To Scotland, With Love Page 6

“He was getting out of hand. I merely stopped it.”

  She frowned at him, suspicion clear in her gaze.

  The light from the snow softened the line of her brow and cheek. He regarded her critically, trying to see her as Ravenscroft evidently did.

  Venetia was not an ordinarily beautiful woman. Her figure was rounded and pleasing and a bit heavier than was fashionable.

  Her arms were lovely and round, her breasts full and lush, as were her hips. She was not a small woman, which was a good thing. A frailer body could not have contained such a passionate soul. Gregor had to admit, there was something taking about her. Her face held an amazing mixture of intelligence, humor, and liveliness.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked now, her brows lowering. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I am just wondering what Ravenscroft is so enamored of.”

  Her cheeks heated. “Don’t strain your eyes.”

  “Oh, stop being missish. I see plenty to admire.”

  She regarded him suspiciously, and he laughed. Her eyes were by far her best feature, a light, silvery gray framed by thick black lashes. Her skin was fresh and smooth, though not particularly fair. She tanned easily, and even now he could detect the hint of a few freckles on her rather ordinary nose. Her lips were plump and remarkably pert, her teeth white and even. Her dark brown hair was unremarkable except for its tendency to wave and curl at the faintest hint of moisture.

  He smiled a bit, remembering how many times he’d heard her complain about that trait, one he found rather attractive, truth be told. Now that he thought about it, Venetia actually was an attractive female. He supposed his prolonged acquaintance with her had inured him to that fact, which was probably a good thing for them both. He treasured their friendship and had no wish to give it up, especially for a fleeting attraction, as all such affairs were. Still, there was something damnably taking about her in this light, something that drew him to her. To her plump lips. Her soft shoulders. Her full breasts. Heat flooded him, and he found himself walking toward her.

  Venetia’s eyes widened, her skin flushed a rich pink. “Gregor, what—”

  What indeed? Gregor stopped, amazed at himself. Bloody hell, what am I doing? First he came charging to the rescue, which he rarely did, and now he was looking lustfully at the one woman he knew not to touch.

  Gregor turned on his heel and gathered his coat. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about this situation.” He pulled on his multicaped coat, careful not to meet Venetia’s gaze. “I’ll join Ravenscroft in the barn and see how the horses are faring.”

  She nodded, hesitation in her eyes. His gaze lingered on her face, on her darkened eyes and her flushed skin, on the way her full breasts pressed against the thin material of her gown, and—

  “I’ll return shortly,” he snapped, angry for some reason as much with her as with himself for the odd direction of his thoughts. “Request dinner. Ravenscroft and I will be starving by the time it is served.”

  He left, stepping into the frigid air with a sense of profound relief.

  Chapter 4

  They say the MacLeans once’t tried to use their curse fer good, bringin’ rain t’ the lowlands durin’ a horrible drought. But it rained fer twenty-nine days and washed away ever’thin’ the drought hadn’t yet stolen. Such is the nature of a curse: it ne’er gives but that it also takes away.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  M rs. Treadwell pulled a large key from her apron and unlocked the first door at the top of the stairs. “Here ye are, Miss West! The second-best room in the inn.” She opened the door with a grand sweep and stood aside.

  Venetia entered, carrying the bandbox she’d brought from London. The bedchamber was smallish, with a lopsided bed beside a large window that overlooked the innyard. Blue curtains matched the homespun bed hangings and the large pillow that graced the bed. A lone chair took up residence beside a washstand containing an old-looking pitcher and bowl, both painted with yellow and blue flowers.

  All told, it was nicer than Venetia had hoped. The bed might look lumpy, and a faint draft of air came from the window when the door was ajar, but she was certain it would be warm, and that was all that mattered. Venetia set down her baggage. “This is lovely,” she said.

  Mrs. Treadwell beamed. “I decorated it meself to look jus’ like a picture I saw in Ladies Grace magazine.” She looked about critically. “O’ course, I couldn’t exactly get the shade of blue fer the hangin’s, and the bed isn’t as grand as the one in the picture, but it’s close enough.”

  “Are all the rooms this nicely turned out?”

