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

“Ah, then perhaps it’s the garish excess of tartan. Too many kilts and such.”

“Certainly not. The kilts are my favorite part. Every man should wear one.”

He eyed her askance. “Every man?” He nodded toward a portly gentleman kicking his hairy legs up dangerously high. “Even
him
?”

She stifled a laugh. “All right, I concede the point.”

“We should ask that fellow and the king to refrain from the fashion.”

“Oh, I heard about the king’s kilt! You must have been at the levee for the men. Was His Majesty’s attire really as appalling as everyone says?”

His gaze grew shuttered. “I don’t know, lass. I didn’t arrive in town until yesterday, so I only read about it in the papers.”

She sighed. “Me, too. But I heard that he wore flesh-colored pantaloons underneath his kilt.”

His eyes gleamed at her through the slits in the mask. “So you prefer the alternative, do ye?”

What a shocking thing to say! Yet she rather liked his daring. It tempted her to be equally reckless, something she could never be with English lords.

“Not for His Majesty. Frankly, I think he should stay away from kilts entirely.” Her gaze trailed down to her strapping companion’s knees, bare below his own kilt. “But other gentlemen are certainly welcome to practice the old traditions.”

He chuckled. “Glad to know you approve, lass,” he said in a throaty brogue that melted her bones. He lowered his voice. “Now I can guess what had you frowning so fiercely a moment ago. You were trying to figure out which gentlemen were practicing the old traditions.”

Torn between laughter and outrage, she said, “I certainly was not!”

“Were you imagining the king in his pink pantaloons?”

“No, nothing like that. If you must know, I was…” She cast around for a suitable excuse. “Trying to make out the tune the pipers were playing. I have a passion for Scottish songs—I gather them from broadsides and such.” She added a trifle defiantly, “I hope to see my collection published someday.”

He continued to stare out at the dance floor. “A lofty endeavor.”

“You don’t disapprove?” Most people said that well-born ladies shouldn’t dabble in a vulgar business like publishing.

“I’ve no right to disapprove.” He shot her a veiled glance. “Why? Does your husband give you grief over it?”

“I’m not married, sir,” she said with a coy smile. “Ah. Then your parents must be the ones giving you
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grief.”

“Papa does think it’s silly, but he tolerates it well enough.” She flicked her fan back and forth. “I suppose you think he
ought
to give me grief over it.”

“No. If anything, young ladies should have more freedom than they do.”

“Really?” Mrs. Harris routinely warned against men espousing freedom for women, since that often meant they only wanted the women to be free with
them.
Yet he didn’t seem like a fortune hunter. And he didn’t know who she was, so how could he be hunting her fortune? She smiled cautiously. “Do you approve of such freedom for your wife?”

“I would.” He dropped his voice to a murmur. “
If
I happened to be married.”

A little thrill shot through her. But how absurd of her to be attracted to an utter stranger. It was his stunning costume, that’s all. In his kilt, he bore “the manly looks o’ aHighland laddie,” as “The Tartan Plaidy” put it.

But it wasn’t merely that. His eyes, with their golden specks, still seemed very familiar…“Have we met, sir?”

“Don’t you remember, Flora? You helped me escape the English after Culloden.” His words were teasing, but his countenance wasn’t. It held a seriousness utterly at odds with the whirling, laughing crowd around them.

“I mean,” she chided, “have we ever met as our real selves?”

“I wouldn’t know that, now, would I?” He bent near to whisper, “Unless you tell me who ye really are beneath that mask.”

“You first,” she demanded.

“Och, no, lass.” He laughed. “I’m not taking the chance that you’d order me to stop speaking with you, all because we lack a proper introduction.”

Oh, he was certainly a sly one. “And what makes you think I’m the sort to follow the proprieties so stringently?” she asked in a voice equally sly.

“The way you speak and stand. Yer ladylike manner.” His gaze fell to her mouth, and something flickered in his eyes that made her skin thrum. “The fact that talking to a man like me has got you so nervous that you can’t rest easy until you’re sure who I am.”

“That’s preposterous.” She ignored the kernel of truth in his words. “If the colonel invited you, you must be his friend, and I doubt he has unsuitable friends.”

