Damn, damn, damn! It was unfair that Ravenscroft’s thoughtless gesture had led to such an estrangement. Gregor’s hands tightened on the reins, and he urged his mount farther ahead of the carriage.
Now, he couldn’t stop being aware of her, noticing a thousand things that had been hidden to him before. How her hair curled at the nape of her neck, how she always smelled so sweetly, how she tilted her head when listening—all things that suddenly made her more than a mere friend.
It was as if all these years, he’d seen her through a dark glass, and now the shades had been ripped aside, and the brilliant sunshine was illuminating her for the first time. Venetia Oglivie, his best friend in the entire world, the one woman he’d never thought of in a sensual manner, was beautiful. Not the flamboyant, skin-thin beauty of the ton but the deep, rich, earthy beauty of a real woman.
That realization had thrown him off-balance and had caused him to be cow-handed in his dealings with her. Though she was too stubborn to admit it, she would be far better off marrying him than anyone else. He knew her, appreciated her, and cared for her. He was well established and could take good care of her. He could easily add new stables to his Lancashire estate to hold the horses he knew she’d wish to purchase. What more could she ask for?
He grimaced, remembering her outraged expression when he’d announced that she would marry him. Though she didn’t really have a choice, she deserved to be asked. That was what a woman would want.
Gregor sighed. Perhaps in the peace and quiet at her grandmother’s house, he could begin anew, explain to her the advantages of a match with him. She wasn’t ready to admit how dire things were, but once she was, he was certain she’d reconsider his offer. She had to.
The thought cheered him, and it was with a lighter heart that he rounded a bend. “Whoa!”
A light phaeton was mired deep in the mud at the side of the road, the driver and his coachman standing beside it. The driver, a middle-aged man in an olive drab coat, lifted one well-shod foot and kicked the wheel of the phaeton.
Gregor laughed.
The man looked around, appearing embarrassed when he saw Gregor. “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” the man said, coming forward to proffer his hand. “I’m Sir Henry Loundan.”
The man’s handshake was firm and solid, his gray eyes clear and direct. There was a touch of gray at his temples, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as if he laughed a good deal.
Gregor smiled. “Good afternoon. I’m Gregor MacLean. I hope you don’t mind if I remain mounted; the ground looks uncertain.”
Sir Henry shook his head ruefully, indicating his muddied boots. “I should have brought my own mount and not the chaise, but in any event, I’m glad to see you. We’ve been here for the last hour, and not a single person has passed. I was beginning to think we’d have to walk the four miles to Eddington.”
Gregor eyed the mucky road with disfavor. “It’s damnably soft here, isn’t it?”
The man nodded. “There’s a firmer strip on the other side of the road. Wish we’d known that before we sank.”
“I wonder if it is wide enough for both wheels of a carriage.” Behind him, Gregor heard the carriage approaching. He nudged his mount to the center of the road just as it lumbered around the corner. Chambers took in the situation at a glance and pulled the carriage to a halt.
The door opened, and Ravenscroft came barreling out, regardless of mud and muck.
“Mr. West!” Miss Platt stuck her head out the window. “Do be careful! I vow you’ll get your feet wet if you stand there. Are we stuck? I hope we don’t have to get out and walk, for I have no walking boots with me, and it would be ruinous for my skirts. Mr. West, don’t you think walking would be horrid in this weather?” She sat down again, her voice continuing, presumably now addressing her comments to Venetia.
Ravenscroft walked toward Gregor, a haunted look in his eyes. “MacLean! We should change places. Let you have a warm, toasty carriage ride, while I brave the elements in your place. It must be damnably cold here, and—”
“No.” Gregor turned back to Sir Henry. “If you’ll assist us through this mud, I’m certain we can take you as far as Eddington. You might be able to hire a mount and continue your journey from there.”
“That would be wonderful.” Sir Henry gave Gregor a rueful look. “I am in the greatest of hurries, which always seems to necessitate some sort of breakdown, doesn’t it?”
“Every time,” Gregor agreed.