  “Oh, the large chamber is the nicest! Mrs. Bloom and her companion are in there. They came in late last night and desired a bit of a nap today, else ye’d have seen them when ye arrived. I daresay ye’ll meet them at dinner, fer Mrs. Bloom isn’t one to skimp on her meals, if ye know what I mean.” Mrs. Treadwell puffed out her cheeks in a meaningful way.

  Venetia smiled. “What of the other room we bespoke?”

  “Now, that one’s a bit small, especially fer two gents. But I thought it best to put ye in here, as ’tis the cozier chamber, being right over the common room. If ye touch that stone right there, it’ll toast yer fingers, it’s that warm.” Mrs. Treadwell sent Venetia a sly glance. “If ’n ye don’t mind me askin’, how did Lord MacLean come to get such a scar?” She added hurriedly, “Not that it makes a mite o’ difference in his looks, fer he ’s still as handsome as one of them knights I once seen in a picture book.”

  “He had an accident when he was fourteen. He and his brothers were forever staging mock battles, and one day, when using a new set of fencing foils, one of the buttons came off the tip. Gregor’s brother didn’t realize the button had fallen off, and—” Venetia shrugged.

  Mrs. Treadwell clicked her tongue. “High-spirited, were they?”

  “They still are, all but one,” Venetia said. “Callum, Lord MacLean’s youngest brother, was killed a year and a half ago.” Gregor still grew quiet whenever Callum was mentioned.

  Mrs. Treadwell clucked again. “That’s difficult, losin’ a brother. I daresay ye know that, seein’ as how yer own brother could have come to harm today. Daresay that set ye back a bit.”

  “Ah, of course. He seems indestructible to me.”

  “I feel the same way about me own brother, Cyril. He rides half-broke horses, races carts, and does all sorts of dangerous things and never comes to the least of harm.” She shook her head.

  “Yes, Mr. West is just the same. Never uses the least common sense, and yet he’s cocksure he will never pay for his own foolishness, which is very annoying.” A low grumble in her stomach made her realize that in the excitement of the accident, she hadn’t had lunch. “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Treadwell. May I ask when dinner will be ready?”

  “Very soon. Mr. Treadwell got us a girl to help in the kitchen. Her name’s Elsie, and a better cook ye’ll not meet. Ye’ll not go hungry here, miss! The Blue Rooster’s known fer her hospitality, and I’d not have it any other way.”

  “I’m certain everyone here would agree with you.” Mrs. Treadwell beamed. “Thank you, miss! Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ll go and see if Elsie needs any help. I can’t cook, but I can stir a pot, if’n need be.” With a quick smile, she left, closing the door behind her.

  Venetia walked to the bed and fell across it, hands clasped beneath her chin.

  She couldn’t believe Ravenscroft’s ill-conceived plans had landed her in such a mess. Even more surprising had been Gregor’s expression right before he’d left the common room. There’d been a moment, a mere second, really, when he’d looked at Venetia as if he’d desired her.

  Her heart thrummed a bit. In all the years she’d known Gregor, he’d never looked at her like that. Actually, now that she thought about it, he had never really looked at her at all. He never seemed to notice if she’d cut her hair or had a new pelisse or a
nything, really.

  She had certainly noticed him, though, and who could blame her? He was dangerously, devastatingly handsome. Worse than that, he knew it.

  She grabbed a pillow and hugged it, the worn linen soft as silk under her chin. Fortunately for her heart, although Gregor was almost perfect in appearance, he had plenty of character flaws. He was arrogant, easily irritated, and frequently standoffish with his fellow man. His worst flaw was that he regarded all acts of charity as signs of weakness. If there was one thing Venetia believed in, it was the benefits of being involved with one’s fellow man.

  Gregor’s better traits made their friendship worthwhile. He was intelligent, witty, and very close to his family, and he possessed an old-fashioned sense of chivalry, though it would kill him to admit it. Best of all, he was an excellent friend, listening to her woes and celebrating her triumphs without the least reserve. If she fell from her horse, he was the first to help her back on and never utter a criticism. If she took a superior jump, he was the first to congratulate her unreservedly—a rare trait in men, she’d found.