“What if the Celtic Society invited me? Are you as sure of
their
friends?”

“Absolutely. I’ve attended the society’s lectures inLondon , so I know them to be respectable.” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I even saw you at one.”

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“Perhaps.” But his amused smile told her she was far off the mark.

“Or perhaps…” She stood back to survey him critically.

He bore too polished a manner for some country Scot, so he was either a gentleman or an officer or both. He did carry himself with military rigidity, not to mention his jagged scar…

“Might you have been in aHighland regiment?”

“No,” he said with a swiftness that made her sure she’d hit upon the truth.

“That would explain where I met you,” she pressed on. “Regimental officers attendLondon affairs.” And his costume looked adapted from a uniform, its hardy leather sporran and its serviceable cross belts unlike anything the real Bonnie Prince Charlie would have worn.

“No, lass,” he said more firmly. “Fine guess, but no.”

“I’m back,” Aunt Maggie interrupted as she broke through the crowd. She gave Bonnie Prince Charlie the once-over, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me, sir, but have we met? I could swear that we have.”

“I said the same thing!”Venetia exclaimed. “He reminds me of someone.”

“Sir Alasdair Ross,” her aunt said. “Don’t you remember, dear? The baronet who lived near your family? It’s the eyes, and the square jaw. The man’s been dead for years, but they could be related.”

“We are indeed, I believe.” Her ballad hero forced a smile. “He’s a distant relation.”

“Not too distant, I’ll wager, for you look as if you could be his son.” Aunt Maggie surveyed him critically. “He had a son, actually. Do you remember
him
,Venetia ? I know you were only eight, but—”

“I could never forget Lachlan Ross.” That was it! That’s who the man reminded her of, the boy who’d dubbed her Princess Proud.

She’d thought of him often through the years. When last she’d seen the heir to the baronetcy, he’d been sixteen and too caught up in rebelling against everybody and everything to bother with a mere girl. So she’d preserved her pride by pretending not to care and making rude comments about his haphazard dress and country manners.

Secretly, though, she’d worshipped him. She’d adored his tall, rangy body and his untrammeled hair the color of burnt sugar, and she’d admired his wild bent.

Though that had probably got him killed. “He’s dead, too, Aunt Maggie. We read about his funeral. That awful Scourge fellow murdered him.”

Her aunt clucked her tongue. “Such a pity for one to die so young. I suppose, sir, that you heard—”

“Yes,” he broke in. “So how do you ladies like Edin—”

“I don’t know what the boy was thinking, to tangle with the Scottish Scourge,” her aunt went on. “Did they ever find the villain’s body?”

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Their companion gave a pained smile, as if not liking to discuss such an unsavory subject with ladies.

“He was washed out to sea after the skirmish, I believe. I doubt anyone could ever find him.” He glanced over to the floor. “Excuse me, madam, but I was hoping to dance with your niece—”

“Oh!” her aunt exclaimed. “And here I am blathering away like some old fool.” She looked him over, seemed to like what she saw, then said, “I suppose it’s all right, but I’ll expect a proper introduction after the masks come off later.”

“Of course.” He offered his arm toVenetia , that fierceness burning in his gaze again. “May I have the honor?”

A strange thrill swept through her as she took his arm. “I’d be delighted.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” her aunt said as she waved them off.

When they were out of earshot, he said, “I should warn you that it’s been months since I’ve done this. My dancing is like to be rusty.”

She gazed at him in surprise. “Then why did you ask me to partner you?”

“Because I enjoy a challenge, lass.” He shot her a dark glance that thrummed through her like the piper’s hum. “And I begin to think that you might be one.”

With that intriguing remark, he led her onto the floor.

Chapter Two

Dear Charlotte,

Don’t worry about Lady Venetia. The authorities are sure that the Scourge is dead. Rich friends
of Lord Duncannon traveled to Scotland a month ago, and saw nary a hint of him on the roads.
So your charge will be as safe inScotland now as she would be inEngland .
Your cousin and friend,

Michael

S
ir Lachlan Ross wished he’d had a more canny answer for the lass, but he couldn’t admit that he’d really asked her to dance to tear her away from that cursed discussion. Unfortunately, now he had to suffer through an entire set.

