What a Highlander's Got to Do

by Sabrina York

  Isobel frowned at her lifelong friend. “What happened to you? You used to be so . . . normal.”

  “Like you, you mean.”

  “Of course.”

  “I still am like you, but honestly, this is an adventure I want to savor. I’ll likely never be back to London. There’s so much to see and experience. And,” she said, “so many handsome men.”

  A skitter of dread danced up Isobel’s spine. “Men?”

  “Aye. Look over there. A handsome lad indeed. I’d wager he doesna pad his cod.”

  Isobel did not look over there. She stared at Cat. “I thought we made an agreement. We’re no’ in London to meet men.”

  “We agreed we were no’ in London to find husbands. There’s a difference. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the company of a handsome lad.”

  Isobel sniffed. There was little she could say to that, since she had.

  Enjoyed the company of a handsome lad. The most handsome, in fact.

  That lad had rarely left her mind.

  He haunted her.

  Why, even now, she thought she saw him in the turn of a cheek, just down the path.

  Her heart surged. Lungs locked. She narrowed her eyes and stared.

  It couldn’t be. Could it?

  Her pulse shot into a wild patter and sweat beaded her brow.

  “Isobel? Are you all right?” Cat said from a seeming distance.

  The man in question, the object of her obsession, threw back his head and laughed and the breeze carried the sound to her.

  Her skin prickled and her mind hummed.

  He even sounded like Nick.

  She had to see him face-to-face. She had to know for certain it was not him.

  But even as she spurred her mount into a trot, he, and his friend, hit an open space on the track and launched into a gallop.

  She followed, in a mad rush, even leaving the road when a knot of carriages got in her way. She was aware of Cat following behind, calling after her, but she didn’t slow. She had to catch him. She had to know for sure.

  And blast.

  As she turned a corner near the Serpentine, he was gone. Swallowed up into a stand of trees, or he’d turned off the path, or something. But he, and his tantalizing laugh, were gone.

  Her chest hurt with the exertion, but also, with some bitter brand of regret.

  So close.

  So close.

  But of course it hadn’t been him.

  Of course it was her imagination running riot.

  He was a stable hand.

  From Newcastle.

  He wouldn’t be in London.

  And even if he were, he wouldn’t be riding at this hour. Not a man of his standing.

  She was a fool for thinking so.

  Wasn’t she?

  Cat caught up to her and hissed, “Isobel Dounreay Lochlannach, what on earth was that all about?”

  She sucked in a breath, brushed her hair from her face, and sighed. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Her tone made clear, Cat knew her better than that.

  “I just . . . thought I saw someone I knew.”

  Och. Isobel knew that expression. The narrowed eyes, the persimmony mouth, the twitch at the end of her nose. Cat would not easily let this go. “And who might that be?”

  Isobel turned away and lifted a shoulder. “No one.”

  Cat reached over, took Isobel’s reins, and led them into a secluded copse. “Nae,” she said. “Enough of that. You’ve been behaving strangely since Newcastle. It’s time for you to tell me what happened. Because I know something happened.” And when Isobel didn’t respond, she added, “Well?”

  Ach. Cat was impossible to resist when she was like this. Aside from that, Isobel had been torn. Part of her wanted to keep this secret close to her heart. But the other part of her longed to tell her friend. They’d never kept secrets. Certainly not the juicy ones. Remaining silent almost felt like a betrayal of their friendship.

  Aside from that, there was a part of her bubbling over with the desire to tell all.

  Cat had proven more than once in the past that she would discover Isobel’s secrets eventually, whatever they were, and now was as good a time as any.

  She steeled her spine and sucked in a breath. “All right. I met someone.”

  Cat frowned. “Someone?”

  “Aye.”

  “Male, I am assuming.”

  “Of course male.”

  A snort. “And there you were lecturing me about enjoying lads.”

  “I was hardly lecturing. And he wasna a lad.”

  “Nae? What was he then?”

