Beware a Scot's Revenge

by Sabrina Jeffries

But now snippets of things she’d heard in London came back to her. One of Mrs. Harris’s good friends was a newspaperman named Charles Godwin, who’d often written about “injustice in the Highlands .”Venetia had paid his essays no mind, since everyone said he was a wild-eyed radical. Now she had to wonder. And there’d been one lord who’d complained of trouble with his crofters.

  Unfortunately, whenever she’d stumbled upon such conversations, she never got to hear the rest, for the gentlemen didn’t discuss such matters before ladies. So she’d had trouble piecing together what was really happening.

  Lord knew Papa never talked about it, except to rail against his backward countrymen. But since he was always railing against something, she pretty much ignored him. Now she wished she’d paid closer attention.

  Punching up her pillow, she tried not to think about tonight’s discussion. But Lachlan’s words rang in her ears. Annie’s husband spoke out against the sheep farming…That’s when the earl had his steward dismiss him.

  Surely Papa could never be so unfeeling. He’d always prided himself on treating his employees well. He’d pensioned off their servants and kept others in service as long as they desired to work. It didn’t seem like Papa to turn off a factor who’d worked for him for years. Perhaps the steward had acted on his own.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. “I’m coming in, lass,”Lachlan murmured.

  He was back to bathe. Dear Lord.

  Pretending to be asleep, she kept her face to the wall as he entered. She heard the telltale snick as he locked the door, then the rustle of clothing as he undressed. Apparently her pretense was convincing, for he said nothing to her.

  But the lack of conversation made everything worse. Because as she heard the sounds of splashing, curiosity got the better of her. What would he look like in the bath? Would his shaggy hair curl up at the ends or trail damply down his neck? Would his chest and back prove as broad as they seemed, or was it just the cut and thickness of his clothing that made him seem brawny?

  And would it be so terribly awful if she peeked to find out? He was concentrating on bathing; he probably wouldn’t even notice. One little look to assuage her curiosity—how could that hurt? Then she could sleep.

  Turning onto her stomach, she tilted her head just enough so she could view the tub. It sat perpendicular to the bed, and his back was to her, fortunately.

  Or unfortunately, since it meant she saw very little, just his upper back and shoulders. But what a back and shoulders. Rough-hewn as the rocky crags he’d climbed in his youth, they looked nothing like the smooth alabaster statues in the museum in London . His skin was tanned and sinewy as a laborer’s, the surface marred by scars, probably from the war.

  He dunked his head in the water, and when he came back up, his hair streamed in brown rivulets down his neck. She was still taken off guard when his large hands grabbed the sides of the tub and he pushed himself to a stand, bringing her eye to eye with his pale-skinned bottom. His very tight and nicely rounded bottom.

  So this was how a naked man really looked—the muscles bunching in his haunches as he leaned over to snatch up a towel, his strapping shoulders rippling as he dried himself, then turned slightly sideways to reveal…

  An ugly and jagged scar that stretched from his knee to mid-thigh. She gasped. It was clearly recent, for it still glowed an angry red, as if the water had roused its temper.

  “Oh, my word,” she whispered.

  Lachlan tensed. Too late, she realized she’d said it aloud. Before she could look away, he glanced over, his gaze locking with hers. “What is it, lass?”

  She should have muttered some excuse and averted her gaze, but now that she’d seen the thing, she had to know about it. She pointed to his leg. “Who did that to you?”

  A muscle flicked in his whiskered jaw. Still standing in the tub, he tied the towel about his waist before pivoting to face her, glowering at her like some Highland warrior in a white kilt. “Who do you think? ’Twas your father’s men.”

  She sucked in a breath. That wasn’t the answer she’d expected.

  And he knew it, too, for he met her gaze with a belligerence that dared her to refute it. Now she could see smaller pink scars along his ribs and a gash on his arm similar to that on his thigh.

  “What did they do to you to make such a horrible wound?” she whispered.

