What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  “I do appreciate their intentions.”

  “I know you do.”

  “But they canna follow me everywhere—”

  Ah. But apparently they could.

  Because just then Elizabeth’s voice floated toward them. “I know they were right behind us.”

  “How could you have lost him?” Egads. Celia.

  Nick and Isobel quickly pulled apart and she busied herself straightening her skirt while he bent to smell a flower.

  “Now this one, you see, is a laevigatae, from China. While this one . . . I forget the name, is from Africa. You see the difference?”

  “Oh. Yes,” Isobel said loudly, though both flowers looked the same in the dark. Aside from which she hardly cared. “I had no idea the duchess had such a fondness for roses.”

  “Indeed. She’s collected different species from all over the world and—I say. Hallo, Lady Celia. Lady Ellie. Miss Elizabeth.”

  The latter crossed her arms and frowned at him. “We seemed to have lost you.”

  “I was just showing Miss Isobel Mother’s roses.”

  Sorcha snorted softly, leading Isobel to believe the roses were anything but the duchess’s pride and joy.

  “You’re missing the party,” Celia said, appropriating his arm.

  “Yes. Of course. Shall we?” He took Isobel’s arm as well—as though she could protect him. “I believe you promised me the next dance,” he said to her with hardly any desperation in his voice at all.

  “I believe so,” she said and they all walked along the path back to the party. The whole lot of them.

  Isobel was gratified, indeed, when the next dance turned out to be a waltz rather than a reel. She enjoyed it immensely. She enjoyed the feel of Nick’s arms around her, as well as the scowl on Celia’s face.

  And then there was the whispered conversation, one a waltz made possible, which was why they were considered to scandalous.

  During that whispered waltz, they made plans.

  Daring, exciting, dazzling plans for later tonight.

  Isobel could only hope that all the guests would drink deeply, eat fully, and dance themselves to exhaustion so they would fall into their beds and not rise until morning.

  She was damn tired of interruptions, and she had the sense Nick was, too.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The party didn’t die down until the wee hours. After the last guest floated away, Nick convinced his mother to let the servants go to bed and clean everything up in the morning.

  He did so by touching her cheek and telling her what a wonderful job she had done, and how she deserved rest as well.

  She’d smiled at him and told how proud she was that he was so thoughtful of the servants, and he allowed her approval to slide over him, even though he’d been motivated by something completely different.

  She didn’t need to know that, though.

  No mother needed to know her son’s true motives. Not really.

  He walked her into the house and to the foyer where the grand staircase curled toward the upstairs, and then he watched her climb them after saying he’d have one last nightcap.

  He had no intention of having another drink.

  Someone was waiting for him in the conservatory.

  The greater part of their conversation during the waltz had been where they would meet, because it needed to be a place others would not likely congregate after a party. The parlor, library, billiards room, and music room were the first places they discarded.

  Then she suggested the conservatory, because it was an unlikely place for someone to visit at night and in the event servants might be about, they would have no business there.

  The conservatory was not a place he spent much time, but it certainly was lovely with the light of the moon shining through the glass panes. The scent of loam and the perfume of flowers hit him as he entered. He took a moment to close the door tightly behind him before he scouted around for her.

  When he didn’t see her, his mood dimmed. Surely she hadn’t given up? As host, he’d had to stay at the cèilidh until the bitter end. Perhaps she’d become too tired and—

  Ah. There she was.

  He stepped toward the divan, where she was curled up, resting her head on the overstuffed arm. Her silver-white hair spread out around her like a halo. Her face, kissed by moonlight, was an exquisite alabaster.

  She had the aspect of a sleeping angel.

  He hated to wake her.

  But knew he would.

  He took a step closer, and a delicate snore rumbled through the airy room.

  It was impossible for him to hold back his laugh, which was a shame, for it woke her.

  Or maybe not a shame.

  “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he said, coming to sit beside her.

  Now that they were here, alone, he was oddly nervous. As though on the precipice of something grand and life changing. He wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  She blinked and rubbed her eyes. “Is it morning?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe four? The sun will be rising soon.”

  “I fell asleep,” she said on a pout.

  “No matter. The party just ended.” He cleared his throat. “Everyone has gone to bed.”

  “Have they?” Was that excitement in her tone?

  “I checked through the house. Not a creature is stirring. I even sent the servants to bed.”

  “Are you no’ the industrious lad?”

  “One would hope.” He smiled at her then, and she smiled back. It was a relief to see the same diffidence in her expression. It made him bold. “Come here, lass,” he commanded and was thrilled when she did. She shifted over into his arms and he held her for a moment, drawing in her scent, reveling in her sleepy warmth, the softness of her skin.

  She’d changed from her kilt dress into something simple and light and lawn. He stroked her arm up to her shoulder, then cupped her cheek. “Alone at last,” he whispered. And then he kissed her.

  It was a soft, tender offering, born of both his desire and his determination to gently woo her.

  He should have known better. This was Isobel. His wild Scots lass who had, apparently, waited too long for this moment.

