What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  How could he have this effect on her?

  It had to be chemistry. Something in her body that was reacting to something in his. Nothing more. Surely—

  “You came.” His voice was pitched low, a sexy rumble meant only for her.

  She cleared her throat. “Of course I came. I was invited.”

  “I thought you might develop a megrim, or something.”

  She whipped her head around and scowled at him. “I do no’ have megrims.”

  He smiled. Some seductive quirk of his lips. “Good to know.”

  Silence settled between them. She dealt with the discomfiture by reaching for another cake.

  Again, it caught in her throat when he said, “I hope we will have time to speak . . . privately.”

  Her stomach swirled alarmingly.

  She set down the cake and affixed him with a prim glance. “Do we have something to talk about?”

  “You know we do.”

  Aye. They did.

  What a horrifying thought.

  She re-attended to her cake. “We will have several days,” she murmured.

  “Of which my mother has filled every hour. If we want to be . . . alone, we shall have to make that happen.”

  She caught his eye and a harsh thrill raked through her. Och. Was he trying to seduce her? Right here in front of her mother and his?

  And how did she feel about that?

  Against her will, her frown tipped into a smile.

  And when he smiled back, she nearly swooned.

  Which was annoying.

  She was hardly a swooning sort.

  * * *

  God, it was good to see her again. To sit by her side and speak to her. Actually speak.

  It was vexing when his mother interrupted.

  “So, Edward, when will your friends arrive?” she asked with a blithe cheerfulness. As though she hadn’t noticed he’d been whispering with one of her female guests at all.

  “What? Oh. Tomorrow, most likely. Tully is bringing the countess and Ellie—”

  “Oh. Eloise Tully.” His mother interrupted again, this time addressing Isobel. “You will adore her. She’s the Earl of Darlington’s daughter.”

  “The Grangers and St. Andrews are definitely coming tomorrow, but Penny and William weren’t sure when they’d get here.”

  “Verra good. And of course the Wyeths will arrive tomorrow as well. So it seems we have a verra quiet evening on our hands. Which is perfect, isn’t it, since you’ve traveled all day?”

  “Absolutely. An early night would be lovely,” the Duchess of Caithness said, setting down her teacup. “I canna thank you enough for having us.”

  Mother glowed. “Och. ’Tis my pleasure! I so rarely get to visit with people from my homeland.”

  Nick didn’t deign to remind her that technically, Scotland was part of England, because he knew what kind of conversation that would engender. But he was shocked when she added, with a sadness to her tone, “I do miss it so.”

  He’d never known. “Mother,” he said. “What do you miss?”

  She glanced at him and a hint of regret lit her eyes, as though she’d forgotten he was in the room when she made her confession. “Oh, darling. You know. The food. The music. The people . . .” A wistful offering.

  “The kilts, nae doubt,” Susana said with a grin.

  Mother chuckled. “I do miss those, but I can convince Edward to dress in them every so often,” she said slyly.

  Nick gaped. The vision of his father dressed in a kilt, with the obvious intent of seducing his mother, was disturbing indeed. Even though they made no pains to hide their passion for each other from their children, he hardly needed to be faced with the evidence.

  “Och,” Susana cried. “We should have a cèilidh.”

  Mother clapped her hands. “That would be wonderful.”

  He felt stupid, as though he was the only one who didn’t know. “What is a cèilidh?”

  “A party, dear.” Mother’s face glowed. “Scottish dishes, music, and dancing!”

  “Aye, and all the men can wear kilts,” Susana chortled.

  “Famous,” the other ladies chorused.

  Isobel, however, remained silent, so he glanced at her. He was taken aback to find her studying him with a glint in her eye. “Ahem,” he said. “Dare I ask what you are thinking?”

  She smiled in a way that made his innards turn to jelly. “Why, nothing, Viscount Stirling,” she purred. “I was just imagining you in a kilt.”

  Well, bloody hell. He wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight with the memory of that expression haunting him.

  Not a wink at all.

  * * *

  Indeed, he could not sleep. Even though, after everyone had retired, he’d gone to the library to have a glass of whisky. He sat there, watching the fire die down long after the clock struck midnight.

  If he was smart, he would enjoy this quiet time before the hordes descended for the house party. Even though they were all family friends, it could be trying to act as the host.

  But there was little peace for him. Not this night.

  Just knowing Isobel was in the house, upstairs, somewhere—in a bed—was driving him to drink. Literally.

  What did she wear at nighttime? Was it a simple chemise or a lacy nightgown? Silks, perhaps? Ye gods. How he would love to dress her. Something frothy, perhaps? Or sheer?

  Damnation. He needed to stop such speculation. He was making himself hard.

  A sound at the door captured his attention, and he stilled.

  Blast. He didn’t want company. Not tonight. He just wanted to sit and drink and stew.

  But then the interloper stepped into the dim light of the fire, heading for the bookcases with a lamp in her hand, and his heart stilled.

  A second later, it launched into a furious patter.

  He cleared his throat, more to warn her of his presence than because of any lumps that may have arisen. Though they had.

