What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  “You’ve got to protect me,” he said again, though it was clear Tully, at least, wasn’t listening. He nudged him with his boot.

  “What?”

  “I say, you’ve got to protect me. Do pay attention. This is serious.”

  “How serious could it be, having a beautiful, wealthy woman panting after you?” Penny said on a laugh.

  “It’s very serious, when it’s Celia Swofford,” Nick responded. “Did you know she tried to sneak in my room when I was staying at their country home?”

  “Your own fault for going there,” Tully drawled.

  “William promised she wouldn’t be there.”

  Penny lifted a glass. “To William’s promises.”

  Tully chuckled. “How did you fend her off?”

  “I’d locked the door, thank the gods. Some great providence warned me, I suppose. Then I simply didn’t respond to her scratching.”

  “I’ll bet that annoyed her.”

  “As though I would care?”

  “You could do worse,” Penny suggested, and Nick made a face.

  “Trust me, I have other plans, and I can’t have Celia Swofford upsetting the applecart.”

  Blast. He’d said too much. Both his friends came on point.

  “What other plans?” Tully asked, sitting up in his chair.

  “Another woman?” Penny asked. He’d always been the more perceptive of the two.

  When Nick didn’t respond, other than to set his chin, Tully gave a whoop. “He’s done it,” he said. “He’s fallen for a woman.”

  “Not fallen,” he grumbled. Surely not that.

  Penny leaned in. “Where did you meet her?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Quite a lass, coming from nowhere.” Penny again, being perceptive.

  “The point is, I need you two to keep Celia Swofford at bay, so I can . . .”

  “So you can what?” Tully prodded.

  Blast. Were they really his best friends? “You know.”

  “Seduce this woman from nowhere?”

  That. And other things.

  “Just promise me. Promise me you’ll keep Celia out of my way.”

  “All right,” Penny said, but Tully narrowed his gaze.

  “Not so fast, my good man. Don’t you think we should at least get a glimpse of this lovely flower first? I might want her for myself.”

  It was a damn good thing he wasn’t too deep in his cups, or he might have smashed Edward James Tully right in his patrician nose.

  It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  Penny laughed at his expression, which made him want to clobber him as well. “My friend, you have it bad. You know you’re going to have to tell us about this lovely flower.”

  “Begin with where you met her,” Tully commanded.

  Nick set his teeth. He knew these men. He knew them well. They wouldn’t let up until they got what they wanted, and it would be better to spill it now than to have it come up at a more awkward time.

  And they excelled at awkward timings.

  “I met her in the country.”

  Penny’s brows rose. “Never say she’s a country girl.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Tully asked. “I’ve had more than one excellent tussle with a country girl. Did you have a tussle with her?”

  Nick didn’t respond, but his blush might have spoken for him, because both his friends guffawed and slapped their knees and were otherwise annoying for several minutes.

  “Well, did you?” Penny asked.

  “None of your business.”

  Tully put out a lip. “I thought we were your friends.”

  “You are,” Nick said. “Which is why I prefer not to give you too many details. I know you.”

  “I believe he’s insulting us,” Tully remarked to Penny, who nodded.

  “I do believe you’re right.”

  “One would think, if one were asking his friends to do one a tremendous favor—”

  “Such as taking the Celia Swofford bullet for him—”

  “Well said. Yes. If one were asking his friends to do him a tremendous—and dangerous—favor, one would forbear insulting said friends in the asking of it.”

  “One would.”

  “Oh, sod off,” Nick muttered into his glass, which he found exasperatingly empty.

  Both Tully and Penny laughed.

  “It’s just,” the latter said, “that we’ve never seen you in such a state.”

  “Over a woman.”

  “I’ve been in states over women before.”

  “Yes. But not like this.” Penny leaned back and studied him solemnly with his dark-brown eyes. “Is she really so fabulous?”

  Fabulous? Nick recalled her scent. Her face. The feel of her skin. Her hot breath in his ear—

  “That,” Tully said, “is a fierce expression.”

  “It certainly is. She must be fabulous indeed.”

  “We really need to meet this woman.”

  “I say, we certainly do.”

  “But how will we know when we meet her?”

  Penny nodded. “Indeed. Suppose we meet this fabulous woman and seduce her before we discover she is Nick’s lover?”

  “I never said she was my lover.” And, “You’re not to seduce her.”

  Both his friends lurched back, as though his command had been feral or something.

  But then they laughed.

  “You’d better tell us her name, at least,” Penny said. “Lest we wander into a Greek tragedy.”

  Hell. He didn’t want to give them her name. He didn’t want to give any bit of her up to them. She was his.

  Both men stared at him, and Tully went so far as to drum his fingers on the armrest. “Well?” he said.

  Nick glowered at them both and said, “Isobel.”

  “Ah. Fair Isobel,” Tully crowed.

  Nick’s heart lurched. “Do you know her?” Was that a hint of panic or hope in his tone?

  “No, but I can’t wait till I do.”

  “She’s Scottish.” He wasn’t sure why he shared this, unless it was to put them off the idea of pursuing her. If it had been, the ploy failed miserably.