  “He was a man.” Tall, broad, strong, and mind-numbingly attractive.

  “And did you . . . enjoy him?”

  Ah. Now, here was where her details were sacred. She could hardly tell it all. “I kissed him. And he kissed me.”

  Cat’s eyes twinkled. “And who was he?”

  “No one. A stable lad.”

  “You kissed a stable lad?” She laughed. “Doona tell your father. He’ll string him up.”

  “I’m no’ telling anyone. It was just a fling. Besides, he’s in Newcastle.” She glanced in the direction the horsemen had disappeared. “Or he’s supposed to be.”

  “Is that who you thought you saw?”

  “Aye.” A sigh.

  “Couldna ha’ been him, if he was a stable lad.”

  “I know. But he seemed so like him. And his laugh . . .”

  “They say everyone has a twin somewhere.”

  “Perhaps it’s true. But oh, Cat. It felt like him.”

  “I think maybe you’ve been out in the sun too long. Shall we head back?”

  She didn’t want to. She wanted to ride like mad around the park and see if she could spot him again. But she knew that was foolishness in the extreme.

  Besides, what would she do if she did find him?

  He was a stable hand. And English. There could be nothing more between them. Her mother would have conniptions and her father would hunt him down.

  It was simply not to be.

  With a sigh, she turned her horse onto the crowded road and made her way back to the Mayfair mansion to prepare for tonight.

  Cat was probably right. They should try to enjoy themselves.

  However difficult that might be.

  * * *

  And it was a trial.

  For one thing, there was a terrible crush. The Swofford ballroom was wholly unequal to the crowd that showed up.

  For another, it seemed that every male in attendance was keen to make her acquaintance and ask her to dance.

  Not that Isobel didn’t enjoy dancing; she did. It was the partners who soured the experience. They trampled her toes, breathed rank halitosis on her person, and spattered when they spoke. Most of them were far more interested in quizzing her on her wild antics as a child, no doubt so they could share such stories with their friends later over whisky.

  After a while, she had to take refuge in the ladies’ retiring room, where she found Catriona doing the same.

  “Ach. This is torture,” Isobel said as she eased her slipper from her foot and massaged her arch.

  Catriona laughed. “It’s your fault, you know, for being such a bonny lass. All the lads want to dance with you.”

  Isobel pulled a face. “They are hardly lads. Old warthogs, more like.”

  “Not all of them. Lord Tully is handsome. And the son of an earl.”

  “You know I don’t give a fig for titles.” Besides, Tully had not asked her to dance. He hadn’t even come near her. He’d seemed far to intrigued with Cat.

  When Catriona didn’t respond, Isobel shot her a glance. Her friend was nibbling her lip, trying, unsuccessfully, to hold back a smile. Her green eyes danced wickedly.

  Irritation rippled through Isobel’s stomach. “What?”

  Catriona lifted a shoulder. “I gathered that titles meant nothing to you, when you kissed that stable hand.”

  Annoyance, and som
ething else, prickled the skin at her nape. It always happened, when she thought of him.

  “But if he was as handsome as you say, I can see why you kissed him.”

  Och. She should never have told Catriona about that idiocy.

  At the time, she’d thought there could be no harm in a little flirtation, especially with a man she would never see again, but now she saw the folly of it. Try as she might, she couldn’t expunge him from her mind. His smile, the sound of his voice, the touch of his lips on hers, all haunted her.

  To the point she imagined she saw him.

  Which was rubbish.

  He had no business being here in London.

  Unless he’d followed her . . .

  Her heart leaped again at the thought, and she savagely silenced her elation. She’d never been a foolish type.

  Until now.

  Of course he hadn’t followed her. That was the height of hubris. And idiocy.

  “Come along,” Cat said, once their feet had rested. “Let’s have some lemonade.” They walked together to the supper room and drank down two glasses apiece. The ballroom was stuffy, with all the perfumes and smoke and sweat, and the cool drinks were wonderful.

