What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  And then he started for her, with a malevolent look in his eye. “You will pay for that, my lassie,” he said, which only infuriated her more. She was not his lassie.

  So he wasn’t dead. Maybe it would be better if he just wished he were dead.

  As he lumbered toward her, she lifted her skirts and pulled back a leg and, when he was close enough, she landed her knee soundly in his crotch. He collapsed with a high-pitched scream.

  She threw the weapon to the ground and ran to Nick, hoping, praying that he was all right.

  She fell to her knees at his side and took his face in her hand. He was pale, unmoving. The blot on his shirt had expanded.

  Her heart lurched.

  No. No. He couldn’t be dead.

  What would she do? Who would she be without him?

  She called his name, shook him, cried out to God, but there was no response. Not from either of them.

  Despair filled her heart. A thunder filled her ears. She was—

  No. Not thunder.

  Hooves.

  She looked up, through the tears, to see two carriages bearing down on them. She nearly collapsed in relief as she recognized her uncle’s crest on one of them.

  Thank heaven.

  Help had arrived.

  Now if only Nick could survive.

  * * *

  Nick’s uncle Ewan was the first out, and he ran to her side.

  “He’s been shot,” she wailed, though that was perfectly obvious.

  Ewan grunted and felt at Nick’s neck. “Thank God, there’s a pulse.”

  “We need to get him back to that last inn and call a doctor,” Nick’s father said and Isobel blinked, because in that moment, she was surrounded by all of them. Her father, her uncles, and all of Nick’s kin, including Declan and Robert.

  And then her mother emerged from the carriage and ran to her side, pulling her into a hug. All of a sudden the floodgates opened and Isobel began to weep.

  “Darling. Darling,” Mama murmured. “Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

  “Nick was shot,” she blubbered.

  “But he’s breathing,” Ewan said stalwartly. “And he’s a Moncrieff.”

  “I was shot once,” Papa said. “And I’m fine.”

  Nick’s father nodded. “I was shot once, too. About in the same place. And look at me.”

  “I, too, have been shot,” Uncle Lachlan said, patting her on the shoulder.

  “I was shot more than once and I survived,” Ewan said. He put out his chest as though this was something to brag about. And maybe it was, because both Declan and Robert remained silent and looked a trifle put out.

  “We need to move Nick into one of the coaches,” Papa said, and he, the dukes, and Isobel’s father lifted him gently.

  “Put a board across the seats,” Mama commanded. After all, she’d done this before. It made Isobel feel so much better that she was here. “And doona jostle him.”

  “We’re no’ jostling him,” Papa said.

  “Be careful.”

  “We’re being careful.”

  Declan and Robert, even more put out that they were not helping, continued to pout. “What shall we do?” the former asked.

  “There’s a highwayman over there.” Isobel pointed to where he was still wheezing on the ground. “He’ll need to be firmly trussed. And Mr. Breedlebum, in the coach.”

  “Mr. Breedlebum?” Declan asked.

  “Oh, please doona truss him. He was the other passenger. I doona know if he is alive.”

  “We’ll check, Isobel. Don’t worry. Why don’t you go sit and wait?”

  Sit and wait?

  She didn’t. She couldn’t. She would not leave Nick’s side. She followed him to the coach and took the prime seat beside him and held his hand, even though he didn’t respond. Mama came to sit across from her and she set her hand on Isobel’s knee and murmured silly things like, He’ll be fine and Doona worry.

  As all the men set about cleaning up the mess, including helping a dazed Mr. Breedlebum from the coach and collecting the two highwaymen—including the one Isobel had beaned with a rock—she stayed by Nick’s side.

  It seemed to take forever for everything to be finished, but finally the men piled into the other coach and the cavalcade turned around and headed for the inn they’d passed several miles back.

  Isobel passed the time in a fog, alternately kissing Nick’s face and covering it with tears. Mama tried to comfort her, but the fact was, Susana Dounreay Lochlannach had never been much of a comforter. Isobel wished her father were riding in this coach. He had always been able to soothe her.

  Aye. A girl needed her father. And a boy did, too.

  And now they—if they indeed existed at all—might lose their father before they were even born. What a tragedy that would be.

  Which started the flow of tears again.

  Which made Mama even more uncomfortable, because she was powerless to stop them.

  “Darling, please,” she said in a tone that was almost peevish. “You have to be strong. You’re no good to him if you make yourself sick.”

  Isobel paused in her weeping to glower. “I’m no’ making myself sick.”

  “You will if you continue this caterwauling.”

  “The man I love has been shot,” she snapped.

  Mama blinked. “You do love him then?”

  Tears welled. Isobel’s throat closed. Still, she managed to say, “Of course I do. I lo-lo-love him with all my he-he-heart.”

  “Then why, darling? Why did you leave like this?”

  Why? “Because I’m a fool. I thought I could escape it, but I canna.”

  Mama frowned. “Escape what, for heaven’s sake? What is there to escape? The man is a prince among men. And a viscount to boot.”

  “I kn-kn-know.”

  “What . . .” A deep, reedy voice mingled with her sobs, and Isobel stilled. She looked down at Nick’s face and her heart swelled when their gazes clashed. Oh, lud. She’d thought she might never see his eyes open again. And lovely. They were lovely.