“My lord?” Chambers called down from his perch on the carriage. “Should the ladies alight? If we were to slide down off the road, we might overturn.”
“You’re right. I shall help them.” Gregor went to the coach and opened the door.
The light slanted inside, turning Venetia’s eyes to silver. Gregor held out his hand. “You will have to stand aside for a few moments while we guide the coach over this section of road.”
She hesitated, then nodded, placing her hand in his. The light pressure of her fingers sent a wave of heat through him. He tightened his grip as she stepped forward to the edge of the door, and for a startled instant, her gaze met his.
Without thought, he slipped an arm around her waist and lifted her from the carriage, holding her flush against him, every inch of her form molded to his.
Her cheeks pinkened, her eyes widening. “Gregor!” she breathed, sending an embarrassed look around.
Her unease reached through his lust, and he set her down, stepping away reluctantly.
A strained silence held those nearby. Ravenscroft was scowling, Chambers and Sir Henry’s groom were suspiciously busy with their duties, and Sir Henry was looking away, though there was a hint of sympathy in his gaze.
Gregor made a faint bow to Venetia. “I didn’t want you to muddy your feet on the mud. It’s, ah, less dirty here.”
She looked down. Gregor’s gaze followed hers. She was standing in an inch of water; he’d placed her squarely in the middle of a puddle.
Venetia lifted her skirts and walked to one side, her boots making sucking noises as she walked. “I appreciate your efforts, MacLean.”
“Yoo-hoo, Lord MacLean!” Miss Platt stood in the carriage door, apparently ready to jump into his arms. “I’m ready to climb down!”
Venetia gurgled with laughter, which she tried to cover with a cough.
Gregor sent her a glare before saying over his shoulder, “Mr. West, be so good as to help Miss Platt from the carriage.”
“Me? But—”
Gregor sent him a look.
The younger man gulped. “Oh, very well.” He made his way through the puddles to the carriage, then stood far, far away, merely offering the tips of his fingers for Miss Platt to hold on to.
She blinked. “I can’t step out there. It’s muddy.”
He dropped his hand. “Very well.” He turned to Gregor. “Miss Platt would rather stay in the carriage and be overturned.”
“I didn’t say that!” she huffed.
He held out his hand, still as far away as before.
Forced to make do, Miss Platt was soon standing beside Venetia by the edge of the road, their feet muddied and wet.
Gregor turned to Chambers, Ravenscroft, and Sir Henry. “If we keep the carriage moving slowly but push a bit from this side, we should be able to keep it from slipping off the road.”
“That might work,” Sir Henry said. “When my carriage began to slip, I foolishly halted the horses and the wheels sunk into the mud. There was nothing to be done after that.”
Gregor nodded. “Then we have a plan.”
“I beg your pardon,” Venetia said from the side of the road. “I wouldn’t do it that way.”
Ravenscroft smiled. “My dear Venetia, I am certain we know how to get this carriage over this stretch of road without—”
“How would you do it?” Gregor asked, ignoring Ravenscroft’s startled glance.
“If you go slowly, it will allow the carriage’s wheels to sink. I’d take it faster.
”
Sir Henry looked impressed. “She’s right. The momentum might carry the carriage over the mud.”
Gregor nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll take Venetia’s advice. Chambers, drive quickly and evenly across this stretch. Sir Henry, perhaps your man can run by the leader and encourage him on? Ravenscroft, you and Sir Henry and I will push from the low side to make certain the carriage doesn’t slide off the road.”
As soon as Gregor, Ravenscroft, and Sir Henry positioned themselves, Chambers set the horses in motion.
The large carriage rumbled forward, Sir Henry’s man holding the lead horse by the bridle and urging him forward. The road slanted a bit as they entered the turn.
“Now,” Gregor said, pressing his shoulder to the back panel of the carriage.
Ravenscroft and Sir Henry pressed as well. The carriage moved smoothly forward…then hung a moment and slid a bit to one side.
“Push harder!” Gregor ordered, gritting his teeth as he struggled to keep the carriage from slipping into the muck.
