Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series

by Collette Cameron

  Isobel chuckled and rubbed behind the dog’s ears.

  Tira’s back leg thumped as she twitched in rhythm to Isobel’s scratching.

  “I didn’t promise you a snack, my friend. Only a nice run, to stretch those long legs of yours.”

  She stopped petting the dog, and Tira snuffled her snout against Isobel’s faded skirt.

  “When we get back, I shall get you something tasty. I promise. I was in such a hurry to examine the cliffs today, I forgot your treat.”

  The hound did enjoy a buttery shortbread cookie or two—or six.

  Several feet beyond the other side of the rock bed, Isobel’s mare blew out a breath and swung her pale, gray head.

  Isobel laughed. “No, Emira, I shan’t forget to get you a carrot.”

  Rubbing the arrow head between her thumb and forefinger, she surveyed the crag. Many eons ago, a glacier had scraped and gouged its way across this scarred stretch of land. Rocks and boulders, ranging from coin-sized to mammoth stones larger than crofters’ cottages, dotted the landscape.

  Tempests washed dirt away from the precipices, exposing all manner of fascinating treasures. Isobel had unearthed a few shards of crude pottery and two more arrowheads inside one of the larger cave’s openings.

  The history behind the items captivated her. Primitive peoples, quite possibly her ancestors, had occupied these lands at one time.

  Ages ago, the barbarous Vikings had settled farther north and on the islands west of the mainland. Both locations were a good distance from Craiglocky Keep, which eliminated the Norse as the people responsible for the relics. The items in the caves hadn’t been left behind by the gypsies venturing near Craiglocky’s lands twice yearly, either.

  The objects were far too old.

  Petting Tira, Isobel scanned the large boulders intermittently edging the rock and cave-embedded cliff. Her attention whipped to a peculiar series of indentations.

  “I think . . .”

  She rushed to the bluff. Brushing her fingers against the slightly rough ridges of a rock, her heart kicked against her ribs. “Oh, look, a trilobite.”

  Her practiced gaze traveled the length of the overhang. “I would bet my sainted grandmother’s Bible there are more here.”

  Isobel considered the caves’ yawning black mouths.

  “Possibly, in those as well.”

  Next time, she must bring a lantern to thoroughly explore them. Fingering the fossil, Isobel grinned. Imagine, at one time this area had been under water. Fossils of the strange sea creatures were quite common in Scotland, or so she’d read.

  She’d discovered many fascinating facts and learned about many enchanting places from reading.

  Then again, that was primarily what she did for entertainment and adventure.

  Read. And read. And read.

  And yearn to travel.

  Somewhere. Anywhere.

  Oh, to have a grand escapade of some sort—to see the pyramids or the Great Sphinx of Egypt. Or perhaps, something closer to home, like the Standing Stones of Callanish or the Ring of Brodgar.

  Isobel gave a derisive snort and rubbed her itchy nose. The dirt smudged into her glove tickled her, and she sneezed.

  Thirty miles.

  The farthest Isobel had ventured from her birthplace, except for the house party at Adaira’s last December and one at the Marquis and Marquesses of Bretheridge’s a couple of years before that.

  Tira barked and loped after a rabbit.

  A pensive sigh escaped Isobel. “There’s a whole amazing world out there, and I am stuck at Craiglocky Keep.”

  Not that she didn’t love her childhood home. Of course she did. Nonetheless, she yearned to see undulating deserts or roaring waves pounding the surf instead of the Highland’s sloping emerald hills dotted with fragrant purple heather and dolloped with creamy sheep.

  “Wouldn’t life be a mite more wonderful if I saw more of the world before I marry and have children?”

  At nearly twenty, several marriage offers had come her way already. Thank goodness, her parents allowed her to choose a husband. Unfortunately, the Highlands rather limited the selection of possible candidates.

  Though rugged, handsome Scots abounded, so far her many admirers only complimented her on her beauty. Not her desire to discuss politics, or her knowledge of various sciences, or her ability to speak multiple languages, or even her delight in solving complicated mathematical equations.

