Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (22 page)

Chapter 28

A warm, rounded bottom pressed into Yancy’s loins, and he cupped a bountiful breast in one hand. Soft hair caressed his nose as he breathed in a woman’s subtle fragrance.

No, not just
a
woman’s
.

Isobel’s.

He remained perfectly motionless, unwilling to waken from the delightful dream; so real, he imagined he heard her soft breaths and felt her ribs rising and falling as she slept.

Gently squeezing the supple softness in his palm, he prodded her bum with his penis, bidding entrance to the sweet sanctuary of her womanhood.

Murmuring his name, she sighed and nestled closer.

Yancy’s eyelids sprang open the same instant the chamber door did. Awareness crashed upon him. The woman in his arms proved no more a phantom than the crushing pain behind his eyes.

Ah, bloody hell.

Had he been so confounded foxed last night, he’d forced Isobel to his bed? He remembered nothing after she tucked the blankets about him. His head felt nigh on to disintegrating if a mouse so much as twitched a whisker.

“Good morning, my lo—” His shocked gaze riveted on the feminine lump lying beside Yancy, Swanscott stuttered to a stop. The valet’s attention dove to his polished shoes. “Er, I wasn’t aware you were, ah,
entertaining
, my lord. I shall return later.”

Red-faced, he spun to the door and careened headlong into Sethwick.

“Good morning, Yancy.”

Isobel’s quiet greeting yanked Yancy’s attention to the nymph lying beside him. Eyes sleep-laden, her cheeks pink, and almond-brown hair tousled, she appeared to have been thoroughly made love to.

She smiled, seemingly unperturbed by her abrupt awakening or her brother and the valet gaping like twin stuffed boars at the end of the bed. The warmth in her blue-green gaze caused another painful surge of blood to his aroused member.

“Good morning to you, my sweet.” He touched her cheek. “Forgive me, but I cannot recall how you came to be in my bed.”

“I’d bloody well like to know how that came about as well.” Sethwick stood beside the bed, his nostrils flared, fists clenched, and eyes narrow slits of fury.

Isobel didn’t spare her brother a glance, but continued to gaze at Yancy like a woman in love.
In love
?

“This is twice I’ve found my sister abed with you, Ramsbury.” Sethwick gave Yancy a terse prod in the shoulder. “I demand satisfaction.”

Shit.

“Don’t be a bird-witted bore, Ewan.” Shoving her glorious hair over one shoulder, Isobel scooted to a sitting position.

Thank God she wore a nightgown, though if one looked closely, the dark outlines of her perky nipples showed through the gossamer fabric.

Yancy tugged the sheet upward, covering her chest.

Gracing him with a breathtaking smile, she tucked the edges beneath her arms. “Thank you.”

His cockstand stood taller, quite obvious below the sheets. To hide his arousal, he, too, maneuvered into a sitting position.

Sethwick’s scowl deepened until he spied Yancy’s sword near the door.

He wouldn’t.

A calculating expression settled upon Sethwick’s features, and his gaze shifted between the blade and bed.

Yes. He would.

Yancy feared his longtime friend might be on the verge of running him through.

“Isobel, remove yourself from this scunner’s bed and this chamber immediately.” Hands fisted, Sethwick’s expression portended violence. “You and I shall discuss this matter after I’ve dealt with Ramsbury.”

She settled further into the pillows. “You’re not my father, Ewan, nor do you have the right to order me about.”

“I am your laird,” he said between clenched teeth, clearly on the verge of losing the last vestiges of his control.

“Pooh.” Isobel fluttered her dainty hand dismissively. “That has no bearing in this situation.”

If he weren’t sincerely concerned that Sethwick meant to murder him with his bare hands, Yancy would give vent to the laughter bubbling in his chest.

Calm as a pond on a windless day, Isobel folded her hands in her lap and eyed her infuriated brother.

“Yancy is not to blame at all. I took horrid advantage of him, Ewan. Far into his cups, he was in no condition to resist my advances. I came to be in his bed quite willingly.”

Ewan and Swanscott
gawked at her as if she’d announced she was an East End harlot. Yancy didn’t doubt his face reflected the same flabbergasted expression.