  She deepened the kiss, cupping his nape and scraping her nails through his hair. Her passion inflamed his. “God, Isobel,” he groaned, tugging down her décolletage to kiss her collarbone, her shoulders, her chest. He eased his hand up her side, moving slowly so as not to alarm her, then cupped her breast. Ah. What a sweet weight.

  When he thumbed her nipples she groaned and pushed him away.

  He blinked and tried to rein in his rampant desire—and disappointment. But she only pushed him away so she could lift off her dress altogether.

  And there she was. His Isobel. Bare and beautiful in the light of the moon.

  So much magnificence, he hardly knew where to begin.

  What nonsense.

  Of course he did.

  He lifted her breast to his mouth and kissed her gently, then drew in a nipple and suckled.

  Ah. So sweet.

  “Nick,” she gasped. Then she pulled him closer, so he couldn’t get away.

  But he didn’t want to.

  He feasted on her breasts, one after the other, and then, when the position became awkward, he took her dress and laid it out on the floor.

  She took the hint and lay down, displaying herself before him. Her smile was both come-hither and innocent and he loved it. Loved her.

  He came down beside her and began to explore her beauty with his hands, lips, and tongue. He kissed his way from her breasts down her ribs to her flat belly and lower.

  She knew, now, what to expect, and she spread her legs with a sigh.

  It delighted him that she was so responsive, so willing, so his.

  He spread her lips with his thumbs and began to feast. Teasing and tormenting her hard nub and the sensitive flesh around it.

  She was quick to come, as he expected, and when she did, he gently eased a f
inger inside her sheath.

  She moaned as he pierced her and he stopped until she glared down at him and demanded more.

  Ah, yes. His Isobel was the perfect woman.

  After he made her come again, he levered over her, lifting his kilt and positioning himself at her entrance.

  He stared at her then, waiting.

  When she met his eye, he smiled and said, “Are you ready, lass?”

  He loved that she shuddered.

  “Aye,” she whispered, lifting her hands to his shoulders. “Aye.”

  And he thrust.

  Gently. Slowly. As gently and slowly as he could manage, because his passion was nearly off leash, his fortitude at its end.

  She spread her legs wider and moaned as he went deeper, and then, when she closed on him, he made some feral sound as well.

  This was perfect. Divine. Better than anything in this world.

  He wanted to stay there, nested deep within her forever, but the beast within him demanded more.

  He grit his teeth and withdrew—a delicious agony—and then entered her again.

  And again, her soft, wet body met him with a tight embrace.

  “Ach, Nick,” she whimpered. “More. Please.”

  She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips and tried to guide him, and he let her. Because the movement she ached for was the one he craved as well.

  Their joining went quickly from a slow, easy coupling to something fast and feral. Something wild and untamed and blindingly perfect.

  At her cries of encouragement and command, he pounded into her, faster, harder, rougher.

  She came again, around him, in a frenzy that made him mad with wanting. A pressure built in his lower body, a burning need to release. But it was more than a simple physical necessity.

  It was a spiritual one as well.

  He wanted, needed, to claim her once more. To make her his forever.

  His pace increased, as did his furor. Everything he knew shrank to this one point of their connection. The two of them together in bliss.

  And then . . . he soared. Soared into the heavens on wings of ecstasy, with Isobel in his arms.

  The delight was unending, racking him long after he had gently disengaged and rolled to the side, taking her with him in his arms.

  He held her as she caught her breath, and he caught his. Found his footing, again, in this mundane world.

  God, he loved her.

  She was perfect.

  She would make a perfect wife, now that she was his.

  “That was wonderful,” she said, in a sleepy, satisfied tone.

  “It was.” He kissed her brow.

  “I canna believe you refused me that first time, in Newcastle,” she said with a grin.

  “I was a fool.”

  “I thought it was sweet, though.”

  “Did you?”

  “Aye. You trying to protect me.”

  “We’re far beyond that now,” he said, holding her closer. She was his and he was hers. Forever.

  She wiggled away, just far enough to see him clearly. “What do you mean?”

  He tried to pull her back and when he couldn’t, he nuzzled her chin. “Hmm?”

  “What do you mean we’re far beyond that now?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? “Now that we’re to be married, of course.”

  Her frown should have warned him, but he was too blinded by bliss to notice. “Married?”

  “We did just make love, darling.”

  “Hardly for the first time.”

  “It was the first time knowing each other truly, where both of us understood the consequences, though.”

  She sat up then, which he did notice. It was cold where she had been.

  “Isobel?”

  “I thought I was clear,” she said. “We canna marry.”

  A stone lodged in his belly. “What?”

  “You’re English. I told you back in Newcastle I would never marry an Englishman.”

  He frowned at her. Had he not spoken in a brogue? Had he not worn a kilt? “I don’t understand,” he said. Without the brogue.

  “Ach. You do understand, Nick. You just doona want to accept it. You’re an Englishman born and raised—”

  “Half English.”

  “A viscount. One day you will be a duke.”

  “You’re rejecting me because I’m titled?”

