What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  “I think I should like that,” Isobel said. “But first . . .”

  “Aye?”

  “I think you’d better tell me which one you are again, because I’ve lost track.”

  His laughter rose above the conversation. And from his spot at the end of the table, Nick snapped the stem of his wineglass in two.

  * * *

  She was punting with Declan.

  Punting.

  Nick stared at the lake and fumed.

  Could this debacle get any worse?

  All his friends and cousins and uncles were frolicking and he was stuck here overseeing the breakdown of the picnic tables. And she was punting with Declan.

  Thank God Mother had agreed to organize the cèilidh for this evening. Nick had had to remind her he had no clue what it entailed. But the truth of the matter was, if he had to host one more event, he was likely to run away.

  The town of Brighton wasn’t far and there were, no doubt, attractions more to his taste.

  But were there?

  Did he really want to drink and carouse? Did he really want to attend dances in the public rooms? Did he want to drink himself silly and engage in urbane conversations with the young men of his stature?

  Somehow that all seemed horribly dull.

  Besides, Isobel was here.

  He had to find a way to pry her from Declan’s company. Get her alone, perhaps. Kiss her, definitely.

  It was a damn shame, with so many guests in the mansion, there would be no opportunity for them to find a private place for more.

  But even that was all right.

  As much as he wanted more with her, he wanted her more.

  Just to be with her. To talk. Laugh. Hold her hand.

  Something. Anything but watching her punting with Declan.

  There was just something wrong with all of that. Declan had always been his favorite cousin.

  What a pity he might have to throttle him—

  “Oh, dear.”

  Nick whipped around. He hadn’t realized his mother had come up behind him. “What is it?” he asked, concerned by the horror in her tone.

  “Look.” She nodded toward the house, where two ladies—a matron and a girl—approached.

  He narrowed his eyes to make out who it was . . . and he froze.

  Hell. Bloody fucking hell.

  His mother’s voice was cold when she said, “I thought we weren’t going to invite the Swofford family. Just William.”

  His gut clenched. “I didn’t invite them. Did you?”

  “I most certainly dinna.”

  They glanced at each other; both paled.

  “I . . . What do we do?” What did one do when someone interloped, uninvited, on a house party? He simply didn’t have the training for this.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, short of telling them to leave. And that would be socially disastrous. For everyone.” A fact that Lady Swofford must know well.

  Nick blew out a breath. “What kind of people come to a party they were not invited to?”

  His mother glanced at the encroaching Swoffords. Her expression spoke for itself.

  “Hurry and go tell Mrs. Billings to prepare two more suites.”

  “Me?” he croaked.

  Mother lifted an elegant brow. “Unless you’d prefer to stay here and welcome them.”

  He was off in a flash.

  * * *

  After punting, which had been delightful because Declan made her laugh, he strolled with her over to the archery butts, where the men were engaged in a competition of sorts, though it seemed to consist of them knocking into each other, just as they released their arrows, and then bellowing at each other for doing so.

  Isobel watched for a while, because it was entertaining, but then started looking around for Nick because she hadn’t seen him lately. She saw Sorcha, though, and waved her over. As her friend came to her side, Isobel’s gaze landed on someone else standing with the duchess beneath an elm.

  A vein pinged in her temple.

  “Is that Celia Swofford?” she asked.

  Sorcha sucked in a deep breath. “Aye.” That was all she said, but her tone left Isobel wondering. Though subtle, it was clear she wasn’t pleased at Celia’s presence, but if she hadn’t invited her . . . who had?

  Had the duchess? Or . . . Nick.

  What a pity she couldn’t ask.

  “I dinna realize she was coming.”

  Sorcha snorted. “Neither did we.”

  Ah.

  How . . . awkward.

  More awkward still, Celia and her mother started for the archery butts. Most probably because that was where all the men were gathered.

  “Well, hallo, all,” Lady Swofford crowed, causing Malcolm’s arrow to go awry, with no nudging whatsoever.