Her lips curved sweetly, and she gazed at Yancy in adoration.

I must still be soused.

He shook his head,
hard,
to clear his muddled imaginations but stopped as agony ripped from his forehead to the rear of his skull. Served him right for downing a bottle of Scotch.

No more spirits for him.

He sliced Isobel a sidelong glance. Yes, her eyes held an enraptured glint.

What happened to the Isobel adamant she wanted nothing to do with him? What changed her mind?
Had
she, in fact, changed her mind? Maybe he was bosky. Or maybe this was a damned realistic dream.

He pinched his thigh. No, he wasn’t asleep.

By God, could things possibly get worse?

Harcourt strode into the chamber.

Harcourt’s inquisitive gaze swung between Yancy and Isobel, before a mischievous grin split his face.

“Seems like I’ve arrived right on time.” He wiggled his fingers toward the bed’s occupants. “Crack on. Pretend I’m not here.”

“What has my chamber become, a cheap theater?” Yancy swept his arm in Isobel’s direction. “Are we the entertainment lined up for today?”

Combing a hand through his messy hair, he shot an angry glare to the entrance. “Can I expect anyone else to make an appearance? Is Prinny prancing about below? Have, perhaps, Lady Jersey or Countess Lieven, or another patroness of Almack’s come to call?”

Isobel pointed at Harcourt’s bruised face. “Your Grace, my abominable curiosity won’t leave off. How did you come by your damaged eye?”

Her abrupt, and likely deliberate, change of subject defused the tension markedly well. Every eye turned to Harcourt.

He heaved a hefty sigh then hunched a shoulder. “I tried to steal a kiss from a gypsy wench I rescued at Dounnich House.”

“Tasara Faas? You didn’t.” Isobel giggled. “And she gave you that?”

“Indeed, I did,” Harcourt confessed, “though it was meant to be entirely innocent, a token of her appreciation.”

“I’ll bet.” Yancy grinned, despite the severity of his situation.

Harcourt’s shame must be monumental.

He touched his eye. “That black-haired virago can pack a wallop.”

His martyred expression brought on another bout of giggles from Isobel and a chuckle from Yancy.

Swanscott struggled to keep his features impassive.

“Can we get back to the matter at hand? My sister’s ruination?” Sethwick’s angry voice cut through their mirth. “Name your seconds, Ramsbury.”

Harcourt stepped forward. “I’d be honored to act—”

“Stubble it, Harcourt.” Prepared to stand, Yancy shoved the covers aside. “Sethwick—”

“Ewan, do leave off.” Isobel gave Yancy another blinding smile. “I have agreed to marry Lord Ramsbury.”

Isobel held her breath, terrified to look at Yancy after her brazen declaration. His sharp intake of breath didn’t help her already-cavorting nerves. She prayed she would be able to leave the chamber somewhat composed if he denied her statement.

The moment she discovered Yancy hadn’t been a philandering cur, that he had been trying to court her these many years, she’d made her decision. Another night wouldn’t pass without her sleeping beside the man she loved.

“Aren’t you going to wish us well, brother dear?” She laced her fingers with a silent Yancy’s. He looked utterly flummoxed, poor man. “After all, you were most insistent we wed.”

“Why the abrupt reversal?” Ewan eyed her suspiciously and scraped his hand through his black hair, leaving several strands standing on end. He paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. “Yesterday, you refused to entertain the notion.”

“A woman’s permitted to change her mind, isn’t she?” Isobel plucked at the counterpane’s edge, not quite meeting Ewan’s eyes.

Disentangling their fingers, Yancy edged from the bed. He should be the one to hear her reasons. Not bothering to don his banyan, he crossed to the door. “I need a few moments alone with my intended, gentlemen. Swanscott, I shall break my fast below stairs.”

“Yes, sir.” After a swift dip of his head, the valet beat a hasty retreat.

Uncertainty flickered within Ewan’s eyes, no doubt torn between defending her honor and relief he didn’t have to meet one of his dearest friends on the dueling field.

