What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

“What did he say?”

  She stopped short and rounded on him. Her breast rose and fell for a moment as she struggled to reclaim herself.

  “Isobel. What did he say?”

  That she smiled, cold and tight, horrified him. “Nothing really. Only that you are only marrying me because of the scandal. And that everyone knows what I really am.”

  “What you really are?” The words clogged his throat.

  “Well, he dinna say, but his tone implied a Scottish whore.”

  Nick set his teeth. His pulse pounded. His fingers, tight in fists, ached. “What? I’ll fucking kill him.”

  Her frightening smile widened. “No need.”

  Nick blinked. “What do you mean, no need?” Of course there was a need. She was his woman. He would defend her. To the death of necessary.

  “He won’t be bothering me anymore.”

  “I . . . What? Why?”

  “I showed him what I really am. A savage Scots lass, of course.”

  “You didn’t . . . wound him, did you?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Would you care if I did?”

  “I . . . No. Not really.” Not if he said those things to her.

  “Well, I didn’t wound him.” She sighed dramatically. “You have no idea what it cost me to show such restraint.”

  He didn’t know why, but he laughed. Probably her maudlin tone. He pulled her into a hug. “Ach, Isobel. I do love you. You would make a tremendous duchess.”

  She allowed him to hold her but then she eased away and confessed ruefully—or not so ruefully—“I did, however, issue a warning.”

  “A warning?”

  “It might have involved detached body parts and rusty knives.”

  He laughed again, with unbridled delight.

  Because she was his Isobel. And she was fierce and beautiful and utterly Scottish.

  And he loved her with all his heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  That night, Isobel couldn’t sleep. It had nothing to do with guilt or anger or missing Nick’s touch. It was her stomach again.

  Not wanting to call a maid, she pulled on her wrapper and headed downstairs in search of some tea. As she passed the small library on the second floor, she saw a light and poked her head in.

  “Oh, good. Company. Do come in.” Aunt Esmeralda sat by the fire, pretending to do needlepoint, but judging from the mangle of her sampler, she wasn’t pretending very hard.

  “Can you no’ sleep?” Isobel asked as she sat next to the older woman.

  “Bah. It happens when we get older. I can’t bear lying in bed doing nothing.” She ripped out a couple of stitches and placed a couple more, making everything worse.

  “I had no idea you did needlepoint.” Though to say she did it was a stretch.

  Esmeralda huffed a laugh and put the work down. “It’s just to keep my hands busy. Exercise my aching fingers, perhaps. I’d much rather talk to you.” Her gaze narrowed. “Why are you not sleeping? A young thing like you, dancing till all hours.”

  “We dinna dance tonight. It was a musicale.”

  “Thank God I didn’t go.”

  Isobel chuckled. “You have no idea. Some of those notes probably scandalized birds as far away as deepest Africa.”

  A shudder. “Horrors. I never understood why mamas force their children to perform when they are clearly untalented.”

  “One of the pianoforte players was quite good.”

  “Did you have a nice time?”

  Hmm. “Define nice time.”

  “Did you see your young man?”

  “Aye.” She had. But there had been no sneaking away at a musicale. She had sat by his side and listened to the “music” and soaked in his warmth.

  She shivered now in memory and loss.

  “He is a fine specimen. So handsome. Wealthy. Titled.”

  “None of those things matter.”

  Esmeralda shot her a glance. “All of those things matter.”

  “He’s more than that.”

  “Yes?”

  “Sweet. Thoughtful.” She smiled to remember his ferocity when he thought William might have insulted her that afternoon. “Protective.”

  “All good things. Is he a good kisser?”

  Heat walked up her cheeks. “I . . .”

  “Oh, never mind. I can tell by your blush. So he’s a perfect man, is he?”

  He was. Or close enough.

  “It’s a good thing, then, that you’re marrying him soon. You know. Before someone else steals him away.”

  Isobel had no idea why that thought caused a frisson of horror to crawl up her spine. No one was stealing Nick from her. No one could.

  Not if she was willing to let him go.

  Oh. God. Was she?

  Was she willing to let him go?

  Was she really?

  Esmeralda covered her hand. “What is it, dear?”

  “I . . .” Oh, how to say this? “Were you happy in your marriage, Aunt Esmeralda?”

  Her snort rounded the room. “Define happy.” When she saw Isobel’s expression, she sobered. “Oh, I suppose I was. Some of the time. When I had a lover, certainly.”

  “Did it . . . ? Did he . . . ?”

  “What?”

  “Change you?”

  “Change me? My dear, every experience I have ever had in my life has changed me. That’s what life is.”

  “What if I doona want to change?”

  “Then,” she said, “you are bound for great disappointment. And probably a lot of pain.”

  That was hardly the answer Isobel was looking for.

  “The fact is, no matter what decisions you make, they will lead to change. Even trying to stay the same will lead to change. That is the great paradox of our existence. The trick is to make decisions that create change for the better. Such as your wedding to Stirling.”

  “You’re certain it would be for the better?”

  “Of course. You will be a countess, then a duchess. You will live a life of luxury. You will have great power.”

