Page 58 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“The Hellions?” Tully asked.

Which was probably why Isobel answered. No doubt she would not have answered Nick if he’d asked. “The little Lochlannachs and Sinclairs. My cousins and, I am bereft to admit, my siblings. They’ve taken over the gardens.”

“It was considered best—for everyone, and for the house itself—that they play outside,” Catriona said. “They are quite savage.”

Nick chuckled. He’d been raised by hellions—his uncles, the notorious Wyeths, were known for raising hell and damnation. Maybe this would be an interesting morning after all.

* * *

But oh.

He was not prepared. Not in the least.

Chapter Eleven

The danger was not evident at first. They entered the garden to find a perfectly lovely spring day and well-kept grounds filled with blooming flowers, buzzing bees, and even a bunny or two.

But as they made their way deeper into the trees along the crushed rock path, something began to feel . . . off.

The air was far too still, as though someone were holding their breath. There was a strange tremble in Nick’s veins, as though he were being watched.

The hairs on his nape prickled.

He glanced around warily.

His attention stilled on a figure, high in the boughs of an elm. He was certain it was a girl, but she wore breeks and carried—of all things—a bow and arrow.

In his shock, he tripped on a hummock, but apparently he jumped the gun in being shocked by that, for a second later a high-pitched scream ripped through the tranquility of the garden.

“Attack!”

Before he had time to react, his party was showered with what appeared to be apples and nuts, speckled with the occasional—and thank God, poorly aimed—arrow.

“Ye gods!” Tully covered his head and ran for the protection of a nearby bush. In his rush to escape, he was nearly skewered.

Penny took off in the other direction, leaving Nick alone to protect the women.

Bravely, he put his body between them and this threat.

It was lowering, when the attack abated, to realize that neither Catriona nor Isobel had felt the need for protection in the slightest. In fact, Isobel pushed him out of the way as she marched toward one of the higher trees.

Sorcha, sensing his disgruntlement, as only a sister could do, patted him on the shoulder. “Nice try,” she whispered, and then she joined Isobel at the base of the tree, where the Scots lass stood, arms akimbo, glaring up into the boughs.

“Come down immediately,” she barked.

“Aww . . .” A chorus of discontent dribbled down upon them.

“Now.”

Damn. That thread of command in her tone was a little scary.

But it worked.

One by one, six boys of varying ages and coloring, along with the one girl Nick had previously spied, made their way to the ground.

They tried to look repentant, but most of them failed.

The older ones all had bows, which Isobel quickly appropriated. “Where on earth did you find these?”