Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series (8 page)

Hands linked behind his neck, Yancy stretched his legs before him. He met his friend’s gloating expression.

“No, she doesn’t. She wagered that if she won, she wouldn’t have to leave the keep with
two
escorts.”

Chapter 9

The clock had yet to chime a quarter past seven when Isobel, humming a Scottish ballad, made her way to the informal dining room the next morning.

With its creamy yellow walls and cerise wainscoting, the dining room nearer the kitchen possessed a much cozier atmosphere. She didn’t particularly enjoy eating surrounded by the hunting trophies and weaponry displayed on the hall’s stone walls.

A foot into the cheerful chamber, she paused. She’d expected the room to be vacant. A pair of red starts on a bird cherry tree outside the beveled window chirped happily. Bright morning sunlight dappled the oblong table and the men seated there.

Lord Ramsbury and Alasdair already enjoyed heaping plates of food. Beside his lordship’s dish lay the papers, no doubt last week’s
The London Gazette
, since it took seven days for the mail coach to deliver the newspaper.

The men rose upon her entrance.

Attired in a nutmeg-brown hunting jacket and buff buckskins tucked into glossy Hessians, the earl appeared absurdly attractive. Then again, when had she seen the man when he didn’t?

“Good morning, my lord, Alasdair.”

The men sat, and Alasdair dove into his meal once more.

She sniffed in appreciation.
Cinnamon rolls.
A favorite of hers.

“Good morning, cousin.” Alasdair winked before shoving a sticky piece of a sweet roll into his mouth. He closed his eyes, exhaling an exaggerated sigh. “Yer lucky I left ye any of Sorcha’s cinnamon buns.”

Though they weren’t cousins by blood, they’d been raised as such. She adored the giant man and his equally gargantuan brother. Except when they teased her, which, given they had no sisters, they were wont to do on a regular basis.

“What a pleasure to see such loveliness this early in the day.” Lord Ramsbury’s gaze skimmed her simple ivory and peach morning dress.

Doing it up a bit brown, wasn’t he?

After his pretty compliment, he folded the paper into a tidy pile. “Are you always such an early riser?”

Isobel nodded. “Yes, I enjoy mornings. They are my favorite time of day, though sometimes I take a tray in my room and read before venturing forth.”

Especially when
he
visited.

She also frequently enjoyed a stroll around the loch or brisk ride before breaking her fast, but he needn’t know that.

She made her way to the sideboard. “Good morning, Fairchild. Yvette mentioned we’ll have the pleasure of your sons’ company for her birthday celebration.”

The majordomo dipped his silvery head.

“Indeed. Isaiah and Josiah’s ship should arrive in London next week.” He picked up a silver-rimmed plate. “What do you prefer to break your fast, Miss Isobel?”

“Just a cinnamon roll and a piece of ham for me, please.” She eyed the cocoa pot. “I believe I shall have hot chocolate rather than tea this morning.”

As a child, she’d been quite addicted to the sweet concoction, which helped contribute to her well-rounded cheeks and plumpness in other places until five years ago. She particularly liked the drink topped with Devonshire cream.

In an effort to keep her curves manageable, she discontinued that practice.
More’s the pity
. She rarely indulged in Sorcha’s pasties either.

Mother and Seonaid were fuller-figured than Adaira, but beside Isobel, they appeared svelte. She wished she had Adaira’s slight build.

Isobel’s arms and legs were trim enough, and a man’s hands could span her waist—granted they had to be large hands—but she possessed a generous bosom and wide hips. To her immense consternation, males seemed captivated by both.

The number of times she’d caught one ogling her upper and lower regions was past counting. She’d rather have Mr. Ross’s knobby frame than be endowed as the Good Lord had designed her. Only her family, Lord Ramsbury, and the Duke of Harcourt didn’t make her self-conscious about her lavish curves.

Accepting her plate from Fairchild, she turned to the table. She hesitated for a fraction then opted to sit beside Alasdair rather than the earl.

When near his lordship, her pulse did all manner of peculiar things, and she could never quite think straight. Catching whiffs of his subtle cologne, listening to the low timbre of his voice, observing his long fingers with their light smattering of blackish hair across the knuckles all muddled her.

