Page 122 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

She had to return to Scotland.

Before anyone else found out.

Executing her escape was tricky, because the family was supposed to attend supper at the Tullys’ and a ball later that evening. Fortunately, as Isobel had been feeling ill, this worked as an effective excuse to cry off.

Catriona wanted to remain home with her, but Isobel shooed her away, assuring everyone that she would be fine if only she had a little more rest.

She had been practicing her note to Nick, so she was ready to write it, though it was more difficult than she expected—all of this was. She gave the note to a footman with orders to deliver it the next morning, and waited for everyone to leave. She watched the carriages trundle off; then, with a small valise holding a change of clothes, and a pocket full of traveling money, she slipped out of the house through the mews. She walked to the next square and hailed a hansom cab to take her to the Bull and Mouth Inn on St. Martin’s le Grand, where she could catch the night mail coach for the north.

And that easily, she was gone.

Her heart hardly broke at all.

* * *

A note was waiting for Nick when he arrived home that night, after a miserable soiree—without Isobel who, her mother said, was feeling under the weather. Had he known she wouldn’t be there, he would not have gone. As it was, he left the party after only an hour.

He almost didn’t open the missive, but by the grace of God, he did.

As he read it, a cold finger traced his spine.

He’d known this was coming, but had not expected it so soon.

Nick,

This has been wonderful, but now I must leave. You know why.

I hope you have a happy life.

Always,

Isobel

The second to the last word hurt the most.

Always.

It wasn’t like her to lie.

He contemplated—for a second or two—curling up in a bottle of whisky and drowning his sorrows, but then some rare kind of fury took him. He could not let her do this, not without facing him. Not without at least saying good-bye.

And then another thought percolated his grief-sodden brain. Horror swept through him in a cold haze. She was out there. By herself. In the middle of the night.

It was exceedingly dangerous for a young girl to travel by herself, even if she took a Royal Mail coach. It was a long journey to Scotland. Anything could happen.

He had to go after her, whether she wanted him to or not.

With the decision made, he drew in a deep breath and a certain, dizzying calm descended.

Yes. He would go after her and bring her back or, barring that, go with her in Scotland and hound her until she agreed they could not live apart. Whether they married or not.

And he didn’t care how long it took, didn’t care what it took. His life was an empty shell without her. The future was a long and desolate road without her in it.

In a rush, he rode over to Sinclair House, to notify her family, but found only Lady Esmeralda in residence; the others were still at the soiree, unaware of the disaster that had befallen them.

He burst past the butler into the library and blurted, “It’s Isobel. She’s gone.”

The old lady blinked. “What do you mean, she’s gone?”