“Isobel?”

She winced at Catriona’s call, rolled over in her bed, and covered her face with her arm. She wasn’t in the mood to see anyone, not after the night she’d had.

It had been awful, tossing and turning, recalling the fight with Nick and then his parents’ lovely gift and the expressions on their faces.

They’d been so . . . happy.

She hated that she was to rip that happiness from them.

It would have been so much easier if they’d been horrible people.

Why couldn’t they have been horrible people?

Why did they have to be people she . . . loved?

The thought of leaving them, of leaving him, made her ill. Guilt was like a ravaging beast in her. She hadn’t slept a wink and now her stomach was churning.

“Isobel! You have to get up. We have to go soon.”

Today was to be the tea party at the Penningtons’.

She groaned, and then pulled the covers over her face.

Catriona was not to be ignored. She tugged them right back down. “Isobel. You need to get dressed.”

“I doona feel well.”

A hand touched her forehead. “You’re not warm. Perhaps you’ll feel better after you eat something.”

The very thought made her bilge rise. “Nae.”

“Some tea, perhaps? I’ll call for a tray.”

Anything to get her to go away.

But she didn’t. She didn’t go away. She stayed and chattered incessantly while Isobel ground her teeth and tried to ignore her. When the maid arrived with the tray, Catriona sat on the bed. “Come now. Sit up and have a sip.”

Isobel complied, but just to get Catriona to stop bothering her.

The tea was warm and sweet and trickled down her throat in a comforting balm—

And then came right back up.

Isobel shot for the bedpan and barely made it before she cast up all her accounts and, perhaps, someone else’s.

When she was finished, she turned to find Catriona staring at her in horror. “Oh, my. You are ill. I’ll go get your mother.”

Before Isobel could call her back, she was gone.

Well, hell.

Mama would make a to-do of this to be certain.

And she did. She swept into Isobel’s room like a general marching to war, and started barking orders to the maid to bring a warm cloth and a cool compress and some gingerroot.

“I’m fine,” Isobel said, if only to get her to stop fussing. “I think something I ate last night disagreed with me, that’s all.” She forced a cheery smile, but in the end, to prove she was fine, she had to get out of bed and dress for the party.

But she didn’t eat breakfast.

She couldn’t bear to.

* * *

She dreaded facing Nick’s mother at the Penningtons’. That was probably why her upset continued on the ride over.

Guilt was a terrible thing.

She’d spent her whole life thinking she was strong, resolute, and coldhearted, but apparently that had all been a delusion. Faced with one tiny lie, she wanted to crumble.

Fortunately, Nick was the first person she saw as she stepped out of the carriage.

He came to her and took her hands and kissed her cheek. Then he stilled. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She gave him a toothy offering. “What makes you think there’s anything wrong?”

“Because I know you. Did you sleep?”

She scowled at him.

“So, no. Tell me, darling. What’s wrong?” He led her down the path toward the gardens where the tea party had been set up.

“I canna stop thinking about it.”

“What?”

She scowled again. Seriously? Had it not bothered him? Not bothered him to the point that he had no idea what had kept her up all night? “The property in Scotland.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean, ah?”

“It was very generous of them.”

“It was.”

“And you’re feeling guilty.”

She frowned at him. “Are you no’?”

“No.”

Really?

Her expression must have spoken for her because he shrugged. “I’m not the one determined to end this betrothal. I was clear about that last night. In fact, it occurs to me that this property may be the answer for us.”

The hopeful glint in his eye made her bile churn. “The answer?”

“Don’t you see? We can live in Scotland. Just as you wish.”

She had no idea how to respond.

Because that folderol about living in Scotland had only been part of the issue. There was so much more, so much she had not shared with him. How could she? How could she let him know she was . . . afraid?

She was Isobel Dounreay Lochlannach. She was afraid of nothing.

But this.

Needing someone.

She didn’t like the way it made her feel, being afraid. She didn’t like feeling weak, fretful, worried. Guilty. It was not in her nature to be so.

She never had been like this.

Until him.

He did this to her.

Clearly, it was all his fault.

“Darling?”

She was not in the mood to discuss this—or anything—with him right now. She was far too raw. “Oh, look,” she said with ersatz delight. “There’s Elizabeth.” Isobel hadn’t seen the younger girl since Brighton, because she had not yet debuted and was not allowed to come to society events. Without another word, she took off in that direction.

“Isobel—” His call followed her, but she ignored it.