  “And if none of that matters to me?”

  “It should.”

  “Should it?”

  “Look at how the Duchess of Moncrieff uses her position. She funds orphanages, she crusades for prison reform, she rescues strays, feeds the poor.”

  “I dinna know she did all that.” Though it was not surprising.

  “She doesn’t crow about it as others might. But Kaitlin wasn’t born wealthy. When she married Edward, she made an oath to use their resources to change the world for the better. And she has. You will have choices like that, too. Or, of course, you can attend balls.”

  Isobel smiled. “I thought that was what duchesses do.”

  “Many of them. Again, a choice.”

  “But what about marriage itself? Isn’t it a prison? Truly?”

  Her aunt pinned her with a gimlet gaze. “I’ll be honest. It can be, if you marry the wrong man. But Stirling isn’t the wrong man. Is he?”

  “Nae.” He wasn’t.

  “Just imagine, you could be marrying an overbearing oaf, as I did. A man who demands you fit in a configuration of his design. Stirling does not strike me as that kind of man. In fact, he adores you just as you are. There’s a lot to be said for a man like that.” She sighed. “I wish I’d had a man like that.”

  They sat in silence then, and stared at the fire for a peaceful while. Isobel leaned her chin on her fist.

  “You mother said you were sick this morning.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Have, ah, you been sick much?”

  “Not really. Just now and again.”

  “You don’t strike me as a sickly child.”

  Isobel chuckled. “Nae. It was something I ate.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Why do you say it like that?” Isobel stared at her aunt, trying to puzzle out her expression.

  “Nothing. Nothing. It’s just that . . .”

  “Just that, what?”

  “It�
�s a delicate subject.”

  She snorted a laugh. “You brought it up.”

  “All right then. It’s just that, from what I understand, you and Stirling have anticipated the wedding vows.”

  What on earth did that have to do with anything?

  “We were in Brighton, what? Two months ago?”

  “Yes. About that.”

  Aunt Esmeralda shrugged. “In my experience, that’s about when it begins.”

  Isobel sighed. She had no idea where this was going. But then, conversations with Esmeralda frequently strayed. “When what begins?” she finally asked.

  In response, her aunt dropped her gaze to Isobel’s belly.

  It took a moment for the meaning to sink in, and when it did, something hot and horrifying flashed through her like a bolt of lightning. “Oh. No,” she said. “It couldn’t be that.” It annoyed her that her hand crept up over her stomach even as she said the words. “It couldn’t be.”

  But hell and damnation. When she thought about it, it could.

  It very well could indeed.

  * * *

  The next morning, Isobel was sick again, but this time, she didn’t tell anyone how she felt.

  In point of fact, she wasn’t sure how she felt. On the one hand, she was devastated. If she was carrying Nick’s child, and anyone found out, that would ruin her plans altogether. She’d be trapped.

  Forced to marry him.

  Give herself away.

  To the most wonderful man in the world.

  The fact that she had mixed feelings about the prospect concerned her deeply. Freedom to live her life the way she chose—to control her destiny—had always been her goal, her dream.

  Marriage had never been in her plans.

  On the other hand, if she was carrying Nick’s child—an adorable little boy with laughing eyes or a lovely girl with a charming laugh? Her heart wanted to melt at the thought.

  But it couldn’t. She couldn’t let it.

  She had to be strong. Stalwart. Determined.

  She had to leave now.

  She had to return to Scotland.

  Before anyone else found out.

  Executing her escape was tricky, because the family was supposed to attend supper at the Tullys’ and a ball later that evening. Fortunately, as Isobel had been feeling ill, this worked as an effective excuse to cry off.

  Catriona wanted to remain home with her, but Isobel shooed her away, assuring everyone that she would be fine if only she had a little more rest.

  She had been practicing her note to Nick, so she was ready to write it, though it was more difficult than she expected—all of this was. She gave the note to a footman with orders to deliver it the next morning, and waited for everyone to leave. She watched the carriages trundle off; then, with a small valise holding a change of clothes, and a pocket full of traveling money, she slipped out of the house through the mews. She walked to the next square and hailed a hansom cab to take her to the Bull and Mouth Inn on St. Martin’s le Grand, where she could catch the night mail coach for the north.

  And that easily, she was gone.

  Her heart hardly broke at all.

  * * *

  A note was waiting for Nick when he arrived home that night, after a miserable soiree—without Isobel who, her mother said, was feeling under the weather. Had he known she wouldn’t be there, he would not have gone. As it was, he left the party after only an hour.

  He almost didn’t open the missive, but by the grace of God, he did.

  As he read it, a cold finger traced his spine.

  He’d known this was coming, but had not expected it so soon.

  Nick,

  This has been wonderful, but now I must leave. You know why.

  I hope you have a happy life.

  Always,

  Isobel

  The second to the last word hurt the most.

  Always.

  It wasn’t like her to lie.

  He contemplated—for a second or two—curling up in a bottle of whisky and drowning his sorrows, but then some rare kind of fury took him. He could not let her do this, not without facing him. Not without at least saying good-bye.

