To Scotland, With Love

by Karen Hawkins

  Ravenscroft sent a resentful glare to Gregor, who threw up his hands and said with a laugh, “Don’t look at me like that; I am not the one challenging every male within earshot to a duel.”

  Venetia ignored Gregor, which was not easy to do, as he was leaning back negligently in his chair, his wet boots thrust out across the rug, making it difficult for anyone to walk anywhere. In his wet clothes, his black hair a bit curly from the dampness, his green eyes sparkling with amusement, he was devastatingly handsome. Even the scar on his left cheek seemed attractive, secretive, hinting at potential danger.

  “Well, Ravenscroft?” Gregor quirked a brow at the younger man. “Will you tell Miss Venetia your plight? Or shall I?”

  “Oh, I will tell her,” Ravenscroft said in a voice so sulky that it quite put Venetia out of patience. “First of all, Miss Oglivie, you must realize that no matter what, no matter what, I am here because I love you madly.”

  “And?” Gregor prompted.

  “And I had to leave the country because of a duel I was to fight.”

  Venetia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He sighed, his shoulders sagging beneath the buckram wadding that padded them. “What happened was—It wasn’t my fault, but last week, Lord Ulster and I were playing cards at White’s. He accused me of cheating, and I—”

  “Were you?” Gregor asked.

  “No,” Ravenscroft said sharply. “I dropped a card on the floor. I bent to retrieve it without thinking, and Ulster had the…the gall to suggest I was not playing a fair hand!”

  Gregor’s brows rose. “In the middle of a game, you picked up a card from the floor?”

  “Well, yes! I’d dropped it and hadn’t noticed it, and I know I shouldn’t have, but it was a queen, and I particularly needed…That’s not to say that if I had it to do over again, I might—”

  “Bloody hell.” Gregor looked at Venetia, his eyes shimmering with humor. “You really wish to wed this fool?”

  Ravenscroft’s hands fisted, his face flushing a dark red.

  Venetia ignored him. “I never said I wished to marry anyone, MacLean. I only said Ravenscroft had been a gentleman. Or so I’d thought.”

  “He is quite fun to watch,” Gregor said thoughtfully, looking at Ravenscroft. “Much like having a pet monkey.”

  “My lord!” Ravenscroft stepped forward, his eyes blazing in anger.

  “Sit down,” Gregor said in a bored tone.

  “My lord, I cannot allow you to—”

  “Sit down!” This time, Gregor’s voice thundered, his eyes the dark green of an angry sea. Outside, a crashing echo lashed through the air.

  Ravenscroft’s butt hit the chair, a stunned look on his face.

  Venetia’s heart pounded in her throat. Gregor rarely became angry. In the many years they’d been friends, she could count on one hand the number of times he’d lost his temper.

  And now he was angry with her, something she’d never thought to see happen, and it rattled her in ways she’d never imagined. It’s just Gregor, she told herself, trying to calm her thudding heart. I’ve known him forever. Yet somehow that didn’t reassure her as it once might have.

  She clasped her hands. “Ravenscroft, pray continue with your story. Ulster accused you of cheating, and—”

  “I had no choice. I challenged him to a duel.”

  “Who won?” Venetia asked.

  The young lord bit his lip, saying in a very quiet voice, “No one.”

  Venetia leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”

  He cleared his throat. “I said no one. We—we have not yet met.”

  Venetia considered this. “When did this incident occur?”

  “Three days ago.”

  Three days ago. Just before he’d come to steal her away and—She fixed her gaze on him. “That is why you wished to go to the continent.”

  Gregor’s soft chuckle punctuated Ravenscroft’s wince.

  “You see, my love?” Gregor asked calmly, though something tight snapped beneath the surface. “I not only saved you from an unwelcome elopement but from a grim life on the continent, the wife of a banished man.”

  A flame of anger flashed through Venetia. “Let me get this straight, Ravenscroft. You not only tricked me into accompanying you by claiming that my mother was ill, but you planned on taking me with you into a life of hiding on the continent?”

