Page 48 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

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.