School For Heiresses 3- Beware A Scot's Revenge (38 page)

“Perhaps. Still, it’s her choice to make, isn’t it?” She eyed him closely. “Besides, you didn’t care about any of that
before
you learned about yer father and Lady Duncannon.”

“I did care. But I was a selfish ass, willing to run roughshod over what she needed if it meant I could
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have her.”

“Aye, because separating her from the villainous Earl of Duncannon seemed just to you. Separating her from the wronged Duncannon only seems cruel.”

“When you put it that way…well, yes.” A lump lodged in his throat. “Look at the havoc Father wreaked on the lass’s life by sending her mother to the grave. I’m no better.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Father didn’t set his wrong right, but I can. I have to.”

“First of all,” she said tersely, “yer father didn’t send Lady Duncannon to her grave. She sent herself. She could have refused to lie with him. God knows I wish she had.” A sad smile touched her thin lips, and he felt a lurch of sympathy for what she must be suffering. “But she didn’t. And while I know you gave Venetia no choice when you kidnapped her, she had plenty of choices to leave afterward. She didn’t take them.” Her eyes gleamed at him. “She didn’t say no to sharing your bed either, did she?”

“Only because she was worried about her father and wanted to soften me.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you? What about her words of love? Those were just lies?”

Instantly, he saw Venetia’s face, her look of betrayal, when he’d pretended not to love her. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “All I know is that if I hadn’t meddled where I shouldn’t have, she’d be back in London where she belongs.” The thought of how heedlessly he’d wrenched her from her life tortured him. “I did what I had no right to do and shattered her life. Hers and Duncannon’s.”

“Aye, that’s true. Trouble is, like some wee bairn who’s knocked a jar off the table, you think you can fix the broken glass by fitting all the pieces together and setting it back up where it was. You think you can pack her off home with her father as if nothing ever happened between you. That won’t work, my son.”

Touching a hand to his cheek, she gentled her voice. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t melt down the pieces to make a new jar. Oh, you’ll have to figure out the new way for you and her and her father. So whatever glass you blow won’t be the same as the first, because nothing in life stays the same.” She smiled indulgently at him. “But it can be just as good. Or even better. If you’re willing to try.”

He pulled away from her, unshed tears clogging his throat. “If I keep her with me here and she ends up miserable, missing her father, missing her home, I’d never forgive myself. After everything I’ve done to her family—”

“She doesn’t care—she said that. So why won’t you at least try? Don’t you love her?”

“I love her more than my life,” he whispered.

“You love her, she loves you, so…” She trailed off as she searched his face. “Ah, that’s what you’re afraid of. That she won’t
keep
loving you. That once you’re not controlling everything and she can really know you, she won’t like what she sees.”

Startled by that oddly truthful remark, he stared at her, his heart pounding so heavily he could hardly stand it.

“Did you actually believe that nonsense yer father always spouted, about how wild and irresponsible you are? It’s not true. It never was.” Her voice grew choked. “Ye’re not the only one who’s been thinking
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about things these past few days. I realize now why Alasdair was always so angry at you.”

A ragged sigh escaped her. “Because he was terrified that you’d guess the truth—that one day you’d see beneath his discipline to discover
he
was the wild and irresponsible one. So he drove you away. He was a coward who couldn’t face having you find out about him.”

She rubbed tears from her eyes. “Don’t be a coward, driving away anyone who cares enough to see you for yerself. It’s easy to live yer life alone, son. It takes courage to live with another. But in the end, yer life can be so much richer for it.”

He could hardly breathe for the tears choking him.

“At least give the lass the chance to know who you really are. If you don’t, you’ll surely regret it.” Then, with another soft pat of his cheek, she walked off.

Give the lass the chance to know who you really are.
Aye, the thought of that
did
terrify him. What if she came to hate him, hate his rough ways so much she left?

He gave a choked laugh. If she left then or left now, what difference was it? Either way he’d be without her. And a couple of days without her had already shown him he’d ne’er survive a lifetime. Gazing around at Rosscraig’s newly painted walls, he remembered the pride shining in her pretty face when she’d taken him round to show the work she’d done. Mayhap that pride wouldn’t last. Mayhap she would tire of the harsh Highland life.

But he had to give her—and himself—the chance to find out. Because if he didn’t, his life would be too awful to endure.

Quentin stared down at the ledgers before him, a tightness in his chest. Venetia was right. Things had fallen apart at Braidmuir. McKinley had been dipping his hand into the profits deeper by the day, from the looks of it. And Quentin had let him do it because he couldn’t be bothered to oversee him properly. He could blame it on his health or bad memories, but the fact was, it had been sixteen years since Susannah had betrayed him with his closest friend. That was a damned long time to hold a grudge. And a damned long time to let other people do his dirty work. He still wasn’t sure he’d done wrong by bringing in the sheep farmers, no matter what Venetia might think about it. But he did know that he’d once had what Ross had now on his land: people who cared about each other, who looked out for each other. Something was lost when that was gone, no matter the reason. He sat back to stare about him as the afternoon sun streamed in the window. His daughter meant to restore what had been lost, didn’t she? Everywhere in the house, dust covers were coming off tables and chairs, silver was being brought out of storage, beds were being made. When he asked why she was doing it even though they’d be leaving for London shortly, she just cast him a sad smile that told him she was still waiting for Ross. Then she went back to her work.

Leaving him with a chill in his heart.

What was he to do about Ross? The man had kidnapped his daughter, yes, but he wasn’t the reckless
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idiot that Quentin had assumed. Quentin had spoken to the people in Dingwall—they’d sung his praises. And God knows Ross had managed to hold his estate together when any lesser man would have given up.

Still…

The sound of horses in the drive made him start. It couldn’t be Lady Kerr and that colonel fellow. They’d already left for London, eager to tell the man’s daughter about their impending wedding. A few moments passed before the housekeeper knocked at the door of his study. “Sir Lachlan Ross to see you, my lord.”

Damnation. This was all moving too quickly.

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—”

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“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.”

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“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

V
enetia 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
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fishing.