Page 68 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“Edward!” the duchess called. “Where have you been? Our guests have arrived.”

From the doorway, he bowed. “My apologies. I’ve been out walking.”

“Do join us,” his mother commanded.

He gestured to his person and shook his head. “I’m not in appropriate attire, Mother.”

Isobel’s mother cleared her throat. “I do believe you said we are going to be casual this weekend,” she said to the duchess.

“So I did. Come in, darling, and have some food.”

“It does smell tempting.” He stepped into the room and set his walking cane against the table at the entry.

Isobel watched him as he filled his plate, soaking him in like a starving woman. She definitely was not starving, after this meal, but it appeared she had some kind of hunger left unfulfilled. It boiled low in her belly.

How was it that he could be even more fascinating in common clothes? Was it the fact that his neck, long and tanned and muscled, was visible in the vee of his undone shirt? She could see his veins gently pulsing there, and she longed to suck them. To taste his warm skin.

The thought shocked her. But only at first.

When he came to her side, gestured at the open seat on the divan, and said, “May I?” she could only nod her assent.

She was utterly speechless.

But it was even more profound when he did sit and his heat engulfed her. His heat, and that intriguing scent of musky man and outdoors and . . . Nick.

Her mind spun. She tried to focus on her plate, but struggled to do so.

How could a man, a mere man, have this effect on her? She was a logical girl. She was educated and independent and had never so much as lusted after a man—though she had kissed a few, just to see what it was like.

How could he have this effect on her?

It had to be chemistry. Something in her body that was reacting to something in his. Nothing more. Surely—

“You came.” His voice was pitched low, a sexy rumble meant only for her.

She cleared her throat. “Of course I came. I was invited.”

“I thought you might develop a megrim, or something.”

She whipped her head around and scowled at him. “I do no’ have megrims.”

He smiled. Some seductive quirk of his lips. “Good to know.”

Silence settled between them. She dealt with the discomfiture by reaching for another cake.

Again, it caught in her throat when he said, “I hope we will have time to speak . . . privately.”

Her stomach swirled alarmingly.

She set down the cake and affixed him with a prim glance. “Do we have something to talk about?”

“You know we do.”

Aye. They did.

What a horrifying thought.

She re-attended to her cake. “We will have several days,” she murmured.