  “Oh, look,” Catriona said in a bright tone. “Here comes Lord Blackworth.”

  Isobel tried not to roll her eyes. As old warthogs went, Blackworth topped the list. He was crusty and creaky and had a truly reptilian glint in his eyes. Beyond that, they’d been warned about him by Catriona’s mother, Anne. Apparently he’d been haunting the marriage mart since Anne was a debutante with no luck whatsoever. Now, as then, he did not run in the best company.

  Still, when he positioned himself before Isobel, with a bow and a leer, and asked for this dance, she felt obliged. Besides, it was a reel, so it wasn’t as though they would be partnered through the entire dance.

  Fortunately, there was no time to talk. The music began straightaway, and the couples fell into the familiar steps of the dance. Despite her dislike for balls in general, Isobel did enjoy dancing and flew through the patterns like a bird on wing.

  She reveled in the music, gleefully whirling from one partner to another.

  And then, all of a sudden, and with no warning, she found herself in the arms of the most handsome man she’d ever seen. A man who stole her breath. A man with jet-black curls, dancing blue eyes, and a fascinating birthmark just above his lush lips.

  Nick?

  It couldn’t be.

  Could it?

  Her heart stopped. Her pulse locked. Her brain ceased to function.

  Thank God her dance master had been as strict as he had been. Her feet continued to move as they should, though she gaped at him like a landed cod.

  His smile, familiar and dizzying, stunned her more. “Surprised to see me?” he asked in a teasing rumble. When she didn’t respond, other than the obligatory moving of the lips, he chuckled and said, “I thought so.”

  And because she was so bemused, she didn’t think to protest when he turned her at the end of the ballroom and whirled her straight out the garden doors.

  He danced her across the patio to the balustrade and into the shrubbery. And then, with no hesitation whatsoever, pulled her closer and kissed her.

  Ah, his breath was so sweet. His lips like velvet. His embrace divine.

  Isobel’s knees wobbled as his hold tightened and he deepened the kiss.

  She knew this was foolhardy indeed, but couldn’t bring herself to end it. She’d craved this since they’d parted. Dreamed of him at night. Ached for him during the day.

  But they were in public. At a formal ball.

  Anyone could see them, and that would be disaster. Not just for her, but for him as well.

  At that thought, she pushed him away. “We canna,” she said, a trifle too breathily.

  “I beg to differ,” he said in a crisp British accent that annoyed her.

  Why did he have to be British?

  “Nick, please. If they see you, there will be trouble.”

  An amused light danced in his eyes. “I can imagine so.”

  “For one thing, my father would flog you.”

  “Ah yes. Your father—”

  “Whatever were you thinking, following me to London? And to a ball, of all things? And where did you get these clothes?” They were far above the means of a lowly stable hand. Obviously he’d nicked them. Yet another crime to add to his slate.

  “But darling,” he cooed. She had the distinct impression he was teasing her, and it annoyed her beyond measure. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  She was, but she couldn’t let him know that. So she put out a lip. “We weren’t supposed to ever see each other again,” she reminded him. For heaven’s sake. He was a British stable hand—and the British part was the greatest deterrent to a romance. She had no desire to live in England. None at all.

  He batted obscenely long, thick lashes. “I couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

  She blew out a breath and rolled her eyes. Even though she had suffered the same ailment, she certainly had no intention of admitting it. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, someone called his name from the far end of the patio.

  They turned in tandem and he cursed beneath his breath. She didn’t miss the fact that he skated a look around them, hunting for escape.

  But there was no escape.

  None other than Edward Tully, the son and heir of the Earl of Darlington, swept down the steps toward them.

  Damn and blast. They were in it now.

  Judging from the scowl on his handsome face, he obviously knew Nick. Knew he didn’t belong here in this lofty company. No doubt, he was intent on humiliating him and tossing him from the premises in disgrace.

  Isobel surreptitiously stepped in front of Nick, as though she could protect him from this threat.

