Page 118 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Judging from William’s expression and Isobel’s high dudgeon, he had.

He’d kill William if he hurt her.

He caught up with Isobel, took her arm, and led her into the rose garden. She allowed it, but he could tell it was only because she was too furious to speak.

“What did he say?”

She stopped short and rounded on him. Her breast rose and fell for a moment as she struggled to reclaim herself.

“Isobel. What did he say?”

That she smiled, cold and tight, horrified him. “Nothing really. Only that you are only marrying me because of the scandal. And that everyone knows what I really am.”

“What you really are?” The words clogged his throat.

“Well, he dinna say, but his tone implied a Scottish whore.”

Nick set his teeth. His pulse pounded. His fingers, tight in fists, ached. “What? I’ll fucking kill him.”

Her frightening smile widened. “No need.”

Nick blinked. “What do you mean, no need?” Of course there was a need. She was his woman. He would defend her. To the death of necessary.

“He won’t be bothering me anymore.”

“I . . . What? Why?”

“I showed him what I really am. A savage Scots lass, of course.”

“You didn’t . . . wound him, did you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Would you care if I did?”

“I . . . No. Not really.” Not if he said those things to her.

“Well, I didn’t wound him.” She sighed dramatically. “You have no idea what it cost me to show such restraint.”

He didn’t know why, but he laughed. Probably her maudlin tone. He pulled her into a hug. “Ach, Isobel. I do love you. You would make a tremendous duchess.”

She allowed him to hold her but then she eased away and confessed ruefully—or not so ruefully—“I did, however, issue a warning.”

“A warning?”

“It might have involved detached body parts and rusty knives.”

He laughed again, with unbridled delight.

Because she was his Isobel. And she was fierce and beautiful and utterly Scottish.

And he loved her with all his heart.

Chapter Twenty-Three

That night, Isobel couldn’t sleep. It had nothing to do with guilt or anger or missing Nick’s touch. It was her stomach again.

Not wanting to call a maid, she pulled on her wrapper and headed downstairs in search of some tea. As she passed the small library on the second floor, she saw a light and poked her head in.

“Oh, good. Company. Do come in.” Aunt Esmeralda sat by the fire, pretending to do needlepoint, but judging from the mangle of her sampler, she wasn’t pretending very hard.