  “A Scots lass?” Penny said, eyes bright. “Famous.”

  Tully chuckled. “I should have guessed. You’ve always had a taste for a wild wench.”

  How was it humanly possible for them both to be so thoroughly galling? “She’s not a wench.”

  “A Scots lass? Gallivanting around in the British countryside?” Penny pulled a face. “How odd.”

  “No wonder he was intrigued.”

  “I wasn’t intrigued.”

  “Of course you were. Does she have red hair?”

  “Don’t they all?” Tully said.

  Nick made a sound, like a growl. “No. Her hair is . . . gossamer.”

  He had no idea why they both gaped at him.

  “Gossamer?” they parroted in tandem. And then they laughed again.

  “He must be in love,” Penny said.

  “He must be.”

  What rot. He wasn’t in love. He just wanted to find her again. To . . .

  To what?

  He didn’t believe this was love, but it was something. And he planned to do whatever it took to explore these strange feelings.

  But first, he had to find her again.

  How on earth could he do that? There were upward of ten thousand members of the ton, all descending on London for the Season. They all had hundreds of servants. That was a lot of searching.

  The only saving grace was that this was a Scottish household . . .

  And then, suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, the answer came to him.

  There was one woman who knew the comings and goings of everyone in society—particularly the Scots. One woman who would know the answer to this question.

  But it was a dangerous pursuit. She was a dangerous woman. Just the thought of it sent a frisson of trepidation up his spine. Nick had to find a way of querying this maven w
ithout letting on he had any interest in the woman in question.

  Because if she realized his true intent, this could end in disaster.

  But there was nothing for it.

  He had to go visit his mother.

  A dangerous pursuit indeed.

  * * *

  As Nick strolled up the curved drive to his childhood home, the infamous Moncrieff Mansion, Uncle Malcolm came rushing out with a look of terror on his face.

  “Don’t go in there,” he warned. “She’s on a mission.”

  Nick grimaced. Visiting his mother was a challenge on a good day, but when she was on a mission, it was even worse. Lord knew what he would end up doing. Once he’d had to entertain a house full of orphans she was trying to pair up with families, and once when she was attempting to reform prisons, she’d made him tour Newgate. More than once he’d escorted bluestockings to musicales. He hadn’t minded the bluestockings—they were interesting—it was the musicales that turned his stomach.

  Normally, he would take Malcom’s advice and flee, but today he had a mission of his own.

  “Are you serious?” his uncle bellowed as Nick continued up the drive. “You don’t know what you’re in for.” And when Nick ignored him, he shook his head and took off in the opposite direction.

  But no doubt, it was probably too late for him.

  The great foyer was silent and cool as Nick let himself into the house. The marble beneath his feet was bright and white and the banister gleamed. The air smelled faintly of beeswax. It was an elegant and peaceful milieu, hardly the horrors Malcolm’s gloom brought to mind.

  But then he heard it, from his right, in the parlor.

  Laughter.

  Female laughter.

  He tried not to shudder.

  Rather, he steeled his spine and strolled into view.

  “Darling!”

  To his credit, he didn’t flinch when his mother called out. He made his way across the thick Aubusson carpet into the room, where his mother and sister sat taking tea. He bent to kiss them both in turn.

  “Mother.”

  “I’m so thrilled to see you,” she cooed. “It’s been far too long. I doona understand why young men feel they need to live so far from their mothers.” This, with a pout.

  “I understand,” Sorcha said. She’d always been his greatest defender. “So he can drink and carouse to all hours without upsetting the household.”

  Mother scowled. “You doona carouse, do you, Edward?”

  “Not hardly at all.”

  “Well, I’m thrilled you’re here. Do sit and have tea.”

  He did sit, but motioned to Baxter for a whisky. Baxter knew his preferences, even though Nick had moved out years ago.

  “Did you see Malcolm on the way in?” Sorcha asked with a smirk on her face.

  “I did. You must have frightened him.”

  His sister’s laugh rang through the room. “No doubt. Mother is on a mission.”

  “So I heard.” He took a sip of his drink and sighed. Perfect. And much better than the swill at White’s. His father kept only the best in the house. “And what is your mission today, my dear mother?”

  “We’re going to a ball this evening,” she said softly, as though this might come as something of a shock to him.

  “Hmm?”

  He took another sip, but shouldn’t have. It all came back out in a forty-year-old spray when Sorcha added, “At the Swoffords’.”

  And yes, the urge to run hit him then, along with a deep and abiding regret that he hadn’t listened to Malcolm.

  “You’re friends with William Swofford, are you not?” Mother said, helping herself to a crisp.

  Not anymore, he thought. Not after that debacle with his sister.

  “Mother, I cannot go to the Swoffords’.”

  “But I need you to.”

  “Celia is on the hunt. Do you really want her for a daughter-in-law?”

  Sorcha shuddered.

  “I need escorts. I have some friends in town—”

  The hair on his nape rose. “With daughters?”

  “Naturally. And I want them to feel at home.”

  “Can’t they find their own escorts?”

  “They’ve only just arrived. And I simply cannot have Eugenia Swofford’s crowd mocking them.”

