The music began, and Sir Lachlan Ross forced himself to
move, forced himself to ignore the throbbing in his
half-healed ribs and the ache in his recently-broken thigh
bone. Although certain steps proved a minor agony, dancing
with Lady Venetia was better than standing about, listening
to her aunt talk of his family, unraveling his plans with
each casual word.
How in God’s name had the woman seen the resemblance
between him and Father? For that matter, how had Lady
Venetia noticed it? He was wearing a wig and mask! Not to
mention that neither lady had laid eyes on him in years.
No one must recognize him, or this would be over before it
began. His mother and clan had worked hard to hide the fact
that he was alive by holding a pretend funeral for him. He
mustn’t ruin it by appearing to have risen from the
grave to dance a reel at a masquerade ball with Lady Venetia
Campbell.
The bonnie Lady Venetia Campbell. God help him, he
hadn’t expected that.
When last he’d seen her, he’d been a gangly lad
and she a pale-skinned brat. Prancing about in satin and
lace, she’d looked down her nose at him, chiding him
for not behaving as “the future laird of Clan
Ross” ought. He’d rewarded her uppity temper by
ignoring her.
He sure as the devil couldn’t ignore her now. Even
dressed as a farmer’s daughter, the sensuous beauty
would corrupt a saint. Sinner that he was, she made his
blood run hot whenever she flashed him that
sweet-as-seduction smile. Or stepped lively in the reel,
twirling and skirling and—
Holy Christ, he was waxing poetical. It had clearly been too
long since he’d had a wench beneath him. Not that
he’d ever shared a bed with a lass so bonnie as she.
Camp followers and trollops had always been his lot and were
like to be so until he chose a wife.
But first he had to settle things with Duncannon.
He came down hard on his bad leg in a turn, and pain jolted
through him from knee to hip, making him grit his teeth.
Worse yet, he could see Venetia watching him, trying to
figure out why his dancing was so stiff.
Mo chreach, she wasn’t only beautiful, she
was canny as the very devil, with her assessing glances and
her probing questions. She’d even guessed he’d
served in a regiment! ’Twas a wonder she hadn’t
worked out his entire plot already.
He hoped this ball hadn’t been a mistake. But tomorrow
wouldn’t work unless she could be easy with him.
The plan had been simple: come here tonight and cozy up to
the grown Princess Proud, who he’d expected to be a
vapid debutante. Rousing her interest in him was supposed to
make the kidnapping go easier tomorrow. Except she
wasn’t vapid, and the only thing he was rousing was
her childhood memories of
him. And her curiosity.
He could handle vapid girls—and had, a few times, when
he’d ridden as the Scourge. That only required a firm
voice and a stern look. The threat of a blunderbuss
didn’t hurt either.
But cowing them was easy compared to snatching
Duncannon’s clever daughter from Holyrood Park, in the
center of a city where half the lords and magistrates of
Scotland were staying during the king’s visit. The
latter required more finesse.
He shook his head. How did her sort turn out as anything but
vapid after prancing about at a fancy school, then swishing
through polite society for years?
And why the devil had she grown so beautiful? He’d
heard she was bonnie, but no one had warned him that her
hair shone like glossy black silk beneath the candlelight,
or that her lips had the sweet little bow shape that tempted
a man to trace it with the tip of his tongue…
He swore under his breath, missed a step, then almost lost
his balance when his bad leg buckled. It was a timely,
though painful, reminder of why he was here.
This battle between him and her father had naught to do with
the lass; she was only a means to an end. Best to remember
that. Because once he threw off the veil tomorrow,
she’d turn on him like a cornered wildcat. There could
be no truce between him and Duncannon’s family.
Thankfully, the set ended without his making a fool of
himself. Lachlan slowed his steps. “Are ye from
Edinburgh?” he asked, before she could start wondering
why he didn’t show more interest in her background.
“London. But I used to live in the Highlands.”