  Her capacity to see something once, whether it be a map, diagram, or the contents of a book—practically anything, truly—and recall the information in nearly perfect detail, had been a delightful game when she’d been a child.

  She had a voracious appetite for knowledge and scant patience for beaus whose interest lay in ogling her bosom or staring raptly at her face with an idiotic expression upon theirs.

  Isobel could paper her bedchamber in the ridiculous poems and sonnets she had received. She’d been praised for her eyes— the color of the morning sea—and her skin—as soft, satiny, and white as a dove’s breast—and her hair—warm chocolate swirled with fresh cream.

  She had laughed outright at that ridiculousness, although she’d wondered what admirer had sent the anonymous note.

  Pshaw. What twaddle.

  She had a looking glass. Yes, she was pretty. All right, perhaps more than pretty, but what had outward appearances to do with a person’s merit? She’d had no hand in the way the Good Lord formed her.

  Her mind, her intelligence, her thirst for knowledge, those she did have some influence over. And not a single man beyond her kin had ever complimented her on those attributes. She wasn’t altogether convinced that men, in general, weren’t a mite jingle-brained.

  No, that wasn’t true. Lord Ramsbury had a sharp mind and quick wit. However, that jackanape was a devious knave. He’d played with her affections when he wasn’t in a position to pay court to anyone.

  Mayhap she deserved the blame for naïvely reading too much into his attentions. She had dared to hope he had a genuine interest in her, an unsophisticated Highlander, rather than the dazzling, proper English miss he was all but betrothed to.

  Isobel knew better now.

  Straightening, she scrutinized the area, seeking more artifacts. The caves she wanted to poke around in lay farther along the rock-laden wall. A little shiver tingled between her shoulders. Just imagine what she might uncover.

  Shifting her focus overhead, a resigned huff escaped her. Almost noon time, if she calculated the sun’s location correctly.

  No exploring those caverns today. Lunchtime drew near. She would barely get back to the keep in time to freshen and change into something more appropriate. Besides, she had promised she would finish embroidering a shawl as a gift for Yvette’s birthday in a few days.

  Isobel examined the tips of her tan sheepskin gloves. Her forefingers threatened to poke through the worn seam.

  Again.

  Her third pair in three months. The next glove order would be for six pairs.

  She turned and then examined the horizon behind her.

  Loch Arkaig glowed sapphire blue in the noonday sun; the brilliant rays, a dancing rainbow of diamonds, glistened atop its pristine surface. Nonetheless, the water remained frigid, especially where the forest rimmed the shore.

  A few migrating cranes, virtually invisible in the reed beds, wandered amongst the boggier area against the backdrop of the original castle’s charred ruins.

  Tucking the arrowhead into her bag, she whistled for Tira. A few moments later, the dog came bounding from across the meadow bordering the cliffs.

  After gathering her belongings, Isobel retrieved the mare, and mounted her. With a final sweeping glance at the area, she turned the horse toward the keep proudly standing at attention on the far side of
the loch.

  Fifteen minutes later, she trotted Emira into the south stables. Isobel inhaled the familiar scents of horses, hay, liniment, and leather. Her stomach rumbled and contracted, reminding her how little she’d eaten to break her fast.

  Tira disappeared, no doubt eager to join her sister and brother in the gatehouse for their customary afternoon nap.

  Craiglocky’s head groom, Jocky, assisted Isobel to the ground. “Did ye find anythin’ today, Miss Isobel?”

  She smiled and nodded, untying her bag from the saddle. “Thank you, Jocky. I did. An arrowhead and a fossil.”

  Another stable hand appeared, prepared to unsaddle the mare. Grasping the reins, he patted the horse’s neck and turned her toward the other end of the stables.

  “Wait, Conrad. I promised her a carrot.” Isobel rubbed the mare’s muzzle. “Will you see that she gets one or two?”

  The lad ducked his head, his freckle-covered face blooming with color. “Be pleased to, Miss Ferguson.”

