Beware a Scot's Revenge

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Really, Lady Ross, you needn’t—”

  “Do you want to catch the lad, or not?” Lady Ross said, flicking the reins.

  The comment caught her off guard. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I saw how the two of you looked at each other. And you were ready to defend him, even after what he did. Besides, Jamie told me…” She glanced at Venetia. “You care for my son, don’t you? I can tell he cares for you; I’ve never seen him look at a woman as he looked at you. Not even Polly.”

  Though the words warmed her, they didn’t change anything. “Yes, I care for him. But he made it quite plain he won’t marry me.”

  “No, not as things stand now.” Lady Ross brooded as she guided the cart horse up a rutted dirt track. “He’s letting his pride rule him. He’ll never go hat in hand to ask the earl for his permission, and yer father won’t give it with anything less, if he’ll give it at all. And if you marry without your father’s blessing—”

  “Lachlan won’t get the money you need. I know.”

  “Money. Faugh! We’ll manage somehow. But I want grandchildren. I want someone to look after him.” Her voice shook. “I want him to stop doing things that’ll get him killed. You and I have to settle this muddle without bloodshed.”

  A chill skated down Venetia’s spine. “You know what Lachlan is planning?”

  “I know my son. He won’t be satisfied with aught else but the loan repaid.” She slid a worried glance at Venetia. “I know yer father, too—he won’t be satisfied with anything but the Scourge’s head on a platter.”

  “I don’t believe that. And I don’t know why you both see him this way.”

  “You forget that Alasdair and I and yer parents were once good friends. I used to know Quentin very well, which is why I don’t understand why he refused to honor his debt. But he changed in that year before yer mother’s death. He even had Lachlan—” She caught herself. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, you must persuade the two men to settle this matter amicably. That would be easier if you and Lachlan were to wed.”

  “Lachlan is rather set against that idea,” Venetia said dryly. “And it’s not as if you can force him to marry me, you know.”

  “You’d be surprised what a determined mother might accomplish when it comes to getting a good wife for her son.”

  Venetia eyed the older woman speculatively. “What makes you think I would make him a good wife, when he’s convinced himself otherwise? You haven’t seen me since I was a child. I could be a shrew or a featherhead—”

  “A featherhead wouldn’t have tried to escape her captors so cleverly.” When Venetia blinked at her, Lady Ross cracked a smile. “Jamie told me how you stood up to Lachlan on the road.”

  She guided the horse into the broadening drive that Venetia recognized as leading up to Rosscraig. “And any other young lady would have arrived here screaming her outrage, complaining about her treatment at my son’s hands. You showed up ready to defend him and eager to set matters right. That alone told me you’d suit him.”

  Venetia sighed. “A pity he doesn’t feel the same.”

  “Oh, he will.” Lady Ross drew the cart up before the house. “By the time we get through with him, he will.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve got a plan. But first, you’d best be sure you want him.” Grimly, she pointed at the manor. “Because that is what comes with marriage to my son.”

  Her heart in her throat, Venetia gazed at Rosscraig. The whitewashed, L-shaped manor that stood out in her memory as a shining tribute to Scottish successes was anything but that now. Sections of chimney were missing bricks, several roof slates were cracked, and the short stone wall skirting the gallery crumbled off to the ground on one end.

  After they disembarked and entered the manor, she discovered that the inside was even worse. Tatters of once beautiful damask curtains hung from rusting rods, and a layer of coal dust coated the high ceilings. The carpets desperately needed replacing, and every room cried out for new paint.

  “Lachlan kept up with the major repairs fairly well until the beating.” Lady Ross scowled. “Now even those have gone by the wayside, and we can’t afford laborers. It takes all of the men distilling, hiding, and transporting the whisky just to keep the clan in food, clothing, and coal. I do what I can to keep the manor house in order, but you need a man for some things.”

  She ducked her head guiltily. “And I’ve always been handier with a gutting knife than a dustpan and linens. My father was a butcher, you know.”