Thank God for Venetia’s suggestion. With the help of the horses, the carriage continued on. Within moments, they were out of the muck and on the firmer ground ahead, and Chambers pulled the carriage to a halt.
Gregor caught sight of Venetia’s relieved expression. Without thinking, he tossed her a wink.
She winked back without pause.
Gregor grinned, suddenly feeling better about life in general.
Sir Henry blew out his breath, leaning against the back of the carriage. “That was something!” He grinned. “I wish you all had been here when I was trying to get over that same ground. The—” He shoved himself from the carriage. “Is the carriage sliding? I felt it move.”
As if in answer to his words, the carriage rocked a bit.
“Chambers!” Gregor yelled.
The groom turned around and looked back over the carriage. “My lord?”
“Are you moving?”
“No, my lord. We’re firm as—” The carriage rocked again, and this time, a muffled cry came with it.
“Good God!” Sir Henry said, stepping away from the rocking carriage. “What in the hell is that?”
“Oh, no!” Venetia ran forward, grabbing the straps at the back of the coach and frantically trying to undo them.
Ravenscroft frowned. “Venetia, what on earth are you doing?”
Gregor grabbed the top strap and quickly undid it. With a crash, the trunks came falling off the carriage in a heap. The one Venetia had offered to carry to London for Miss Higganbotham rolled to one side and then fell open. Out spilled a mound of silks and gowns, flailing slippers, and a glimpse of petticoats, as Miss Elizabeth Higganbotham rolled out head over heels, into a large puddle.
“Elizabeth!” Venetia and Sir Henry exclaimed as one.
Then they looked at each other, eyes wide.
“I—I—I’m muddy!” Miss Higganbotham wailed. Mud streamed from her golden curls and soaked her gown from neck to hem. Thick clots clung to her white skin and smeared her chin.
To everyone’s shock and surprise, Sir Henry Loundan fell onto his knees in the puddle, scooped her into his arms, and breathlessly kissed her.
Much later that afternoon, the squire realized the depths of his daughter’s determination to, as he put it, “ruin her life.” He had followed Mrs. Bloom’s heavy coach for most of the day, frustrated at the lack of speed. At this rate, they’d have to spend another night in an inn, which distressed the squire no end. He’d been dreaming of staying in his own town house, with its fresh sheets and thick mattresses and the services of a cook directly from York, where he’d been born and raised. Soon he’d have Elizabeth safely tucked away from her ill-conceived passion, and life could resume normality.
Mrs. Bloom, for all her irascible ways, had shown herself to possess a generous heart. The one time they’d stopped, Elizabeth had remained huddled in her corner of the carriage, the hood over her head, a hand pressed to her forehead as if pleading a headache. The squire thought she was merely engaging in histrionics, but Mrs. Bloom was inclined to believe she was suffering from overexcitement, first at being removed from her “fiancé,” then by their accident and the days of being confined to the inn. Elizabeth had eventually fallen asleep, her head drooping, the cloak hood covering her face and blocking the unwanted light. Mrs. Bloom had become quite protective and had refused to allow anyone to awaken her.
A wooden sign proclaimed another inn ahead. The squire sighed when Mrs. Bloom’s plump hand extended from the window, waving a white handkerchief to signal that she wished to stop once more.
Good God, the woman must possess England’s smallest bladder. Grumbling to himself, he waved agreement, hoping they wouldn’t be long. The carriage turned smartly into the yard, and the squire followed, deciding to remain outside while Mrs. Bloom did what she must and sampled the tea dishes.
He informed Mrs. Bloom of his intentions as her groom opened the door.
“Very well,” she said airily. “Although it’s bad for your digestion to miss tea.”
“I am certain I shall survive. Has Elizabeth been better company?”
“La, no! The child has done nothing but sleep. She sleeps as quiet as a mouse, too. Why, if I couldn’t see her breathing, I wouldn’t know if she was alive or not. I do hope she’ll feel better for her nap.” With that, Mrs. Bloom went into the inn, where she was welcomed by the innkeeper and his wife, both heartily hoping she would leave a pot of vales in her wake.