  Perhaps she could. Perhaps she could convince Tully to let him off easy. Let him slip away . . .

  “Where the hell have you been?” Tully growled.

  Nick, unaccountably, grinned. “I’m right here.”

  “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

  “It’s hardly my fault you couldn’t find me in that crush.”

  Isobel cringed at the disrespect in his tone. Didn’t Nick know how British lords treated their underlings? He’d get a whipping at the very least.

  “You said you were coming early. You were not here.”

  “I, ahem, got held up.”

  “Some friend you are.”

  Friend? They were friends? While relief scudded through Isobel’s chest, confusion reigned as well. No British lord she’d ever met would have been friends with a servant.

  Tully set his hands on his hips and glared. “There I was, doing as you asked. Taking the bullet as it were. And you weren’t even there. Do you have any idea what that cost me?”

  “As I said, I was held up. I do apologize.”

  For the first time, Tully seemed to notice her, and his frown darkened as he scrutinized her up and down. “I see,” he said, as though he did see, though what precisely he saw was a mystery. “And who might you be?” he asked of her, which was decidedly improper. Everyone knew a lord did not address a lady until they had been introduced.

  She tipped up her nose and sniffed.

  To her surprise, Tully laughed. “Ah, say no more. Isobel, of the gossamer hair.”

  “Tully . . .” Nick growled in warning. But a warning to what, she had no clue.

  “You are Isobel Lochlannach, are you not?” Tully asked in a far more respectful tone.

  “Aye.”

  “Catriona’s friend?”

  “Lady Bower?” she responded icily, as it was highly improper for him to call Cat by her given name, as he well knew.

  Tully grinned. It was a wicked, charming grin. He bowed his head in an ersatz chagrin that was annoyingly adorable as well. “As you say.” He turned back to Nick and shook a finger. Lord Tully, it seemed, was a collection of improprieties. “You shouldn�
��t be out here alone with her. It’s dangerous for both of you.”

  “We were merely taking the air.”

  “Right.” A snort. “At any rate, we should head back to the party before—”

  But oh. It was too late.

  A high-pitched, shrill warble wafted to them on the breeze. “Oh, hallo! Lord Tully! Hallo!”

  Both men cringed. Apparently they recognized the voice. Isobel did not, but she recognized the pinched face as it rounded the corner. Celia Swofford. Her face pinched even more as she saw Isobel. Her nose curled a little, then she focused on Nick and batted her lashes. “My lord,” she said with a curtsy.

  Isobel’s brow wrinkled. Nick wasn’t a lord. He was a stable hand.

  But no one corrected Celia, which was even curiouser.

  The debutante stepped closer and whispered loudly, “My mother was just speaking with your father.”

  His father? His father was here? Was he a stable master? Isobel shot him a frown.

  He glanced at her. A flush might have risen on his cheeks.

  For his part, Tully watched with something akin to fascination.

  Celia was oblivious to all of this. She nattered on. “Mother thinks we would make an excellent match, and when she mentioned it to your father, he did not deny it.” Celia’s smile was far too smug. Beyond that, it sent a skitter up Isobel’s spine. Celia was far too title-conscious to be slavering over a stable lad.

  Which led to the appalling realization that, indeed, Nick was no such thing.

  She stared at him as the horror of it engulfed her.

  He was a British lord.

  Even worse, he had lied to her.

  She should have known. His clothes were far too grand—even if he’d stolen them. His manners were too slick. His tone with Lord Tully too arrogant by far.

  Something crawled in her belly, something bitter and bilious. Something that felt like humiliation.

  It was hard to believe that he’d been toying with her, but honestly, what else could it have been? He’d kissed her and seduced her . . . all the while knowing she thought he was a stable lad. All the while knowing who she was.

  It was unconscionable.

  The cracking pain in her heart at his betrayal only made things worse.

  She knew nothing but the blinding desire to escape. But she couldn’t run, lest she give herself away, and that would be more mortifying still.