School For Heiresses 3- Beware A Scot's Revenge (32 page)

The pigheaded fool looked as if he might refuse, but she said something and the anger on his face dampened. Within minutes, she had him grudgingly joining her on the floor. Lachlan shook his head. She couldn’t stand to make an enemy of the lad, could she? It must be peace at all costs for members of the clan, even if one of them was being an ass. Time passed, and the evening turned into night. The fiddler began to tire, and the dancers’ feet grew sore. He’d lost sight of Venetia half an hour earlier, so he wandered into the hall and then the dining room, where he found her surrounded by some unmarried clansmen. The instant kick of jealousy in his belly caught him off guard. They were only doing what all young men did, flirting with a pretty lass, but damned if it didn’t annoy him something fierce. As he neared them, he realized they were doing something worse than flirting. They were pressing her to drink from a glass. And she was doing it, too.

“Here, now,” he barked as he approached. “Don’t be giving her whisky, for God’s sake. She’s a lady. She’s not used to it.”

“It’s not their fault,” she told him, her eyes overly bright. “You make whisky—I want to see what it
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tastes like. So I asked for some.”

He leveled a glance on Jamie, who of course was part of the pack. “How many glasses has she had, lad?”

“That’s her second.”

Striding up to her, he started to take the glass from her, but she raised it and said loudly, “Let’s have a toast!”

That brought the rest of the clan crowding in to join the laird and his sweetheart in the dining room.

“Very well, a toast it is.” He smiled down at her as people scrambled to find glasses and pour themselves whisky. “And what should the toast be, lassie?”

“Something fitting for a ceilidh,” she said brightly.

Wedding vows would be fitting for a ceilidh.

Even as he thought it, his blood began to race. This would be the perfect time for him and Venetia to speak present consents. Though they didn’t need witnesses, it was convenient to have them. And perhaps with her tipsy, he could convince her to speak her part. Lachlan eyed her closely. No, she didn’t look drunk enough to let that pass. She wasn’t slurring her speech or weaving on her feet, so he’d never get her to say the vows. Unless…

She’d claimed to know Gaelic, but he’d lay odds that she’d lied. Oh, that was a wicked idea. But she was just foxed enough that it might work. Ignoring his nagging conscience, he murmured, “How about a toast in Gaelic. That’s fitting for a ceilidh, don’t you think, princess?”

“In Gaelic, yes,” she echoed, a smile splitting her face.

He tested his theory. “We give toasts in twos in Scotland. Why don’t you give it first, then I’ll repeat it? You did say you speak Gaelic, didn’t you?”

Her smile slipped a little, but she nodded. “I-I did. I do. But you should give the toast. It’s your house and your ceilidh. Then
I’ll
repeat it.”

She was making it so damned easy. Princess Proud just couldn’t bear to show herself lacking before other Scots. “All right.”

Looking round to see that everyone had got their glasses, he raised his own, then began to speak.
“Tha
mise Lachlan Ross a-nis ’gad ghabhail-sa Venetia Campbell gu bhith ’nam bhean ph?sda, gus an
d?an Dia leis a’ bh?s ar dealachadh.”

The crowd sucked in a collective breath as they recognized the words: “I, Lachlan Ross, take you, Venetia Campbell, to be my wife, until God shall separate us by death.”

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They all looked at her expectantly, as did he.

“Now you say it, lass,” he prompted. If she didn’t understand the words, she would never remember the entire thing, and that’s what he was counting on.

“I…I…could you repeat it, please?” she said. “I didn’t catch it all.”

Jamie glowered at him. “She doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do!” she said petulantly. “I just want to make sure I get it right.”

His mother and the rest of his clan all looked pleased as could be. Either that, or they were conveniently ignoring the oddness of his insisting upon speaking the vows in Gaelic. He took a deep breath, then said, “Repeat after me, lass:
Tha mise Venetia Campbell
…

She repeated it.

“A-nis ’gad ghabhail-sa Lachlan Ross…”

If she’d realized that he’d switched the names this time around, she gave no indication of it, for she said exactly what he’d said.