  “Well…yes. I thought you’d like it.”

  She was going to explode. “You thought I’d welcome such a thing? Living from country to country, never returning to England—”

  “We would be able to return!”

  “When?”

  “Once Ulster could be persuaded to drop the charges.”

  “And how would you get that accomplished?”

  “I—I thought perhaps your father—”

  “You thought my father would undertake to beg for your return to England?”

  “Your father likes me!”

  “And so does my mother. But they would not be the ones living with you on the continent, would they?”

  “No,” Ravenscroft said in a sulky tone. “I didn’t think they would mind assisting their son-in-law, though.”

  “I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded being banished, either. Indeed, I am certain they would have thought it a grand adventure, hiding from the constable, registering at low inns under assumed names. As much as I love my parents, no one would ever think they possess the smallest bit of common sense. I, however, would have been greatly put out by the entire mess.”

  Ravenscroft leapt from his chair. “Ven—Miss Oglivie, truly, I didn’t think you’d object! I hear it is beautiful in Italy! There are villas and shops and all sorts of amusements—”

  “And how, pray tell, would we afford these villas and shops and amusements?”

  Ravenscroft looked desperately around the room, finding nothing but Gregor’s amused gaze and Venetia’s indignant one.

  “What sort of lovely plans did you have laid? Have you purchased a house, perchance?” Venetia pursued.

  “Ah. No. I didn’t really have the funds—” He caught sight of Venetia’s expression and hurried to add, “I am certain something would have presented itself!”

  “I don’t know why I thought you were going into this unprepared,” Venetia said calmly.

  Ravenscroft looked relieved, but Gregor knew Venetia better.

  She was a wrathful goddess—her gown mussed and crumpled, her hair a tangled mess upon her head, but her gray eyes flashed silver, her smooth skin flushed with passion. Gregor had gone through agony since this morning. Venetia’s disappearance had forced him to admit something rather uncomfortable: the necessity of their friendship. He not only enjoyed having Venetia in his life, but he needed her. Facing the prospect of possibly never seeing her again, or at least not in the same easy circumstances they’d always enjoyed, had sparked his fury like nothing else ever had.

  Worse, as the hours had passed, he’d imagined her fearful and upset, alone and frightened. Then he’d come upon the wreckage of their carriage, buried in the snow. His entire body had frozen for a moment, too shocked to accept the sight of the splintered wood and what it might mean.

  He’d been frantic in a way he’d never been before. Of course, it was merely a protective instinct, nothing else, but still…the feelings had been immediate and overwhelming.

  Which was why when he’d followed the path of the cart to the inn and discovered Venetia there—not broken and bloodied, but warm and snug, a sparkle in her eyes as if she’d actually enjoyed her “outing” with Ravenscroft—a new emotion had lodged itself in Gregor’s breast, one he didn’t recognize. One that had set off his frayed temper yet again.

  For some reason, seeing her flare at Ravenscroft went some way toward soothing Gregor’s temper. She was magnificent! Grinning to himself, Gregor leaned back and waited.

  Ravenscroft, ever eager to think things were in his favor, was nodding. He took Venetia’s hands in his. “I am not
the sort of man to rush into things without thinking them through. Of course I have a plan, one that has taken into account every exigency.”

  Venetia’s gaze flickered from Ravenscroft to the window, where snow swirled outside. “Really?”

  Gregor bit his lip to keep from laughing.

  Ravenscroft clasped her hands more tightly. “Indeed, my dear! After marrying, we were to go to Italy via France.”

  “How? That would cost a bit.”

  “No need to worry your pretty head over that. I have quite a sum put away to pay for the trip.”

  “We were to travel in the best of style, I presume?”

  He looked a little uneasy, but his smile remained in place. “Not the best, of course. But well enough.”

  Gregor cleared his throat. Both Ravenscroft and Venetia turned toward him. “I know something of crossing to France. How much money did you bring?”

  Ravenscroft colored. “Enough.”

  “More than twenty pounds?” Gregor asked gently.

