Beware a Scot's Revenge

by Sabrina Jeffries

  But Venetia would have his head if he turned the man away. “Send him in.”

  Ross entered, hat in hand, unease written all over his face. “Good evening, sir.” He thrust out his chin. “I’ve come to fetch my wife.”

  Quentin’s eyes narrowed. “As I recall, you said you don’t have a wife.”

  “I said a lot of things. Because I thought she deserved a better husband than me.”

  “Aye, she does.”

  That made Ross scowl, looking as if he were about to choke to death on his pride. But Quentin had to hand it to the man—he didn’t back down. “The thing is, sir…whether I deserve her or no, I love her.”

  “Do you?” he said skeptically.

  “I do.” Ross set his shoulders. “Mayhap that’s hard for you to believe with everything that’s happened between you and me, but it’s the truth. I know you don’t want me for a son-in-law—God knows I don’t blame you—but I think she loves me, too. So if she’ll take me back, I swear to you I’ll spend the rest of my days trying to make her happy.”

  Quentin dragged in a heavy breath. The moment he’d been dreading had come, the moment when he had to decide. The divil of it was, now that it was here, the choice seemed easy. Because he and the laird wanted the same thing—to make the lass happy. And she’d spent the past two days making it clear she could only be happy with Lachlan Ross.

  He sighed. “So what is it you want from me?”

  “Yer blessing. It would mean a great deal to her to have it.”

  “And I suppose you want her dowry, too.”

  A mulish pride flared in Ross’s face. “No, my lord, I won’t take yer money.”

  Quentin sat back in his chair. “Then I won’t give you my blessing.”

  That drew the man up short. “It just doesn’t seem right—”

  “I won’t have my only daughter ‘scraping and saving for a few curtains’ when a tidy fortune is to hand. You’ll take the money, or I won’t give my blessing. That’s an end to it.” The fact that he even had to argue such a thing banished whatever other misgivings he’d had about handing Venetia over to Ross.

  Ross let out an oath, his fingers working the brim of his hat something fierce. Then at last he sighed. “Fine. I’ll take her dowry. But it’ll be pin money for her and a settlement for our children, do ye ken?”

  “Whatever you say. Though I imagine she’ll have quite a bit to say about it herself.” He picked up the decanter of whisky on his desk. “Sit down, and we’ll have a drink to seal the agreement.”

  With a terse nod, Ross took a seat, his gaze flitting around the study. “Are you meaning to stay at Braidmuir?” he asked as Quentin poured the glasses.

  “I’m thinking on it. Venetia is making me think on it.”

  A smile touched Ross’s lips. “She has a way of doing that to a man.”

  Quentin handed Ross a glass. “She says I’ve neglected my property enough.” He picked up his own glass with a rueful smile. “And she wants me around to dandle any grandchildren on my knee.”

  Ross stared into the glass. “What does McKinley think of yer staying around?”

  “I don’t know. I dismissed him this morning.”

  The man’s head shot up.

  “I didn’t like what he’d done to the place.”

  A new respect showing in his face, Ross sipped his whisky, then blinked. “Where did you get this?”

  “From some fine fellows in town. Told me it was the best whisky round, even if it was from an illegal still.” Ross’s flummoxed expression brought a smile to Quentin’s face. “If you see the man who makes it, you might tell him what I’ve been hearing in London: that the Duke of Gordon means to propose an excise act so that whisky making will be affordable in Scotland again. Whisky this fine deserves a wider market.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Quentin sipped more whisky, preparing himself for one more onerous task. “Ross, I never meant for Sikeston and his men to beat you so badly. I sure as the divil never ordered them to kill you.”

  Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Ross shook his head. “ ’Tis all in the past now. No point in speaking of it.”

  “But it wasn’t the first time I had you endure a beating, so let me say my piece.” He took a gulp of whisky. “Years ago, when I accused you of stealing, I really did believe that you’d put those lads up to it. I’d just learned about…yer father and Susannah, and I would have believed anything bad of you.”

