Page 2 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

But then she remembered her mother’s admonitions, and she was sorely torn. Three distinct options occurred to her.

First, she could waltz into the drawing room and show them what a real savage looked like—which would, undoubtedly, bring shame on dear Lady Willouby, who had defended her so ferociously. It would, in all probability, vex her mother as well, when she heard of it.

Or Isobel could waltz into the drawing room, hands folded demurely, and show these vipers such refinement and elegance as to cause them to choke on their ugly words. In which case, Isobel would probably develop an aneurysm and expire on the spot. And that would definitely vex her mother.

Or, she could go riding.

It took only a moment to decide.

She was up the staircase in a trice.

* * *

“Milady . . . are you s-sure?” the groom sputtered, even as Isobel launched herself into the saddle. He was a sweet boy, only slightly spotted, and she’d found him delightfully manageable.

She smiled down at him in a manner that caused his Adam’s apple to bobble precariously. “I’m verra sure,” she said. “I can handle him. I promise.”

“But the mare is much gentler,” he said with a hint of panic in his voice.

“I’m certain she is,” Isobel responded with a wink. And then she set her heels to the stallion’s sides and they launched from the stable yard.

She leaned over his neck, encouraging him on. “Och, you want this, don’t you, boy?” she whispered into his ear, and he nickered his delight. “Faster then. Faster. Let’s fly!”

And oh. They did. And it was glorious.

The ride, of course, but also leaving those horrible women behind.

Newcastle lacked the exhilarating rocky terrain of the Highlands, but in turn, it had long languid country roads that curved gently through apple orchards, along golden fields, and through fallow land spotted with bright-yellow flowers. There was a babbling brook to her right and the broad blue line of the horizon before her. She had, in that moment, the flight of fancy that she could ride forever.

The air was cool and clear, with a hint of lingering loam. And the sun, when she hit it in gentle splashes wandering through the leaves, was a kiss of warmth. They made their own breeze, she and Lord Willouby’s stallion. It caressed her face and tangled in her hair and it was magnificent.

Much better than tea with the local ladies.

It was, in fact, perfection.

Until a thundering sound disrupted her peace.

Hoofbeats from behind, intruding on the splendid rhythm she and the stallion had created.

She glanced over her shoulder and frowned. Another stallion pounded after them, with a dark-haired stranger urging him on. She’d heard about highwaymen in these parts, veterans from the war and such, who had turned to crime. And while she’d thought the prospect of such a thing wildly romantic when reading it in a novel, she did not, in truth, care to be robbed or manhandled by such a man.

She tapped her mount’s side with her heels and urged him to go faster, even as a thrill of excitement sizzled through her. She was certain she could outride her pursuer, but how delicious would it be to confront an actual highwayman and have a story to tell Catriona?

Not that the two of them tried to outdo each other in their tales, but they did.

Isobel caught her breath and focused on the road ahead. It curved out of sight behind a large hill. Not knowing the terrain, she knew she had to slow, lest she injure her horse, and that was her downfall.

He caught her then, as she rounded the curve and, to her shock and dismay, wrapped a strong arm around her waist and lifted her bodily from her saddle and onto his lap.

She had one stunning impression of hard hot man.

He was slick with sweat from the mad ride, as was she, but on his skin, it rose in a thick musk that teased her nostrils and made her belly lurch.

Surely it was not an attractive scent.

She refused to believe this to be so.

At the same time, she screeched her outrage and wiggled to be free, which had a disturbing result.