by Sabrina York
“I canna help noticing Celia is here,” Catriona said, once the girls had helped themselves to punch. Isobel nearly spewed hers out. Oh, she’d been wondering, but had decided it not politic to comment in the event the duchess had invited her.
Perhaps she was losing her rebellious edge? Thank heaven Catriona wasn’t, because Isobel was burning with curiosity.
Sorcha did not disappoint.
She snorted heartily. “Aye,” she said in the same tone she had used before.
Ellie shook her head. “Scandalous, that.”
Scandalous? How . . . delicious. “What?”
“Truly shocking,” Elizabeth Pennington, the youngest, tsked. “Even I know better. And I am barely out of leading strings.”
“What?” Isobel squawked.
Sorcha hugged her friend. “You’re not so young. And yes, you do have better manners.”
“What!”
Finally the three turned to her with equal expressions of revulsion on their pretty faces. “They came uninvited,” Sorcha confided.
Isobel blinked. “Surely, they dinna.”
“Oh, they did,” Ellie said.
“Naturally, they pretended the invitation to William had been extended to them all, but it had not.” Sorcha sighed. “Edward is overset.”
Isobel frowned. “Which Edward?”
“The Third.”
Ah. Nick. That was a relief.
Sorcha sniffed. “She’s been hunting him, you see.”
Something bitter skirled in Isobel’s belly. “Hunting him?”
“Aye. When he was in Newcastle, she even tried to slip into his bedroom.”
Ellie shook her head. “How vulgar.”
“Why would she do that?” Catriona asked, but Isobel knew the answer.
“If they were caught, he’d be forced to marry her.”
Sorcha met her dark glower with one of her own. “I can’t conscience my brother being forced into anything, much less marriage to a woman who would stoop so low. I’m worried she’ll try something like that again. Here.”
“We can’t let that happen,” Ellie said. “Edward deserves so much better than that.”
“We should protect him,” Elizabeth suggested. “Form a phalanx around him as they did in Roman times. She shall not penetrate our shields!”
Sorcha grinned and said to Isobel, “Elizabeth loves to read histories.”
“Of wars,” Elizabeth clarified.
Ellie nodded. “She’s quite bloodthirsty.”
“If it helps protect my brother, I’m all for it,” Sorcha said. “I suggest we stick to him for the entire house party. If, perchance, Celia gets close to him, one or all of us must swoop in and intercede.”
“Spike her guns,” Elizabeth added.
“Brilliant idea,” Catriona said with a grin.
Isobel liked this idea, but for one small factor. If Nick was constantly surrounded by other women, there would, indeed, be no chance to be with him alone. Not that she wanted to . . . But judging from the disappointment that rippled through her at the thought, she had apparently wanted that every much.
Sorcha’s grin widened. “And speak of the devil . . .”
Isobel followed her gaze and froze.
Six handsome men—Declan, Robert, Penny, William, Tully, and Nick—had just arrived. Each was magnificently garbed in formal Highland dress, from tasseled wool socks right up to their jauntily cocked tams.
But only one of them made Isobel’s breath catch and her pulse thrum.
She stared at Nick, swallowing the drool in her mouth.
Oh, God. He’d been handsome in laborer’s clothing. He’d been striking dressed as a London lord. But like this . . .
Like this, he was irresistible.
Apparently, too irresistible.
Celia cut a swath through the crowd, headed for him like a moth to flame.
“En garde,” Elizabeth whispered, and, as one, they charged.
* * *
The first person Nick saw in the crowd was Isobel. She shone like a light in the darkness. She wore the Sinclair dress tartan that flowed from her hips in a lovely waterfall. Her hair was braided in an intricate crown around her head and, most important, she was looking at him, her eyes wide and shining with—dare he hope?—fascination.
His heart stuttered when she came toward him, as though in a dream.
He couldn’t stop his smile. He couldn’t help moving toward her as well.
But suddenly, something stood in his way. Something small and annoying and resolute.
“Viscount Stirling,” it said in an ingratiating tone.
It took a moment for him to rip his gaze from Isobel and focus on this intrusion. And a moment more to recognize the threat.
Celia Swofford.
He shot a glare at William, who shrugged. And then—cowards that they were—all his friends and cousins slithered away.
Damn and blast.
“My.” Celia surveyed him up and down. Her nose curled when she got to his bare legs. “Don’t you look . . . festive.”
He bowed, as protocol demanded. “Lady Celia. A cèilidh is a festive occasion.”
“I’m sure it must be.” Her smile was sincere, but the emotion behind it was forced. “How . . . charming that your mother has given you the opportunity to play at being Scottish.”
He frowned. “I am Scottish.” Half at least.
Celia raised a brow, making her appear very much like her mother. “How fortuitous it is only half,” she whispered.
“Oh, Edward!” a cheerful voice wafted to him, shattering the cocoon Celia had been trying to weave around them. Thank God. Sorcha was here to save him. He owed her for this . . .
But then he realized he was surrounded by not just Sorcha and Ellie and Elizabeth, but Catriona and Isobel as well. “Ladies,” he said with a—very—sincere smile of thanks. “Don’t you look lovely?”
