Page 90 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Celia’s lovely nostrils flared in a display of shock—also very much like her mother’s. “Honestly, Stirling. What would your friends in London say?”

Nick shrugged. “I honestly canna say I care.” Was it wrong of him to emphasize his brogue so? Probably not, when Isobel choked on a laugh.

“Well, I never,” Celia huffed, and to his unending delight, she turned tail and marched away.

“Good riddance,” Sorcha said beneath her breath.

Ellie snorted. “Imagine, coming uninvited and having the gall to criticize the hostess?”

“Well, I must say, thank you for protecting me,” he said to his sister. He would have tousled her hair, but if he touched that elaborate thing on her head, she would probably flatten him.

She smiled at him. “We’ve made an oath, the five of us.”

Nick blinked. “An . . . oath?”

“Aye,” Isobel said with a smile that warmed the cockles of his . . . something. “To save you from her.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Whenever she gets too close, we shall swoop in and save you.”

“You can count on us to have your back,” Ellie added.

He bowed. “I certainly appreciate it. Especially from you two.” He nodded at Ellie Tully and Elizabeth Pennington. “Your brothers promised to do the same and where are they now?”

“I daresay they are hiding behind the spirits table,” Elizabeth said with a smirk. “But you should have known better than to count on them for a campaign so vital to your future.”

“Indeed, I should have.”

“When it comes to the sticking point, you must realize it is every man for himself.”

“Women, however,” Ellie said, “are much more generous.”

“And brave,” Sorcha added.

Isobel chuckled. “And willing to go for the jugular.”

Her smile engendered his. “And that is why I adore you,” he said to all of them in general.

And one of them in particular.

Chapter Seventeen

True to their words, the Sisterhood of The Third—as Elizabeth had suggested they call themselves, because battle troops perform better if they have a solid group identity—stayed close to Nick most of the night, cutting Celia off at every turn.

They danced with him, one after the other. They surrounded him as he ate. They walked together as a group to the sea cliff to watch the moon rise over the horizon.

It was, in Isobel’s opinion, thoroughly annoying.

Not that she didn’t sincerely enjoy these ladies—they were funny and clever and witty and none of them appeared to have set her sights on Nick. But she had really hoped to have some private time with him.

It became clear he had the same thoughts when, there in the dark, as the others oohed and aahed over the fullness of the moon, his hand grazed hers.

Simply grazed it, but lord, what a conflagration that one touch provoked. Her breath caught, her skin prickled, and heat rose within her.

She glanced at him—couldn’t help herself—and found him looking at her, a question of a smile on his face.

Could she?

Should she?