  “My, it’s proving to be a rather warm day, after all.” Plucking her bonnet from her head, Isobel welcomed the slight breeze wafting from the open doors. She tucked the hat underneath her arm before peeling off her gloves.

  Striding to the stable’s exit, she called over her shoulder. “Did anything occur while I was gone?”

  “Aye.” Jocky’s enthusiastic grin exposed a missing front tooth. “Two fancy English gents arrived half an hour after ye rode out.”

  She stopped, turning halfway in his direction. “Lord Clarendon and Lord Warrick? Or was it Lord Bretheridge? I didn’t think Adaira, Vangie, or Angelina would arrive until this weekend.”

  “Nae ladies be with them, Miss Isobel.” Removing his sweat-stained hat, he wiped his beaded brow with the back of his hand. “And it nae be any of them lairds.”

  Isobel’s stomach vaulted to her throat then plummeted to her scuffed boots.

  Please don’t let it be him.

  Lord Ramsbury had been here in July, and matters had not gone well between them.

  “No? Who then?” She swallowed convulsively.

  Scrunching his brow and squinting, his eyes in concentration, the groom scratched his chest. “The Duke of Harcourt and the—”

  “Earl of Ramsbury,” said a much-too-familiar, melodious baritone.

  Chapter 4

  Isobel wheeled around and wound up planting her face squarely in a very masculine chest.

  “Oh!” She leaped backward reflexively. Her heel caught on the cloak’s hem, and she tilted at a precarious angle.

  Simply fabulous.

  She flailed her arms, and her possessions clattered to the stable floor. Lord Ramsbury rushed forward, grasping her shoulders just as her feet left the ground. Eyes locked on his, she seized his coat lapels, frantically trying to stay upright.

  His eyes widened in alarmed surprise when he teetered toward her.

  Too late.

  Lord Ramsbury’s solid form toppled onto her and mashed her into the rough wood. Eyes closed and surrounded by his sheer male essence, she waited for sharp pain to stab her. Tentatively, prepared to cease at the slightest discomfort, she wiggled her fingers and toes.

  No pain. Nothing broken then.

  Gads, how much did his lordship weigh? She tried to pull in a deep breath, but his weight bore down upon her chest.

  She opened her eyes. Silky, whisky-colored hair tickled her nose. A clean virile scent, with a hint of sandalwood, hovered over him. He smelled wonderful, and she had the oddest urge to nuzzle her nose in his hair.

  She sniffed noiselessly instead.

  Mmm, heavenly.

  Did he twitch the merest bit?

  Lord Ramsbury’s chest squashed her breasts nearly flat, and his lean hips were nestled between her thighs. For certain her backside and shoulders would sport a bruise or two.

  Lifting her head, she winced. That hurt. She wriggled her fingers, attempting to poke him. Why didn’t he get off? A gentleman would have, but he had already proved he didn’t deserve that title.

  She squirmed a bit then stilled instantly when a peculiar hardness pulsed against her womanhood.

  His pocket watch must have fallen from his waistcoat and wedged between them. Isobel jostled harder, trying to dislodge him and his timepiece.

  “Don’t.” He ended on a strangled groan.

  He was injured. But how could he possibly be? She’d cushioned his landing. Splaying her fingers, she cupped his firm ribs and shoved with all her strength.

  “Cease.” His warm breath caressed her neck, sending sensations spiraling to her middle as she jostled him again. “Do not move.”

  Booted feet jarred the floor beneath her in an irregular rhythm. Jocky stuttered to a stop. “Miss Isobel, me lord, are ye—”

  “Yancy, I want to sho—” Mouth wide open, Ewan gaped, looking much like a freshly caught brown trout.

  Isobel peeked over the earl’s shoulder, which now vibrated suspiciously. She jabbed him harder with her fingers.

  He quaked more.

  Was he ticklish? Turning her hands into half-claws, she scraped at his sides unmercifully.

  A rich-timbred chuckle whispered against her neck, and the sensation was beyond wonderful. This wouldn’t do at all. She needed Lord Ramsbury to withdraw before she flung her arms around his neck, hugged him to her breast, and planted kisses on his jaw.