  He turned the glass round in his hand. “I took it out on you, because I couldn’t take it out on him, and because I thought that striking at you would strike at his heart.”

  “Except that he didn’t have much of a heart, did he?”

  “Seems that way, I have to say.” He gazed at Ross. “I did find out later that it wasn’t you, but by then you had run off. So…I want to say I’m sorry for that, for thinking ill of you, for having you—”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ross muttered. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Aye.”

  They drank together a moment in silence, then Ross set his glass down. “I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but—”

  “You’re wanting to see my daughter. I know.” He nodded toward the door. “You’ll find her in the glen by the woods. God only knows why she likes to walk there so much.”

  Judging from how Ross colored, he knew. Quentin tried not to dwell on why that might be.

  But as the laird hurried to the door, Quentin called out, “Ross?”

  The man paused in the doorway to look back. “Yes, my lord?”

  “If you hadn’t come for her within the three days, I would have hunted you down and cut your heart out, do ye ken?”

  To his surprise, Ross gave a faint smile. “You wouldn’t have found anything to cut out, sir. The lass stole my heart long ago.”

  As the man headed down the hall, Quentin downed the rest of his whisky and leaned back to survey his domain. Perhaps coming back to Braidmuir wouldn’t be such a trial after all. Good whisky, a hardworking son-in-law…grandchildren.

  Not to mention that Lady Ross was looking surprisingly fine these days. Age sat well on the woman, carving character into the face that he’d remembered as plain. He could use a woman about the house, now that he was going to lose his daughter to that rascal Ross. And the lady was a widow, after all.

  That thought kept him smiling for quite a while.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Dear Charlotte,

  A truce is an excellent idea. Only remember, my fine cousin, that an expectation of honesty and truth goes both ways. And one day soon I shall expect to see some of that from you. For I sometimes wonder if you’re as honest with yourself—or with me—as you pretend.

  Your impatient friend,

  Michael

  Venetia wandered through the glen before halting at the patch of white daisies near the large oak. She’d planted them as a child, thinking to please Lachlan with something pretty for him to look at while he was fishing.

  She snorted. The big lummox hadn’t even noticed them.

  That should have taught her that the man was incapable of seeing certain things, even when they stared him right in the face. If something didn’t concern his clan or his manly pride or the Highlands, it was beneath his notice.

  Tears stung her eyes and she squelched them ruthlessly. She wouldn’t cry anymore, she wouldn’t. Why should she cry over that obstinate fool?

  All the same, she couldn’t resist picking a daisy and doing what she’d done so often as a girl, ripping the petals off as she chanted the litany that so many girls had chanted before her. “He loves me. He loves me not.”

  “He loves you.”

  She froze at the familiar voice coming from the hill behind her. She didn’t look. She couldn’t. What if she’d only imagined it?

  Then she heard the heavy boot-steps descending. “He loves you,” the voice repeated, thick with emotion. “I love you.”

  A thousand times in the last few days,
she’d prepared herself for what she’d say if this moment ever came. But she couldn’t remember a word of it as she faced him. Though he was dressed in his finest, he looked uncertain of himself, even nervous. She’d never seen Lachlan nervous about anything.

  “I love you,” he said again.

  “How can I believe you,” she whispered, “when just two days ago, you practically denied it to my face?”

  “Two days ago, I was an ass.”

  “Yes, you were.” When he looked at a loss for words, she let out a breath. “I can understand your saying the wedding wasn’t legal, because it really wasn’t.” She stared down at the hapless daisy. “And I can almost understand your not wanting to admit before Papa that you’d bedded me.” Her voice broke. “But how could you deny that you loved me?”

  “I know. That was very wrong.” As he neared her, she could see the dark circles beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin. “I have no idea how to make this right. You said that there’s no way to atone for denying love, but I’m praying hard that you’re wrong. Because I’ll do whatever it takes for you to forgive me.”

  She wanted to throw herself at him and tell him she forgave him now, but she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. Not after what he’d put her through.

