Page 88 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

“Why would she do that?” Catriona asked, but Isobel knew the answer.

“If they were caught, he’d be forced to marry her.”

Sorcha met her dark glower with one of her own. “I can’t conscience my brother being forced into anything, much less marriage to a woman who would stoop so low. I’m worried she’ll try something like that again. Here.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Ellie said. “Edward deserves so much better than that.”

“We should protect him,” Elizabeth suggested. “Form a phalanx around him as they did in Roman times. She shall not penetrate our shields!”

Sorcha grinned and said to Isobel, “Elizabeth loves to read histories.”

“Of wars,” Elizabeth clarified.

Ellie nodded. “She’s quite bloodthirsty.”

“If it helps protect my brother, I’m all for it,” Sorcha said. “I suggest we stick to him for the entire house party. If, perchance, Celia gets close to him, one or all of us must swoop in and intercede.”

“Spike her guns,” Elizabeth added.

“Brilliant idea,” Catriona said with a grin.

Isobel liked this idea, but for one small factor. If Nick was constantly surrounded by other women, there would, indeed, be no chance to be with him alone. Not that she wanted to . . . But judging from the disappointment that rippled through her at the thought, she had apparently wanted that every much.

Sorcha’s grin widened. “And speak of the devil . . .”

Isobel followed her gaze and froze.

Six handsome men—Declan, Robert, Penny, William, Tully, and Nick—had just arrived. Each was magnificently garbed in formal Highland dress, from tasseled wool socks right up to their jauntily cocked tams.

But only one of them made Isobel’s breath catch and her pulse thrum.

She stared at Nick, swallowing the drool in her mouth.

Oh, God. He’d been handsome in laborer’s clothing. He’d been striking dressed as a London lord. But like this . . .

Like this, he was irresistible.

Apparently, too irresistible.

Celia cut a swath through the crowd, headed for him like a moth to flame.

“En garde,” Elizabeth whispered, and, as one, they charged.

* * *

The first person Nick saw in the crowd was Isobel. She shone like a light in the darkness. She wore the Sinclair dress tartan that flowed from her hips in a lovely waterfall. Her hair was braided in an intricate crown around her head and, most important, she was looking at him, her eyes wide and shining with—dare he hope?—fascination.

His heart stuttered when she came toward him, as though in a dream.

He couldn’t stop his smile. He couldn’t help moving toward her as well.

But suddenly, something stood in his way. Something small and annoying and resolute.

“Viscount Stirling,” it said in an ingratiating tone.

It took a moment for him to rip his gaze from Isobel and focus on this intrusion. And a moment more to recognize the threat.

Celia Swofford.