  “I understand.” Venetia forced a smile, though the state of the once glorious Rosscraig broke her heart. “You should see my needlework—I have two left thumbs when it comes to sewing a stitch.”

  “Forgive me for being blunt, but if you live here as the laird’s wife, you won’t have time for needlework. Or much of anything else.”

  Lady Ross eyed her expectantly, and Venetia realized this was a test—a far more important one than any Lachlan could have thrown at her.

  Little did the woman know that Venetia had spent her entire life waiting for the moment she could return to the Highlands and settle into a lovely house of her own. A few crumbling bricks and tattered draperies weren’t about to cow her.

  Lachlan was the larger obstacle. Could he ever see her as someone besides “Duncannon’s daughter”? Did he even want to? And if he did, would he be willing to put aside his quarrel with her father in order to have her in his life?

  There was only one way to find out. It was time that Lachlan Ross learn exactly what sort of woman he was dealing with.

  “Well?” Lady Ross said. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” she said, linking her arm through Lady Ross’s, “we have a great deal of work to do. Now, about that plan of yours…”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dear Cousin,

  I’m sorry for your difficulties. You know I am willing to help however I can. I even promise not to ask for details beyond what you are willing to disclose.

  Your friend,

  Charlotte

  What do you mean there’s no breakfast?” Lachlan glared at the poor Ross relation his mother must have installed as a butler at Rosscraig. After Lachlan had held back an entire day before riding over here from the cottage to see how Venetia fared, this was the reception he got?

  What had happened to their housekeeper? And why had she added a butler, anyway? It was one more mouth to feed—apparently one that was eating all the breakfast. “Cook always has it on the table by seven. It’s only seven fifteen now.”

  The man shrugged. “The ladies was up at dawn this day and last, sir, and done with breakfast by six. Been working like two fiends, they been.”

  He’d expected to find Venetia languishing of boredom, not working, of all things. “Doing what, pray tell?”

  “Don’t rightly know. They just send me to fetch things from time to time.”

  That sounded downright suspicious. “Where are they now?” Removing his hat, he tried to hand it to the man.

  The butler wouldn’t take it. “Forgive me, sir, but they said they wasn’t to be bothered by anybody, even you.”

  His temper flaring, Lachlan hooked the hat on the rack himself. “It’s my house, damn it!” He loomed over his clansman with a dire expression. “So I can bloody well bother anybody I bloody well please. Now where are they?”

  “In the drawing room, sir,” his new butler squeaked.

  Stomach rumbling, he marched upstairs, which was easier to do now that he’d been rubbing his wounds with horse liniment. He had Venetia to thank for that.

  But he wouldn’t thank her for this. Devil take it, he’d been looking forward to a hot breakfast at the manor—black pudding and potato scones and rashers—something other than cold oatcakes. Instead, he was met with no breakfast and some butler trying to keep him out. What the devil was going on?

  Venetia must be stirring up trouble. This was what he got for staying away to avoid her tempta
tions. Leave the lass to Mother, he’d told himself. You’ve got urgent business languishing.

  He snorted. It still languished. Because whether he was examining the barley on the malting floor or cutting the peat for the kilning, Venetia invaded his thoughts. The germinating barley smelled enough like the comfrey she’d plastered on his wounds to rouse memories of her tender doctoring. And when he and his men tramped through woods to the peat bogs, he thought of how he’d laid her down in the bracken to put his mouth and hands on her soft, yielding flesh—

  With a curse, he hastened his steps. She plagued his thoughts only because he worried about how she and his mother were getting on. If he satisfied his curiosity, then he could put her from his mind.

  A thump sounded from the drawing room, followed by feminine laughter and a low male voice he couldn’t make out. He scowled. It had better not be some tradesman his mother had called in at Venetia’s request. What if Venetia had taken it into her head to turn his manor into a fancy showpiece he couldn’t afford?