  She rolled to her side and looked up at the ceiling, absently noting a crack in the heavy white plaster shaped like a question mark. She and Gregor had done well in maintaining their friendship, which wasn’t easy given Gregor’s natural—what would she call it?—sensuality.

  She thought of the look he’d given her in the common room and nodded to herself. Oh, yes. She would definitely call it sensuality. Now that she’d experienced that look, Venetia knew why so many of the young women in London had made fools of themselves over him. She had felt attractive, seductive, lightheaded, almost punch-drunk. All from one little look.

  Gregor had the ability to intrigue and captivate without even trying. He was a pied piper, drawing women after him with the invisible strains of a mysterious melody so potent that one might well fall over a cliff before she even knew she was in danger. Venetia had seen it happen again and again, each time shaking her head at their foolishness. Now, however, she thought perhaps she understood a little bit more.

  Outside, she heard a shout, then the creak of the bolt being thrown open on the barn door. She got up and went to the window, pushing the heavy curtain aside. Cold air seeped from the loose panes of glass and she shivered. She leaned one hand on the windowsill and used her other arm to rub the glass free of fog. Ravenscroft’s groom was just arriving, riding one carriage horse and leading the other.

  The hostler and Gregor’s groom, Chambers, came out to help with the horses. Gregor stood by the huge barn door, ready to close it as soon as the others entered, the snow landing in his black hair before melting away. She wondered what it would be like to be a snowflake and to land in his soft hair, right at that tantalizing spot where his warm skin disappeared beneath his collar.

  A faint shiver traced through her. Stop that, she told herself firmly. It is just Gregor.

  But “just Gregor” was something to behold. He was still wearing his greatcoat, though it was unbuttoned as though he’d just shrugged it back on. Beneath it, she could see his dark blue coat with silver buttons, his cravat as white as the snow, his red waistcoat with dark buttons fitting snugly against his broad chest. His black breeches outlined his muscular thighs before tucking down into a pair of shiny black boots.

  The window fogged from Venetia’s breath, and she had to use her sleeve to wipe it clean again. The movement caught Gregor’s attention, and he turned to look up at the window.

  Venetia froze, unable to move as their eyes met. Her heart quivered, her blood heating wildly. Despite the cold window, her skin burned, her body quickened as if heated.

  His eyes darkened, his brows contracting a bit. Venetia forced herself to smile naturally, despite her heart thundering in her ears. It’s just Gregor. Only Gregor.

  The hostler said something to Gregor, and he turned to reply. The spell was broken, and Venetia slid to the side, deep in the curtains. She could still see outside but was out of sight from the barn, where Gregor stood.

  She paused there, imagining him turning back to see if she was still at the window. Would he look disappointed? Perhaps he wished her to be there and—

  What am I doing? I don’t want him to wish to see me here, mooning over him like a fool! “Stupid carriage accident,” she muttered. It had muddled her brains.

  She took a steadying breath. She wasn’t really mooning over him; she was just watching. That was totally different. She leaned forward a bit, catching a glimpse of Gregor as he held the horse Chambers had been leading. They were examining the horse’s rear haunch.

  Venetia frowned. Had the poor animal strained a muscle from the accident? She’d go and see to it herself, after dinner. Her gaze flickered back to Gregor. He was now standing beside the horse, one arm along its back, his head bent toward Chambers, who was talking rapidly, no doubt describing the accident in full detail.

  Venetia sighed. It was rather annoying to see so much and hear so little.

  She stared at the back of Gregor’s head, noting how his damp hair was once again curling at the collar. Venetia scrunched up her nose and closed the curtains with a decided flick, hoping Gregor had noticed. Blast it, it was difficult being friends with a man whose hair always seemed to look better than hers.

  A brisk knock sounded on the door, and Venetia went to answer it.

  Mrs. Treadwell stood in the hallway, holding a pail of water that steamed invitingly. “Thought ye might want some warm water to wash with.” She bustled past Venetia and went to fill the smaller basin on the washstand. “It’s been an excitin’ day, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it has. I don’t suppose—no, never mind.”

  “Don’t suppose what?”