The squire leaned in through the coach window and peeked at his daughter. She was exactly as Mrs. Bloom described, covered head to foot in her blue cloak, sound asleep, not a sound emanating from her but deep, even breathing. Poor child. He had been a little rough on her, but it had been for her own good.
He had led his horse to the front of the carriage, checking the wheels and equipment, when the sound of approaching horses made him turn.
Three men rode into the courtyard on horses that made the squire envious. The first two men were very large, dark-haired, and dressed in somber black. The last was blond and more slender, his clothing of a dandified cut, his coat and boots clearly from London.
They pulled up at the inn door, and one of the dark-haired men swung down, removing his hat as he did so. The late sunlight filtered over him, highlighting the streak of white in his hair and outlining the planes of his face.
The squire blinked. He knew that face, that defined nose and chin.
The squire moved forward. “Good afternoon, gentlemen! I don’t wish to intrude, but are you perchance related to Gregor MacLean?”
The man standing by his horse sent a quick glance at his companions before nodding. “Yes, we are.” His voice was thick with a Scottish burr. “Gregor is our brother. I am Hugh MacLean. These are my other brothers, Alexander and”—Hugh nodded toward the blond man—“Dougal.”
“Actually, I know Dougal MacLean from a business endeavor. I am Squire Higganbotham. I was hoping to learn Lord Gregor MacLean’s address so that I could thank him for the service he did for me and my daughter.”
Dougal swung off his horse and came forward, his green eyes bright. “Did you say our brother had performed a service for you?”
“For us all. We were stuck in an inn because of the snow. He assisted us in getting the carriages repaired, he and his man healed the injured horses, and he helped make certain our luggage was well tied. He was quite helpful.”
Hugh rubbed his forehead as if struggling to understand something. “Helpful? Are you certain it was my brother? He has a scar—”
The squire traced a line down the left side of his face.
“Hmm.” Hugh shook his head in wonderment. “I cannot believe ’twas him.”
“Why not?” the squire asked, puzzled.
“It is rather out of character for Gregor to be so helpful.”
Dougal edged forward. “Did Gregor appear injured in any way? A wound to the head, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Hmm. I thought that might account for such a change, but perhaps it was Miss Oglivie’s influence.”
“Oglivie? Who is that?”
Dougal’s brows rose. “A woman about this high?” He held out his hand to his shoulder. “Brown hair? Gray eyes? A bit plump? She would have been with Gregor, along with a man named Ravenscroft.”
“Why, yes! You are talking about Lord MacLean’s charges, Mr. and Miss West.”
A tense silence ensued.
Alexander scowled so heavily the squire took a step back. “I beg your pardon,” Alexander growled, “but did you say the Wests?”
The squire nodded.
The men exchanged glances once again, sending a ripple of unease through the squire. “You seem surprised, and I don’t understand. Who is this Ravenscroft? And who is Miss Oglivie? I’ve never heard of her, yet you seem to think she looks exactly the same as Miss We—”
“Och, good squire!” Dougal smiled, coming forward to shake the squire’s hand mightily. “ ’Tis just a piddly little family matter. I don’t suppose you know where our brother was heading?”
“Mr. West said they were to visit Miss West’s grandmother in Stirling.”
“We know the estate,” Alexander said, appearing less than happy.
“Good.” The squire paused, his thick brows drawn. “That’s odd. I don’t know why it didn’t dawn on me before, but Mr. West spoke of the grandmother as if he wasn’t related to her.”
Dougal shrugged as he turned to remount, his brother Hugh doing the same. “I happen to know Mr. West very well, and he’s a bit of an idiot.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Alexander rumbled, turning his huge horse toward the road. His brothers followed suit.
“Good evening to you!” Dougal called over his shoulder.
“Wait!” The squire hurried forward, but the men were gone, the thunder of hooves proclaiming their hurry.
To Scotland, With Love Page 22