  There was a frozen moment, and then Ravenscroft nodded. “Of course.”

  The whelp didn’t have ten, if he had a pence, Gregor decided. Still, he would show the lad some mercy. “Providing you have twenty, you will find crossing the Channel quite comfortable. You can have a private cabin and meals, with your luggage, horses, and carriage loaded and unloaded.”

  There was a moment’s pregnant pause, then Ravenscroft said, “And if I have less?”

  “If you have ten, you might get a private cabin but will have to provide your own meals and load your own belongings. Of course, since you did not inform Miss Oglivie of your flight, I daresay she has very little luggage, anyway.”

  “Very little,” she said in a resentful tone. “Ravenscroft, I can see from your expression that crossing is much higher than you thought. Did you make any inquiries at all before you began this mad bolt to Italy?”

  Ravenscroft glared. “Yes! I made all sorts! People say it is remarkably inexpensive to live over there—”

  “It had better be, since you don’t even have enough for passage over. How were we going to live once we arrived? If you were planning on my parents assisting us, you do not know their circumstances, for they are forever living at the edge of their means.”

  “No, no! I would never ask such a thing! I thought, once we arrived, we would find a pretty little cottage in a vineyard. And once there—” Ravenscroft straightened, his expression beaming. “Once there, I am going to write a book!”

  The clock on the mantel ticked loudly. The snow outside silently swirled, the only movement to be seen.

  Gregor had his fingers buried in the palms of his hands, struggling mightily not to laugh.

  Venetia sent him a fulminating glare, letting him know he was fooling no one, then turned back to Ravenscroft. “I have to ask you one thing.”

  He leaned forward eagerly. “Anything!”

  “What was I supposed to be doing while you were working on this…this roman à clef?”

  “Doing? I suppose I thought you would be keeping the cottage nice and clean, perhaps washing our clothes in a pail and hanging them on a line in the sun.” He smiled a dreamy smile. “Your hair has the faintest hint of red. It shows every time you are in the sunlight.”

  Gregor almost choked. Red? Where had Ravenscroft gotten that from? Although…the light from the fire did indeed cast some reddish glints in Venetia’s brown hair. Odd, he’d never noticed that before.

  Venetia leaned forward, her face level with Ravenscroft’s. “You thought I would enjoy washing my clothes by hand, hanging them on a clothesline?”

  His smile slid a bit. “I thought you would not mind helping while I wrote my book.”

  “By hanging up your laundry?”

  “And yours. And our children’s.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “I know just how you feel!” he said eagerly. “You are overwhelmed. I was the same way myself when it dawned on me what we were to do. We’ll go to Italy, leave civilization behind, and live a simpler life. A more pure one. And perhaps,” he added naively, “when you’ve time, you could take in a few local children as students and teach music and English and such.”

  “Students?” Venetia repeated blankly. “You thought I would do all of that and become a governess?”

  “Just a few students,” he said hurriedly, his expression uncertain. “I wouldn’t wish you to be overworked.”

  Gregor almost felt sorry for the man. “Venetia, you always said you enjoyed helping your fellow—”

  “MacLean, do not say another word.” She did not look at him, but her frigid voice said it all.

  Gregor settled deeper into his chair, placing his hands behind his head and leaning back. “Ravenscroft, I can see that I underestimated you. I am surprised at the amount of thought you put into this concept, and I apologize for assuming you were impetuously running into things.”

  The younger man brightened. “I’m certain it sounded like a harebrained idea to begin with. It did to me! But after a short reflection—”

  “No doubt, over a few glasses of port,” Gregor guessed.

  “Why, yes! Four, to be exact—”

  Venetia pressed her fingers to her forehead.

  “—I realized that Italy was the place for us. Once there, I know the muse will visit me, and my idea for a novel will come to fruition.”

  “Do you have any of this novel written?” Gregor asked, curiosity strong in his tone.

  Venetia yearned to hurl one of her boots at Gregor. The ass was begging for a setdown, and poor Ravenscroft was too dim-witted to do more than cheerfully answer.