  He hastened his steps. Mother wasn’t one to buy on credit, but he’d left the ladies alone together for a day, and that might be something the lass would do just to torment him. Damn, damn, damn, damn.

  “What is going on up here?” he demanded as he burst into the drawing room.

  Several pairs of eyes swung his way, mostly belonging to Rosscraig’s few maids and the housekeeper. But Lachlan cared only about the pair belonging to Venetia. Who didn’t look the least bit bored.

  She scarcely even looked like a London lady anymore. In a borrowed gray gown with frayed cuffs and a stained apron, she fit right in with the servants, a lock of her glorious hair drooping over one eye and her cheek marred by a streak of blacking. None of it dimmed her attractions one bit.

  “Lachlan?” His mother moved from behind the other lasses, her gaze cold on him. “Go away, for heaven’s sake!”

  That response from his mother, who was always begging him to keep her company, flabbergasted him.

  “Go do…whatever it is you and the lads do all day,” she went on. “You’re not supposed to see this until it’s finished!”

  “If I’m paying for it, I’ll damned well have a say in what’s done,” Lachlan barked as he spotted Jamie perched atop a ladder, hanging curtains he’d never seen.

  “Paying for it?” Mother said. “What are you talking about?”

  “The new drapes.” He flicked his hand toward the sofa. “That new settee. And whatever else you’ve been buying on credit.”

  “Don’t be a fool—that’s our same old settee. We just covered it with the good parts of our old curtains. And the new curtains are our old bed canopies.” She smiled fondly at Venetia, who watched him with those green eyes that never gave him quarter. “Being up away from the light, the fabric stayed fresh-looking, so the lass here suggested we use it for curtains and take down the canopy rails of the beds. Don’t need canopies anyway.”

  “We were fortunate that the colors match,” Venetia put in, “and we were able to salvage most of the curtain fringe, too—it looks lovely on the settee.”

  “We” apparently included the clanswomen cheerily engrossed in scrubbing floors and beating rugs and God knew what else.

  “Looks nice, don’t it?” Jamie chirped from atop the ladder. “Brightens the room right up. You should see what the ladies did with the dining room, sir, fixing it up and arranging things all proper. Did that yesterday. Even cleaned the ceilings with a special mixture Miss Ross invented.”

  Miss Ross? Oh, right, Venetia was supposed to be a London cousin. And judging from Jamie’s besotted smile, the lad had forgotten she was too lofty for the likes of him.

  Lachlan fought the urge to drag the lad down and smack the smile from his lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of the barley floor? The malting is still going on, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamie mumbled, and started to descend the ladder.

  “Pay no attention to Lachlan,” Mother told the lad. “He’s only complaining because he wasn’t consulted. He can spare you for a while.”

  He could, but why should Jamie get to stay here, seeing Venetia with her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with enthusiasm, while Lachlan spent his days at the stills, pining after her?

  “If you need a man helping you, I’ll do it,” Lachlan said, though in the past he’d have sooner dragged his naked body over hot coals than fool with drapes and such female foolery. “Let Jamie go back to the stills.”

  “No, indeed,” his mother retorted. “If you spend yer days here, you risk being seen by anybody who visits from town.” Her eyes gleamed at him. “Besides, it won’t do to have you hanging curtains when the earl arrives. You’ll need to look fierce and manly if you want to cow him into giving us our money, won’t ye?”

  Was that sarcasm he heard? From his mother, of all people? He looked to Venetia, who seemed to hide a smile as she blacked an andiron.

  That smile provoked him even more. “Duncannon won’t be here for a few days yet,” Lachlan persisted. “And if anyone comes, that new butler you hired without consulting me will warn me so I can duck out of sight.”

  His mother clapped her work-worn hands on her bony hips. “You’ve got more important things to do than hang about here. Lord knows ye’ve told me that often enough in the past five years. We wouldn’t dream of keeping you from it.” She strode toward him. “Jamie will do us fine. Now go on with you, and let us do our work.”

  Reluctantly, he headed toward the door. “Perhaps I’ll see you at dinner,” he said as he reached the hall.

