Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series

by Collette Cameron

  As Isobel swept from the room, saving herself from the rest of Maura’s tart response, her fingernail caught on the shawl’s fringe.

  Bother.

  She’d discovered the broken nail after dressing and had forgotten to file it. Several moments later, she entered the great hall to find everyone assembled as expected. The dogs—Tira, Arig, and Rona—raised their heads, their tails thumping in welcome.

  Yvette smiled at Isobel before turning her attention to Lydia, and Seonaid was deep in a discussion with Gordon Ross, Lydia’s brooding uncle.

  Lydia had been an enjoyable addition to the keep these past months, but a cloud of gloom seemed to hover about Mr. Ross. Though the man had less than ten years on his niece, he appeared much older. He rarely smiled, and his face usually sported a pinched expression, as if he were perpetually displeased or constipated.

  His features brightened at Isobel’s entrance. He graced her with a rare upward turn of his lips. The small act transformed his features into those of a rather striking man.

  Hiding her emotions, as she’d been taught, she offered a weak, closed-lip smile and swiftly turned her attention elsewhere.

  She feared Mr. Ross harbored a tendre for her. For the past several weeks he’d sought her company at every opportunity. She was fast running out of excuses to avoid him. A long-dead trilobite held more appeal than the stone-faced Mr. Ross.

  Twice, he’d found her alone in the library, though thankfully, Yvette had come along each time.

  Perhaps Isobel should confide in her parents. But what would she say?

  Mr. Ross stared at her? He complimented her on her appearance and manners? He appreciated her talent on the harpsichord and admired her needlework? He made her feel as if great, hairy spiders crawled all over her?

  Even now, Isobel sensed his intense perusal upon her. Undressing her. A shudder rippled her from shoulders to waist.

  Securing her shawl tighter, she focused on the ancient weapons hanging on the far wall above the vast fireplace large enough for a grown man to stand upright within. She headed toward the hulking trestle table, easily seating thirty before extensions. Customarily an informal meal, diners gathered at the end opposite the dais for luncheon.

  Father winked a greeting while listening to something Ewan said to the Duke of Harcourt.

  “We were about to begin. Duncan and some of the others have engagements this afternoon.” Mother’s tone held the tiniest amount of censure.

  Isobel cut a glance to Ewan’s uncle, Duncan McTavish. He and his two sons, Gregor and Alasdair, had already filled their plates.

  “I’m sorry to have kept everyone waiting. Please forgive me.” She offered an apologetic smile.

  Polite murmurs excusing her echoed round the table.

  No point in defending her tardiness by telling them her lateness was caused by first rolling about on the stable floor with Lord Ramsbury, and later, arguing with his lordship in the entrance.

  Her stomach growled once more.

  In addition to the Scotch stovies Isobel had anticipated, an assortment of cold meats, cheese, fruits, pickled foods, and breads graced the tabletop. A sideboard displayed fresh tarts and other desserts.

  Isobel, her skirts swishing softly in her haste, inspected the seating as she hurried across the floor. One chair, situated between the Duke of Harcourt and Lord Ramsbury, remained empty.

  Yer bum’s oot the windae, lass, as Grandmother Ferguson would say.

  Perturbed, Isobel glanced away. She was stuck, pure and simple, with no way out.

  One dratted vacant chair, right beside the one person she would rather eat feathers than sit next to. She couldn’t very well plop herself at the other end of the table nor take her food to a chair by the vaulted windows either.

  Perchance she should feign a headache and request a tray in her room. No, that wouldn’t do. She seldom had headaches.

  If she were to suddenly have one so severe she had to retreat to her chamber, she would rouse concern or suspicion, especially if she asked her food to be brought above stairs too. Before Isobel exited the hall, Mother would have sent for the physician or ordered Gregor and Seonaid to fetch their healing herbs.

  Slowing her pace, Isobel released an acquiescent sigh.

  Lord Ramsbury stood and waved away the footman who approached. His lordship pulled out the chair beside him, a satisfied grin on his mouth. “There you are. You’ll be delighted to learn I’ve arranged for that chess game you requested—right after we eat.”

