What a Highlander's Got to Do Read online

  And then, when he’d saved her—and she’d plowed her elbow into his gut, so close to other tender parts—he’d been stunned. But not as stunned as he’d been when he stood and saw her full-on for the first time.

  An odd recognition had flooded him. It was as though he’d known her somehow, though they’d never met.

  It was as though he knew her.

  Her bold demeanor, her fearlessness, the humor hiding in her eyes.

  And then she’d spoken and stunned him again.

  She was a Scots lass. Here. In Newcastle.

  And his certainty grew.

  Oh, he’d wanted her, but he’d been happy to play her game. Until . . . she’d run again. And urged him to pursue.

  As thrilling as that had all been, it was nothing to this.

  This kiss.

  He threaded his fingers through her hair and held her still as he nudged his tongue into her mouth, promising another invasion, one he ached for. When she closed her lips on him and sucked, he nearly swooned.

  Hardly a manly thing to do. Especially on a horse. But all the blood left his brain and shot downward.

  He groaned in agony and delight.

  “You are a wild lass, aren’t you?” he murmured against her lips.

  “Aye. I am.” She stroked the skin at his nape, as though she couldn’t get enough, and a shiver shot through him.

  “We should get off the horse,” he suggested, wishing he’d brought a blanket. Yet how could he have known he’d find her on his ride? How could he have ever expected that such a perfect collection of womanhood would appear before him today?

  The accent that made him weak at the knees, the alabaster skin he craved to caress, the long, luscious white-blond locks flowing wild and free over her shoulders. Her laugh. Her smile. Her kiss . . . It was . . .

  A nudge came to his side. One that nearly toppled them both.

  She laughed and turned to pat her stallion, who, apparently, was feeling left out. “I should be going,” she said and then—horror of horrors—she slipped from his arms to the ground.

  “What?” He gaped at her. “We were . . . just getting started.” Surely he didn’t sound like a petulant child. Or perhaps he did.

  She studied him for a moment and then gave some secret smile, the kind of smile women were so good at that left men befuddled. “It was a lovely kiss, do you no’ think?” she asked, taking the reins of her stallion.

  “Yes,” he sputtered. “Very nice.” He should like some more, please.

  “Surely nice enough to serve as your reward, then?”

  Blast. She’d gotten him there.

  “But . . .” What? Anything to keep her here. If only for a moment.

  “But, what?” In a fluid motion, she mounted, making him envy her horse.

  “I, ah. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Nor I, yours.” It was a teasing comment. A question that was not one.

  “Nick. Nicholas. And yours?”

  She smiled, sending warmth sluicing through him. “Nick. Thank you for saving me,” she said. And then, without hesitation, she turned and started down the road.

  His heart sank. He had no idea why.

  But then she paused and glanced over her shoulder and nibbled on her lip for a moment before she said in a shy little voice, “I might come riding here tomorrow.”

  And suddenly the sun burst through the clouds, shone down on her in a panoply of glory.

  Tomorrow.

  She might come riding tomorrow.

  It was enough to send a curious elation through his soul.

  It distracted him enough that he didn’t realize, until she was out of sight, that she hadn’t given him her name.

  His lips curled into a slow grin.

  No worries.

  There was always tomorrow.

  And tomorrow, there would be a blanket.

  And perhaps some wine.

  * * *

  Nick rode back to the estate slowly, languidly, reliving each moment with his mystery woman. He knew little to nothing about her, except that she was Scottish.

  Based on her dress, it was unlikely she was from a wealthy family. A maid, perhaps? But a maid with permission to ride the lord’s stallion?

  He hadn’t heard of anyone in this region taking a Scots maid of late. Being so close to the border, he found, there was an ages-old prejudice against Highlanders.

  Hell, his mother had experienced it quite thoroughly when she’d first come to England. Because of his mother’s experiences and his own Scots ancestry, Nick had little patience for Englishmen who felt they were superior to their northern brethren.