“Gu bhith ’nam fhear ph?sda…”
he went on, then held his breath to see if she noticed he’d changed

“wife” to “husband.” Apparently not, for she repeated every word.

“Gus an d?an Dia leis a’ bh?s ar dealachadh.”
He could hardly suppress a grin while he said those words. If she said these, it was done.

The minute she finished the last bit, the crowd erupted into cheers, more than ready to take the wedding vows at face value. It didn’t hurt that Venetia herself reinforced the deception by beaming up at him before drinking her whisky.

That smile drove a stake into his conscience. And it now dawned on him what a vexing dilemma he’d landed himself in.

The minute he told her they were married—or any of his clan mentioned it—she would figure out how he’d manipulated her. He could protest all he wanted that he’d thought she knew Gaelic, but she was no fool, his Princess Machiavelli. And the fact that the vows were legal, that his whole clan would loudly proclaim in court that she’d known what she was saying, wouldn’t matter a whit to her. At least they were married, and he’d no longer have to worry about her returning to London ruined, without the protection of his name. But he held a wildcat by the tail, to be sure. So what the devil was he to do about it?

Chapter Twenty-Four

Dear Charlotte,

If men are closemouthed, it is because we cannot trust women with our secrets. Once a woman
hears them, she wants to wheedle her way into every part of the man’s life, and most men prefer
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their privacy.

Your cousin,

Michael

A
fter Venetia repeated Lachlan’s toast, the evening took a strange turn. One minute she was enjoying being part of the clan, and the next, he was bustling the guests out. Though it was late, why must he be so rude about it?

Then Roarke clapped Lachlan on the shoulder, congratulated them both—for what, she wasn’t sure—and started to talk about her marriage to Lachlan. For no good reason, Lachlan abruptly suggested that the two men have another drink in the dining room. Alone. Left to her own devices, she sought out Lady Ross, who was straightening things in the drawing room. As Venetia began to help, the woman said, “No, don’t you bother with that. I’m just doing a bit before I go to bed.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about what McKinley meant this afternoon,” she said. “He mentioned Lachlan being punished, and my father and thievery.”

“Oh, that.” Lady Ross nervously stacked up dirty plates. “I don’t know what he meant. The man’s mad. Surely you could see that.”

“I’ll grant you he’s a scoundrel, but I daresay not a mad one. And everyone else seemed to know what he meant, too.”

With a sigh, Lady Ross faced her. “You’ll have to ask Lachlan.”

“I tried while we were dancing, but he just changed the subject. And no one else will tell me, either. What was so horrible—”

“He doesn’t want it spoken of, that’s all. He’d never forgive me if I told you myself. Besides, it’s only proper that he tell you, seeing as how you’re his wife.”

“His wife!” Venetia exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

Lady Ross blinked at her. “You didn’t know?” She sighed. “I suppose Lachlan didn’t explain about irregular marriages in Scotland. Those vows you spoke were enough to make it legal here.” She shook her head. “He should have told you, damned fool, before he went into it before God and everybody. It’s a good thing you talked to me first, or you’d have quite the surprise when he came to yer bed…” She trailed off as she saw the look on Venetia’s face.

“What marriage vows?” Venetia said hoarsely.

Lady Ross blanched. “You said you understood what the Gaelic meant.”

The toast. That she’d repeated word for word…

Had Lachlan realized she didn’t know? She replayed the incident in her head. Oh yes, he’d realized it, the devious wretch, or he wouldn’t have insisted on saying the vows in Gaelic.
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Her temper exploded. The scoundrel had tricked her! And she’d fallen right into it, too, like a witless fool!

Lady Ross grabbed her arm, alarm showing in her face. “You
did
understand the vows, didn’t you? Because if you didn’t, it isn’t legal.”

Venetia stared at Lady Ross, her mind awhirl. She could deny that she’d meant to marry him, but Lachlan had a whole clan eager to gainsay her. Lady Ross might take her side, but Venetia would look like a fool, and she might not be able to change anything anyway. Besides, she’d wanted to marry Lachlan—just not until she could be sure he wouldn’t get himself killed confronting Papa.

