by Sabrina York
He gulped. “I beg your pardon?”
She leaned closer and murmured, “She’s a Dounreay. And a Lochlannach. Neither are easily won.”
“I . . . she . . . we . . .” His mind spun.
“And Isobel, I’m afraid, is as contrary as they come.”
“Contrary?”
“Indeed. Delightfully so.” She strafed him with an assessing glance. “Given the daisies, I take it you have an interest in my daughter?”
“I . . .” Oh. Shite. He cleared his throat. “Yes. I do.”
“Do you want my advice?”
“Please.”
Again with that knowing smile. “Be patient.”
Patient? What the hell kind of advice was that?
But their private discussion was interrupted, in part because private discussions were considered rude in such surrounds, and partially because Lady Esmeralda did not like being left out. “Well I say,” she said in a blustery tone. “We certainly have the cream of the crop in our sitting room, do we not, Your Grace?”
Both Nick’s mother and Lady Lana nodded. “Although,” the former said primly, “I certainly dinna expect to see my son here this morning.”
“When is the last time you attended morning calls?” Sorcha asked, with a nauseatingly innocent smile. She knew damn well he never had.
“No’ that I’m no’ pleased to see you here,” his mother added. “It does my heart good.”
“Mine, too,” said Tully with a smirk.
Nick shot him a glower.
It took a moment for him to collect his manners and say, “How could we not come and honor our beautiful visitors from the north.” This he said to her.
Naturally, she sniffed.
“We are thrilled to be here,” Isobel’s friend Catriona said. It gratified him that, when Tully turned to smile at her, he seemed besotted.
It gratified him as well that Tully’s attention was no longer on Isobel.
And Isobel didn’t seem to mind.
Damn, how he wished he could speak to her.
In private. Or at least directly. Without witnesses.
But there was no chance of that.
He glowered around the room, just on general principle. To his side, Susana seemed to notice, and she chuckled.
He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not that she was able to read his mood.
On some level, it seemed dangerous.
So for the next few endless minutes, he remained silent and still and allowed the insipid conversation to flow around him.
If this was what morning calls were, he now knew why he’d never been to one.
It only helped a little that Penny seemed as out of place as he was.
Tully, deep in conversation with Catriona, was right at home. Which was annoying in itself.
But when his friend asked if Lady Catriona would like to take a turn in the garden, and she said yes, Nick leaped to his feet and said, “We all should.”
Lady Esmeralda glared at him and snapped, “No we shouldn’t. I have gout.”
Nick’s mother chuckled. “I believe he means the youngsters.”
It was wrong to scowl at her, but he was hardly a youngster.
“I would love a walk,” Sorcha said, tucking one arm into his and the other into Isobel’s and tugging them toward the door. Tully and Catriona followed. And then Penny, who trudged behind, clearly put out that he had no female companion to pair with.
Which was ridiculous. There were three men and three women.
Although Sorcha was his sister, so she hardly counted in that manner.
Because if Penny touched her, he’d have to flog him.
As they made their way down the long hall toward the back of the house, Isobel said, “I doona know if a walk in the garden is wise.”
For some reason, Catriona laughed.
“How do you mean?” Sorcha asked.
“It’s the Hellions,” Catriona explained.
“The Hellions?” Tully asked.
Which was probably why Isobel answered. No doubt she would not have answered Nick if he’d asked. “The little Lochlannachs and Sinclairs. My cousins and, I am bereft to admit, my siblings. They’ve taken over the gardens.”
“It was considered best—for everyone, and for the house itself—that they play outside,” Catriona said. “They are quite savage.”
Nick chuckled. He’d been raised by hellions—his uncles, the notorious Wyeths, were known for raising hell and damnation. Maybe this would be an interesting morning after all.
* * *
But oh.
He was not prepared. Not in the least.
Chapter Eleven
The danger was not evident at first. They entered the garden to find a perfectly lovely spring day and well-kept grounds filled with blooming flowers, buzzing bees, and even a bunny or two.
But as they made their way deeper into the trees along the crushed rock path, something began to feel . . . off.
The air was far too still, as though someone were holding their breath. There was a strange tremble in Nick’s veins, as though he were being watched.
The hairs on his nape prickled.
He glanced around warily.
His attention stilled on a figure, high in the boughs of an elm. He was certain it was a girl, but she wore breeks and carried—of all things—a bow and arrow.
In his shock, he tripped on a hummock, but apparently he jumped the gun in being shocked by that, for a second later a high-pitched scream ripped through the tranquility of the garden.
“Attack!”
Before he had time to react, his party was showered with what appeared to be apples and nuts, speckled with the occasional—and thank God, poorly aimed—arrow.
“Ye gods!” Tully covered his head and ran for the protection of a nearby bush. In his rush to escape, he was nearly skewered.
Penny took off in the other direction, leaving Nick alone to protect the women.
Bravely, he put his body between them and this threat.
It was lowering, when the attack abated, to realize that neither Catriona nor Isobel had felt the need for protection in the slightest. In fact, Isobel pushed him out of the way as she marched toward one of the higher trees.