  “And why should I forgive you?” she said hoarsely. “You only came after me because you’re worried that I’ll have your child and you’ll never see it.”

  “No.” He stepped closer. “I’m worried that you have my heart and I’ll never see it. Like I told yer father, you stole my heart long ago. Without it, without you, I’m an empty shell of a man.”

  The words were so sweet, she wanted to cry. Then his other words registered. “You spoke to my father?”

  He nodded. “To ask for his blessing. He gave it, too.”

  A frown touched her brow. Had Lachlan only come after her because Papa had absolved him of his foolish guilt? “What would you have done if he’d refused to give you his blessing?”

  His dark eyes burned into her. “I would have sent my regrets that he couldn’t join us when we repeat our vows in the kirk. But whether we speak them again or no, you’re my wife. Nothing yer father can say will change that.”

  Her heart soared. He really did love her. He really had come just for her.

  “Please, lass,” he choked out. “You have to come back to me. If you don’t, you’ll force me to do something drastic.”

  “Like what?”

  “Kidnap you again. I brought the coach.” He looked amazingly solemn as he reached in his pocket and pulled out something he dangled before her. “And rope. And I’ll use both if I have to.”

  She bit back a smile. “I hardly think that’s the way to get back into my good graces.”

  He handed the rope to her. “Then you can tie me up with it and leave me here for the sheep to trample a while. Is that what you’d rather?”

  “Actually,” she said, taking the rope from him, “I’d rather use the rope for something else entirely.”

  “What?”

  She looped the rope around his wrist, then hers. “To tie us together.” Tears of joy filled her eyes. “So we can never be apart.”

  He took her in his arms. “We never will be again, I swear,” he whispered.

  Then he kissed her with all the tender care a woman could possibly want. There, in the midst of the glen where she’d first learned to adore him, he kissed her, and it was even more wonderful than she’d imagined in her girlish fantasies.

  It had taken her years, but she’d finally gained her ballad hero. And this time, she meant to hold on to him for the rest of her life.

  When he drew back, his eyes shone and his breath came in sharp, impetuous gasps. “Shall we go home, wife?” he said in that seducer’s brogue she loved so well.

  She glanced up the hill to the cottage where he’d made her his, then cast him a teasing smile. “We could. Then again, it seems a shame to let all that lovely fleece go to waste…”

  With a laugh, he looped his arm about her and they hurried up the hill.

  The daisy fell unheeded to the ground, one petal left on its stem.

  He loves me.

  Forever.

  Epilogue

  Venetia returned from the retiring room at Colonel Seton’s town house in Edinburgh, to find his ballroom filling with guests from his wedding to Aunt Maggie earlier in the day. An orchestra was tuning up, but she noticed no pipers. Aunt Maggie must have won that argument with the colonel. She’d been adamant that her wedding celebration be an elegant affair—no strathspeys, no Scottish reels, no pipers, and no whisky.

  Venetia sighed.

  “That sounds ominous,” said Mrs. Harris, who came to join her.

  She smiled at her old schoolmistress. “I’ve been meaning to ask what possessed you to leave the school in the middle of a session. I’m sure the colonel could have found some other person to bring Lucy up here.”

  “Ah, but then I wouldn’t have had the chance to meet your husband. It’s not often that one of my pupils ends up eloping with a Scottish laird of little fortune and no connections.”

  Her gaze shifted to where Lachlan helped the colonel move some chairs. “But I must say I begin to understand why you felt compelled to toss aside every rule I taught you. He’s quite a strapping fellow in his regimentals, isn’t he?”

  “You have no idea,” Venetia said, laying a hand on her belly. She’d waited to say anything to Lachlan until she could consult a doctor here in Edinburgh. But now that she was sure, she meant to tell her husband just how strapping a fellow he was, the minute she could get him alone.

  “You know,” Mrs. Harris said, “of all my girls, you were the one I felt sure would snag some very rich, very titled gentleman.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Venetia murmured, though she wasn’t in the least.