  “I was wondering if I might get a full bath at some point?” Venetia asked a little wistfully. She loved a hot bath almost as much as she loved hot scones covered with cream.

  Mrs. Treadwell beamed, her plain face bright. “O’ course ye can! I have a real copper tub, I do. Me own sister sent it to me from York. She has one just like it, and when I went to visit her, I says, ‘Oh, how I’d love to have a tub like that!’ and blame me if she didn’t send one out the very next year!”

  “How lovely of her! A bath would be perfect.”

  “I’ll set Elsie to warming the water whilst ye’re supping. Supper’s nigh on the table. William—that’s her husband as works in the stables—can fetch the tub and water here. Ye’ll have a nice, hot bath in no time.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Oh, ’tis nothin’. I want me visitors happy, I do. Mayhap then ye’ll mention me to yer London town friends.”

  “I will be glad to,” Venetia said, though she couldn’t think of any who might be eloping any time soon. “I shall freshen quickly and join the company downstairs.”

  “Very good, miss.” Mrs. Treadwell went to the door. “I’ll take the rest of this water to Mrs. Bloom and her companion. Mrs. Bloom do seem to be a disagreeable sort, forever complaining about this and that. Reminds me a bit of Mr. Treadwell’s mother, she do.” Mrs. Treadwell’s expression darkened. “Why, Mrs. Bloom has already had the temerity to tell me that the beds were damp! As if I’d allow a bed in my inn to dampen!”

  “Perhaps she’s had a trying day today, too.”

  “That don’t give her reason to call my beds damp. Mr. Treadwell and I have never had anyone say such a thing in all the years we’ve owned the Blue Rooster!”

  Venetia sent a cautious glance at the doorway across the hall. She was certain whoever occupied it could hear every word. If Mrs. Bloom was out of sorts before, she’d be very out of sorts now, after hearing her landlady maligning her in the open hallway. “I’m sure the beds are fine, Mrs. Treadwell,” Venetia said hastily. “Thank you again for the fresh water.”

  The woman nodded, her silver curls bobbing as she turned to the other door, straightening her shoulders as if preparing for battle. Venetia shut her door and turned to unpack her portmanteau.

  She had just li
fted the latch when she heard the door across the way opening and a woman’s high, shrill voice complaining about the fact that the curtains didn’t quite shut and demanding to know what could be done about it.

  Mrs. Treadwell seemed to have described Mrs. Bloom accurately. The voices faded, and Venetia turned back to her portmanteau.

  Every gown she’d brought was horridly wrinkled and, worse, wet from the baggage taking a tumble in the snow. She’d packed in haste, too, so nothing was as it should have been. She hadn’t thought to bring more hairpins, and she’d lost quite a few when she fell. She hadn’t imagined it would snow, either, and so except for the damp half-boots she had on her feet, the slippers she’d packed would be woefully inadequate. She’d brought her white round gown with the blue ribbons to wear in the morning but hadn’t remembered to pack the matching ribbons to tie up her hair; she’d brought a lovely gray gown for visiting, but in her haste to leave she hadn’t packed any white gloves; and while she’d remembered to bring her embroidery hoop and her latest efforts, the packet of thread was gone, probably lost in the snow.

  It was frustrating, though her rumbling stomach didn’t allow her to linger on it. She spread out the damp clothes as well as she could, changed into the only gown that was halfway presentable—a deep green with a split front skirt over a striped tan under-skirt, long sleeves, and a high, rounded neck. Though wrinkled, it was in better shape than her others. Venetia washed her hands and face with the deliciously warm water, found her ivory comb (though not the mirror), and repinned her hair with the few pins she had left. As she slid her feet into her brown silk slippers, she realized with a sense of relief that not once in the last ten minutes had she thought of Gregor, not even a little.

  The thought made her smile, and it was with a lighter heart that she made her way downstairs. She entered the common room just in time to see Ravenscroft throw himself into a chair by the fireplace, his face lined with exhaustion, his clothing rumpled.

  Gregor was dressed as if ready to be accepted at any house in London. He was bowing over the hand of a large woman in a puce-colored gown, her white hair ridiculously adorned with a thick mass of ostrich feathers.