  Nick cleared his throat. Surely his mother was being melodramatic. She did have that inclination. “Why would Lady Swofford’s friends mock them?”

  Sorcha snorted. “Because they’re from Scotland, naturally. According to that set, Scots are little better than animals.”

  Scotland?

  Hell.

  His pulse thudded. His blood surged. His fingers tightened on his glass. He tried very hard to remain blasé. Still, his voice cracked a little as he said, “Scotland?”

  “Aye.” Mother folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him pleadingly. “They are such wonderful people.”

  “Are they?”

  Perhaps he was playing it too cool, because his mother frowned. “Don’t be like that, Edward.”

  “Ahem. Like what?”

  Sorcha sniffed. “Supercilious.”

  “I’m not being supercilious. You know I don’t think that way about Scotland.” Though he knew many Londoners did feel superior to their northern neighbors. “I love it there.” Loved everything about it.

  “I should hope you are not one of those. That would disappoint me greatly.”

  Heaven forfend he disappoint his mother. It would likely kill a part of his soul if he did.

  “All right. So tell me about your friends,” he said, and was gratified when she smiled.

  “Well, you remember the St. Claire sisters?” she asked. He did not, but nodded, because he could tell she was going to tell the story anyway. “Those lovely girls are cousins to none other than the Duke of Caithness.”

  “I see.” This was the only response necessary, if even that. And a lucky thing it was, because he was utterly incapable. Excitement swirled through him. Isobel was connected to the Caithness household. He’d found her. And so easily. His delight was dizzying.

  “The duke has a niece who’s of age for the Season, and the whole family has come down to explore London.”

  Excellent. “I see.” The Lochlannach lass, no doubt.

  “So there’s the duke, his brothers-in-law, one of whom is a baron, and his sisters-in-law.”

  “And all their children,” Sorcha added on a laugh. “They’re prolific. Ten under ten.”

  “Mmm.” He wasn’t interested in babies. He was only interested in—

  “And then, there’s Catriona—”

  Ah. The Lochlannach lass.

  “The Baron of Bowermadden’s daughter.”

  Confusion rumpled his brow. “Bowermadden?”

  “You’ll remember that Anne St. Claire and Bowermadden were married ten years ago.”

  Ten years ago, he’d been ten. No he wouldn’t have remembered, or cared.

  His interest dissipated.

  “They sound lovely, Mother, but unfortunately, I have plans for this evening.”

  “Oh.”

  Hell. There it was. The disappointment he dreaded.

  “That’s a shame,” Sorcha said. “I was looking forward to introducing you to Isobel.”

  His heart surged into his throat. The whisky sloshed in his glass. He boggled. “Is-is-is . . .” Damn and blast. He couldn’t speak.

  “Aye. Isobel. So lovely. She’s Andrew Lochlannach’s daughter. His brother Alexander is the Baron of Dunnet . . .”

  She went on for some time, about the family lineage and such, but Nick was oblivious to everything she said.

  Because he’d found her again.

  His Isobel.

  And she wasn’t a maid.

  Hell. She wasn’t a maid.

  And he’d deflowered her.

  He searched for and could not find any horror at the prospect skirling in his soul. His elation completely washed away any consternation that he’d
gotten it all wrong, that she was a lady after all.

  He’d found her again. His heart sang.

  And he wouldn’t have to disappoint his mother.

  He was bloody going to the Swofford ball.

  Wild horses couldn’t keep him away.

  Chapter Nine

  “I, for one, canna understand why you are so glum.” Catriona tugged on the reins, urging her mare away from a particularly lush spot of grass. There wasn’t as much as there should be, here in Hyde Park, probably on account of all the horses. A battalion of them.

  Such a pity.

  Isobel much preferred the early-morning hours for a ride. Now, at the Fashionable Hour, it was crowded with carriages filled with people who seemed to be there for no other reason than to see and be seen. Rotten Row was crammed with horsemen vying for position. This was hardly the calming ride she’d envisioned.

  But she’d needed a ride to shake off the bitterness of that meeting with London’s most malicious mavens. It still peeved her.

  “Isobel? Are you listening to me?” Catriona snapped.

  “What? Of course I am.”

  Cat blew out a breath. “You are not. Honestly.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, I canna understand why you are so glum. It’s a fancy ball. In London. How could it not be fun?”

  “Being gawked at?”

  “The duchess willna allow them to be rude. Why, insulting us would be tantamount to an insult to her.”

  “Aye, but there are insults, and there are insults. Did you notice the way they slighted Aunt Lana?”

  “I dinna.”

  “Never once did any of them Your Grace her. As though she dinna even hold the title of duchess.”

  “I’m sure it was an oversight.”

  “Are you?” Her response was dry and sharp, though it was hardly Cat’s fault. Londoners had had tightly held prejudices against Scots for centuries. And vice versa.

  “Well, I intend to go and have a wonderful time. And you should do the same.”

  “And yet, if I break some arcane convention, I may never be invited back.” She sighed. “My time would be free to explore London at my leisure.”

  Cat sighed. “You willna do that.”

  “They expect me to.”

  “Perhaps. But I think we owe it to our people to behave civilly.”