To Scotland, With Love Read online

  She unhooked the leather curtain to look outside. They were traveling far too swiftly for safety. The horses were fairly sprung, so they’d have to stop soon to change them. When they did, she’d refuse to continue until Ravenscroft answered her questions. If he refused to do so, she’d take refuge with the landlady and send word to London for her father to come for her.

  Her plan in place, Venetia shivered at the cold wind and latched the curtain back into place. She settled back against the squabs and cast a disparaging eye over Ravenscroft. Though twenty-two years of age, he seemed much younger. He was thin and lamentably short-statured, a fact he tried to conceal by adding buckram wadding to the shoulders of his coats and heels to his riding boots. He possessed watery blue eyes and no chin to speak of, but what he lacked in looks and comportment he made up for in enthusiastic flattery—which was why Papa thought Ravenscroft could do no wrong.

  Venetia grabbed the edge of the seat as the carriage slid around a bend in the road. “Ravenscroft, we are traveling too fast for this road!”

  “Yes, but, ah, if we go fast, we’ll get there…faster.”

  Venetia frowned, but before she could ask another question, the carriage rocked violently as it hit an especially deep rut, and for a second, they were tossed into the air. Venetia slammed back onto the seat with a gasp. “Ravenscroft, we are going much too fast!”

  He stuck out a foot to press against the corner, trying to wedge himself firmly into place. “We can’t slow down,” he said, in the tone of a mutinous child. “Your mother is expecting us.”

  “If we have an accident and turn over, we won’t get there at all!”

  Ravenscroft’s mouth turned downward, but he didn’t answer.

  Miffed, Venetia tugged at the carriage blanket that was over her lap. She was bruised, tired, and quite out of sorts. Plus it was getting colder as they traveled north, much colder. So cold, in fact, that it made her think of Gregor.

  Gregor. Oh blast, she hadn’t left him a note! By now he’d be at Oglivie House, wondering where she was.

  Venetia closed her eyes, clinging to her seat as the carriage bumped and swayed along. Gregor MacLean was her best friend. He knew all of her foibles and shortcomings, her passions and disappointments, and she knew his. She trusted his solid good sense. What would he tell her to do right now?

  Most likely, he’d deliver a thundering scold about her impetuosity in going off with Ravenscroft. Gregor never did anything to help anyone. In his skewed opinion, everyone should help themselves. It was only the weak who needed assistance.

  Venetia thought Gregor was a bit naive, which wasn’t surprising the way the ton feted the man. It wasn’t just because of his good looks; it was also because of the mysterious rumors that swirled about him—rumors that he and his family held the secret to raising the winds, unleashing storms, and loosening thunder upon the heads of their enemies. People said that centuries long ago, Gregor’s family had been cursed. When they lost their temper, storms rose—wild, uncontrollable storms that could destroy everything in their paths. Because of this, all of the MacLeans struggled to maintain their tempers.

  Sighing, Venetia reached over and unlatched the leather curtain to stare outside again. When she’d first met Gregor all those years ago, she’d heard the rumors but hadn’t believed them. Over the years, though, she’d seen the curse in action—which was why these rapidly gathering clouds and the chilling air made her think of Gregor.

  Perhaps he’d discovered her missing and was even now riding to her rescue. She savored the picture of Gregor astride a white horse, galloping hell-for-leather to save her, his green eyes gleaming with…irritation.

  Her shoulders sagged. That’s all Gregor would feel if he was ever put into the position of coming to her rescue—irritation and a great sense of disgust that she’d been foolish enough to be tricked into an impropriety.

  Disheartened, she latched the curtain back into place and sat back in her seat with a thump.

  “What’s wrong?” Ravenscroft asked, his face going pale. “Did you see someone? Are they following us?”

  “No,” she said shortly. “No one is following us.” She crossed her arms, holding the carriage blanket a bit tighter, and regarded her companion with a steady gaze.