“Ah, ah, ah, Edward,” Sorcha said teasingly. “Tonight you must speak with a brogue. This is a cèilidh, after all.”
“Och, aye,” he said. “I willna forget.”
He couldn’t help noticing the curl of Celia’s nose and the parting of Isobel’s lips at his speech.
He noticed the latter a bit more than the former. She obviously liked a brogue on him. Declan had suggested as much while he’d helped him dress, but Nick hadn’t given the suggestion much merit. Until now.
Aside from which, anything that would repulse Celia was seemed like a good idea.
“So, are you enjoying Mother’s party?” he asked all of them in general and Isobel in particular.
“It is . . . rustic, isn’t it?” Celia responded. Ironic, that, because she was the only one he decidedly had not asked.
“Rustic?” Catriona crossed her arms a trifle offensively, and the others bristled.
“You know.” Celia tittered. She waved her hand in the general direction of the company.
“I’m afraid I doona,” Isobel said between her teeth. “Perhaps you could enlighten us?”
Celia, oblivious of any offense, did just so. “Have you visited the food tables? I’ve never seen a selection of such . . . primitive offerings.”
Isobel blinked. “Primitive?”
“Yes indeed. Did you know there is one dish that is made in a sheep’s stomach?”
Catriona opened her eyes wide. “No!” she gusted.
Celia completely missed her sarcasm. “Indeed. In a sheep’s stomach. How revolting. In fact, this entire display is crude beyond belief.” She leaned in and whispered, “It’s shocking to see so many bare thighs, don’t you think?”
“I rather like seeing them,” Catriona said.
Isobel nodded. Her grin was feral. “Much better than the padded cods one sees in London, wouldn’t you say?”
Nick couldn’t help but laugh.
Celia reared back and gaped at him, her eyes wide. “Surely you do not approve of this nonsense?”
It was only right to be honest, wasn’t it? “Of
course I approve. My mother went to great lengths to make tonight as authentic as possible. I think she hit the mark. Don’t you?” he asked Isobel.
She nodded. “She did indeed.”
Celia’s lovely nostrils flared in a display of shock—also very much like her mother’s. “Honestly, Stirling. What would your friends in London say?”
Nick shrugged. “I honestly canna say I care.” Was it wrong of him to emphasize his brogue so? Probably not, when Isobel choked on a laugh.
“Well, I never,” Celia huffed, and to his unending delight, she turned tail and marched away.
“Good riddance,” Sorcha said beneath her breath.
Ellie snorted. “Imagine, coming uninvited and having the gall to criticize the hostess?”
“Well, I must say, thank you for protecting me,” he said to his sister. He would have tousled her hair, but if he touched that elaborate thing on her head, she would probably flatten him.
She smiled at him. “We’ve made an oath, the five of us.”
Nick blinked. “An . . . oath?”
“Aye,” Isobel said with a smile that warmed the cockles of his . . . something. “To save you from her.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Whenever she gets too close, we shall swoop in and save you.”
“You can count on us to have your back,” Ellie added.
He bowed. “I certainly appreciate it. Especially from you two.” He nodded at Ellie Tully and Elizabeth Pennington. “Your brothers promised to do the same and where are they now?”
“I daresay they are hiding behind the spirits table,” Elizabeth said with a smirk. “But you should have known better than to count on them for a campaign so vital to your future.”
“Indeed, I should have.”
“When it comes to the sticking point, you must realize it is every man for himself.”
“Women, however,” Ellie said, “are much more generous.”
“And brave,” Sorcha added.
Isobel chuckled. “And willing to go for the jugular.”
Her smile engendered his. “And that is why I adore you,” he said to all of them in general.
And one of them in particular.
Chapter Seventeen
True to their words, the Sisterhood of The Third—as Elizabeth had suggested they call themselves, because battle troops perform better if they have a solid group identity—stayed close to Nick most of the night, cutting Celia off at every turn.
They danced with him, one after the other. They surrounded him as he ate. They walked together as a group to the sea cliff to watch the moon rise over the horizon.
It was, in Isobel’s opinion, thoroughly annoying.
Not that she didn’t sincerely enjoy these ladies—they were funny and clever and witty and none of them appeared to have set her sights on Nick. But she had really hoped to have some private time with him.
It became clear he had the same thoughts when, there in the dark, as the others oohed and aahed over the fullness of the moon, his hand grazed hers.
Simply grazed it, but lord, what a conflagration that one touch provoked. Her breath caught, her skin prickled, and heat rose within her.
She glanced at him—couldn’t help herself—and found him looking at her, a question of a smile on his face.
Could she?
Should she?
Dare she?
Aye. Given his hopeful expression, she could. She dared.
Slyly, surreptitiously, she stepped a tad closer and took his hand in hers.
Ah, it was warm and large and . . . he squeezed, just ever so slightly. And then, he stroked her with his thumb.
It was secretive caress, hidden in the shadows, there in the folds of her skirt, but it spoke volumes.
They stood, in silent reflection, watching the moon move across the sky and dance over the sea, touching. It was an exquisite moment.
One that ended too soon.
“Well, there you are!” Declan’s voice boomed, catching them off guard and shattering the peace.