  “We’re too busy to take regular meals.” His mother smiled at him from the doorway. “I’ll have Cook send a nice dinner to the cottage for you, all right?”

  “But…” But what? He glanced beyond Mother to where Venetia paid him no mind at all, too busy setting the andiron in place.

  A hard knot formed in his gut. He wanted more than dinner. He wanted to talk to Venetia, to see her, to be with her. But he wasn’t about to say that. Because he had no right to any of it, not when he’d be handing the lass over to her father in a few days.

  If he didn’t end up killing the man.

  “Yes, send dinner,” he mumbled, then left.

  The next morning, after a night of restless dreams about Venetia, he swallowed his pride and went early for breakfast, but either they’d seen him coming or they really were at a crofter’s house seeing to a sick child, as the butler claimed. No one was home.

  The butler didn’t know which crofter. He didn’t know when they’d return. He didn’t know a bloody thing that might keep Lachlan from howling his frustration to the skies.

  He told himself that was the end of it. They didn’t need him at the manor, and he sure as the devil didn’t need them. He’d often spent weeks away with the malting or the kilning, making sure the excisemen didn’t find his illegal stills. How was this any different?

  Because Venetia is there.

  That was absurd. He’d never missed having a woman about before; why should he miss it now? He didn’t want Venetia singing to him, annoying him…coddling him. No, indeed. He could slather horse liniment on his own wounds. Never mind that she had a way of doing it…

  He had to stop thinking of her!

  It didn’t help that he had to listen to his clansmen prattle on over the next few days about the changes at the manor and how Venetia and his mother were getting on so well. Every other minute, somebody was saying things like “You should have heard your London cousin singing ‘Gypsy Laddie’ ” or “You should have seen the lass teaching the wives how to make their silver shine.”

  Apparently his “London cousin” could come and go as she pleased, while he was forced to stay away so nobody outside the clan would learn he wasn’t dead. He tried twice to see her, but the one time he actually caught them home, Venetia excused herself at once, leaving him to visit with his mother, who chided him for coming.

  That glimpse of the lass was like a few drops of wa
ter dribbled in a parched throat. Not nearly enough.

  He could demand to see her, but then both she and Mother would know he yearned for her. That would only raise impossible expectations.

  But by the third afternoon after their arrival, when the butler told him they were out walking, probably in fairyland somewhere, he couldn’t take it anymore. Determined not to be put off again, he planted himself in the woods outside the manor house where he could watch both entrances. If they really were walking, they’d have to come past him, and she wouldn’t be able to make an easy exit.

  He felt like a besotted idiot, lurking out in the woods, but just as he’d decided that the horse liniment must be going to his head, the kitchen door opened and Venetia slipped outside.

  Just as he’d suspected—they’d been in the manor all along.

  Heart hammering foolishly in his chest, he crept through the trees toward her. Where was she going alone? And dressed like that, too, with a country lass’s tartan arisaid draped about her slender form and belted right proper?

  After a furtive glance about, she tugged the excess over her head like a hood, then walked away from the house.

  She cut off across the field separating the Ross estate from the Duncannon one, and his eyes narrowed. Ah, she was headed to her father’s house. To find shelter and beg whoever lived there to help her return to London? No, she could have done that before.

  He hesitated, wondering if he should follow. If Duncannon’s people recognized him, it would raise questions about his miraculous resurrection. Next thing he knew, folks would be traipsing onto his estate to find out what was going on. Then he’d never keep this matter between him and the earl private.

  Still, he couldn’t let her roam Braidmuir alone; it wasn’t safe. She might run afoul of rough men who didn’t know who she was. He’d just have to be careful, stick to the woods and stay out of the parts where people were.

  That’s what he told himself as he set off after her.

  Unsure what to expect, Venetia crossed the bridge over the burn separating Lachlan’s land from her father’s. She’d asked Lady Ross to bring her here, but the woman had worried about anyone recognizing her.