  “Get. Off. Me.” She clenched her teeth as his bothersome watch poked her again.

  All at once, she froze.

  She knew exactly what prodded her nether regions. She had been raised around animals, for pity’s sake. How could she have been so stupid to think his timepiece had slipped free?

  No, his thing twitched against her.

  “I do hope you have a damned good reason to be sprawled atop my sister, Ramsbury.”

  The steely edge to her brother’s voice caused the hairs at Isobel’s nape to rise.

  Jocky and Ewan reached the earl in the same instant.

  His lordship made a miraculous recovery, and in one agile movement, leaped to his feet.

  Isobel sucked in a deep gulp of air, holding the breath suspended in her lungs. She bit her lip against the fit of giggles seizing her at the countenances of the three men peering at her.

  Poor Jocky. His face as pale as fresh dough, he appeared on the verge of an apoplexy.

  Ewan’s face bore a ferocious scowl, his eyebrows drawn into a severe vee and his lips pressed into a disapproving line. He shot daggers at Lord Ramsbury with his wintry glare.

  She levered into a sitting position, scooting her attention to his lordship last.

  The jackanape.

  His lovely mouth curved into a lopsided smile, and undisguised amusement danced in his jungle eyes. His gaze leisurely traveled the length of her, a visual caress that caused her skin to tingle and a flush to heat the angles of her cheeks.

  Something flickered deep within his eyes, and his pupils dilated. His infuriating grin widened.

  She could not tear her gaze away.

  Did he know how he affected her?

  Of course, he did. God help her, she was as vulnerable as a mouse before a snake.

  What a ninny.

  Look away.

  Her dratted eyes refused to obey. Instead, they feasted upon the glorious male specimen before her.

  Ewan shoved his way in front of Lord Ramsbury. After lifting Isobel to her feet, he stepped back. Holding her shoulders, he assessed her from head to toe. “Are you unharmed?”

  She managed a nod.

  He brushed her tousled hair from her cheek and picked a strand of straw from the tresses. “What happened? How did you come to be—?”

  “I . . .” She sliced Lord Ramsbury a peek from the
corner of her eye.

  He regarded her, his head cocked to the side and that enigmatic smile on his too-perfect mouth.

  “Lord Ramsbury startled me—quite by accident, I assure you. I became unbalanced and panicked, so I clutched his lordship’s coat, which, unfortunately, resulted in us both taking a tumble.”

  Isobel refused to look into Lord Ramsbury’s beautiful eyes. They turned her to warm pudding. Months ago she had resolved to no longer let him affect her.

  Hiding her reaction, she cast her gaze downward. “Please accept my apologies, your lordship. I hope you weren’t injured.”

  “No apology necessary.” Why couldn’t he have a high-pitched nasally twang instead of a deep, pleasant rumble for a voice? “I regret I could not save you the fall.”

  He brushed at his claret-colored coat sleeves, knocking bits of oat, hay, and dust from the tight-fitting fabric. The movement stretched the coat taut across the breadth of his shoulders. His had been no soft, pampered body atop hers. No, sinewy, sculpted muscles had melded against her softness.

  A scintillating current jolted down her spine.

  Stop it, Isobel Janette Moreen Ferguson.

  He. Is. Not. For. You.

  Quashing her reaction, Isobel angled her head, offering Ewan a contrite turn of her lips. A curl flopped onto her shoulder. She could already hear Maura’s tsks of censure. Her old nurse still fussed as if Isobel were in leading strings.

  “You may let loose of me now, Ewan. I assure you, I am not at risk of toppling over again.”

  In fact, her clumsiness was out of character, and such ineptness in front of Lord Ramsbury, wholly humiliating. Fresh warmth heated her cheeks. If only she could flee to her chamber and escape mortification’s sting. What had possessed her to latch on to his lordship, yanking him down atop her?

  A brooding expression on his face, Ewan released her and took in her rumpled appearance.

  Poor Ewan. Always such a serious brother.