  Chapter 7

  Yancy almost laughed at the lethal glare Isobel leveled him. Good manners prevented her from disputing the arranged game.

  The woman approaching was nothing short of exquisite, yet he almost missed the disheveled sprite from the stables. Who was the real Isobel? This composed perfection waiting to take her seat, or the free-spirited, dust-covered girl lying beneath him and tickling his sides in the stable?

  Silverware clattering drew his attention to the other side of the table.

  One hand fisted beside his plate, Ross’s gaze narrowed as Isobel gracefully made her way across the room. Interesting and annoying. Was everyone not kin to Isobel enamored of her?

  Yancy didn’t pretend he wasn’t delighted she’d be seated next to him. He offered Ross a sideways smile, just short of gloating. Determined to be his most charming self, Yancy intended to woo Isobel into regarding him more favorably, despite their shabby start earlier.

  She avoided meeting his eyes and slid onto the chair.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your gown is most becoming, Miss Ferguson.” Yancy pushed her chair in.

  “It’s kind of you to say so.”

  He caught a whiff of her heady perfume. His damned body reacted predictably. Sporting an obvious bulge in his pantaloons, he hastily sought his seat.

  He was worse than a buck in the rut around her, and he shouldn’t be. He was no wet behind the ears milksop pursuing his first conquest. That had been Julia. The thought of her doused his ardor faster than icy water separated fighting dogs.

  “I am looking forward to the chess game.” Harcourt helped himself to a generous portion of meat before selecting two kinds of cheese to add to his full plate.

  Isobel made an odd noise and took a quick sip of her wine.

  Harcourt peered around the huge hall. “Are we to watch the match in here?”

  Yancy shot him a quelling glance.

  “No, Your Grace. The chess set is in the parlor. It’s quite old. The game belonged to Ewan’s great-great grandfather.” Isobel took another sip of wine then set about filling her plate. “And I assure you, the match will not be worthy of an audience. I shouldn’t want to bore you or the others. No one need feel obliged to attend.”

  “On the contrary, I am certain the contest will prove highly diverting. I’m quite looking forward to it.” Harcourt perused the diners. “As is everyone else, I’m sure.”

  “I know I am.” Yancy smiled, pretending not to see the troubled look Isobel sliced him.

  “Aye.” Dugall nodded, sending a shock of black hair over his forehead. “Me sister’s trounced me every time I play her.”

  “I distinctly recall Yancy beating me soundly at Oxford.” Sethwick paused in buttering a piece of bread. “And I’ve never seen Isobel lose. It should be a spectacular display.”

  “I’ll say,” Yancy muttered beneath his breath. He swallowed an oath as sudden pain lanced the back of his hand resting on his thigh.

  His gaze leaped to Isobel.

  She blinked at him, an innocent smile framing her lush lips.

  By George, the vixen had pinched him. Hard. In an hour, he would have a bruise to prove it.

  Alasdair reached behind his mother sitting between her sons. He prodded Gregor’s shoulder
. “Ye want to lay odds on who wins?”

  Nodding, Gregor stuffed half of a pickled egg into his mouth. Chomping happily, he wagged his eyebrows at Ross.

  Ross’s lips thinned further, and he sneaked a covert glance Isobel’s way.

  Yancy’s estimation of the dour Scot plunged farther south.

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Though she smiled, Lady Ferguson’s voice was firm.

  “Really, you two.” Kitta’s vexed gaze moved between her sons. “Must you compete over everything?”

  “Aye, Mother.” Alasdair shook his shaggy head and grinned. “Since we shared your womb and the great lummox forced his way out first.”

  Yancy’s amusement faded.

  He’d bantered like that with Randolph, his older brother, before the Peninsular War had robbed Yancy of his best friend seven years ago. Now, he made do with Harcourt and the other rogues’ antics. However, since they’d married, his chums had become downright stodgy.

  See what matrimony did to a fellow?

  “Gentlemen before giant-arsed gollumpuses, I always say.” Gregor released a rumbling chuckle at his brother’s scowl.

  “Gregor. You forget yourself. There are ladies present,” his mother scolded.