  She whirled around, her hair lifting in a silver cloud around her shoulders, catching the light with an iridescent glimmer. “Who’s there?” she called, pointing the lamp in his direction.

  Because he was ensconced in the king’s chair, it did no good, so he leaned forward. “Just me,” he said on a whisper.

  “What are you doing here?” Such an accusatory tone. He did live here after all.

  “Waiting for you.”

  This seemed to stun her. She lifted her hand to her breast and took a step back. “I . . . you . . . How did you know I’d come looking for a book?”

  “A book?” He put out a lip. “I rather hoped you were looking for me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the middle of the night. How would I know you were here?” she asked in a belligerent tone, but she stepped closer as she did. Which had the effect of placing her—and her sheer nightgown—between him and the fire. Drool pooled in his mouth.

  “I’ve been waiting awhile.”

  She frowned. “You have no’.”

  He gestured to the half-empty decanter.

  “How was I to know you were waiting for me?” she sputtered.

  “I did mention we needed to have a chat.”

  She crossed her arms, which was glorious indeed. He ripped his gaze from her breasts and focused diligently on her face.

  “You dinna mention it would be in the wee hours.”

  “I beg your pardon, but I believe it was you who chose the wee hours. As I said, I’ve been here for some time.” It was probably wrong to vex her so, but if it resulted in a conversation with her, he was more than happy to do so. Aside from which, vexing her was entertaining indeed. He had no idea why. “Will you sit?”

  She studied the chair at his side as though it held a trap. “What are you drinking?” she finally asked.

  He lifted his glass. “Whisky. Would you like some?” He was not a man who felt the need to make a woman tipsy to steal a kiss—which was definitely his plan—but she was Scottish. No doubt she’d been weaned o
n the stuff.

  Indeed, she took his glass and sniffed, then nodded and poured herself a draught and settled in the other king’s chair.

  He had not expected how difficult it would be, to sit in the library sipping whisky with Isobel Lochlannach—sheer nightdress and all—by his side. But he was determined to be civil and not manhandle her immediately. He needed to be somewhat suave and engage her in a conversation first. There were things they needed to discuss, after all.

  If, indeed, she was annoyed with him, which he suspected, he wanted to know. He wanted to fix things.

  He just wasn’t sure how.

  “I was happy to find you in London,” he said, by way of a peace offering.

  She took a sip of her drink and snorted.

  “Were you not happy to run into me again?”

  She glared.

  Egads. Annoyed indeed.

  “I’d hoped to see you.”

  She fixed him with a glare. “Yet when I told you I was heading for London, you dinna bother to mention you were as well.”

  “I would have. If you’d come back that day.”

  Her response was a scowl. She was good at scowling, he’d noticed.

  “I couldna come back. My parents arrived that day and we left straightaway. I dinna have a chance to ride out again. Which in no way absolves you from lying to me.”

  “Lying?” He bristled with indignation. He never lied.

  She straightened her spine. “A lie of omission is the same as an intentional lie.”

  “You never asked me who I was.”

  “So you let me believe you were a servant.”

  He had. Heat rose on his cheeks. “It was . . . flattering.”

  She gaped at him. “Flattering? What bollocks is that?”

  Oh, lord. How to explain? He raked his fingers through his hair. “Isobel, I’m the son of a duke. I’ve never had a moment of true privacy in my life. I’ve been surrounded by people who always knew precisely who I was, every detail of my lineage, every farthing I stood to inherit. I’ve never had a friend who didn’t know my position in society. I must admit, it was tantalizing to have a beautiful woman—who had no idea who I was—find me attractive.” He glanced at her from beneath his lashes. “You did find me attractive, didn’t you?”

  She sighed. “I did.”

  His gut clenched. “You did?”

  Her softness melted away and the scowl returned. “I do. For Christ’s sake, Nicholas. You know what a handsome man you are. Doona pretend otherwise.”

  “Good looks are not everything,” he said solemnly. “There’s more to it than that, don’t you find?” God, he hoped she agreed. Because it wasn’t just her beauty that entranced him. It was her laugh, her smile, her stubbornness.

  “You are right. There is much more. For example, how a man treats a woman.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Two people should share interests.”

  “I agree completely.”

  “There should be mutual respect.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And, of course, he must be pliant.”

  Nick choked on his whisky. “Pliant?” He wasn’t pliant in the least. Never had been.

  “Aye. You know. Easily trained.”

  “T-trained.”

  “Aye.” It was disconcerting that her tone was so blasé. Over the matter of submissive men. She blinked at him. “Did your mother no’ train your father?”

  “I . . .” He had no clue. Though, apparently, she had trained him to wear kilts on occasion. “Is that an important thing?”

  “I should think so. No woman wants to live with an untutored man.”

  This conversation had taken an alarming turn. But it was illuminating . . . if he didn’t allow himself to become horrified. “What kinds of things would you teach . . . a husband?”

  She was silent for a moment, as though she’d never gone so far as to consider specifics. “Well, I would want him to consider my desires.”

  Desires. A flare flickered within him. “Yes, definitely.”

  “He must be respectful of my heritage.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “He must be kind to his servants.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he must do as I ask, at all times, of course.”