  Ravenscroft pasted a smile on his face that looked as comfortable as the prince of Wales’s corset. “Well!” he said brightly, “I daresay it’s colder today than I’ve ever felt it to be in April. Don’t you think so, Ven—”

  “Miss Oglivie, if you please.”

  His smile froze. “Miss Oglivie, of course.”

  “Thank you. And yes, I do think it’s colder than any April I’ve ever seen, which is yet another reason why we should stop soon.”

  “But we’ll lose time, and—”

  “Ravenscroft, I don’t think you understand: it’s a matter of personal comfort.”

  “Personal com—” He blushed. “Oh! I didn’t think—that is, I didn’t realize that you—”

  “Really, Ravenscroft, do not make this more embarrassing for me than it already is. I need to stop and that is that.”

  “Of course! I’ll ask the coachman to halt as soon as we reach Torlington. That’s a mere half an hour away.”

  She nodded and turned away from him, wedging herself into the corner to combat the severe swaying of the coach, and hoping for some silence.

  To her relief, Ravenscroft settled into his place opposite hers, grabbing the seat with both hands to keep from being bounced into the air at every dip in the road, his chin sunk into his cravat. He looked exactly like a sulky schoolboy.

  The minutes flew, the carriage jolting, the wooden body creaking and straining, as Venetia prayed that they’d make it to Torlington without toppling into a ditch.

  Closing her eyes, she said a swift prayer that she could force some answers from Ravenscroft at the next stop.

  Until then, prayers were all she had.

  At this same time, a tall, elegant figure stepped out of White’s Gentlemen’s Club, settled his hat to shield his eyes from the falling snow, and waited as his carriage made its way up the crowded street to where he stood.

  A moment ago, Dougal MacLean had been on the verge of winning a considerable sum playing whist. Then an idle glance out the window had caused him to exclaim aloud, toss down his cards, and leave so quickly, his companions were still blinking in surprise.

  Dougal glanced up at the thickening snow and frowned. Only one thing could make it snow like this in April: the MacLean curse. It caused storms to gather whenever a MacLean grew angry, yet varied within each of them. Gregor, always cold and in control, produced storms of ice and snow. Lots of snow. Masses of snow. More snow than London had ever seen. Which was why Dougal had to find his brother, and quickly.

  St. James Street was filled with scurrying people hunched against the wind, all of them staring at the rapidly falling snow with astonishment. The carriage arrived, the footman jumping down to open the door. Just as Dougal put his foot onto the step, he caught sight of a large figure coming through the snow. Unlike the other souls on the street, this one did not seem to mind the icy air. In fact, he almost seemed to relish the snow powdering his bared head.

  “Gregor!” Dougal called.

  As he drew near, Dougal saw the whiteness about his brother’s mouth. “I must ask a favor of you,” Gregor said. “My horse is at the end of the street. Can we—” He nodded toward the carriage.

  “Of course.” Dougal looked at his footman, who dashed off to collect Gregor’s mount. Soon the coach was rumbling down the street, the horse trotting behind.

  Gregor slanted a hard look at Dougal. “Someone has absconded with Venetia Oglivie.”

  “Good God! Who would do such a thing?”

  “Ravenscroft.”

  “That pup? He wouldn’t have the sand.”

  Gregor’s gaze was icy green. “That dead pup, once I’m through with him. He tricked Venetia into leaving town with him.”

  Venetia had
left with the man of her own volition? Dougal regarded his brother from beneath his lashes. Venetia and Gregor had been friends since childhood, for so long, in fact, that even the gossips in town had ceased to comment on their morning rides and easy camaraderie. Was her association with Ravenscroft something more? “Do you think Venetia and Ravenscroft—”

  “No.”

  Dougal raised his brows as a raw wind rocked the coach and screeched along the ground.

  “She was tricked,” Gregor growled.

  Dougal looked at where the wind was forcing snow through every crack on one side of the coach and wisely said, “Of course she was tricked. Venetia would never do something as impulsive as eloping, even if she was madly in love with someone.”

  The wind rocked the coach like the slam of a fist.

  Dougal winced. “Gregor, please! We’ll be blown off the road.”