  He had, more than once, come to blows with one or two of them, and trounced them utterly.

  It was a pleasant memory.

  As was she.

  But who was she?

  Though the question burned at him, he had to set it aside.

  He would find out tomorrow.

  He hoped.

  As he rode into the yard at the Swofford estate, he waved at Desmond, the stable master, who tugged his forelock.

  “Did you have a good ride, my lord?” he asked deferentially.

  Nick disliked being treated deferentially, especially by someone as important as the man who took such good care of the cattle, but he understood that Lady Swofford insisted upon it.

  “I did, my man,” he said, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. “An excellent ride.”

  “Very good, my lord,” he said, eyes down.

  “I’ll be riding again tomorrow,” he said. “Same time?”

  “Excellent, my lord.”

  “I say, do you know if William is back?” His friend had gone into town to visit a bird he kept in a feathered nest. He’d told his mother he was going to view a horse he was considering, but everyone—other than her—knew his true plans. William had many birds in feathered nests.

  Were she to discover the fact that her son was spilling his seed before swine—as she put it—no doubt Lady Swofford would have a fit of the vapors. As entertaining as that might be to witness, William was Nick’s friend, so he did what he could to keep the secret.

  “Aye, my lord. His Lordship has returned.”

  “Excellent.” After the afternoon he’d had, he fancied a good game of billiards, whisky, and cheroots.

  What a pity he was not more careful as he came into the house. He’d brushed the mud from his boots in the stable, but he had not taken the care to peer into the drawing room window to be sure it was safe before he entered the foyer of the grand mansion.

  Therefore, he was easily snared.

  “There you are,” she bellowed as she caught sight of him.

  He tried not to wince. She’d gone on “calls.” He had expected her to be away at least until the evening meal.

  “Come and join us.” A staccato command.

  Could he pretend he hadn’t heard and continue on to his room? How rude would that be?

  Very.

  Besides, a man would have to be stone deaf not to hear her strident tones.

  No wonder Lord Swofford so often cupped his ear and said, “Eh?”

  “Do join us.” William’s voice joined his mother’s. It had a hint of panic in it.

  With a sigh, Nick affixed a smile on his face and turned into the parlor, trying not to wince again when he saw Lady Celia seated next to her mother with a simper on her exquisite face.

  Celia Swofford was lovely, no doubt about it, but she was the perfect example of how looks weren’t everything. She was much like her mother, in that she had Lady Swofford’s commanding mannerisms, a hint of a mean streak in her, and no sense of humor to speak of.

  Beyond that, her voice had the aspect of two stones grinding together, and when she sang—well, that did not bear reflecting on.

  Perhaps the worst thing of all was the fact that Celia Swofford imagined herself in love. With him.

  He was certain it wasn’t love of his mind or soul—for she’d never bothered to divine eith
er. It was, most likely, the title.

  Or, to be more precise, the title to come.

  Some women were like that, he knew. Some would do anything to land a lord.

  His good friend Stephen Pembergrast had been ensnared against his will by a scheming debutante who had fallen into his arms in an unprotected moment and claimed he’d defiled her. They’d been forced to marry, but the wedding feast had been more like a wake for Stephen and his friends.

  Such a prospect caused horror and trepidation among his set, and made them more cautious than they otherwise might be.

  However, with Celia, one could not be cautious enough. She was not the kind of woman Nicholas Wyeth wanted to spend his life with. He wanted . . .

  For a moment, his mind flew back to the warm memory of a woman in his arms, laughing and kissing him at the same time. A woman with a delightful wiggle and a mind-bending ability to suck on a tongue. And the exasperating habit of running from him.

  A pity she was a maid.

  As egalitarian as his mother was, she would, no doubt, draw the line at a maid who kissed so . . . expertly.

  And what a horrid thought that was.

  How many men had she kissed to become so experienced?

  “I say, Stirling. Are you listening?”