  “Ye—I say. At all times?”

  She nodded. “Naturally.”

  “Do you really want a husband like that?”

  “Of course I do.” She leaned closer. “I’m quite opinionated.”

  “But a husband who does everything you ask?”

  “Why do you laugh?”

  He abruptly stopped. Then he poured himself more whisky, because he felt he needed it. She was still working on her first glass. “Isobel, there are many kinds of men in the world . . .”

  She blew out a breath. “Really? Are you going to tell me the facts of life now?”

  “Not at all. I’m just trying to make a point.”

  “Well, make it then.”

  “You’re a strong woman.” She preened a little at that. “I just can’t see you happy with a biddable man. You need someone equal to your strength, or you’d be bored all your days.”

  “What rot.”

  “Think about it. Do you want a docile husband who only awaits your command, or a man like this?” And then he did what he’d been wanting to do since she walked into the room. Since before then.

  He set down his glass, stood and yanked her into his arms.

  And he kissed her then, like a wild beast, a man who took charge, a savage predator who’d caught the scent of a willing mate and didn’t hesitate to take what he wanted.

  To his delight—after a moment of hesitation—she responded with equal fervor, wrapping her arms around him and scraping at his nape with her fingernails as he devoured her.

  Or she devoured him. It was difficult to tell.

  Hell.

  Bloody hell, he wanted her.

  He wanted her here and now.

  He wanted to lay her down on Mother’s Aubusson carpet and strip her naked, feast on her, and then, when she was pleading for more, mount her. Take her.

  He knew the rules. He knew what seducing a lady in his father’s library meant if they were caught. For someone like him, there was only one outcome.

  Marriage.

  Which was why he had resisted for so long.

  But Isobel?

  She was a woman he wouldn’t mind being bound to.

  She was the first woman who’d engendered such thoughts in his mind. Such . . . inclinations.

  Indeed, she was the only woman he’d ever met who make him consider a serious pursuit.

  But she deserved better than a hot and heavy coupling on Mother’s Aubusson carpet. She deserved a bed.

  With that thought, he whipped her up into his arms, reveling in her weight against his chest, her warmth, her scent surrounding him—for surely it was the scent of her arousal. Suffused in lust and determination, he headed for the stairs.

  And abruptly stopped.

  Horror rose within him.

  For there in the library door, stood Edward Pennington and William Swofford, both dusty and travel-worn. Both with great grins on their faces.

  “My man,” William said. “Never say you’ve started the party without us?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  As mortifying as it had been to realize Nick’s friends had witnessed their passionate kiss, Isobel had a difficult time worrying on it.

  The kiss, that glorious conflagration, overwhelmed everything else.

  She lay in her bed and stared at the canopy above her and relived it over and over again, until dawn broke. And then, because she was so tired, she remained in bed and continued to muse over it, until a maid scratched on her door with a tray of hot chocolate, croissants, and fruit.

  She ate at the little table by the window, staring out at the sea, and then she crawled back into bed until Catriona came to find her.

  “Isobel. Aren’t you the lazy
one?” She laughed as she plopped onto the bed.

  “I’m on holiday,” she reminded her friend. Catriona had always been one of those annoying early-bird types, chirping about what a lovely day it was and why spend it in bed?

  “You’re missing all the fun.”

  Isobel covered her eyes with her arm. “Lying in bed is fun.”

  “Not as fun as taking the measure of the duchess’s guests.”

  It was clear what she meant. The duchess had invited some handsome men. “Have they arrived then?”

  “Oh, yes. Do come down.”

  Isobel groaned. She was in no mood to socialize. Most specifically, she was nervous to face Nick after that explosion of passion last night.

  What if she saw him and melted into a puddle?

  How mortifying would that be?

  “Do get up,” Cat wailed. “I canna be expected to entertain them all by myself.”

  Isobel peeked out. “How many are there?”

  “Quite a few. Now hop up. I’ll ring for Vera.”

  No doubt Cat would continue to badger her until she did, indeed, rise, so with a great groan, Isobel sat up.

  Cat took a look at her face and lurched back.

  “What?” How bad could it be?

  “You have wrinkles.”

  “Egads.”

  “From the pillow, silly. Let me get you some warm water . . .” She bustled off, which was a relief—Isobel flopped back down on the bed—but Vera came in shortly and she had to rouse again.

  How was she to function as a human today, with no sleep and with a mind awhirl with memories and hopes of kisses past and future?

  The duchess made it so much easier than she imagined. As Isobel and Catriona came down the stairs, she greeted them with a smile. “There you are. Did you have a nice rest?”

  Isobel nodded. A lie, but a forgivable one.

  “I’m so glad. Today we’re planning a picnic on the bluff overlooking the sea. How does that sound?” she asked as she led them along a wide hallway to the back of the house.

  “Lovely,” Cat responded.

  “Almost everyone is here. The children are assembled in the music room.” She smiled at Isobel. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Lovely.” By the grace of God, her sarcasm didn’t come out. She’d had quite enough of children with the herd of them running around Sinclair House.