  “I’m no’ rejecting you. We can still continue . . . this.”

  “This?” Something cold slithered through his veins. It might have been desolation.

  “Aye. Until I return to Scotland, at least.”

  Holy hell. She still planned to return to Scotland?

  Why had he not seen this coming? Why had he not expected it?

  But then again . . . Who was he trying to fool? She’d intended to return to Scotland all along. She had told him so the day they met.

  She’d been completely honest with him, and he had ignored what he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge.

  The thought of her leaving devastated him. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. “Isobel . . .” Dare he say it? “I . . . love you.”

  This caught her off guard. She stilled. Stared at him. Her lips worked. “I . . . Nae. You doona.”

  “How can you know how I feel?” he said on a pout.

  “You merely lust for me.” She took in his horrified expression and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s all right. I understand. I feel the same about you.”

  He stared at her. His soul seemed to shrink a little. “You lust after me?” A croak. Was that all it was for her? How lowering. He would do anything for her love. Kill or die for her.

  And she wanted his body? Nothing more?

  Had he really been happy that his title meant nothing to her?

  What kind of idiot had he been?

  Sadly, judging from her resolute expression, there was nothing more to say. Nothing more that could be said. At least not now.

  He helped her up, and helped her dress. And then he walked her to her room and kissed her good night—on the forehead because he couldn’t bear more.

  As he plodded to the other wing, to his own chambers, he was exhausted and disheartened and confused. But he knew one thing. He was going to figure out a way to change her mind, no matter what it took.

  He pushed into his rooms with a sigh and headed for the bed.

  To his surprise, there was someone in it.

  A naked someone.

  She sat up and shot him a pout. “Where have you been?” she said. And then, to his horror, she let the blanket covering her bosom fall, exposing her to him in her totality.

  He took a step back, and another, until he hit a barrier.

  Someone was behind him.

  He whipped around and gaped at Lady Swofford.

  She sent him a sly smile, and then smiled at her daughter.

  Then she opened her mouth, and screamed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nick raked his fingers through his hair and paced across the length of his father’s office. All the adults—in the entire house party, it seemed—had been woken and had assembled there to discuss what should be done.

  It was mortifying in the extreme, all those eyes on him.

  “I swear. I didn’t sleep with her,” he repeated.

  “Aye,” Uncle Ewan said. “I understand completely. You came to your room at the break of dawn and there she was, waiting for you. Naked. It’s happened to me many a time.” When Aunt Violet glowered at him, he shrugged. “But it has.”

  “The difference here being that you, Mr. St. Andrews, are not a titled lord,” Lady Swofford sniffed. “The expectations are quite different for the lower classes.”

  Uncle Ewan made to lunge at her, but Nick’s father held him back. He sent Lady Swofford a reproachful glance. “To be honest, it’s happened to me as well. It’s happened to many of my friends.”

  Mother snorted. “It happens often when one is an eligible, titled male, as distasteful as it may seem.”
That her gaze landed on Celia with this was probably a coincidence. Mother was far above making a direct accusation. Even when it was well deserved.

  Lady Swofford, however, took it as such and screeched her rage. “Surely you are not saying this is my daughter’s fault?”

  “Most probably, yours,” Ewan said helpfully. “Apples and trees and all.”

  Which resulted in another screech.

  Mother tipped up her chin. “The point being, if my son says he dinna besmirch your daughter, I believe him.”

  “He’s lying,” Lady Swofford spat. “How can you explain the fact that I found the two of them in his room in the wee hours, and she was completely naked?”

  “Because I made the mistake of not locking my door?” This Nick said sarcastically, but even to his own ears, it came out wrong. He meant he hadn’t locked his door when he left, not when closeted with Celia in there. And damnation, it was just the fuel Lady Swofford needed.

  “I demand satisfaction,” she said in a lofty tone.

  Uncle Ewan tipped his head to the side, and his brow wrinkled. “You want a duel?”

  “No, I don’t want a duel, you filthy barbarian. I want a proposal.”

  Nick’s gut clenched. Bile licked at the back of his throat. Panic made his blood grow cold.

  Celia Swofford as a wife?

  It would be untenable.

  He would be miserable.

  And Isobel . . .

  Well, there would be no Isobel, would there?

  He glanced up at that moment, as though drawn to her by fate, to see her step into the room. Her expression was somber. Her hands were twined. Her face was pale. They shared a speaking glance, one of regret and desperation and bitter defeat.

  It was over between them.

  There was no escape.

  “You expect my son to propose?” Mother looked a trifle wan.

  Uncle Ewan bristled. “You canna prove he’s taken her.”

  “You can’t prove he hasn’t,” Lady Swofford said smugly.

  Sadly, she was right.

  And then a glorious voice rang out, cold and clear in the room. “He wasn’t with Celia last night.”

  Nick whipped around and gaped at Isobel. Something cold coiled in his gut. He knew what she was going to do, just knew. And he knew the consequences to any confession, even if she thought she could flout them. And it could destroy her. “Darling. No—”