  The combination of his title and Lady Swofford’s stentorian tones pulled him from his moldy thoughts.

  “Excuse me, Lady Swofford?”

  William laughed. “I daresay he was not listening, Mother.”

  For this William earned a glower. He seemed decidedly unperturbed.

  “Of course he was listening,” Celia insisted, flittering her eyelashes at him as though to say, See. I have defended you.

  Egads. He did not wish to be in her debt.

  “Do sit,” the Grande Dame commanded, and then, when he did, she waved her hand before her nose and made a moue. “Is that dust?” This, she asked as though it were shite, there on her divan.

  “I’ve been riding,” he said. The easiest answer by far. Though he would have loved to see her expression had he said it was shite. William had promised him a nice, quiet hunting trip. His mother and sister would be in York, he said. We’ll be alone, he said. It had been untrue. All of it.

  They’d had less than a day of peace before Lady Swofford and Lady Celia had descended. And then, what had William done? Flown the coop for a feathered nest. As often as he could manage it. He shot a frown at William for that, but his friend merely grinned.

  “I don’t see why you have to dress like that,” Lady Swofford said, curling her nose as though he had indeed said shite.

  “It’s more comfortable, Mother,” William said.

  “He’s a viscount. He should dress like one.”

  “Can a viscount not be comfortable?”

  Honestly. Nick wasn’t sure why he was in this room, if the conversation could be had without him.

  “It’s unseemly.”

  “Mother, we are on holiday.”

  “One is never on holiday from one’s station.”

  “I think he looks handsome like that.” This from Celia, in something of a gush with more fluttering lashes. She completely ignored her mother’s horrified expression.

  “What would the duchess say?” Lady Swofford peered at him like a bird, blinking in rapid succession.

  Clearly the good woman had never met Nick’s mother. Duchess or not, she’d been known to garden barefoot, simply because she liked the feel of the dew on her toes. In fact, his riding attire would have been the last complaint on her list.

  And she did have a list.

  The topmost item was the fact that he was past twenty and showing no visible signs of settling down.

  In short, she wanted grandchildren.

  He flicked a glance at Celia and then looked away quickly. It wouldn’t do to encourage her. The Season was coming, and Celia had made no secret of the fact that she intended to pursue him through the hallowed halls of Almack’s.

  A fate he vowed to avoid like the plague.

  “Ah. Cleary,” Her Ladyship crowed at the butler as he trundled into the room with the tea tray.

  Nick blew out a sigh of relief. Not that he’d been craving tea, not in the least, but this promised to shift the topic from him to something else. Something he could, perchance, ignore.

  “Mother,” William said on a chuckle. “I thought you had tea at the Willoubys’.”

  She sniffed and waved her handkerchief before her patrician nose. “I most certainly did, but I could hardly enjoy it, with that hanging over my head.”

  “That?” Celia asked, taking a cup from her mother and passing it to William who, in turn, passed it to Nick.

  “And then, if you can imagine, she never turned up. What with all of us waiting to see her.”

  “How rude.” William again. He winked at Nick. It was clear he was used to such verbal fencing. Well versed in the art of keeping the conversation afloat without actually saying anything.

  “She never turned up?” Celia asked, passing the cakes ’round with a demure smile. Illustrating, no doubt, what an excellent hostess she would be one day.

  “Never did.” Lady Swofford huffed. “Such a disappointment. I so wanted to take her measure.”

  “Of course you did, Mother.”

  It was something at which Lady Swofford excelled, after all.

  “Who is she?” Nick asked, though it was immediately clear he should not have. He should just have let the topic die an agonizing death right there on the floor of the drawing room.

  Lady Swofford blanched. She reared back. Her nostrils flared, giving Nick a startling view of her dark and dusky caverns, speckled with nose hairs.

  “Who is she? Who is she?”

  Celia leaned forward, offering him the sugar . . . and a providential view of her bosom. “She is the Lochlannach lass.”