Her eyes narrowed. She could still do that, couldn’t she? Lachlan didn’t know she’d guessed the truth. That’s why he was behaving so oddly, hurrying people out of the house, taking Roarke off to drink away from her.

She had the upper hand. And she meant to use it, too. For this little deception, she would make Lachlan dance to her tune. That’s what wives were for, after all.

“Venetia!” Lady Ross demanded. “Did you know what you were saying or not?”

“I did.” Venetia pasted a smile on her face. “I’m sorry, the whole business about irregular marriages has taken me by surprise. I thought Lachlan and I were entering a betrothal with that toast, not a marriage. But it’s fine. I did want to marry him, as you well know. I just…didn’t quite understand.”

Lady Ross let out a breath, then impulsively hugged Venetia. “It’s glad I am that you’re his wife. Glad indeed.”

Venetia held the woman close. “Me, too,” she said, entirely sincere. But that didn’t mean she’d let her devil of a husband run roughshod over her. She headed back to the dining room, but Lachlan was still drinking with Roarke, and it was probably prudent not to talk to him while he was in his cups. She would go to bed and await him where they’d have some privacy. If he wanted his wedding night, he’d find her. And then she’d have a merry time watching him try to explain why he had the right to share her bed. If she didn’t have him begging her forgiveness and promising her the moon before the night was out, then she was no wife at all.

Lachlan awoke to complete darkness. His head lay cradled in his arms on a table, and he sat in a chair…

Right, he’d been drinking whisky with Roarke. He lifted his head, surprised to find himself nearly sober. He must have been sleeping off the whisky for quite a while. He hadn’t drunk that much anyway; mostly he’d been putting off the moment when he’d have to tell Venetia what he’d done. After Roarke had left, he’d lingered a while longer, then must have fallen asleep.

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That’s why it was black as the devil’s heart in here. He’d let the candle burn out. Damn. He cocked his head to listen, but the house was quiet. Everyone had gone to bed, including his lovely new wife. Who didn’t know she was his new wife.

When he rose, the chair fell over. All right, so he was a bit unsteady on his feet, but he only had to find the flints and light a candle.

That proved harder than he’d thought. Once he left the table, he got disoriented. Despite his attempt to be quiet, he kicked over things while searching for the fireplace, and even after he stumbled into the mantel by accident, he couldn’t find what he needed. Devil take Mother and Venetia and all their fancying up the place and moving things about.

“Where could they have hidden the flints?” he muttered as he felt along the mantelpiece, knocking off a candlestick in the process.

“They’re in that silver box on the other end,” said a voice behind him just as a finger of light stabbed into the room.

He whirled around, shoving the hair out of his face so he could better see who’d come in bearing a candle. Venetia herself.

She wore a nightdress and a robe, and her hair tumbled about her shoulders in wild waves of ebony. She looked as if she’d just come from bed. He wanted to carry her right back. Then he saw her stern expression as she surveyed the scene. Three chairs had been knocked over, and a silver tureen careened beside a pewter platter. Next to the burned-out stub of candle on the table lay the empty jar of whisky and the glasses, still miraculously erect.

“Good even, princess,” he mumbled, not sure what to say. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just looking for flint to light a candle.”

“Thank heaven you didn’t find any, or I’d be putting out fires as well.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

She scanned him with a contemptuous glance, and he became painfully aware that he wore no coat or cravat, his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his shirttails hung half out of his trousers. He probably looked like he’d just left a tavern.

“It means you’re obviously foxed,” she said.

“I’m not!” He stepped toward her and landed on the base of the candlestick instead. It shot up to bang him in the shin. “Holy Christ Almighty!” he swore as he kicked it aside.

“Stop that!” Hurriedly lighting candles in a nearby sconce, she went over to set her own candle on the table, then began picking up chairs. “I won’t have you destroying the dining room while you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, I tell you,” he said sullenly, though he figured it was probably best just now if he stayed still.

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She eyed him askance. “There’s an entire jar of whisky gone, Lachlan.”