  And then another thought percolated his grief-sodden brain. Horror swept through him in a cold haze. She was out there. By herself. In the middle of the night.

  It was exceedingly dangerous for a young girl to travel by herself, even if she took a Royal Mail coach. It was a long journey to Scotland. Anything could happen.

  He had to go after her, whether she wanted him to or not.

  With the decision made, he drew in a deep breath and a certain, dizzying calm descended.

  Yes. He would go after her and bring her back or, barring that, go with her in Scotland and hound her until she agreed they could not live apart. Whether they married or not.

  And he didn’t care how long it took, didn’t care what it took. His life was an empty shell without her. The future was a long and desolate road without her in it.

  In a rush, he rode over to Sinclair House, to notify her family, but found only Lady Esmeralda in residence; the others were still at the soiree, unaware of the disaster that had befallen them.

  He burst past the butler into the library and blurted, “It’s Isobel. She’s gone.”

  The old lady blinked. “What do you mean, she’s gone?”

  He thrust the note at her and stood silent as she read it. “Oh, my.”

  “Indeed. I am going after her.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “I need you to notify her parents.”

  “Naturally. Do you have any idea where she’s gone?”

  He stared at her for a moment. Did she really have no idea? “Scotland.”

  “Ah yes.” She read the note again, which annoyed him, because it was short enough for her to have memorized it by now. “Why did she leave?”

  He huffed a breath. “Why do you think? She never intended to stay.”

  “But you’re betrothed.”

  Ah, that burned his gullet. “It was all a game to her.”

  Esmeralda sighed. “How like her.”

  “Is it?” he snapped.

  “Oh, yes. She’s always been exceedingly independent. But I’d thought, after our conversation last night, that she was coming around.”

  Something in her tone made a frisson slither up his spine. “What did you discuss?”

  Esmeralda looked away. She might have flushed.

  “Well?”

  “Nothing much. She’s been ill, you know.”

  How the fuck did that signify? “And?”

  “You did anticipate the wedding vows . . .”

  His blood went cold. Oh God. Oh God. “Do you think . . . ?”

  Esmeralda merely shrugged, but her expression made her opinion clear.

  “Holy hell. I’m going after her.” Without another word, he spun on his heel, sprinted back to the mews, and leaped into the saddle. His woman—and possibly his child—were in danger. And as confident and brazen as she could be, she had always been cosseted and protected by her family. She didn’t truly understand how dangerous the world could be. How vulnerable she was.

  Especially now.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It is said that there was nothing as swift as a mail coach, and Isobel, who had never ridden in one before, was stunned at how true this was. From the moment the mail box lids clanged down and the driver yelled hee, they fairly flew from the stable yard—though it was impossibly crowded—and pounded down the road out of town. She had to hold on to a strap to keep from slamming into the man next to her, though he was well cushioned.

  There were not many passengers on the mail coach to Inverness via York on this day—only Isobel and her companion—which was a mercy as the mail coaches were usually overflowing, to include people clinging on outside. But the dearth of paying passengers was made up for with packages aplenty. They were piled high on the far bench and on the floor. While Isobel had room to stretch out he
r legs, the jostling of the coach had parcels and bundles tipping onto her with each sharp turn.

  Her companion, a Mr. Breedlebum heading for York, was a chatty type. Isobel learned all about his thriving textile business, his wife and six children, and his favorite hunting dog. He shared his supper with her, an apple and some cheese, for which she was grateful, because she hadn’t thought, in her haste, to bring food.

  Mr. Breedlebum told her he spent a lot of time on the road and shared some of his experiences, including a time when he was actually robbed by a highwayman.

  That, of course, seemed very thrilling.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “What could I do? I handed over my purse. But since then, I carry Matilda.”

  “Matilda?”

  He grinned and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pocket pistol. Isobel had never seen a weapon so small.

  “Can that actually hurt someone?”

  Mr. Breedlebum laughed. “It can slow them down.”

  “Have you ever used it?”

  He snuffled and huffed for a moment, then said, “Only once.”

  “And did the man die?”

  “Ah . . . no,” he said with a laugh, and then added sheepishly, “I shot myself.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Right through the foot. Haven’t walked right since.”

  “Well,” she said. “I feel so much safer knowing you are here with Matilda.” Which seemed to please him no end.

  * * *

  The mail coach rarely stopped. That was the reason they were so prized as a traveling device. Oftentimes, the mail guard would simply toss out the mail package for a given village, as close to the postmaster’s office as he could manage, as they passed. The one exception to that was for changing the horses, which the practiced ostlers did so quickly, there wasn’t even time for Isobel to alight.

  Private needs became a pressing matter, one that the driver seemed inclined to ignore. The only times there was any respite were the few occasions when the driver himself needed to attend to his needs. Which, to Isobel, seemed very far and few between.

  She wasn’t used to this kind of travel, having always traveled in a private coach with utter dominion over the driver and his whims.

  As a result, she was uncomfortable for a long while as they pounded through the night.

  Mr. Breedlebum, however, was not uncomfortable in the least. After their shared supper, he locked his hand to the strap above, rested his head on his arm, and proceeded to sleep.