  His face looked carved from stone. “After they wrestled my knife away, two of them held me while the third beat me with a cudgel. He broke my thigh so badly that the bone came through the flesh, tearing the muscles and tendons.”

  Reaching for the chair next to the tub, Lachlan braced his hand on it so he could lift his leg over the lip.

  She could see how even that effort cost him, for when he continued speaking, his breath came harder. “Mother was able to set it, but with me pretending to have died of my injuries, we couldn’t risk bringing in a physician from town to look at it. So the flesh is taking its sweet time healing.”

  “I can see.” Horror filling her, she rose from the bed. “How many other places did they strike you? What other bones did they break?”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “I’m not listing off my weaknesses so you’ll know where to hit me the next time you try an escape, princess.”

  “I would never—I couldn’t possibly—” But she had hit him, hadn’t she? Not intentionally, of course, but probably enough to bring him to his knees.

  Her heart lurched in her chest. “That’s why you didn’t tell me, isn’t it? So I wouldn’t use the knowledge to hurt you.” When he conceded the point with a shrug, remorse flooded her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I went through worse than this during the war. I didn’t suffer overmuch.”

  “The devil you didn’t.” She scanned him with an eye trained from years of volunteering at the hospital with her friend Lady Draker. A hard lump caught in her throat at the sight of his scars. “Tell me where else they hurt you. I swear I won’t take advantage of what you say.”

  His gaze flicked over her, as if determining her sincerity, before he released a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t matter, lass.”

  “It matters to me.” She glanced around and spotted the key on the floor, where he’d placed it while he bathed. Before he could react, she snatched it up, then clenched it in the fist she held behind her back. “Tell me where else they hurt you, or I’ll make you wrestle me to the ground to get this.”

  He swore vilely.

  “Or perhaps,” she said, backing away, “I’ll just unlock the door and make good my escape. Then you can run after me in your towel—”

  “The ribs,” he said tersely.

  She halted, one eyebrow raised.

  “They broke five ribs, two on one side, three on the other.”

  How many times had she elbowed him in the ribs? Oh, Lord. “And the scar on your forehead,” she whispered, “was that from them?”

  He sighed. “When we wrestled for the knife, yes.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t lose an eye.” Blinking back tears, she gazed at the puckered scar on his forearm. “I suppose they were the ones to break your arm, too.”

  “No, that came when I fell from the bridge after they brought the cudgel down on my head.” He gave a dark smile. “Fortunately I have a very thick skull. The blow only stunned me long enough to realize I wouldn’t survive the next one, so I pretended to be knocked unconscious, and I rolled off the bridge.”

  She gazed at him in amazement. “How far did you fall?”

  “Twenty feet or so. A jutting rock broke my arm, but probably saved me, for it shifted my fall enough so I hit the water instead of the rocks. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to stay under and let the current carry me until I could grab some rushes with my good arm and drag myself out to hide in the bracken. Since it was near dusk, the men never found me.”

  A broken arm and leg and ribs…a knife wound…a blow to the head. It was a miracle he’d survived at all.

  Tears
stung her eyes. It was yet another thing he’d kept from her that would have garnered him her sympathy if she’d known.

  Instead, he’d endured her blows without revealing a thing. How many times had she kicked at him and beat at him while he’d cursed and moaned and groaned? He’d probably been in agony, the poor, suffering man!

  But she would make it up to him by easing his pain now. She could do that much, at least.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Charlotte,

  Scoundrels aren’t as prevalent as you assume. Most men are simply looking for someone to listen to their tales, cast them an admiring glance from time to time, and hold them through the long, dreary nights. I suspect most women are looking for that as well.

  Always your servant,

  Michael

  Lachlan was touched by the seeming sympathy in Venetia’s face. Then she darted to the door, proving that it had been just a ruse. Holy Christ, she’d taken him off guard with all her questions, and now she meant to escape him!