Isobel released Nick’s hand. When he frowned at her, she lifted a silent brow as if to say, What am I to do?
Declan gave them little time to finish this unspoken conversation. He pushed between them and clapped his arms around their shoulders . . . which was decidedly too familiar.
Isobel scowled at him and he smirked.
“I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me,” he said to the company.
“’Tis not you we’re avoiding,” Sorcha said sweetly.
“Ah. Yes. But still. Come back to the party. They’re about to start dancing again and I doona believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
Elizabeth sniffed. “You’re far too old for me, Declan.”
He clutched at his chest, as he was wont to do. “You slay me, Miss Pennington.” He turned to Ellie. “How about you, Lady Eloise?”
She chuckled. “You’re far too charming for me, Declan.”
“Would you like me to be more broody?”
“Some ladies prefer their Scots broody,” Catriona said, which caught Declan’s attention.
“Really?” He waggled his brows in a decidedly un-broody fashion. “Come along then, Lady Catriona. Come dance a reel with me, lass. I promise to be broody.”
Cat blew out a breath and pretended extreme reluctance, but Isobel could tell she was delighted at the invitation.
“Do go,” she urged her friend.
“Do,” Sorcha said. “The four of us can protect Edward.”
“Protect Edward?” Declan barked a laugh. “Viscount Stirling? With an assemblage of female guardians?”
“A phalanx, if you please,” Elizabeth said.
“Ah. Yes. Of course. Poor Edward does need protecting.”
“He most certainly does,” Ellie said.
Sorcha leaned in and hissed, “Celia Swofford is on the hunt.”
Declan shuddered. “Ah yes. I see. Perhaps you are right.”
“We most certainly are,” Elizabeth said militantly.
“Well, I shall leave you to it then. Ladies.” He bowed and, still chuckling, Declan took Catriona’s arm and led her back down the path toward the party.
“We should go back, too,” Isobel said. Now that the moon had risen, there was nothing else to see. The moment had been lost.
“Indeed,” Nick said, and he hooked his arm in hers.
Sorcha, Ellie, and Elizabeth walked ahead of them on the path, chattering among themselves, and Nick slowed his pace until the distance between them grew. While they could still see their forms, they were far enough away that a private conversation could be had.
“I do appreciate what they are doing,” he said; she heard the but in his tone.
“They are worried about you.”
“And I appreciate it. But what I really want . . .”
He paused and her heart thrummed.
“What I really want is to be alone with you. And I canna manage that with them flittering about.”
“I do love when you speak in a brogue,” she felt obliged to mention.
“Do you?” He looked at her, his face kissed by the light of the moon. Somehow, he was more handsome than ever. She could barely restrain herself, but she had to. They were coming close to the party and it wouldn’t do to be seen leaping upon his person.
“Aye,” she said softly.
He stared at her face and then groaned. “We have to find a place to be alone.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“Wise?” He huffed a laugh. “Not in the least, but I’m reaching the end of my leash.”
“Oh, really?” She chuckled. “Are you a beast then? To be kept in chains?”
“It feels like it sometimes. When I canna touch you, or kiss you. When I have to watch you from afar.”
She tugged his arm closer. “I feel the same. Especially when you speak in a brogue.”
“We have to find a place to be alone.” She was delighted by the desperation in his tone. But then, to her surpri
se, he led her to the left, away from the party and into the backside of the garden, where he tugged her behind a providential bush.
“Finally,” he gusted, and then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was quick and hot and utterly delicious and it left Isobel shaking. “I’ve been dying to do that.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and stepped closer. “Have you?”
“Ach, doona start teasing me now, lass. I can barely restrain myself as it is.”
His brogue made her shudder. “I do love it when you talk like a real man.”
He pulled back a bit and stared at her face. “A real man, is it?”
“Och, aye.” She went up on her toes and sucked his lush lower lip into her mouth. She knew she was teasing him, but she was teasing herself as well.
His response was to nest his face in the crux of her neck and nibble at the tender flesh there until she was a quivering flan.
“We have to do something about that army of Elizabeth’s,” he groaned into her ear.
“They only want to protect you.”
“Aye, but they are protecting me from you as well.”
She pulled back and smiled winningly. “Am I a threat?”
He chuckled. “More than you know.”
For which she socked him. Only gently on the shoulder. Only enough to let him know she didn’t appreciate being categorized with the likes of Celia Swofford.
“Perhaps it is better if we canna be alone,” he said.
That he said it in his deep brogue provoked her. “Aye. I believe you’re right.”
He frowned at her. “What are you saying?”
“I’m merely agreeing with you.”
“It was a stupid comment.”
“It was your comment.”
“Surely you know I dinna mean it.”
“So you want to be alone with me?” She turned her head to the shadows so he couldn’t see her smile.
“Of course I do.”
“Well then, when faced with a military campaign, one must wage war.”
He stilled. Stared at her. Then chuckled. “You are wise.”
“And never forget, you have one of the enemy’s agents right here in your camp.”
“What are you suggesting, Isobel?”
“I’m suggesting that, since I know their plan of action, we should be able to thwart them.”