  Isobel giggled, but Seonaid’s soft voice cut short her sister’s musical tinkle.

  “The outcome will be most interesting, I’ve no doubt.” Seonaid glanced between Yancy and her sister. “No, no doubt at all.”

  Her family’s startled gazes flew to her.

  Lady Ferguson met her husband’s eyes, concern flitting across her lovely face, and several of the assembled threw speculative glances Yancy’s way.

  Her keen gaze alert, Seonaid simply inclined her head at him and forked a bit of stovie into her mouth.

  What the devil?

  He swore the younger sister knew something she kept to herself. Something she found entertaining from the glint in her eye and the impish tilt of her lips.

  Isobel’s expression transformed from amused to perplexed and, lastly, wary.

  “You see, they are quite anticipating the entertainment as much as I am.” Yancy rubbed his throbbing hand.

  Harcourt flashed his white teeth. “You cannot disappoint us, Miss Ferguson.”

  With a barely audible sigh, Isobel bowed her head in acquiescence. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  Yancy eyed her.

  Her response lacked enthusiasm. Why the reluctance to have an audience? Mayhap she’d overstated her skill and regretted challenging him, fearing he would shame her in front of her family. She did have a rather low opinion of him, didn’t she?

  Matters had gotten devilishly complex, but he could not let her win. Given the sightings of the Claustons, trotting around unguarded outside the keep was unthinkable. He held every confidence the Blackhalls and MacGraths skulked about as well.

  The three clans were reminiscent of the uncivilized and barbaric Celtic tribes once populating Scotland. However, if he wasn’t gallant and allowed Isobel to save her pride, he would further damage his chances to win her.

  Yancy fingered his wineglass, suddenly coming upon a magnanimous solution. He’d let Isobel triumph in the first game, and then he’d be the victor in the second. He would proclaim a truce, and she’d be keen to agree, not recognizing his chivalry as a ruse. A touch of masculine valor might prove most advantageous in warming her regard for him.

  “I give you my word I shan’t make a May game of you, Miss Ferguson.” Yancy kept his voice quiet.

  “Indeed?” Her fine eyebrows soared skyward, her gaze lingering on his lips for a moment before focusing on his cravat. “I make no such promise, my lord. I intend to have great sport with you.”

  She directed her attention back to Harcourt’s nattering.

  Spirited, wasn’t she? Visions of exactly what kind of sport he would like to engage her in sprang to mind. Something else leaped as well. He adjusted his position on his chair, grateful for the tablecloth.

  Yancy cast Isobel a sidelong glance. The sun, pouring in from the mullioned windows, ringed her head, creating a golden aura. She radiated innocence, but was she truly virtuous?

  Matilda’s young features crept into the recesses of his mind—proof that an angelic façade could conceal a siren’s wanton soul.

  Isobel had her head turned away from Yancy, her entire focus upon Harcourt.

  The slim arch of her neck begged for Yancy’s kiss. He itched to run his fingers over the silky flesh, right below the pink bow secured at her nape. Did she ignore him intentionally? Or was she succumbing to Harcourt’s attempts to charm her with his rakish appeal?

  “So, Miss Ferguson, I understand there is quite an interesting conglomeration of kin residing within the keep.” Harcourt munched a pickle, his mirth-filled eyes meeting Yancy’s over the crown of her head.

  Shifting to face the table once more, she nodded and patted her mouth with her linen napkin before responding. “Yes, Ewan’s father died when he was a toddler, and our mother married my father a couple of years later.”

  Harcourt’s dark gaze wandered the length of the table, resting on the attractive middle-aged couple. “I met Lady Ferguson and Sir Hugh at the Clarendon’s Yuletide ball, but missed introductions today when we arrived.”

  “The large, dark-haired man at the other end who looks a great deal like Ewan is his paternal uncle, Duncan.” She angled her head toward a handsome blond woman. “His wife, Kitta, is sitting between their sons, Gregor and Alasdair.”

  The duke blew out an exaggerated breath. “Egads, they’re enormous chaps, aren’t they?”

