To Scotland, With Love (Maclean 2) by Karen Hawkins

Author:Karen Hawkins
Format: mobi
Published: 2010-01-28T19:03:32+00:00

Chapter 11

The MacLeans are men of great, great passion, which can be a blessin’ and a curse.

OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND

TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

G regor strode toward the barn. Damn it all, what did she expect from him? To ignore the passion that flared between them? That was a stupid way to handle the situation. They had to act on that passion, investigate it, find out what fueled it. Only then could they begin to control it. The only other remedy was to stop their friendship, and never again see one another, and he refused to do that.

Gregor paused outside the barn to let the sun warm his face. It was still too cold for the snow to melt, and he shivered a bit, wishing he’d stopped to get his greatcoat.

A noise from the stables caught his attention, and he saw the warm light that shone from the cracks in the doors. It would be warmer there than in the middle of the innyard.

As he headed to the barn, his boots crunched in the new snow, mocking him. What a horrid mess.

Gregor’s breath puffed into the frosted air as he reached the barn doors. He paused there and glanced back at the large window of the common room, but no face showed between the curtains.

He turned away, disgusted at his disappointment. What had he expected? That Venetia might be peering out, remorse on her face? He snorted loudly, grabbed the barn door, and swung it open, then closed it quickly behind him. The barn appeared empty, but the murmur of voices and the glow of a lantern in the far stall told him otherwise.

Of course, Ravenscroft was there. The youth had left the inn after breakfast, probably to avoid the overly female presence inside—especially Miss Platt, who’d seemed to hang on his every word.

Gregor made his way toward the glow in the back of the barn, pausing to pat the noses of the horses, their heads hanging out of their stalls for attention.

A large, sturdy bay whickered when Gregor approached. Gregor rubbed the animal’s nose and received a playful butt against his arm for his trouble. “Feeling your oats, hm?”

Ravenscroft’s head appeared around the corner of the far stall. “Halloo there, MacLean! Come and join us! Your man Chambers and I are enjoying a nice rum toddy!” Ravenscroft’s voice was slurred with drink.

“A bit early for that, isn’t it?” Gregor asked. The last stall door had been propped open, and a circle of barrels was placed around a small, glowing stove that Chambers was refilling with wood. A pot simmered on the stove, the pleasant scent of rum toddies sifting through the air.

Chambers closed the door of the stove and set the poker in a metal ash bucket. “Nothing like a good rum toddy to beat the cold weather from your bones.” The groom looked shrewdly at Gregor. “Ravenscroft here has been saying there are a few too many petticoats in the inn fer his liking.

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