  “Lady Swofford. Lady Celia,” they all chorused. It was not lost on Isobel that they cringed as well.

  “Oh, I do love seeing big strong men shooting arrows,” Celia cooed.

  “Isobel shoots quite well, I’ve heard,” Sorcha offered.

  All the men turned to gape at her, as though she were an exotic animal at a menagerie.

  “Oh, I’m not so good,” she said bashfully, which of course resulted in all of them encouraging her to give it a try, like the gentlemen they were. Malcolm handed her his bow and she managed to drop it. “Oh, my,” she said, fumbling with it a bit. Then she dazzled them all with a broad smile. “All right. Who wants to shoot against me?”

  Malcolm paled. “I couldn’t do that. It would hardly be fair.”

  “Hardly at all,” Tay parroted.

  “It’s no fun if there’s no one to shoot against you,” she said on a pout.

  “How about Sorcha?” Declan suggested.

  And Sorcha laughed. “I would probably kill the peacock, and then Mother would never forgive me. How about you, Celia?” she asked wickedly.

  Celia sniffed. “I would never. It’s too . . . mannish.”

  Isobel quirked a brow. Mannish, was it? She’d show her mannish.

  “Who was winning your bout?” she asked of Malcolm.

  He waved at one of his younger brothers. “Tay is the best shot here.”

  “I’m no’ shooting against a woman,” he grumbled.

  “Ach,” Isobel said. “I understand. There’s no shame in being afraid of losing.”

  His eyes narrowed and his face went a little red. “I’m not afraid. I just—”

  “I’ll do it,” a deep voice rumbled from her side. Her heart gave a leap.

  “Oh, Viscount Stirling,” Celia warbled.

  Thank God, Nick ignored her as his gaze was locked with Isobel’s.

  She smiled at him. “Excellent. Shall we?” She strode up to the line and drew an arrow from the quiver on the ground. All the men stepped back. As though they were concerned she might miss and hit something behind her or something. She bit back her smile.

  Nick came up beside her and bowed. “Ladies first,” he said in something of a pandering tone.

  “But wait.” She batted her lashes at him. “Shouldn’t we agree on a wager?”

  All the men groaned.

  “That would not be fair,” Nick said gently.

  “Something small then. A token?”

  “A . . . token?” The glimmer in his eye spoke to her.

  “To be determined . . . later, perhaps?” she whispered and his grin widened.

  “Fine, but you may expect no quarter, my dear.”

  “And neither may you.”

  “All right then. What shall we aim for?”

  She studied the target, which had three red rings painted onto it, each narrower than the other, with the center being the smallest. “An arrow in each ring?” she suggested.

  “Done.” He bowed again and gave her a little wave to proceed.

  She shot for the outer ring first, because it was widest and she didn’t want to give the game away so soon.

  All the men gasped and clapped when she hit it dead c
enter. “Oh, my,” she cried. “I did it.”

  “Well done,” Nick said, patting her on the shoulder.

  “Your turn now.”

  He took aim, with a fine form, and let his arrow fly. It landed in the outer ring, exactly opposite hers.

  “Oh,” she sighed. “Verra well done.”

  “Thank you.”

  Isobel raised her bow and sighted on the middle ring.

  Just as she was about to shoot, a voice rang out. “What is going on here?” By the grace of God, she did not loose her arrow. She dropped her bow and frowned at her father.

  “We’re having a competition. Hush, please.” She offered him a dark glare.

  “A competition?” Uncle Lachlan said with a laugh.

  Uncle Alexander shook his head. “Seriously?”

  “Hush, will you? I am about to shoot.” The last thing she wanted at this moment was for them to give her away.

  “They have a wager,” Sorcha said.

  Papa glowered. “What did you bet her?” he asked Nick.

  Isobel huffed a breath. “Only a token. Now please. I need to focus.”

  “You do?” Uncle Lachlan again.

  “Hush.” She drew in a breath, sighted the middle ring, and released.