“Why did you leave?” How much of the truth had
her father told her?
“My mother died, and Papa couldn’t bear to stay
in Scotland without her.”
So Duncannon hadn’t told her a damned thing. Not that
he was surprised; the man was too wily to let his daughter
know he’d abandoned his responsibilities. “Then
yer father didn’t come to Scotland with you,” he
said, though he knew the answer.
“No. He vowed never to return and won’t break
that vow even for this. I had a hard time even persuading
him to let
me come. That’s why I must return
directly to England once it’s over.” With a
sigh, she swept her hand to indicate the ballroom.
“This is as close as I get to the real Scotland on
this trip.”
“The
real Scotland?” He couldn’t
suppress a snort. “This is no more the real Scotland
than I am the real Charlie. Walter Scott trumped up this
daft nonsense for the royal visit, with Lowlanders wearing
tartan and half the Highlanders banned from town for being
too rowdy.”
He stared out at the dance floor, his gut tightening. The
very sight of the lairds dancing away in their kilts
sickened him. Their people fled to America in droves to keep
from starving, and the chiefs would only dance.
Bitterness laced his words. “Mustn’t frighten
the English king with a show of arms. Or alarm the London
Scots who want only a taste of the old country.”
She bristled. “Now see here, sir, you know nothing
about ‘London Scots.’ If I had my way, I’d
be living in the Highlands right now.” Her tone turned
acid. “But while you men can do whatever you want,
young women can’t go where they please. Not until they
marry.”
“Of course not, lass.” Holy Christ, he was no
good at cozying up to fine ladies. “Forgive me for
speaking out o’ turn. Sometimes my love of home
tramples my good sense.”
She accepted his apology, thank God. Then she ruined it by
turning the conversation to him. “So you’re from
the Highlands, too?”
Damn. But since she’d already guessed it—
“Aye. Highland-born and bred.” He changed the
subject before she could ask what part. “Looks like
yer chaperone is arguing with Colonel Seton.”
She followed his gaze. “I should rescue her. She
claims not to like him.”
“Claims?”
“I think the problem is that she likes him too
much.”
Good. That made everything easier. “Then we should
give them time to work out which it is.” Dancing
another set was out of the question; he’d barely
endured the one. “If you like, I could show you the
decorations for the Peers’ Ball Thursday night.”
He gestured to a nearby curtain draped from floor to
ceiling. “There’s a door hidden back there that
leads to the other ballroom, which isn’t being used
this evening. Care to have a look?”
A well-bred lass like her would know she shouldn’t go
with him, but he could tell from her hesitation that she
wanted to. And if she did, it boded well for tomorrow.
Mayhap a bit of coaxing was in order. “I’ll
understand if those proprieties of yours are rearing their
ugly heads. A fine lady like yerself—”
“Not at all,” she said with a breathless little
hitch that sent his blood coursing to the wrong places. She
took his arm. “Lead on, kind sir.”
Moments later they were in the next ballroom, watching
servants drape tartan over chandeliers and position gold
damask sofas on the narrow one-step-high stage built to
surround the room, so the portly king would have a place to
rest between dances.
“What a magnificent effect!” Her green eyes
sparkled through the slits of her mask. “How kind of
you to let me see it before the room is packed with
people.”
She gifted him with a smile that would light up the barest
crofter’s cottage, and he reacted with a swift intake
of breath, followed by a swift throbbing in his ribs.
“I’m glad the ballroom passes yer
inspection,” he bit out over his pain.
His terse tone made her smile falter. “I can’t
wait to see it fully lit on Friday.” She toyed with
her fan. “I suppose you’re attending that ball
as well?”
“No,” he said baldly.
And neither are you,
lassie.
“Oh.”
The sympathy in her voice made him regret his blunt words.
Now she thought him too low to be invited, since only peers
or those with titled connections had received the coveted
invitations. As clan chief he would also have been invited,
if they hadn’t believed him dead.