  Gregor gripped his knees and took a deep breath, trying to relax. “If you wish to stay on the road, then stop making such asinine statements. Venetia did not elope. Ravenscroft told her that her mother had taken ill in Stirling. Ravenscroft’s servant told me of the bounder’s plans: how they are to travel to Gretna Green, how he will tell her the truth of their situation once they are far enough from London that she can’t turn back. How he has massive debts and was to meet Lord Ulster for a duel this morning, but didn’t show.”

  “The coward!” Dougal shook his head. “You must have offered Ravenscroft’s man plenty of gold to get such information.”

  “Fortunately for me, the weasel has a dislike of being held by his ankles out of an open window.”

  Dougal grinned.

  “Ravenscroft plans on crossing to the North Road at the juncture above Pickmere and hopes Venetia won’t notice.”

  “Won’t notice? A road she’s traveled many times before?”

  “Ravenscroft is not the most intelligent of men. Which will make his death all the less missed.”

  “Gregor, if you do something rash, it will cause a scandal and Venetia could end up paying for it. It would be better to retrieve her and bring her back unscathed, and deal with Ravenscroft later.”

  “I will, but only if things haven’t progressed too far.”

  Dougal’s expression darkened. “You think that slack-jawed fool might take advantage of her?”

  Gregor’s hands fisted at the words, his heart thudding so loudly his ears rang. “If Ravenscroft wishes to live, he’d better not place so much as a finger upon her head.”

  “I can’t believe he thinks to get away with this.”

  “It gets worse: Ravenscroft’s servant thinks the idiot plans on fleeing England to avoid the duel and his debts.”

  “With Venetia in tow? Bloody hell!” The carriage rumbled to a stop and a footman quickly appeared to open the door. Gregor and Dougal stepped out and walked toward the portico of Dougal’s London home. As soon as they were out of hearing of the servants, they stopped on the walkway, ignoring the swirling snow. “What can I do to help?” Dougal asked.

  “Go to Oglivie House and stay with Venetia’s father until I bring her home. He’s distraught and out of control. If he tells even one soul that she’s missing and how it came to be, the damage to her reputation will be irreparable.”

  “I’ll hold him at pistol point if I must.” Dougal paused, his gaze locking with his brother’s. “Can you save Venetia?”

  Gregor glanced up at the swirling snow, the wind seeping through his clothes. Already the snow was beginning to pile up in places. “I don’t know,” he said, the words torn from his lips. “I may have placed the one obstacle in my path that even I cannot overcome. This storm…” A sick feeling clutched at him at the thought. Damn his temper.

  “Nonsense,” Dougal said briskly, pulling his collar more tightly about his neck. “If the snow slows you down on horseback, it will slow down a carriage even more. I daresay it will give you an advantage, when all is said and done.”

  Relief flooded Gregor. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “There’ll be time enough for thinking once you’re on your way. I have horses posted along the North Road. That will help.” At Gregor’s surprised look, Dougal shrugged. “There’s a woman I occasionally visit when London seems dull. If you need to use one of my mounts, do so.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Dougal gave him a small smile. “Just find Venetia.”

  Gregor nodded, then strode back to the carriage, where the groom stood with his horse. Within seconds, he was thundering down the street.

  Ice and snow lay thick upon the road, and he took heart in Dougal’s words about the storm slowing Ravenscroft’s carriage. But that was the only bright thought he could find.

  Hold on, Venetia, he thought, urging his mount onward. Hold on.

  Chapter 2

  Proud men oft think ’tis a sin to admit to any wrongness; proud women oft think the same thing. Aye, lassies, pride travels o’er the line as divides the sexes with so little effort!

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  E ight miles north of London, Lord Ravenscroft was facing the dismal fact that his life was ruined. A scant two years earlier, he’d arrived in London certain he was soon to find his fortune. He was handsome, fairly well set, and of a decent lineage.