  “Don’t be ridiculous—you seem happy, and that’s the most important thing.” Mrs. Harris cast her a fond glance. “You’re different here. More relaxed.”

  She laughed. “No one married to Lachlan Ross could be anything else. He has a way of making a woman forget entirely about propriety.” When Mrs. Harris frowned, she said, “You seem different, too…agitated. And you’re never agitated. Has Cousin Michael been alarming you with his gossip?”

  Mrs. Harris’s frown deepened. “You might say that. Or you might say that he’s arrogant and opinionated and secretive, an annoying trial of a man.”

  Venetia bit back a smile. “I said much the same things about Lachlan. Indeed, my aunt said much the same about the colonel. Perhaps you are developing a more than cousinly interest in your ‘cousin.’ ”

  “Bite your tongue!” Mrs. Harris fluttered her fan furiously. “I don’t even know who the man is, for heaven’s sake. He’s probably seventy years old at least, and though I’m past thirty, I’m not yet in my dotage.”

  “I’m only saying—”

  “Look lively, my dear, someone’s coming.”

  That effectively ended the conversation. With a little leap in her pulse, Venetia turned to find Lachlan approaching.

  Bestowing a polite nod on Mrs. Harris, he offered his arm to Venetia. “I was hoping to persuade you to dance with me.” His eyes twinkled. “I’m afraid it’s just a dull old waltz, nothing you could sing to, like ‘Tullochgorum,’ but you might find it enjoyable.”

  “Very amusing,” she said as she took his arm. “Behave yourself, sir, or I’ll sing ‘Tullochgorum’ all the way back to Rosscraig tomorrow.”

  “There are worse ways to pass the time,” he said as he led her to the floor. “At least it will keep Mother from plaguing us with her snoring.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Your mother is riding back in Papa’s carriage.”

  Lachlan scowled. “Oh, she is, is she? And whose fool idea was that, a widow and a widower traveling alone together—”

  “They’re not traveling alone, Lachlan,” she said with a laugh. “We’ll be in the carriage behind. Besides, you, of al
l people, have no room to complain about a man and a woman traveling alone.”

  He took her in his arms as the music began. “I can’t say I like it, though. Grant you, yer father has done fine things at Braidmuir, bringing back some of the crofters and trying to manage both the sheep and the farming, but that doesn’t mean I want him courting my mother. It doesn’t seem proper somehow.”

  “Proper!” She nodded over to where his mother danced stiffly with Papa. “You don’t get much more proper than that.”

  “Only because Mother has never been to a fancy ball.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that—she’s probably more comfortable at a ceilidh.”

  His arm tightened about her waist. “And you, lass? Where are you more comfortable?”

  She stared up into his dear face. “Wherever you are.”

  He seemed to like that answer, for his gaze smoldered and his hold turned decidedly lascivious. “So you won’t mind leaving the city tomorrow?”

  “Certainly not. I’m eager to be home.” She hesitated, but this seemed like the perfect moment. “I’m eager to begin work on our nursery.”

  “Nursery! We don’t have a—” He halted on the dance floor to gape at her, then dropped his gaze to her still-flat belly. “Are you…are we…”

  “Aye, sir.” She mimicked his brogue. “I’m expecting a bairn, I am.”

  He let out a whoop more fitting for a battlefield than a ball, then lifted her and swung her about.

  “Lachlan!” she protested with a giddy laugh. “Put me down, for heaven’s sake! People are staring!”

  “Let them stare,” he said, though he lowered her gently to the floor. “It isn’t every day a man receives such news from the woman he loves. Anyway, these city Scots need a little shaking up, don’t you think?”

  She glanced around at Aunt Maggie’s “elegant” friends, who all had the look of pinch-faced Englishmen compared to Highlanders like Jamie, who was dancing happily with a new sweetheart. “Oh, I do.” As Lachlan took her in his arms and began waltzing again, she added, “They’re much too stuffy.”

  “Too rigid.”

  “Too English. We really ought to shake them up. It would do them good.”