School For Heiresses 3- Beware A Scot's Revenge (24 page)

“The devil I will!” Lachlan cried. “I’m not letting her out of my sight!”

His resistance perplexed Venetia. “Why not? Surely you don’t fear I’ll escape. If I didn’t leave this morning, I certainly won’t run off now.”

She felt Lady Ross’s gaze measuring her, but it was Lachlan’s, hot with temper and a wild intensity, that made her blood pound in her ears. “You said you care only about getting the money your clan needs. And I understand that, I do.”

Especially after seeing the sad situation of other lairds’ crofters. At least Lachlan refused to bow to the methods of those “improvers.”

“But you also said you didn’t want me ruined,” she continued. “And if I stay alone with you, I surely will be.” Who knew what might happen in the wee hours when they were both lonely? She dared not risk it. If he bedded her, he’d feel honor-bound to marry her, and he’d already made it clear how he felt about that.

“Despite what you think, son,” Lady Ross put in, “people do notice your comings and goings. I’m not the only one who knows about this cottage. Some of your clansmen know and Jamie and—”

“And I’ll thrash them senseless if they talk,” he growled.

When his mother’s brows lowered in a frown, Venetia laid a hand on Lachlan’s arm. “Be sensible.
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There’s no reason for me
not
to stay at Rosscraig if your mother is willing.” Unless he didn’t want to be parted from her because he actually cared about her.

The muscles in his arm bunched beneath her hand. “Your father could try to sneak men into Rosscraig to rescue you,” he said sullenly.

Lady Ross snorted. “How could anyone manage that? Yer men patrol every roadway, watching for excisemen. When Duncannon comes, you’ll know it.”

“I’d feel better staying at the manor,” he ground out.

“You’re supposed to be dead, remember? It’s easier to keep up the pretense when you’re not there. If word gets round outside the clan that you’re alive and well and holding a woman prisoner in yer manor, you’ll have more than Duncannon to deal with.”

“Damn it, Mother—”

“We’ll do this right proper, we will.” Lady Ross squared her shoulders. “You’ll stay at the cottage as you’ve been doing, and Lady Venetia will stay with me at Rosscraig as my guest. I’ll tell people she’s yer father’s London cousin.”

With a black scowl, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn you both,” he muttered under his breath. His angry gaze fell on Venetia. “So this is what you want, is it, lass? To be well away from me?”

Strange that he’d put it like that, if he only cared about his plans for Papa. “I want to preserve my reputation as best I can.”
Since you refuse to marry me
. Now was his chance to speak. If he felt more for her than some inconvenient desire, if he considered her more than just a tool to get what he wanted from Papa, then he’d have to tell her so.

“Fine,” he clipped out, “stay with my mother. I don’t want you in my hair anyway, complaining about yer accommodations. Let Mother deal with it.”

That wasn’t fair, and he knew it, but the fact that he’d made the insult at all cheered her. He really wasn’t taking this well, was he?

Pasting a brilliant smile to her lips, Venetia moved to his mother’s side and drew on every rule of ladylike behavior she’d been taught. “I’m sure I’ll be quite comfortable at Rosscraig. As I recall, it was a perfectly lovely little house. I’m looking forward to visiting there.” Leaving him glowering, she turned to Lady Ross. “Shall we go? I’m tired and should like a cup of tea by the fire.”

“That you shall have, and a good meal, too,” Lady Ross said.

As they walked away, Lachlan called out, “Venetia?”

Hope leaped in her heart as she turned to him. “Yes?”

He looked as if he wanted to say something of great import. Then his face went carefully blank, and his voice turned distant. “If you need anything—”

“I’m sure your mother will take excellent care of me,” she said, hiding her disappointment. He was such
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a stubborn lout, curse him.

Well, she had pride, too. And she wasn’t about to throw it aside on the slim evidence of his veiled comments and hungry looks.

Her hostess led her to a curate cart waiting out of sight of the cottage. It was only after they’d driven off that Lady Ross spoke again. “My son didn’t…hurt you any during these past few days, did he?”

“He was a perfect gentleman.” It wasn’t much of a lie. She’d been as much to blame for their intimate encounter last night as he. And while he’d bruised her heart and certainly trampled her pride afterward, she could recover from that eventually. Though she now cherished a hope that she wouldn’t have to.

“He’s a pigheaded fellow, he is. But I never imagined he would carry this battle with yer father so far.”

She patted Venetia’s hand. “Well, dinna fash yerself over Lachlan anymore. I’ll see that he leaves you alone until yer father arrives.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Venetia said. “He doesn’t bother me.”

“He needs to learn he can’t just go about kidnapping young innocents. If he means to plot trouble, he can plot it elsewhere. I’ll bar him from the house, I will.”

“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.”

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“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.”

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“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

W
hat 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.”

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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 temptations.
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?