this on himself, in my opinion, and—”

“Yes.” She squeezed her hands together to quell her sense of impending doom. “Unfortunately, I think I
do
know why Quentin never repaid the loan.”

“Why?”

She rose. “No time to explain. I must reach Rosscraig before Quentin does.”

“Now see here, lass, I promised Lachlan—”

“Do you want your friend to die? Because that’s what will happen if I don’t stop this nonsense before Quentin gets to Lachlan. Quentin will never pay that money to any son of Alasdair Ross. He’ll see Lachlan dead first.”

The colonel gave her an assessing glance, then nodded. “Very well. But I’m going with you.” He tied his cravat hastily about his neck, then went searching for his waistcoat.

“We cannot travel together, for heaven’s sake!” Panic seized her at the very thought of spending days alone in Hugh’s company. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

He cast her a wry smile as he donned his waistcoat. “We’ve gone far beyond proper, don’t you think? Bring along yer manservant if it suits yer propriety. But I’m not letting you travel across Scotland alone, and I’m sure as hell not letting you get in the middle of this thing with Duncannon and Ross. It’s not safe.”

“As if you care,” she said in a low voice, turning toward the door. Catching her by the arm, he pulled her close. “I
do
care, no matter what you think. I hated having to hide the truth from you, do ye ken? I never expected it to be so hard. You were so trusting, so concerned, so—”

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“Foolish,” she finished, with a hard little smile. “A silly old fool who thought that a man might want her despite her short temper and fading looks.”

With a heavy sigh, he bent his head close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her hair.

“The only thing fading about you, Maggie, is yer good sense. Do I seem like a man who could pretend to fancy a woman when he doesn’t?”

She couldn’t look at him. “I don’t know.”

He muttered an oath, then released her to drag on his coat. “Then you’ve got plenty of time to figure it out. Because ye’re not traveling to the north without me.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Dear Charlotte,

I’ll do my best, but gathering information about Scottish affairs is more complicated than passing
on trivial bits of gossip about gentlemen in society. It will take me some time. But do try not to
fret over it as you are wont to do.

Your humble servant,

Michael

A
fter 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.
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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.”

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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.”

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“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.”