No, she deemed sitting across the table much wiser.

The birds, startled by her passing beside the window, released frightened chirrups and took to wing.

Isobel twisted her mouth into a wry smile. Rather how she behaved with the earl nearby.

Fairchild placed a tall, royal-blue chintz patterned cocoa cup before her. “Use caution, Miss Isobel. The chocolate is quite hot. I would let it cool slightly before taking a drink. Did you want clotted cream?”

“Thank you, Fairchild, but I’ll pass on the cream.” She unfolded her napkin.

Lord Ramsbury’s lips curled into a mysterious smile when she’d sank into the chair opposite him, almost as if he had read her mind.

To hide the blush heating her cheeks, Isobel promptly raised the rich cocoa to her mouth, and burned her tongue.

Confounded earl.

She pressed the singed organ against the back of her teeth to stifle the oath that threatened and to numb the sharp pain pulsing on the tip.

Clamping her lips, she drew in a calming breath. Virtuous women didn’t curse in public. Only the earl tempted her to cast off propriety and ring him an unladylike peal.

Expecting the chamber to be empty, she intended to grab a bite to eat and pilfer enough food that she might enjoy her midday meal amongst the fossils and caves. Eager to explore the formations she’d found yesterday, she hadn’t waited for Maura to bring up the customary tray.

Besides, Isobel’s giddiness from drubbing his lordship at chess had kept her restless all night.

What other reason could there be for his face to keep appearing in her mind? Or the odd unsettled sensations that had her heaving sighs and flopping from her front to her back most of the night?

Dawn had scarcely whisked her colorful palette across the horizon before Isobel swept aside the counterpane atop her bed. Standing before her favorite window, she enjoyed a few moments admiring the pastel hues dusting the sky.

Tendrils of silvery smoke spiraled skyward beyond the meadow.

The travellers.

A visit to their encampment was in order. A variety of baskets, intricately detailed shawls, and other fascinating whatnots could always be found there—not to mention the most delectable tarts.

She would have to wait until Mother organized an outing, however. Isobel wasn’t so bold as to venture to the tinker’s encampment alone.

The women of Craiglocky would delay that outing until Vangie arrived. Part Roma, actually a gypsy princess, Lady Warrick spoke Romany but not the Gaelic cant of Scottish Highland travellers.

Nevertheless, many of the words were similar, and most travellers spoke English too. Some of these local gypsies claimed a familial relation to the countess, albeit quite distant.

Isobel had hastily gone about her morning ablutions, eager to get an early start. Now, hope of gathering food for later was dashed. She blew on the hot chocolate. Perhaps after she changed into her old gown, she would stop by the kitchen and ask Sorcha to put a something together for her and Tira to eat.

Cheese, rolls, an apple or two, and stovies would suffice.

Lord Ramsbury took a bite of an oatcake. “Might I persuade you to go riding this morning? Miss Farnsworth and Ross, as well as McTavish here, have agreed to an outing at half past eight.”

Wary, Isobel raised her eyes to the earl. “Unfortunately, my lord, I have other plans. I thank you for the invitation, but I found some fossils yesterday I want to examine.”

She bit into the light sweetness of the cinnamon roll.

A ride with Mr. Ross and Lord Ramsbury was not her idea of a pleasurable start to the day. The former she could not abide, and the latter she tried hard to remain impervious to.

Easier to do if spared his company.

Otherwise, he ambushed her emotions, and she was wont to gawk like a green schoolgirl. How could her heart be so warped? She knew Lord Ramsbury for a charlatan, and yet she remained irresistibly drawn to him.

Rather like a moth to a flame, certain to get singed or worse, but unable to fight the powerful allure.

A shadow flitted across his lordship’s face, immediately replaced by a cool mask of politeness.

An alarm chirped in the back of her mind. Taking a tentative sip of chocolate, Isobel considered him. She’d beaten him fairly yesterday. He couldn’t order her to take attendants with her.

Let’s just test the waters, shall we
?

