Page 52 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“I should pay her a call as well,” Penny said.

While irritation swelled in Nick’s gut, something even more heinous caught his attention.

Tully’s frown.

The fact that he didn’t want Penny calling on Isobel spoke volumes.

Tully wanted her for himself.

That was not going to happen. By God. If his friends were calling on Isobel Lochlannach tomorrow, he would be there first.

* * *

Isobel didn’t sleep a wink.

How could she, battered in turns by scorching humiliation and boiling fury?

Oh, and then there was the heartbreak, but it was so tangled up with the other emotions, it was easy to ignore.

How could he have done that? Lied to her? Toyed with her? And then shown up with a smile on his arrogant face, expecting her to simply accept his perfidy?

When she thought of it, she went hot, then cold. Sweat beaded on her brow. Her pulse thrummed.

Aye. Who could sleep? In misery, she fretted until dawn crept over her windowsill, and then some.

She shuddered when she remembered her little speech about the prancing lords of London. He could have told her then. He should have.

But he hadn’t.

And then . . . he’d kissed her.

Kissed her knowing he was just such a lord.

He’d probably laughed at her.

He undoubtedly had.

Probably told all his friends about the stupid, simple Scottish girl he’d seduced.

Och, it was untenable.

Absolutely untenable.

If she ever saw him again, she should shoot him in the arse. It was a damn shame Mama had made her leave her bow at home. Surely they had bows in London? Maybe she could find one.

Her bloodthirsty fantasies were shattered when her bedroom door burst open and an army of dark-hearted hellions flooded in, caterwauling at the top of their lungs. “Wake up, sleepyhead!” they bellowed, and before Isobel had time to steel herself, they launched themselves onto her bed and began to bounce.

The Lachlans were the worst. Aged five and six, respectively, they could only be told apart by the color of their hair. Isobel’s brother was a white-blond, as she was, but her cousin, Hannah’s son, had the jet-black hair of his father. The other beasts included Hannah’s twins, Alex and Alexia, who were ten; their brother, baby Andrew, who was four; Lana’s William, who was nine; and his sister Lileas, who was five and followed her brother’s every move as though he were the second coming. And then, of course, there were her own brothers. She was unsure why her mother had refused to give her a sister, but she had. It had been an unending parade of boys, ever since her parents had reunited and married. There was Andrew, Alexander, the aforementioned Lachlan, and of course Magnus, not even two and just finding his way in the annoying of his sister.

Since the troupe had arrived in London, they’d discovered great joy in descending upon her early in the morning.

Apparently, they were bored.

“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up,” Lileas chanted in time with her bounces.

Isobel caught her and pulled her down, then tickled her until she squealed. “Do you have any idea how late I was up last night?” she growled.

None of them took her seriously, which was a good thing, because she was only playing.