  Again, a direct hit.

  Murmurs rose among the men—except her relations, who knew better.

  Nick stared at her. “Isobel, that is very good shooting.”

  “Oh, thank you, Lord Stirling,” she gushed. She couldn’t be certain but she thought Papa might have rolled his eyes. “Your turn.”

  Nick lifted his bow and shot again. This arrow was not so perfectly placed. It hit just inside the ring, to the left.

  But she said, “Verra nice,” just to be polite.

  “One more shot,” Malcolm said, which was annoying, because she knew damn well how many shots were left.

  Somehow, she forbore giving him a look, lifted her bow, and aimed at the center circle. Her arrow flew true and hit it dead-on. She turned to Nick, who was staring at the target with his mouth agape, and smiled. “Your turn,” she said. “Do try to focus this time.”

  He blinked at her, swallowed heavily, and took his shot.

  It was a good effort. In some circles, an excellent one, but hers was clearly better.

  Without a word, she picked up another missile and shot again.

  When this arrow hit her last one—sliced it in half to be precise—a great cry went up among the company and Isobel laughed.

  Nick dropped his bow, set his hands on his hips, and turned to her with a sheepish smile. “I do believe you’ve been bamming us.”

  Uncle Lachlan chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. “I hope you dinna bet much, young man.”

  Papa sighed. “I remember when your mother beat me like that,” he said, wistfully staring at the target.

  Isobel grinned at Nick. “I believe you were informed that I have been shooting since I was a child.”

  “And thank God she moved outside,” Uncle Lachlan murmured. “Much easier on the library.”

  “Ach,” Isobel said. “I only shot the boring books.”

  “Well,” Nick said. “I do believe you have won our wager.”

  She grinned at him. “Excellent.”

  But before they could discuss the terms—as though they might, in this company—she was surrounded by Tay and Malcolm and Hamish and the others, all of whom insisted she show them her stance. She glanced back at Nick, who was still smiling at her.

  And she could have sworn he mouthed the word, Later.

  * * *

  “Are you hiding?”

  Nick started as Declan’s voice echoed through the billiards room where he had been . . . hiding. He’d gotten wind that Mother wanted him to help with tonight’s festivities. It seemed prudent. “Of course not.”

  Declan grinned and headed for the side table, where he selected a carafe of whisky. “No’ that I blame you. This kind of event is hardly your”—he lifted his glass—“cuppa tea.”

  It was difficult to restrain his snort.

  Declan crossed to the fireplace and dropped into the seat next to Nick. “I mean, all these marriageable lasses, hopeful mamas, and whatnot.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Usually the kind of event you would avoid.”

  “These are Mother’s special friends. I could hardly refuse to come.”

  “So . . .” Declan swirled his drink and watched it eddy for a moment. “You’ve no’ changed your mind, then.”

  Nick frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re still enjoying bachelorhood?”

  What an odd question. “Why the hell would you care?”

  “Och. I would, it seems.” He took a sip and glanced at Nick with an expression that made something unpleasant slither up his spine.

  “Why?”

  Declan shrugged. “It’s simply that I have an . . . interest in one of the young ladies here.”

  Hell.

  Nick’s gut clenched. His pulse surged. His face scrunched up into a fearsome glower. He tried to undo it, but lacked the strength. Or the fortitude. “Who?” he croaked.

  “Beg pardon?” Declan asked, though certainly he’d heard.

  “Who. Who is it?”

  “Och. Edward. For a man who has no interest in wooing one of these lasses, you certainly seem to be cross about mine.”

  Something burned in his gullet. “Who. Is. It?”

  His cousin offered a smile. A smug smirk Nick knew well. “Can you no’ guess? Who is the loveliest of them all?”

  Nick knew damn well who the loveliest was. His response was something of a snarl.

  “All right. ’Tis Isobel, of course. She’s charming, beautiful, witty, well bred. Scottish.” This last bit, he added as though it were a second thought, but his tone made clear the opposite was more likely. “We’d make a good fit, I think. Do you no’?”

