Page 89 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

He shot a glare at William, who shrugged. And then—cowards that they were—all his friends and cousins slithered away.

Damn and blast.

“My.” Celia surveyed him up and down. Her nose curled when she got to his bare legs. “Don’t you look . . . festive.”

He bowed, as protocol demanded. “Lady Celia. A cèilidh is a festive occasion.”

“I’m sure it must be.” Her smile was sincere, but the emotion behind it was forced. “How . . . charming that your mother has given you the opportunity to play at being Scottish.”

He frowned. “I am Scottish.” Half at least.

Celia raised a brow, making her appear very much like her mother. “How fortuitous it is only half,” she whispered.

“Oh, Edward!” a cheerful voice wafted to him, shattering the cocoon Celia had been trying to weave around them. Thank God. Sorcha was here to save him. He owed her for this . . .

But then he realized he was surrounded by not just Sorcha and Ellie and Elizabeth, but Catriona and Isobel as well. “Ladies,” he said with a—very—sincere smile of thanks. “Don’t you look lovely?”

“Ah, ah, ah, Edward,” Sorcha said teasingly. “Tonight you must speak with a brogue. This is a cèilidh, after all.”

“Och, aye,” he said. “I willna forget.”

He couldn’t help noticing the curl of Celia’s nose and the parting of Isobel’s lips at his speech.

He noticed the latter a bit more than the former. She obviously liked a brogue on him. Declan had suggested as much while he’d helped him dress, but Nick hadn’t given the suggestion much merit. Until now.

Aside from which, anything that would repulse Celia was seemed like a good idea.

“So, are you enjoying Mother’s party?” he asked all of them in general and Isobel in particular.

“It is . . . rustic, isn’t it?” Celia responded. Ironic, that, because she was the only one he decidedly had not asked.

“Rustic?” Catriona crossed her arms a trifle offensively, and the others bristled.

“You know.” Celia tittered. She waved her hand in the general direction of the company.

“I’m afraid I doona,” Isobel said between her teeth. “Perhaps you could enlighten us?”

Celia, oblivious of any offense, did just so. “Have you visited the food tables? I’ve never seen a selection of such . . . primitive offerings.”

Isobel blinked. “Primitive?”

“Yes indeed. Did you know there is one dish that is made in a sheep’s stomach?”

Catriona opened her eyes wide. “No!” she gusted.

Celia completely missed her sarcasm. “Indeed. In a sheep’s stomach. How revolting. In fact, this entire display is crude beyond belief.” She leaned in and whispered, “It’s shocking to see so many bare thighs, don’t you think?”

“I rather like seeing them,” Catriona said.

Isobel nodded. Her grin was feral. “Much better than the padded cods one sees in London, wouldn’t you say?”

Nick couldn’t help but laugh.

Celia reared back and gaped at him, her eyes wide. “Surely you do not approve of this nonsense?”

It was only right to be honest, wasn’t it? “Of course I approve. My mother went to great lengths to make tonight as authentic as possible. I think she hit the mark. Don’t you?” he asked Isobel.

She nodded. “She did indeed.”