“I’ll give you ten minutes. There’ll be no more of this nonsense”—he waved at the rumpled bed—“until after the vows are spoken. I’m sending for Reverend Wallace the moment I leave this room.”

Harcourt winked at Isobel. “Sethwick, why don’t you let me send for the cleric and inform the others of the wedding while you tell Yancy why you barged into his bedchamber at this ungodly hour to begin with?”

She nodded. “That’s a marvelous idea, Your Grace.”

“I’d say it’s most fortuitous that everyone has arrived for Lady Sethwick’s birthday celebration. Bet my morning coffee, they’ll be cackling like hens raiding a strawberry bed upon hearing the good news.” He gave her a teasing smile.

Isobel grinned in return. She would have to pay Tasara a visit and discover precisely what occurred between the gypsy and the duke. Harcourt hadn’t shared the entire tale.

“Thank you. That would be most helpful. Please tell the others the wedding will take place . . .” Ewan hesitated, his gaze seeking Isobel’s. “What time would you like to wed?”

She dared meet Yancy’s eyes. Only tender warmth showed in their depths. “My lord? Have you a preference?”

“Call me Yancy, or if you insist, Bartholomew, though I’m afraid I won’t know you’re speaking to me, but don’t address me as
my lord
, Isobel. You are my equal.” He turned to Ewan. “I would like the ceremony to take place as soon as possible, if my betrothed agrees.”

“Isobel?” Ewan waited, the signs of his prior anger gone. Instead, a merry twinkle flashed in his eye. It seemed all was forgiven. “Can you be ready within the hour?”

She considered Yancy’s muscular chest. No, she had something else she wanted to do first. She glanced at the bedside clock. “It’s just past eight. Let’s plan the ceremony for eleven. That is, if the time is convenient for Reverend Wallace.”

She swiped at a stray curl teasing her cheek.

“Eleven it is. I shall notify the others.” Harcourt gave them a brash grin and whistling, marched from the room.

Yancy closed the door behind the duke. “You had something of importance to tell me?”

Ewan scratched his chin.

“Yes, I wanted to return this”—he held up Yancy’s signet ring—“and also let you know, we’ve discovered Craiglocky’s traitor. A gypsy stable hand Jocky hired on a couple of weeks ago is the culprit. Last night, he sneaked into the lower chambers by way of an exterior door.”

Yancy slipped on his banyan and Isobel hid a disappointed sigh.

“Did he think to help MacHardy escape with your men standing guard?” He knotted the robe’s belt. “Not terribly bright of the fellow.”

“Desperation has made many a man a fool. He’s kin to the gypsies the Blackhalls held captive, and those filthy Scots curs”—Ewan cast Isobel a guarded glance—“threatened to
misuse
his family if the travellers didn’t aid in Miss Farnsworth’s abduction. Once he learned the Faas family had been rescued, he confessed and begged for forgiveness.”

“What will you do with him?” Yancy sat on the edge of the bed and took Isobel’s hand in his.

Not caring Ewan looked on, she laced her fingers with Yancy’s again. “Can you be lenient, Ewan? His fear and concern must have closely mirrored yours when I was captured.”

“I’ve already sent him on his way, after a stern warning, naturally.” Ewan turned to the exit then faced them again. “Oh, and I sent a messenger to request soldiers to accompany MacHardy and the rest of those vermin to London. Lydia and Ross are packing as we speak.”

Disappointment swept Isobel. She’d wanted an opportunity to speak with Lydia. “They’re not staying for Yvette’s birthday?”

“No, Ross insists they leave for Tornbury tomorrow. He’s most adamant on the matter.”

Unlike Lydia’s, his presence wouldn’t be missed.

Ewan opened the door. “Yancy, I shall see you in my study at ten to discuss the marriage settlement terms. I’m sure Hugh will wish to participate in the conversation as well.”

His face brightened. “Let me be the first to offer you felicitations.”

After Ewan left, Isobel stared at the door, rather surprised he hadn’t left it open. Unnatural silence permeated the bedchamber.

Cupping her cheek, Yancy turned her face to his. His gaze unreadable, he traced her lip with his forefinger. “What changed your mind?”