Sorcha, sensing his disgruntlement, as only a sister could do, patted him on the shoulder. “Nice try,” she whispered, and then she joined Isobel at the base of the tree, where the Scots lass stood, arms akimbo, glaring up into the boughs.
“Come down immediately,” she barked.
“Aww . . .” A chorus of discontent dribbled down upon them.
“Now.”
Damn. That thread of command in her tone was a little scary.
But it worked.
One by one, six boys of varying ages and coloring, along with the one girl Nick had previously spied, made their way to the ground.
They tried to look repentant, but most of them failed.
The older ones all had bows, which Isobel quickly appropriated. “Where on earth did you find these?”
One of the older boys, clearly Isobel’s brother, given the color of his hair, grinned. “They were in the attic.”
“In the attic?” Isobel glowered at them, one after the other. “And what did I tell you about bows and arrows?”
Christ. Had they had this conversation before? If any one of them had been a better shot, someone could have been killed. But to his surprise and consternation, the little girl offered a penitent smile and said, “We were going to tell you.”
“Right,” another of the older boys said. Nick could hardly keep them apart. “But you were in that stupid tea thing. We decided to play without you.”
Play without her? With arrows? What kind of children were they?
“That stupid tea thing was morning calls. I dinna have a choice. Just wait until you’re my age and see. And doona try to cozen me, Alexander Lochlannach. We all know you wanted to play with the bows before the mothers discovered you found them.”
Another dark-haired lad snorted. “Canna hardly play with them after they find out, can we?”
The little girl nodded. “Doona be daft, Isobel.”
“Wait a moment, here,” Tully said. Apparently he’d found the courage to return from his refuge behind the bush. “Are you meaning to tell me that you often play with bows and arrows?”
The oldest boy—was it Alexander?—stared at him and snorted. “We’re Scots.”
Tully’s mouth worked. “You’re children.”
Andrew puffed out his chest. “I can shoot a damn sight better than you, ye wee popinjay.”
Despite himself, Nick snorted a laugh, which caused Tully to glower at him. Nick affected an innocent look. Tully growled a little. “Nonsense. Your arrows were way off the mark.”
“Were they?” the little girl said with a flutter of lethal lashes. “We dinna hit one of you.”
“Even though you tried to be hit,” a small one said belligerently.
Tully went red to his ears. “I didn’t try to be hit.”
“You ran right into an arrow,” Isobel reminded him.
He was not amused at that.
“I say,” Penny said, showing his great bravery by stepping forward. “It is not proper for children to have weapons.”
“We’re Scots,” the one boy repeated.
“Besides, Isobel had her own bow when she was little. Why should we no’?”
“She had her own sword, too.”
“It’s not fair.”
As this grumbling continued, Nick stared at Isobel. He’d heard stories about her from various gossips, but he hadn’t believed them. Not really. Could they have been true?
Then again, did it make any difference?
He respected the fact that she was bold and brave and her own woman.
“Is that true?” he asked. “Did you have weapons as a child?”
Her response was a sniff, but one of her blond brothers crowed, “She used them, too.”
“She’s a right better shot than any of you wee popinjays,” said the one who disliked popinjays.
“Perhaps we should have a contest,” the little girl said with a bloodthirsty light in her eyes.
“Nonsense, Alexis,” Isobel said firmly. Finally. A voice of reason. “We doona have proper butts.”
He gaped at her. Butts? She was worried about butts? As if those creatures would be inclined to aim at them?
“Now, enough of this. Pick up the apples and hand those arrows to me.”
The children grumbled but did so with alacrity, leading Nick to suspect there were more bows in the attic. Together, they carried the lethal weapons back into the house, and Isobel handed them over to Henley who accepted the collection as though this were a normal thing. The children trooped along with them and then scattered once they came inside.
“Aren’t they adorable?” Catriona said.
“So adorable,” Sorcha agreed, leaving Nick, Tully, and Penny to exchange bemused glances. If he had children, he wasn’t sure he wanted the kind who would attack him in the garden with no warning on a fine spring day.
“They are just bored,” Isobel said.
“Aye. And not used to being cooped up indoors.”
“The grounds here are larger than some estates,” Tully snorted.
“They’re used to more freedom,” Isobel responded pertly.
“Apparently,” Penny muttered, which earned him a scowl.
None of them dared comment more as they made their way back down the polished hall. As they came back into the parlor, the conversation among the older women abruptly ceased. Several of the women had the grace to look guilty, but Nick’s mother seemed suspiciously pleased.
“Well, that was a quick walk,” Susana said.
“We were ambushed,” Tully grumbled.
Lady Esmeralda’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
Isobel sighed and took a seat next to Sorcha. Nick took his chance and sat next to her. She did not appear to notice.
But then, she had not appeared to notice him at all this morning—except for the times she felt obliged to scowl at him.
She meticulously straightened her skirts. “Apparently the Hellions found some bows in the attic, Aunt Lana.”
“Oh, dear,” the duchess said. “I did ask Lachlan to remove all the weapons.”
“He must have missed these.”
“Indeed. Is everyone all right?”
