Page 7 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

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.”