The music began and he forced himself to move, forced himself to ignore the throbbing in his half-healed ribs and the ache in his once-broken thigh bone. Although certain steps proved a minor agony, it was better than listening to Lady Kerr talk of his family, unraveling his plans with each casual word. How in God’s name had the viscountess seen the resemblance between him and Father? For that matter, how had Lady Venetia noticed it? He was wearing a wig and mask, for Christ’s sake! Not to mention that neither lady had laid eyes on him in years.

No one must recognize him, or this would be over before it began. His mother and clan had worked hard to hide the fact that he was alive by holding a pretend funeral for him. He couldn’t ruin it by appearing to have risen from the grave to dance a reel with Lady Venetia Campbell.
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The bonnie Lady Venetia Campbell. God help him, he hadn’t expected that. When last he’d seen her, he’d been a gangly lad and she a pale-skinned brat. Prancing about in satin and lace, she’d looked down her nose at him, chiding him for not behaving as “the future laird of Clan Ross”

ought. He’d rewarded her uppity temper by ignoring her.

He sure as the devil couldn’t ignore her now. Even dressed as a farmer’s daughter, the sensuous beauty would corrupt a saint. Sinner that he was, she made his blood run hot whenever she flashed him that sweet-as-seduction smile. Or stepped lively in the reel, twirling and skirling and—

Holy Christ, he was waxing poetical. It had been too long since he’d had a wench beneath him. Not that he’d ever shared a bed with a lass so bonnie as she. Camp followers and trollops had always been his lot and were like to be so until he chose a wife.

But first he had to settle things with Duncannon.

He came down hard on his bad leg in a turn, and pain jolted through him from knee to hip, making him grit his teeth. Worse yet, he could seeVenetia watching him, trying to figure out why his dancing was so stiff.

Mo chreach,
she wasn’t only beautiful, she was clever as the very devil, with her assessing glances and her probing questions. She’d even guessed he’d served in a regiment! ’Twas a wonder she hadn’t worked out his entire plot already.

He hoped this ball hadn’t been a mistake. But tomorrow wouldn’t work unless she could be easy with him.

The plan had been simple: come here tonight and cozy up to the grown Princess Proud, who he’d expected to be a vapid debutante. Rousing her interest in him was supposed to make the kidnapping go easier tomorrow. Except she wasn’t vapid, and the only thing he was rousing was her memories of
him.
And her curiosity.

He could handle vapid girls—and had, a few times, when he rode as the Scourge. That only required a firm voice and a stern look. The threat of a blunderbuss didn’t hurt, either. But cowing them was easy compared to snatching Duncannon’s canny daughter fromHolyroodPark , in the center of a city where half the lords and magistrates ofScotland were staying. The latter required more finesse.

He shook his head. How did her sort turn out as anything but vapid after prancing about at a fancy school, then swishing through polite society for years?

And why the devil had she grown so beautiful? He’d heard she was bonnie, but no one had warned him that her hair shone like glossy black silk beneath the candlelight, or that her lips had the sweet little bow shape that tempted a man to trace it with the tip of his tongue…

He swore under his breath, missed a step, then almost lost his balance when his bad leg buckled. It was a timely, though painful, reminder of why he was here.

This battle between him and her father had naught to do with the lass; she was only a means to an end. Best to remember that. Because once he threw off the veil tomorrow, she’d turn on him like a cornered
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wildcat. There could be no truce between him and Duncannon’s family. Thankfully, the set ended without his making a fool of himself. As they left the floor, he searched for her chaperone. Ah, the lady was standing with Colonel Seton. He should give the man more chance to work. Lachlanslowed his steps. “Are ye fromEdinburgh ?” he asked.

“London. But I used to live in theHighlands .”

“Why did you leave?” How much of the truth had her father told her?

“My mother died, and Papa couldn’t bear to stay inScotland without her.”

So Duncannon hadn’t told her a damned thing. Not that he was surprised; the man was too wily to let his daughter know he’d abandoned his responsibilities. “Then yer father didn’t come toScotland with you,” he said, though he knew the answer.