  He dashed after her as fast as he could with wet feet and his bad leg, but she got the door unlocked before he could reach her.

  “Sally, Sally!” she called out through the door. “I need you!”

  Halting just behind the door, he gaped at her. He could hear the maid rushing down the hall. Sally’s room was up here, too, if he remembered correctly.

  “Damn it, lass, what are you doing?”Lachlan hissed at the same time as Sally asked her, “What is it, milady?”

  “My husband has a war injury that is paining him,” she told the maid calmly, “but I lack the proper ointments to help him. Might you have any horse liniment?”

  What the devil—

  “Aye, miss. I’ll fetch it for you at once.”

  “And a bowl and some clean cloth for bandages, if you please. Oh, and if you have any comfrey root in your garden—”

  “The missus has some downstairs. I’ll be right back, milady.”

  After Sally rushed off, Lachlan leaned against the door to shut it, his heart in his throat. It appeared that Venetia’s sympathy hadn’t been pretend after all. “Horse liniment, lass?” he said softly. “What are you up to?”

  “I used to give aid at a hospital with my friend. A physician there swore that the best thing for healing damaged muscle was horse liniment.” A sad smile touched her pretty lips. “It does work for horses, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m not a horse.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You might be. A beating like the one you endured would have killed a mere man.”

  “Like I said before, I’m hard to kill.”

  Dropping her gaze, she fingered the scar on his forearm, her voice an aching murmur. “I can’t believe my father would countenance something like this.”

  He stiffened. As always, she thought the best of Duncannon. “Sikestonsaid very plainly that the message was from yer father. That he’d ordered them to beat some sense into me. Into the Scourge—so that I’d stop my thieving.”

  “Sikeston?” The blood drained from her face.

  “That was the name of the man in charge. One of the others called him that.”

  She turned away from the door, as if in a daze.

  “What is it, Venetia ?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. It’s just…” Her brow knit up in a worried frown.

  “You know something,”Lachlan growled.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Damn it, tell me what you know—”

  “I’ve brought the things you asked for,” Sally announced from the door.

  Venetia took the items, then dismissed the girl.

  As soon as Sally was gone, Lachlan snapped, “What is it that you know about your father’s men?”

  Her lovely eyes looked darkly anxious. “They’re not my father’s, I don’t think. Not really.” Wandering over to the washstand, she set down the bowl she’d got from Sally. “But three men did meet with him a few months ago.”

  Three men. The ones who’d assaulted him?

  “Papa wouldn’t let me anywhere near them,” she went on, “but I gathered that they weren’t the sort of men…that is…”

  “They were killers.”

  “No!” She concentrated on using the bottom of the liniment bottle to crush the comfrey root with fierce, hard strokes. “I don’t know. I’d never met or heard of them before, however. I didn’t get the idea they were friends of Papa or even people from the estate.”

  Did she mean the men who’d attacked him or not, damn it?

  Avoiding his gaze, she wiped off the bottle. “I asked Papa if they were there because of the Scourge, and he told me it was none of my concern.”

  “So why do you mention them?” he asked impatiently.

  She turned toward him, her expression wrought with pain. “A week after they came was when I read about your supposed death. And—” She hesitated, as if reluctant to reveal something that might implicate her father in any wrongdoing.

  “And?”Lachlan prodded.

  “Their leader’s name was Mr. Sikeston.”

  Lachlan released a pent-up breath. He’d been sure all along that they’d been sent by Duncannon, but he’d only had his memory to rely on for that belief. “You realize you’ve now given me proof that yer father ordered the attempt on my life.”

  Alarm suffused her cheeks. “No, I’ve only given you proof that my father talked to the men who attacked you.”

  “Don’t be a fool. What other business would Sikeston have with yer father so soon after my attack inScotland ?”

  He could see from her face that she knew he was right; knew it and hated it.