“I’m sure being an honorable man, my lord, you fully intend to keep your word about the escorts.”

Alasdair made a choking noise that sounded suspiciously like a cross between a laugh and a snort.

Her attention hurtled to him.

Turning from her scrutiny, he coughed into his hand.

If he really choked, she’d eat her slippers.

Her unease escalated. Did he know something she did not? She stared at him hard, silently challenging him to say what he knew.

He gave her a sheepish look and promptly stuffed his mouth full of ham. Most likely so she couldn’t question him.

Coward.

She angled her head and raised an eyebrow. “Lord Ramsbury, am I to assume you intend to renege on your word?”

“Yes, well as to that . . .” Lord Ramsbury scratched his brow, and then had the audacity to give her a saucy grin. “I wouldn’t call it reneging, precisely.”

Isobel stiffened, clenching her fingers about the cup’s fragile handle. She feared she’d snap the bit of porcelain right off or hurl the cup at his handsome head if he dared voice what she suspected he was about to.

Only years of rehearsed behavior enabled her to respond calmly. “And what
precisely
would you call it? I specifically said if I won, I wouldn’t be taking escorts when I left the keep.”

Lord Ramsbury relaxed against the chair, his fingers entwined across his flat abdomen. The signet ring on the little finger of his left hand glinted against the black and taupe of his waistcoat.

“Actually, you said if you won the game, you wouldn’t be taking
two
escorts with you. Our party will number six, unless your sister and Gregor decide to accompany us. Naturally, the men will be armed.”

Lord Ramsbury delivered the news with such self-assured confidence that had her parasol been handy she would have thumped him on his noggin. Soundly. She’d half a mind to retrieve her sabre and pin him to the chair like a beetle on exhibit.

The earl had neatly outmaneuvered her. Or so he believed. He thought to play another type of game, did he? The deceptive, green-eyed toad.

Isobel curled her toes in her slippers until she feared the appendages would snap. She fought to control the outrage thrumming through her and demanding to spew from her burned tongue. Eyes cast downward, she took a controlled sip of the cocoa.

Too hot, still.

An image of the chessboard and pieces flashed across her mind, immediately followed by Lord Ramsbury’s face right before she declared checkmate.

Had he let her win?

No, he hadn’t, she was certain. But he’d seen his imminent loss, and the cretin had determined another nefarious way to waylay her.

She sniffed the cocoa, cautiously dipping her tongue into the tasty brew to test its heat.

The earl thought himself a brilliant strategist, did he?

We shall see
.

She gave him her most beguiling smile.

Surprise flitted across his features, and he blinked twice as if momentarily dazed. A maelstrom of emotion entered his eyes, swiftly replacing his stunned mien.

Isobel knew full well how her smile affected men. “Well then, I suppose I have no choice. I so wanted to examine the fossils I came across yesterday.”

His lordship flashed a rakish grin, his teeth white against his tanned face. “I would quite like to see them myself. My maternal grandfather was a collector of unusual artifacts.”

Alasdair groaned and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Ye might regret that, yer lordship. Isobel can natter on for hours about those dusty bits of . . .”

His voice tapered off at the impatient look she fired at him.

Was it any wonder she wished to go off by herself?

Who was he to speak of nattering? She’d listened to more boasting and drivel about weapons, hunting, fishing, wrestling, and sparring than anyone, especially a female, should ever have to in a lifetime.

She fingered her cup’s handle. “Fairchild, might I have more chocolate?”

Raising her cup, she swiveled toward him. Her grip on the handle slipped, and before she could utter a squeak, the cup tilted. Hot, sticky chocolate splattered across the tablecloth and streamed onto her lap as brown droplets littered the red and champagne-colored carpet underneath the table.

“Ouch!” Shaking her gown, she jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry, Fairchild. How utterly clumsy of me.”

The butler rushed to the table bearing extra napkins.

She dabbed at the splotches on her gown.

“I must remove my gown at once and give it to Maura to launder or else it’s sure to be ruined.” Isobel held the damp cloth away from her legs. “I fear it may be too late already. Please excuse me.”