  His ears perked right up at that. A Scottish lass who had not turned up this afternoon for tea? Intriguing.

  “I heard she is quite lovely,” William said, adjusting his cuffs. He was so engaged, he missed Nick’s frown.

  “She is not,” his mother spat. “She’s a Scot.”

  “That hardly signifies,” William responded. “A lovely woman is a lovely woman.”

  A sizzle of vexation shot down Nick’s spine at his expression. William was known to pursue anything in a skirt. He did not want his friend setting his sights on any Scots lass in the area. He might have to kill him.

  “Please.” Lady Swofford shot a sizzling glower at her firstborn. “My son will not have anything to do with her. I forbid it.”

  “Really?” William leaned closer. “You’re making her so much more tantalizing. Perhaps I should ride over to the Willoubys and pay my respects.” As his mother sputtered, he added, “It’s the polite thing to do.”

  “Mother, I suggest you not forbid him,” Celia said. It was probably the most salient comment she’d made today. Or ever.

  Lady Swofford composed herself and took a sip of her tea. “It hardly matters. She’s leaving soon.”

  Nick’s gut clenched. “Is she?” he asked, trying to be as casual as possible.

  “As soon as her parents return from Haltwhistle. And of course, when the rest of them arrive.” Her tone implied that the rest of them were a pack of rats carrying the plague.

  “Who are the rest of them?” Thank heaven William asked because while Nick had wanted to, he somehow knew it wasn’t wise.

  Lady Swofford fell back on the pillows of her divan, as though in despair. “Oh, lord.”

  “Caithness, for one,” Celia offered.

  “The duke?” Nick asked. He’d heard of the Highland laird who had cheated death and saved his county from the dreaded Clearances. Everyone had. He was practically legend.

  Celia nodded. “And one of his barons.” She turned to her mother. “Which one?”

  “It hardly matters. They’re all savages.”

  “Dunnet, probably,” William put in. “He’s a Lochlannach
.”

  “Her father?” Nick asked, though it earned him a glare from Lady Swofford. He hardly cared. If she was a baron’s daughter, she wasn’t a maid. And that blew all his plans to hell. He knew better than to seduce a lady. It would be akin to a fly walking into the spider’s trap.

  “He’s her uncle,” Celia said. For someone who wasn’t in the least interested in Highlanders, she certainly knew a lot of details.

  “Ah.” Close enough. “And what is her name?” This beautiful girl who didn’t turn up for tea? He knew he should not ask, but he had to. He had to know.

  “Her name?”

  Lady Swofford and her daughter stared at each other for a moment, befuddled. “Her name?”

  “Other than the Lochlannach lass,” William said helpfully.

  Lady Swofford shook her head. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t Lady Willouby mention it?” Irritation prickled at Nick’s nape. He wanted to know. Needed to know what to call her in his mind between now and tomorrow, in the deep dark shadows of the night.

  “I’m sure she did, but I cannot recall. It’s not as though it matters.”

  Oh, it did.

  Well, really. What good were any of them to him?

  He stayed in the parlor as long has he had to without being rude. Then he excused himself, retired to his room, and stayed there all night.

  He refused to admit he was pouting.

  But he was.

  Chapter Three

  Isobel thought about him all night. Dreamed about him, perhaps. Her stable hand farmer’s son.

  And she came to a conclusion.

  She didn’t much care who he was.

  Even if he had been a highwayman, she would have been enamored.

  Having been raised in Scotland, she was hardly a frail English lass, the kind he was probably used to. She wasn’t an innocent, either. She’d kissed more than one boy—though to be honest, she hadn’t really liked it much.

  She’d not liked it so much, she’d decided that all this folderol about love and passion was just nonsense, that she didn’t need any of it and she didn’t need a man.

  But Nick . . .

  Nick made her rethink everything.

  Not that she was in love with him. She most certainly was not.

  Not that she needed him. She did not.