  Yancy’s reaction had been much the same the first time he’d met the entourage of gargantuan Scots.

  Isobel chuckled, a husky sound that tickled along his nerves. How could a laugh sound so innocent and yet wholly erotic at the same time?

  “They are indeed. Kitta is Norse, a direct descendent from Sigurðr the Powerful, one of the first earls of the Orkney Isles. She stands over six feet tall.” Isobel nibbled a fat strawberry, the juice leaving a faint red stain upon her lips.

  Yancy forced his gaze away from the display, barely stifling a groan. Bugger it. Must he find everything Isobel did so sensual? Needing a distraction, he absently cut a piece of cold meat while observing Ross.

  Why had he accompanied his niece to Craiglocky, anyway? Wouldn’t he better serve Laird Farnsworth by staying at Tornbury Fortress? Tornbury boasted some of the most premier grazing and farming lands in all the Highlands.

  That was the first order of business, a meeting with Miss Farnsworth’s father. Then Yancy would confer with the other clans’ leaders and negotiate a compromise. Lydia, and that boor, Ross, would toddle back to Tornbury, and in less than a fortnight, things would be set right once more.

  MacHardy, however, was a whole other issue. He wouldn’t rest until he’d stirred dangerous contention within the clans. If not now, then most assuredly later, and if not with the Blackhalls or MacGraths, then another discontented tribe. A few Highland clans still held a great deal of resentment toward England.

  Unfortunately, the baron’s actions weren’t treasonous, or Yancy would have hauled him before the House of Lords weeks ago.

  His focus yet on Ross, Yancy stuffed a forkful of meat into his mouth, almost gagging on tongue. Had he been so bemused he served himself tongue? He loathed the stuff. With supreme effort, he swallowed, then shuddered.

  God Almighty.

  Seizing his wineglass, he gulped the contents. The foul meat’s taste lingered. A mouthful of tangy dark bread swiftly followed. Then another.

  What he wouldn’t give for a tankard of ale at the moment. He chewed the bread and examined the table. No ale, just wine.

  His gaze snapped to Ross, whose attention was riveted on Isobel. The gleam in the eye
of the Friday-faced man set Yancy’s teeth on edge.

  Unadulterated lust.

  Hadn’t anyone else noticed the cur’s leering?

  Yes, from the stern glowers the giant blond brothers and Dugall sent Ross, they knew full well what musings the churl entertained in his dark head. Rash man, to antagonize that brawny trio.

  Harcourt waved his hand in Dugall’s direction. “The young man talking with Duncan McTavish, he’s your brother I take it?”

  A wicked grin on his lips, the duke’s gaze dipped to the slab of tongue on Yancy’s plate. His Grace’s lips twitched. “He bears a great resemblance to Sethwick.”

  Yancy clenched his jaw.

  Damn him.

  Harcourt, the bounder, had slipped the tongue onto Yancy’s plate when he stood to assist Isobel. He knew Yancy couldn’t abide animal organs. The vile taste succeeded in putting Yancy off the rest of his food.

  Setting her fork on her plate, she nodded, looking at the handsome brute. “That would be Dugall, my rapscallion brother. He’s always into some mischief. Seonaid, wearing the yellow gown and seated beside Mr. Ross, is my younger sister by one year.”

  Isobel selected a grape. “Of course, you already know Lydia and her uncle. I shan’t bore you with the names of the clansmen.”

  She popped the fruit into her mouth, her lips pursing around the orb. To have those lips on his . . .

  Her marine eyes sparkling, she chuckled. “You’ll only get confused. Their names are so similar, Your Grace.”

  Yancy suppressed a grin, recalling the names of the tartan-clad Scots who’d joined the family for their meal. “True, every one of their names began with Mac or Mc—something or other.”

  “Tell me, Miss Ferguson, if you will, why you speak with scarcely a trace of Scot’s brogue?” Harcourt dipped his spoon into his pudding.

  Isobel’s gaze roamed the table. “With the exception of Ewan—and that’s likely because he spends so much time in London— the men prefer speaking Scot’s to the King’s English. My sisters and I are accustomed to speaking otherwise.”