* * *

The tea party was charming and Isobel enjoyed it immensely, probably because Nick, reading her mood, stayed on the other side of the lawn with his friends. Isobel sat with Catriona, Sorcha, Ellie, Elizabeth, and their friends. They talked about the gossip of the day, coming events, the newest things in hats and other fribbles, but whenever the conversation turned to weddings, Isobel gently turned it aside.

Everyone ate heartily, but Isobel only picked at her plate. Naturally, Elizabeth noticed.

“Is the food not to your liking?” she asked with a moue of concern, ever the gracious hostess.

“Isobel has been feeling off,” Catriona said.

She glowered at her friend. No one needed to know. “Something I ate,” she repeated. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you look lovely,” Sorcha said.

“Thank you.”

“Really lovely. Your skin has a glow.”

She smiled at Nick’s sister, though she didn’t feel glowy at all.

Fortunately, the discussion moved on to a comedy that was playing at Drury Theatre and attention shifted from Isobel and her relative radiance. After a moment, she excused herself and made her way to the house, on the excuse of a private need.

It was a relief to slip into the Pennington mansion and escape from the crowd. Though it was hardly a crush, and Isobel knew everyone present, she wasn’t in the mood to deal with conversation. Or people. Not really. She leaned against the wall in the long, shadowed hallway and closed her eyes, reveling in the silence.

Which was, of course, broken.

“Isobel.”

Blast.

She forced a smile on her face and turned to Nick’s friend William Swofford. She’d noticed he was here, but his mother and sister were pointedly absent. “My lord.”

He smiled, some rakish confection that probably had ladies swooning far and wide. Isobel was not moved. She noticed he held a glass of Pennington’s whisky, for which it was, in her opinion, a trifle early. She noticed he’d probably had more than one.

“How are you enjoying being betrothed?” he asked amiably, taking a sip.

How did one answer that? “We’re verra happy.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure you are.” Something in his tone set her teeth on edge, but she couldn’t decide what it was. Perhaps the ever-so-slight emphasis on the word you. He took another drink—not a sip—and sighed. “It was something of a surprise to us . . .”

The way he broke off so abruptly made clear he wanted her to ask. “A surprise?”

“Yes. You know. Nick. Betrothed. After . . .”

She nearly sighed. The man was so transparent. “After what?”

He chuckled. “Why, after years of declaring that he would never be caught, of course.”

“Caught?” She didn’t like that interpretation in the least.

“In the mousetrap?”

“Aye. I figured that out.”

“And to a Scots lass, no less.”

She lifted a brow and stared at him until he shuffled from one foot to the other.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

She continued staring because if she responded, it would probably be something she might later regret. Or not.

“I mean, someone like Nick can take it. He doesn’t give a fig for how his reputation is suffering.”

This was getting better and better. She crossed her arms and stared some more.

“I always knew, if he married, it would be for the sake of his family.”

This, she could not let go. “For the sake of his family?”

William blinked. “Ah, of course. You know. The scandal. Surely you realized? The reason he offered for you was because he had to.”

“Is that what he told you?”

He leaned in and she smelled the whisky on his breath. “He didn’t need to, Isobel. Everyone in the ton knows the truth about the two of you.” And yes. The other penny dropped. His expression melted from friendly to snide in a heartbeat. “Everyone knows what you really are.”

“I doubt that.” She tipped her head to the side and smiled at him. It was a special smile she reserved for moments such as this. Thankfully they were few and far between.

He paled a little and his lips worked, probably because he wasn’t used to wee lasses spiking his guns. “I . . . what?”

“I doubt they know what I really am, Lord Swofford. I doubt you do, either.”

“What do you mean?”

She leaned closer then, dominating him with her presence. “If you did, you see, you wouldn’t dare speak to me like this, lest you lose a part or two you treasure.”

“I . . . You . . . What?” His sputtering was entertaining.

“Never forget,” she hissed. “I’m a savage Scots lass. I have weapons. And I know how to use them.”

She whirled on her heel and left him then, without so much as a glance back.

He didn’t deserve even that.

* * *

Where the bloody hell was Isobel?

Nick scanned the yard several times before coming to the conclusion she was not there. He was about to send up an alarm when she emerged from the French doors into the garden.

Something about her posture sent a shiver down his spine and he started toward her. When William emerged behind her, caught his eye, and flushed guiltily, Nick broke into a run.

What had happened?

He knew William was resentful of his betrothal to Isobel; he’d always hoped, on some level, Nick would fall for his sister. But he’d never imagined William would say anything untoward to Isobel.

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.