  “Nick, my love.” She covered his face with more kisses and tears, but these tears were a trifle happier.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. Hard. She frowned at him.

  “What?” he asked again.

  “What, what?” All right, perhaps a little brusquely, considering the fact that he had almost died and everything. But could he not be more clear?

  It took him a moment to gather the words. “What . . . did you want to . . . escape?”

  Oh, dear. “Darling.” She smoothed back his hair. “We can talk about this later.”

  He narrowed his eyes and set his chin, just so, in a way she didn’t recognize. It looked like it might be stubbornness. “Now.”

  Aye. Stubbornness, indeed.

  “What did you want to escape?” This time with more strength. “Me?”

  “Not you, darling,” she cooed.

  “What then?”

  “It’s stupid. Can’t we just—”

  “No.”

  Oh, dear. She had no idea he could be as stubborn as she.

  “Tell me.”

  She stared at him for a long moment and then realized she might as well tell him. He was clearly not going to let her wiggle out of the confession. And indeed, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. “Fear,” she said. “I was deathly afraid.”

  “Of me?”

  “Aye.”

  His wince pierced her heart and she kissed him gently. “Of how I felt for you. You made me want to turn it all upside down.”

  “All what?”

  “My life. My beliefs. My ridiculous determination to avoid marriage.”

  “I made you want to marry?”

  “You made me want to marry you. No one else.”

  His smile was her reward for her courage. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. “You called me your love.”

  “Because you are. Edward Nicholas Wyeth, I love you with all my heart.”
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  His grin turned wicked. Aye. He was definitely feeling better. “And you promise to surrender to me in every way?”

  She frowned.

  “To obey my every command? To always do as I say?”

  Heavens. How did she answer that? The truth? Or a lie to appease him? “I . . .”

  But before she could respond, he laughed and pulled her close and kissed her.

  “Isobel, my sweet. I will never try to change you. How could I? I love you just as you are. With all my heart as well. I certainly know better than to command anything of a Lochlannach lass.”

  “Well, thank God,” Mama muttered drily.

  She kissed him again, wreathed in happiness and relief. He would be fine. They would be fine. And one day, there would be babies. Maybe very soon they would be a family.

  Epilogue

  The wedding was to be held on the evening of the third of July.

  Though this was not common practice—nearly all weddings were held before noon—the Duchess of Moncrieff was anything but common. No one in their right mind would question her edicts. Aside from which, the families planned a massive reception and ball following the event.

  For Isobel, it was a dizzying week leading up to the nuptials. There was a flurry of fittings—and not just for her. The entire family needed to be outfitted for the festivities. More than once, she caught her brothers glaring at her as they suffered the pins and needles of the modiste who had come to the house to do her work, on the sound justification of sheer convenience.

  Beyond that, there were many callers, all coming to pay their respects to the countess-to-be and curry favor. Isobel, of course, deplored these meetings but was thankful for the support and advice of the Duchess of Moncrieff, who counseled her to be gracious, regardless. “One never knows when one will meet a friend,” she said, and that maxim proved true on many accounts. To Isobel’s surprise, many of the ladies she met were kind, respectful, and delighted to meet her.

  That made it easier to ignore the ones who were not.

  And as Kaitlin said, “There will always be those who are not.”

  Ironically, once the wedding plans were in motion, she saw less of Nick than she would have liked. Both mothers assured her it was because she was busy. It was gratifying, when she finally did get to see him, that he expressed his frustration that they had been kept apart.

  “I canna wait until we can be alone,” he grumped to her one day at tea.

  Aunt Esmeralda, who had remarkable hearing for a woman of her years, snorted. “I daresay you won’t be alone for long.”

  Something in her tone must have captured everyone’s attention, because Kaitlin, Isobel’s mother, and her aunts turned to pin her with curious looks.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Sorcha asked.

  Esmeralda glanced artlessly at the ceiling. “Nothing.”

  Those sharp gazes flicked to her and Nick. Isobel could practically hear the suppositions wheeling in their heads.

  “She has been ill,” Esmeralda said, taking a sip of tea.

  Isobel glared at her. She had been ill, and it had been getting worse, but there was no call to bring it up now.

  She turned to her mother, to offer some platitude about something I ate, but was stopped short by her expression as the truth—one that Isobel was convinced of now—descended.

  “Oh, my,” Mama said.

  “Oh, my,” Kaitlin sighed.

  “Oh, lovely,” Aunt Hannah gushed.

  “Don’t tell Papa,” was all Isobel could manage. “Not until after the wedding.”

  Mama laughed and then bounded up and across the room to give her a hug. “I wouldna dream of it. Oh, congratulations, my darling. And you . . .” She turned to Nick and fixed him with a stern look.

  He smiled sheepishly, charmingly, and shrugged, and in the end, she had to hug him as well, too.

  * * *

  For some reason, Nick was nervous as he stood next to the altar at the front of St. George’s on the third of July, before all and sundry, and waited for his bride to come down the aisle. Not that he doubted she would come. He knew she would.