His stung pride got the better of him. “I have to
return to the north.”
“Where in the north?” she said, suddenly alert
and eager.
“No place ye’d ken.” He had to get her off
this dangerous subject. His eyes fell on the archway.
“They removed the bow windows so guests could pass
into the courtyard. Would you like to see what they’ve
built out there?”
Her gaze turned sultry. “That would be lovely, thank
you.”
His heart began to thud.
Careful, laddie, keep a rein on
yer urges. Mustn’t frighten her off.
Trying not to notice her delicate touch on his arm, he led
her into the dark courtyard, where painted wooden pillars
supported a tent of rose and white muslin. When they slipped
inside, they found themselves in a very small and private
space.
“A theater owner is having sets painted with pictures
of the Highland countryside.” Lachlan gestured to one
end. “Then they can draw back the muslin to show the
scenes.”
He felt her gaze search his face. “You seem to know a
great deal about the plans for the ball. Are you a friend of
the theater owner?”
“I know people enough in Edinburgh,” he said
evasively.
Her voice turned sly. “I suppose you made many friends
in the army.”
He tensed. “I told you, I was never in any
regiment.”
“Nonsense.” She planted her hands on her hips.
“I’d swear that you adapted that costume from a
regimental officer’s uniform.”
Devil take the lass. “I borrowed it from a soldier
friend.”
“I see.” She snorted. “And that’s
why the coat fits you to perfection. Did you borrow your
military bearing from your soldier friend, too? And your
tendency to pepper your speech with talk of skirmishes and
inspections?”
Mo chreach, he hadn’t realized how he’d
betrayed himself. Best turn the tables before she pieced
together who he really was.
“I know why you’re so eager to make me into an
officer.” He stepped closer. “Because you
can’t make me into a peer, and only an officer or a
lord can be fit company for a lady of yer breeding.”
She thrust out her chin. “I never claimed to be a lady
of breeding. For all you know, I might be a milliner.”
“If you say so, lassie.” With a chuckle, he
mimicked her earlier attack. “That’s why you
carry yourself like a queen and spend your days collecting
ballads, the way milliners do.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “You’ve caught me,
sir. I’m no milliner. But I could still be a
gentlewoman of little means and fewer prospects.”
“Which is why you’re attending the Peer’s
Ball.” He smiled. “Come now, why not just admit
you’re a lady of rank?”
“Not until you admit you’re a soldier,”
she said primly. Then she caught her breath.
“
That’s why you remind me of Lachlan
Ross! He went off to join a regiment, too. I used to imagine
him in his regimentals—”
He kissed her, a brief, soft kiss to shut her up. What else
was he supposed to do, damn it? He had to keep her from
making comparisons.
When he drew back, her breath came quickly. “I…
I… what do you think you’re… doing,
sir?”
“Proving that you’re a lady of breeding.”
He slid his hand about her waist to draw her close.
“Because there are certain liberties a lady would
never allow me.”
“How do you know what a lady might allow?” Her
warm, spicy breath teased his senses. “Some are more
reckless than others, especially when they’re held in
the arms of a strapping soldier—”
He kissed her thoroughly this time, sealing his mouth to
hers, drinking in her hot breaths, enjoying the fine tremor
of her body against his.
He’d been aching to do this all night. Not because she
was Duncannon’s daughter or because she held the key
to his clan’s future, or even because she’d
grown into such a bonnie lass.
It was because she’d dressed as Flora MacDonald, even
though it meant wearing a simpler costume than the other
ladies. Because she collected Scottish ballads, of all
things. Because she hadn’t been affronted by his hints
that the gentlemen were going bare-arsed under their kilts.
Hard to resist such a female.
Especially knowing that once she found out he was her enemy,
she’d only look on him with a wild and furious hatred.
So before that happened, he had to taste her…touch
her…see how far he could tempt her.
Even if he suffered for it later.
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