“Barely,” Tully said. Clearly, he was still sulking.
“No one was hurt,” Isobel said.
“Of course not,” her mother said. “No one ever is.” She sighed. “I fail to see why there is always such a fuss over a bow or two.”
“There were six,” Penny clarified.
“Oh, pish. Isobel had her own bow when she was a girl, and she never killed anyone.”
“It’s true,” Isobel said. “Not even once.” For some reason, her aunts laughed at that.
Her mother frowned. “Just tell me Magnus dinna have one.”
“Ach. Don’t be silly,” Isobel said. “He canna draw yet.”
“That is true.” Lady Hannah nodded. “He’s not even two.”
Susana grinned. “Give him some time.”
“He’s fairly good with a sword, though,” Lady Lana added.
Nick blinked in surprise, but then, judging from the looks of humor rounding the room, he suspected they were bamming everyone. Or maybe not.
He was learning quickly not to make any assumptions about these women . . . or their children.
“Anyway,” his mother said, capturing everyone’s attention with her tone. Something in it made a shiver slither up his spine. “We’ve had a famous idea.”
“Famous,” said Isobel’s mother.
“Absolutely famous,” added the Duchess of Caithness.
Nick forced a smile. His mother’s ideas never worked out well for him, so he knew to be cautious. “And what is this famous idea?” he asked.
His mother smiled at him. Yes. Definitely a slither. “Since the Season is having a slow start, we will host a house party at our place in Brighton this week.”
“I do love the sea,” Lady Esmeralda bleated.
“And it’s so lovely this time of year.”
Nick shook his head. “A house party? It’s hardly good hunting this time of year.” That was why one had a house party, wasn’t it?
His mother leveled a dark gaze on him. “There will be no hunting,” she said.
Lady Esmeralda muttered, “Not that kind of hunting, at any rate.”
“It will be simple. Casual. I’m thinking suppers, cards, perhaps a ball or two. Picnics and punting. Nothing too grand.”
No. Nothing too grand at all. But Nick saw the truth of it. Clear as day.
It was a hunting expedition. Only he was the prey.
Chapter Twelve
Catriona tossed herself on Isobel’s bed. “A house party in Brighton! How fun will that be?”
Isobel turned to the window to hide her expression. It had been so difficult this morning, pretending as though nothing had happened between her and Nick. As though she weren’t suppressing the urge to smack him every moment. Or kiss him.
Drat. She hated being so ambivalent.
She’d never been ambivalent a day in her life.
And then, then he’d sat down next to her . . . Oh, how awful that had been. His heat, burning into her. The shock of alertness when his thigh happened to touch hers. His scent, wafting to her every time he moved.
It had been torture.
Absolute torture.
It had been a challenge to keep her feelings to herself. Whatever they had been.
When he’d left, he’d taken her hand and gazed into her eyes—and though she tried to avoid looking at him, she’d failed—and then he’d kissed her hand. Her pulse had surged. The tiny hairs on her arm had risen. Her knees had knocked.
That bastard.
How dare he?
How dare he be so attractive when
she wanted to hate him?
It was not fair.
“I say. Isobel? Are you listening?” Catriona’s sharp question sliced through her reverie.
“What? Of course,” she snapped, though she, indeed, had not been.
Catriona sat up and stared at her. It was that annoying, too-knowing look she had.
“Are you thinking about him again?”
Heat rose, a scalding heat, on her cheeks. “No.” It was a pitiful denial and Catriona knew it.
“Isobel, you must stop mooning over that stable lad. We’ve been over and over this.”
She snorted. She didn’t mean to, and it caught Catriona’s attention. Sharpened it.
“What does that mean?”
“What?”
“That noise. You know you made it.”
“Did I?”
“Stop prevaricating. Tell me what is going on.”
“It’s him,” Isobel muttered, as though that explained it all.
Cat crossed her arms and waited silently for Isobel to continue. How she hated when Cat did that. It was impossible to resist.
“He’s not a stable boy.” Blast. She hadn’t intended to say that.
But it was too late. Catriona had heard. “What? How on earth would you know? Unless . . .”
Isobel sighed. “Aye. I apparently did see him in Hyde Park. He is in London.”
“And he’s no’ a stable lad.”
“Nae.” The bastard.
“So . . . what is he?”
Isobel plopped back on the bed and covered her face with her arm. “You willna believe me.”
“I might.”
She peeked out and whispered, “He’s Viscount Stirling.”
Cat’s eyes went wide. Her cheeks pooched out and she crowed with laughter. “He isna!”
“Aye.”
“The verra handsome Viscount Stirling? The verra eligible Viscount Stirling?”
“Do stop.”
When did you find out?”
“Last night, at the ball. Oh, Cat.” She sat up and grabbed her friend’s shoulders. “It was mortifying. He knew who I was all the time. Even when he . . .”
Cat’s eyes narrowed. “Even when he . . . what?”
“Never mind. He just knew the whole time and was playing with me.”
“He didn’t appear to be playing with you today. He seemed serious. He brought you daisies. He knew you preferred daisies and he brought them to you. How romantic.”