  It was just that this day, above all others, marked an irrevocable change in his life.

  Not one he dreaded, as he had once imagined, but one that filled him with joy.

  It was a joy that frightened him. The intensity of it.

  He now understood the fear that had caused Isobel to balk, to want to run.

  How fortunate he was that she had chosen not to escape this magnificent terror.

  It was overwhelming, his sweeping love, one that caused pain to ping in his chest when he thought of her. When he thought of the child she was carrying—his child—he wanted to fall to his knees and weep, to bless the God who had made this all possible.

  And then all thoughts of weeping and God were whisked away as she stepped into view.

  His Isobel.

  His woman.

  And she was splendid. Swathed in an exquisite white gown studded with pearls, she floated down the aisle toward him. He knew the moment she took in his attire, the Sinclair dress kilt. She nearly stumbled, but her father’s hand on her arm kept her steady.

  She smiled at him, though, with such elation, such gratitude, it made him feel humble.

  What had he ever done to deserve this? This joy? This gift? This woman?

  He didn’t know, but he knew he would spend the rest of his life making up for it. Somehow.

  She came to stand beside him, and it took an effort for him to rip his gaze from her luminous face to shake her father’s hand. Fortunately, in this moment, Andrew Lochlannach was patient.

  “Be good to her,” he said in a low growl that was almost a threat.

  “Aye,” Nick said, returning his gaze to hers. “I shall.”

  The rest of the ceremony was a blur. It was a miracle he remembered his vows, though they were written on his heart.

  His voice cracked a little as he said them, but he meant them, every word.

  “With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  He shivered when she spoke her vows, staring into his eyes.

  And when the archbishop pronounced them man and wife, he was swept away with a delight unlike anything he had ever known.

  “We’re one now,” he whispered to her, before the kiss.

  “Aye,” she said. “We are one.”

  * * *

  Isobel tried her hardest to memorize every detail of the wedding, but her mind was in a whirl. She did, however, remember the kiss. It was the sweetest thing she’d ever felt.

  After the ceremony, she was whisked away from her new husband—which was vexing—and taken to the Moncrieff mansion and changed into her ball gown.

  They assured her, as they plied her with supper, that she would be with Nick again soon, but in Isobel’s eyes, it would not be soon enough. She wanted to spend every moment with him from now on, and the delays were not acceptable.

  One delay she disliked intensely was the fact that now, as Countess Stirling, she had to stand in the receiving line as hundreds of members of the haute ton filed into the ballroom for the celebration, shaking their hands and being complimented on her beauty and other such folderol.

  “It will be over soon, darling,” Nick whispered into her ear at one point.

  “Will it? It occurs to me that we have many receiving lines in our future.”

  He laughed at her disgruntlement.

  She had no idea why he laughed. It was hardly a laughing matter.

  She didn’t really mind so much, being a countess, especially now that she’d gotten used to the idea, but the burdens of the station were still that.

  “I promise, I shall make it up to you.” He winked. “Later.”

  She frowned at him. “You’d better.”

  When the receiving line finally trickled to nothing, he took her arm and turned her
to the top of the stairs. His parents were announced first, and together, Nick and Isobel watched as they made their way down the stairs.

  And then, the butler cleared his throat and intoned, “The Viscount and Countess Stirling,” and the ballroom erupted in applause, which Isobel had not expected. No one had ever clapped for her before.

  She shot Nick a grin. “Shall we?”

  “Aye,” he said in a deep brogue. “The first dance is ours.”

  “I do hope it’s a waltz,” she teased.

  And then the music swelled, and it was.

  “I guess Mother knows you too well.”

  “Aye. She does.” She shot Kaitlin a thankful smile, to which the duchess curtsied. Her grin was wide. She must have known how anxious Isobel would be to have her new husband in her arms.

  The crowds stood back and watched them dance. It was glorious, whirling around the ballroom with Nick. Just the two of them, staring into each other’s eyes. And then the duke and duchess joined in, as well as Mama and Papa, which signaled everyone else to dance as well.

  Nick smiled down at her. “I canna believe we’re finally married.”

  She grinned back. “Neither can I. It was a lovely ceremony.”

  “Was it? I recall nothing but a blur.”

  “Aye. But this is lovely, too. Again, your mother has outdone herself.”

  “Aye.” His eyes twinkled. “When shall we leave?”

  She snorted. “I think we’re at least expected to stay for this dance.”

  His chuckle surrounded her. “Not leave the party. When shall we leave for Scotland?”

  Her heart lurched. “I . . . Leave for Scotland?”

  “Soon, I think. I’m anxious to settle in.”

  “Ah . . . Settle in?”

  “I thought we should begin our married life at Stirling House. Shall we leave when your family does?”

  Her heart swelled. But . . . “I canna ask you to leave your family, Nick.” It wouldn’t be fair.

  “I’m sure they won’t be far behind.” He swung her into a turn and she laughed, from the pure joy of it. He was willing to move to Scotland. For her.

  “I love you so much, Edward Nicholas Wyeth,” she said, unable to stay the words.

  He shot her an adorable look. “Even though I’m only half Scot?” he said in his terrible brogue.