  “Ye’re forgetting that they told me they had come with a message from him. Then they went straight back to him, probably to get paid for killing me.”

  “If they’d meant to kill you, why bother to give you a message?”

  That bit of logical reasoning annoyed him. “They brought a cudgel down on my head, damn it!”

  “I know. I know.” Anguish shone in her eyes as she headed toward him, the bottle of horse liniment in one hand and a cloth in the other. “It hardly matters what they intended. What they did was unconscionable.”

  “That’s not what you said before,” he taunted her. “You said I deserved being damned near murdered because I’d been robbing people.”

  Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t flinch. “I was wrong. No one deserves such a beating.” She dragged the chair over by the window, where the light, though fading, was still strong. “Sit. Let me at least try to make it better.”

  “Why?” he asked, though the sympathy in her face made it clear enough.

  “Because I’m sorry for what they did. What Papa probably asked them to do.”

  At least she was acknowledging the earl’s part. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. You couldn’t have stopped it.”

  “But that doesn’t mean—” She let out an exasperated breath. “Consider it a kindness between…neighbors, all right?”

  Neighbors, not “friends.” But could they ever be friends? He wasn’t sure. Still, what could it hurt to let her doctor him if she had a mind to it?

  He took a seat on the chair, and she glanced down, then turned a healthy shade of red. “Um, you may want to cover yourself a bit better.”

  He followed her gaze to where his towel gaped open, exposing parts of him better left unexposed to a maiden. He stifled a laugh. “Sorry, lass.” He readjusted the towel. “But given yer experience with doctoring, you ought to have a passing knowledge of what a man looks like.”

  Cheeks aflame, she examined his arm. “At the hospital, they were always careful not to allow women to deal with cases involving naked men.”

  “Ah,” he murmured. “More’s the pity for the naked men.”

  She ignored his comment, turning his arm toward the light so she could see his scar better. “Is the area tender?”

  “A bit.”

  She pressed her thumb against the spot where that bone had also torn
his flesh. The never-ending ache exploded into agony, making him grind out a foul curse.

  “If that’s ‘a bit,’ ” she said dryly, “then I hate to see what you’d consider real pain.” She poured liniment on the cloth. “This will burn at first, but it will feel much better later.”

  “Burn?” he queried. She rubbed the liniment on his arm, and his wound seemed to catch fire. “Holy Christ Almighty! You trying to kill me, are ye?”

  He grabbed for her cursed liniment, but she stepped nimbly back. “Stop that!” Standing well out of reach, she doused her cloth with more liniment. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have hit you over the head with the bottle.” She cast him a chastening glance. “Behave yourself, or I still may.”

  Bloody heartless wench. But he had to admit that once the flames subsided, they became more like a heat, a soothing heat that took the edge off the ache in his flesh. That was the only thing that kept him from protesting when she ordered him to lift his arms so she could doctor his ribs.

  Now he had a different torture to contend with. Bad enough that the most seductive wench this side of the English border was rubbing his bare skin to heal his aching flesh. Must she also be wearing a shift that concealed hardly anything?

  When she bent over him, his cock roused unmercifully. Even the sudden fire of the liniment on his ribs didn’t dampen his arousal, for her low bodice now gaped open so he could plainly see the fulsome swells of her breasts.

  Worse yet, he only had the damned towel to cover himself with, and it rose right up like a camp tent. Oh, and he could camp here forever, he could, drowsy with the scent of liniment and lavender, her hair drifting silklike over his chest.

  “I’m afraid this next one is really going to hurt,” she murmured. “And I…um…will need to lift the towel a bit.”

  She reached for the towel, and he caught her hand. “Let me do it.” He wasn’t sure he could trust himself if her hand brushed his erection.

  Somehow he managed to wrestle the towel up high enough on his thigh to expose the scar without exposing the rest of him. He should have just told her to leave it be, but already he craved the soothing warmth the liniment had given his other wounds. And his leg had been plaguing him something fierce.