Page 70 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

She smiled in a way that made his innards turn to jelly. “Why, nothing, Viscount Stirling,” she purred. “I was just imagining you in a kilt.”

Well, bloody hell. He wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight with the memory of that expression haunting him.

Not a wink at all.

* * *

Indeed, he could not sleep. Even though, after everyone had retired, he’d gone to the library to have a glass of whisky. He sat there, watching the fire die down long after the clock struck midnight.

If he was smart, he would enjoy this quiet time before the hordes descended for the house party. Even though they were all family friends, it could be trying to act as the host.

But there was little peace for him. Not this night.

Just knowing Isobel was in the house, upstairs, somewhere—in a bed—was driving him to drink. Literally.

What did she wear at nighttime? Was it a simple chemise or a lacy nightgown? Silks, perhaps? Ye gods. How he would love to dress her. Something frothy, perhaps? Or sheer?

Damnation. He needed to stop such speculation. He was making himself hard.

A sound at the door captured his attention, and he stilled.

Blast. He didn’t want company. Not tonight. He just wanted to sit and drink and stew.

But then the interloper stepped into the dim light of the fire, heading for the bookcases with a lamp in her hand, and his heart stilled.

A second later, it launched into a furious patter.

He cleared his throat, more to warn her of his presence than because of any lumps that may have arisen. Though they had.

She whirled around, her hair lifting in a silver cloud around her shoulders, catching the light with an iridescent glimmer. “Who’s there?” she called, pointing the lamp in his direction.

Because he was ensconced in the king’s chair, it did no good, so he leaned forward. “Just me,” he said on a whisper.

“What are you doing here?” Such an accusatory tone. He did live here after all.

“Waiting for you.”

This seemed to stun her. She lifted her hand to her breast and took a step back. “I . . . you . . . How did you know I’d come looking for a book?”

“A book?” He put out a lip. “I rather hoped you were looking for me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the middle of the night. How would I know you were here?” she asked in a belligerent tone, but she stepped closer as she did. Which had the effect of placing her—and her sheer nightgown—between him and the fire. Drool pooled in his mouth.

“I’ve been waiting awhile.”

She frowned. “You have no’.”

He gestured to the half-empty decanter.

“How was I to know you were waiting for me?” she sputtered.

“I did mention we needed to have a chat.”

She crossed her arms, which was glorious indeed. He ripped his gaze from her breasts and focused diligently on her face.

“You dinna mention it would be in the wee hours.”

“I beg your pardon, but I believe it was you who chose the wee hours. As I said, I’ve been here for some time.” It was probably wrong to vex her so, but if it resulted in a conversation with her, he was more than happy to do so. Aside from which, vexing her was entertaining indeed. He had no idea why. “Will you sit?”