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?

Dare she?

Aye. Given his hopeful expression, she could. She dared.

Slyly, surreptitiously, she stepped a tad closer and took his hand in hers.

Ah, it was warm and large and . . . he squeezed, just ever so slightly. And then, he stroked her with his thumb.

It was secretive caress, hidden in the shadows, there in the folds of her skirt, but it spoke volumes.

They stood, in silent reflection, watching the moon move across the sky and dance over the sea, touching. It was an exquisite moment.

One that ended too soon.

“Well, there you are!” Declan’s voice boomed, catching them off guard and shattering the peace.

Isobel released Nick’s hand. When he frowned at her, she lifted a silent brow as if to say, What am I to do?

Declan gave them little time to finish this unspoken conversation. He pushed between them and clapped his arms around their shoulders . . . which was decidedly too familiar.

Isobel scowled at him and he smirked.

“I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me,” he said to the company.

“’Tis not you we’re avoiding,” Sorcha said sweetly.

“Ah. Yes. But still. Come back to the party. They’re about to start dancing again and I doona believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

Elizabeth sniffed. “You’re far too old for me, Declan.”

He clutched at his chest, as he was wont to do. “You slay me, Miss Pennington.” He turned to Ellie. “How about you, Lady Eloise?”

She chuckled. “You’re far too charming for me, Declan.”

“Would you like me to be more broody?”

“Some ladies prefer their Scots broody,” Catriona said, which caught Declan’s attention.

“Really?” He waggled his brows in a decidedly un-broody fashion. “Come along then, Lady Catriona. Come dance a reel with me, lass. I promise to be broody.”

Cat blew out a breath and pretended extreme reluctance, but Isobel could tell she was delighted at the invitation.

“Do go,” she urged her friend.

“Do,” Sorcha said. “The four of us can protect Edward.”

“Protect Edward?” Declan barked a laugh. “Viscount Stirling? With an assemblage of female guardians?”

“A phalanx, if you please,” Elizabeth said.

“Ah. Yes. Of course. Poor Edward does need protecting.”

“He most certainly does,” Ellie said.

Sorcha leaned in and hissed, “Celia Swofford is on the hunt.”

Declan shuddered. “Ah yes. I see. Perhaps you are right.”

“We most certainly are,” Elizabeth said militantly.

“Well, I shall leave you to it then. Ladies.” He bowed and, still chuckling, Declan took Catriona’s arm and led her back down the path toward the party.

“We should go back, too,” Isobel said. Now that the moon had risen, there was nothing else to see. The moment had been lost.

“Indeed,” Nick said, and he hooked his arm in hers.

Sorcha, Ellie, and Elizabeth walked ahead of them on the path, chattering among themselves, and Nick slowed his pace until the distance between them grew. While they could still see their forms, they were far enough away that a private conversation could be had.

“I do appreciate what they are doing,” he said; she heard the but in his tone.

“They are worried about you.”

“And I appreciate it. But what I really want . . .”

He paused and her heart thrummed.

“What I really want is to be alone with you. And I canna manage that with them flittering about.”

“I do love when you speak in a brogue,” she felt obliged to mention.

“Do you?” He looked at her, his face kissed by the light of the moon. Somehow, he was more handsome than ever. She could barely restrain herself, but she had to. They were coming close to the party and it wouldn’t do to be seen leaping upon his person.

“Aye,” she said softly.

He stared at her face and then groaned. “We have to find a place to be alone.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“Wise?” He huffed a laugh. “Not in the least, but I’m reaching the end of my leash.”

“Oh, really?” She chuckled. “Are you a beast then? To be kept in chains?”

“It feels like it sometimes. When I canna touch you, or kiss you. When I have to watch you from afar.”

She tugged his arm closer. “I feel the same. Especially when you speak in a brogue.”

“We have to find a place to be alone.” She was delighted by the desperation in his tone. But then, to her surprise, he led her to the left, away from the party and into the backside of the garden, where he tugged her behind a providential bush.

“Finally,” he gusted, and then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was quick and hot and utterly delicious and it left Isobel shaking. “I’ve been dying to do that.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and stepped closer. “Have you?”

“Ach, doona start teasing me now, lass. I can barely restrain myself as it is.”

His brogue made her shudder. “I do love it when you talk like a real man.”

He pulled back a bit and stared at her face. “A real man, is it?”

“Och, aye.” She went up on her toes and sucked his lush lower lip into her mouth. She knew she was teasing him, but she was teasing herself as well.

His response was to nest his face in the crux of her neck and nibble at the tender flesh there until she was a quivering flan.

“We have to do something about that army of Elizabeth’s,” he groaned into her ear.

“They only want to protect you.”

“Aye, but they are protecting me from you as well.”

She pulled back and smiled winningly. “Am I a threat?”

He chuckled. “More than you know.”

For which she socked him. Only gently on the shoulder. Only enough to let him know she didn’t appreciate being categorized with the likes of Celia Swofford.

“Perhaps it is better if we canna be alone,” he said.

That he said it in his deep brogue provoked her. “Aye. I believe you’re right.”

He frowned at her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m merely agreeing with you.”

“It was a stupid comment.”

“It was your comment.”

“Surely you know I dinna mean it.”

“So you want to be alone with me?” She turned her head to the shadows so he couldn’t see her smile.

“Of course I do.”

“Well then, when faced with a military campaign, one must wage war.”

He stilled. Stared at her. Then chuckled. “You are wise.”

“And never forget, you have one of the enemy’s agents right here in your camp.”

“What are you suggesting, Isobel?”

“I’m suggesting that, since I know their plan of action, we should be able to thwart them.”

“I do appreciate their intentions.”

“I know you do.”

“But they canna follow me everywhere—”

Ah. But apparently they could.

Because just then Elizabeth’s voice floated toward them. “I know they were right behind us.”

“How could you have lost him?” Egads. Celia.

Nick and Isobel quickly pulled apart and she busied herself straightening her skirt while he bent to smell a flower.

“Now this one, you see, is a laevigatae, from China. While this one . . . I forget the name, is from Africa. You see the difference?”

“Oh. Yes,” Isobel said loudly, though both flowers looked the same in the dark. Aside from which she hardly cared. “I had no idea the duchess had such a fondness for roses.”

“Indeed. She’s collected different species from all over the world and—I say. Hallo, Lady Celia. Lady Ellie. Miss Elizabeth.”

The latter crossed her arms and frowned at him. “We seemed to have lost you.”

“I was just showing Miss Isobel Mother’s roses.”

Sorcha snorted softly, leading Isobel to believe the roses were anything but the duchess’s pride and joy.

“You’re missing the party,” Celia said, appropriating his arm.

“Yes. Of course. Shall we?” He took Isobel’s arm as well—as though she could protect him. “I believe you promised me the next dance,” he said to her with hardly any desperation in his voice at all.

“I believe so,” she said and they all walked along the path back to the party. The whole lot of them.

Isobel was gratified, indeed, when the next dance turned out to be a waltz rather than a reel. She enjoyed it immensely. She enjoyed the feel of Nick’s arms around her, as well as the scowl on Celia’s face.

And then there was the whispered conversation, one a waltz made possible, which was why they were considered to scandalous.

During that whispered waltz, they made plans.

Daring, exciting, dazzling plans for later tonight.

Isobel could only hope that all the guests would drink deeply, eat fully, and dance themselves to exhaustion so they would fall into their beds and not rise until morning.

She was damn tired of interruptions, and she had the sense Nick was, too.