  “No, I haven’t written any of it yet,” he said now. “But I have some notes.” Ravenscroft reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out and said, “I’ve named two of my characters and have decided to use my travels in Italy as the basis.”

  “An educational book, then. One about the history of the state. Very good.”

  “What? Oh, no! It’s to be a mystery. A murder of some sort has occurred—I haven’t decided who or how—and a young man is accused of the crime. Of course, he is innocent, but he must prove it, or else he will end up in jail for all time.”

  Gregor quirked a brow. “Let me guess…this young man, he is your age?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “And about your height? And hair color?”

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “A fortunate guess,” Gregor said, smiling broadly.

  “Indeed! I’ve been thinking of writing this novel for three years now. I am certain I could do it, if I but had the time.”

  “Which the lovely Miss Venetia will give you, once she begins her life as a cleaning maid.”

  Ravenscroft looked horrified. “I would never think of Venetia as a cleaning maid!”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Venetia said dryly. “I and my dishpan hands will thank you.”

  Ravenscroft captured one of those hands now. He lifted it to his cheek, his gaze fixed on Venetia’s face. “Venetia, you are the most beautiful woman in the world, inside and out. I hope you know I would never do anything to disrespect you.”

  Until now, Gregor had been enjoying every utterance that slipped from the pup’s lips. But the unconcealed admiration that shone in Ravenscroft’s eyes as he held Venetia’s hand to his cheek sent an unfamiliar—and devilishly sharp—pang through Gregor.

  It was the oddest feeling, and it wiped away his amusement in a flash. Venetia should have been offended by such familiarity. She should have been outraged by the suggestions this fool had made.

  Instead, she sighed, her lips curling into a reluctant smile as she turned her hand and patted the insolent pup’s cheek. “Oh, Ravenscroft, you are so young. I keep forgetting that, don’t I?”

  It was hardly a compliment, but it only encouraged the fool. Ravenscroft had the temerity—the audacity, by God—to cup her fingers to his lips and press a kiss to her bare palm.


  Something inside Gregor snapped. “Venetia.”

  Venetia blinked at Gregor’s black expression. Dark as a thundercloud, he now stared down at her, his gaze flickering between her and her hand.

  She followed his gaze to her hand, where Ravenscroft clasped it almost reverently. It was improper, although there was so much about this entire situation that was improper that holding hands with Ravenscroft seemed a minor infraction indeed.

  Ravenscroft smiled up at Gregor, unaware of the danger he was in. “Isn’t she an angel?”

  Venetia’s cheeks heated, and she freed her hand from Ravenscroft’s rather tight grasp. “Yes, well, now that everything has been said that needs to be said, we must find a way out of this mess.”

  “At least,” Gregor said in a sharp tone, “you finally admit this is a mess.”

  She cut him a sharp glance. “I admit nothing except that circumstances are not as I’d wish them to be.”

  “I will marry you,” Ravenscroft said simply. “That will solve one issue, at least.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “That is not an option.”

  “But, Miss Oglivie, I love you. With all my heart!”

  “Ravenscroft.” Gregor’s voice chilled the air.

  The young lord sent a harried glance at Gregor.

  What happened next, Venetia would never be able to explain. One moment, Ravenscroft was standing there, imploring and earnest. The next, he was backing up toward the door, stumbling a bit in his haste.

  “I-I-I just remembered—important meeting!” He tugged on his neckcloth.

  “Here? At this inn?” Venetia didn’t know when she’d heard a more ridiculous assertion. Well, other than the thought that she might support the poor youth in his quest for fame as a novelist. “How on earth could you possibly have a meeting here?”

  But she spoke to empty air. She heard the thuds of Ravenscroft’s well-shod feet as he hurried out the front door, closing it behind him. Seconds later, he could be seen through the window, buttoning his coat as he made his way through the wind to the stables.

  Venetia watched him. “That is most odd!”

  Gregor shrugged, coming to stand beside her. “He is a fool.”

  Venetia glanced up at Gregor. “What did you do?”