  However, none of his obvious attributes guaranteed him the invitations and attentions he thought should be his. He had letters of introduction from his dear mama, who once had enjoyed relative success in society before she married his father, but he quickly discovered that though she might have been considered a beauty in her day, she’d disappeared from sight upon her marriage, and no one had given her an instant’s thought since. Her letters did him little good.

  He also had a friend—or thought he had a friend—in one Mr. Philcourt, who’d offered to sponsor Ravenscroft at White’s. Unfortunately, the offer, made so generously near a well-filled punch bowl at an entertainment in York, never came to fruition. Indeed, Mr. Philcourt conveniently seemed to forget he’d ever met Lord Ravenscroft and seemed to avoid him at various functions.

  Daunted but unbowed, Ravenscroft had refused to give up either his social aspiration or his desire to be somebody. Still, things did not get better. Oh, he was invited to some events, but none lofty enough to make him feel as if he’d arrived.

  The whole business put him into a fit of the sullens, and some people who had formerly been polite began to turn and hide at his approach. Lord Ravenscroft grew more determined to garner notice, and what had been a pale, inauspicious beginning grew worse each day. It truly seemed that the longer he was in London, the more slights he was forced to endure.

  Someone clearly had decided he was a man of little sense, no address, and less importance, which was preposterous. He had more than his fair share of brains; his mother, God rest her soul, had always told him so. And he was certain he had address, for he’d been the darling of York society. As for importance, why, his family was descended from Bloody Jack Ravenscroft, the first highwayman who’d also possessed a title. That was nothing to sneer at!

  Unfortunately, once a note was struck, it was difficult to erase; only a solid fortune would overcome the established picture society had of him. So, desperate and with little to lose, Ravenscroft began to gamble. Unfortunately, the mediocrity of his fortune didn’t allow much room for blunder, and in the space of a week of increasingly desperate wagers, he managed to lose most of what his blessed mother had left him.

  Though he was not a man of powerful intellect, it didn’t take Ravenscroft long to realize he’d made a mistake, one that couldn’t be undone. Which was why he’d finally realized that he had only one option left: marry an heiress.

  Of course, not being completely accepted into the ton, Ravenscroft didn’t know any heiresses. He was on speaking terms with only one lady of quality, Miss Venetia Oglivie, the daughter of Ravenscroft’s one and only friend in the ton. He
knew from something Venetia’s father had said that, though not wealthy, he planned on putting quite a bit into his daughter’s dowry, a fact Ravenscroft only recently remembered. And a good-sized dowry, attached to a wife already clasped close to the bosom of the fashionable set, would put Ravenscroft exactly where he wanted to be.

  He could almost see the stack of invitations on his breakfast tray each morning, Venetia beaming lovingly at him across the table as they planned their daily amusements among the haute ton.

  And it was true love, Ravenscroft thought, looking across the carriage at his beloved, who was wrapped neck to toe in a fur-lined pelisse, a lined bonnet tied over her curls, and a thick blanket covering her lap.

  But not even Ravenscroft, who was desperately in love (as well as needing access to his beloved’s fortune), could pretend that her gray eyes were regarding him with anything other than irritation.

  “Ravenscroft, when are we going to stop? You’ve yet to ask the coachman to slow down and look for an inn.”

  “We’ll stop soon. I promise.”

  “So you said thirty minutes ago.”

  Ravenscroft had started to say something when the gleam of her brooch caught his eye. It peered malevolently at him from the collar of her pelisse. He rubbed his hand reflexively and said plaintively, “I’d ask the coachman to slow down now, but I fear we’ll get caught in this snow.”

  She gazed at him with suspicion. He had imagined they’d pass the trip laughing and talking and sharing stories of their youth. Not once had he thought she’d be so suspicious.

  The carriage hit a deep rut, and Ravenscroft had to scramble not to fall across the seat into Venetia’s lap.

  “We are going too fast,” she announced, glaring at him. “If you do not do something about it now, I will.”

  “But we really should press on while we can, before the snow builds up. You would hate having to stay the night at an inn. Why, what if your mother worsens through the night and dies? I’d wager then you’d wish we’d pressed ahead!”