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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