  “No.” A snap.

  Declan lurched back and clutched at his chest like a matron preparing to swoon. “No? What do you mean no?”

  “Not Isobel.”

  His cousin’s smile was a slithery as a snake’s. “But Edward. You made quite clear you had no interest in any of them. Just a minute ago, in fact.”

  Nick wanted to punch him. He closed his fist on his cut-crystal tumbler instead. “Keep away from her.”

  Declan surveyed him for a moment, then said, “I would. If I thought you were interested. And if I thought she was interested in you.”

  Bile crawled up his throat. “What do you mean? Did she say she wasn’t interested in me?” Oh, God. What a horrible thought.

  “No’ directly. But she did say she prefers a Scotsman. And while she made clear she has no intention of marrying—”

  “When the bloody hell did you have that conversation?”

  “Why, at lunch, of course.”

  No way—no way—was he sitting at the end with the old ladies at another meal.

  “At any rate, while she made clear she has no intention of marrying, I’m certain she could be seduced—”

  A red veil descended. “Enough!” Nick leaped to his feet. “You are no’ seducing Isobel! She’s mine. Do you hear me? Mine!”

  For some reason his outburst did little to crush Declan—possibly because he’d been digging at Nick for just such a thing. And possibly because Declan had vexed him to the point of letting his brogue out.

  Indeed, his cousin grinned triumphantly. “There we go. That’s better. And now that we have the truth, you and I can plan.”

  Nick gaped at him. “Plan? Plan what?”

  “Och.” Declan scrubbed his face. “Shame on your mother for keeping you in England so long. Do you no’ know one must plan a seduction?”

  Plan a seduction?

  As irritated as he was at Declan at the moment, he liked that idea. He liked it a lot.

  “Though with this one, it must be more subtle. You’re not simply planning to seduce her body—”

  �
��No?”

  “You must also seduce her heart. She’s a Scots lass, my friend. Let me teach you what a Scots lass wants. Come now. Tonight is the cèilidh. It’s the perfect opportunity! We’ve no time to waste.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The duchess had arranged for the cèilidh to be held outside, on the south side of the house, in the gardens, which was the perfect spot for it. When Isobel arrived, with Catriona by her side, she caught her breath.

  Though the sun had not yet gone down, lovely lanterns lit the paths and hung in the trees like fireflies. The grand patio, around which the garden was laid out like spokes of a wheel, was set with tables and a dancing floor, and a string quartet next to the fountain played Gaelic melodies.

  The tables themselves were draped with alternating plaids, with the Sinclair tartan being the most prominent, in honor of Aunt Lana. The aroma of delicious Scottish dishes—like haggis and Cullen skink and Scotch pie—filled the air, making Isobel ache with homesickness . . . but it was a good ache.

  “Goodness,” Catriona said. “She has certainly outdone herself.”

  Indeed, she had thought of everything.

  The duchess saw them and came through the crowd to greet them. “What do you think?” she asked, beaming with pride.

  “It’s fabulous,” Isobel said.

  “Och. It was so much fun for me.” She hooked one arm in each of the girls’ and pulled them into the fray. “We’ve invited some of the neighbors, too. I hope you doona mind.”

  “Ach, nae. The more the merrier,” Catriona said.

  Isobel, of course, was searching the crowd for one face.

  A pity he was not here.

  “The girls are over there,” the duchess said, waving Isobel and Catriona—in the opposite direction of Celia Swofford—to where Sorcha, Ellie, and Elizabeth stood. It was yet another subtle hint, one Isobel was more than happy to take. She joined the other girls, making a fuss over each of their outfits.

  Most of the ladies here had opted for a kilted skirt, or a tartan sash or shawl. The men, of course, wore kilts. It was easy to see who was comfortable in such dress, and who was not. Indeed, Englishmen rarely had cause to bare their legs in public.

  Isobel tried not to be amused, but it was a challenge.