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What a Highlander's Got to Do
Coming March 6th from Sabrina York and St. Martin's Press
Isobel Dounreay Lochlannach is a fierce and independent
Scots lass. She has no intention to marry—to submit to a man—especially not an
Englishman.
But when she meets a devilish stable lad on the way to
London, she can’t help but sneak a kiss with the handsome stranger, sure to
never see him again.
Nick Wyeth is not a stable lad. He’s Viscount Stirling, and
heir to one of the most powerful dukes in the realm. If their indiscretion is
discovered, Isobel will be forced to marry him, to succumb to a fate she has
always spurned. Nick wants nothing but to call this wild Scottish lass his own,
and is determined to show her how an English Viscount can make her swoon, and
be his forever in What a Highlander’s Got To Do by New York
Times bestselling author Sabrina York.
READ AN EXCERPT!
“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.
He tightened his hold on her.
Dear God, he was strong, this beastly highwayman.
“Hold still,” he snapped. “You’ll fall.”
Of course she wanted to fall. She wanted to hit the ground
before he did so she had time to retrieve her blade from the scabbard on her
thigh before he caught her again.
What a pity he didn’t let her fall. He held her even
tighter—she could barely breathe—and pulled on the reins to slow his mount.
Before she had time to react, he’d slipped off and was
helping her down.
Helping her down.
No one had ever helped her down. She’d never allowed it.
The man was, in a word, infuriating.
Once her feet hit the ground she elbowed him in the stomach
and whirled away. She glared at him, though he was unaware of this, doubled
over and wheezing as he was. This gave her time to free her blade and point it
in his general direction, so when he recovered himself, when he stood and
stared at her, it was, indeed, a fearsome sight he saw.
She had no earthly idea why he laughed.
No earthly idea why her first glimpse of him—this bandit who
had just impugned her person—made her heart stop.
Oh, he was handsome, for sure, with dark eyes and rampant
black curls. There was a birthmark just above his lip that gave him a rakish
air, and the hint of a scar bisected his left eyebrow. But his smile was white
and broad and caused an irksome raft of dimples to erupt on his cheek.
He wore the stained, frayed clothes of a workingman, with
boots caked in mud.
And good lord, he was tall. Tall and muscled and exquisitely
formed.
She wasn’t sure which of his perfections annoyed her more.
And then he spoke, and she knew for certain. It was his
voice, a mellifluous tenor, crisp with British superiority and the hint of a
laugh.
She abhorred being laughed at.
“Well,” he said, nodding at her knife—which, in retrospect,
seemed far too small. “Aren’t you the fierce one?”
It took a moment to stifle her growl. No doubt it would give
him even more to mock. “What do you expect? You chased me. Grabbed me from
behind. Manhandled me.”
His eyes widened and he stared at her for a moment, then his
grin widened. “You’re a Scot.” Not a question.
“You’re bluidy right I am, so don’t try anything. You’ll not
be the first man I’ve skewered.”
A laugh. “I don’t doubt it for a moment.” He continued studying
her, though, in a way that made her skin prickle.
“What?” she said, breaking the silence against her will.
He shrugged, some lazy careless gesture that made her want
to smack his supercilious face. “I just thought all Scottish lasses had red
hair, is all.”
“Did you now?” Did he want to see red? Well, it danced
before her eyes.
He must have realized his comment incensed her, because he
laughed again. “Doona skewer me, lass,” he said in a perfect brogue. For some
reason, that made her even angrier.
“Why no’? Are you no’ a highwayman, come to rob me?”
“A highwayman?” His beautiful perfect brows lifted in mock
surprise. He had the audacity to bow before her. “My lady, I’ve just saved your
life.”
She gaped at him. She was aware she was gaping, like a
landed cod, but could not manage to form words.
He chuckled and tucked two long fingers under her chin and
gently closed it. Then he hooked her arm in his and led her farther along the
track, where Lord Willouby’s stallion stood alongside the road ripping out tufts
of grass. “There,” he said, waving at a stone bridge just beyond the hill,
arching over the river.
Isobel yanked her arm away. “There, what?”
“Go look.”
He followed her as she made her way to the bridge and then
stood next to her, rocking back on his heels, as she studied the structure. Or
what remained of it.
The stone pilings were all in place, as were the abutments
on either end, but as for the rest of it . . .
“The flood last month took out all the timbers,” he said in
a far-too-smug tone.
She crossed her arms and studied the distance from one bank
to the other. “No doubt we could have made the jump.”
He turned to stare at her for a long moment, and then he
laughed again.
She was becoming quite tired of his laugh, and at the same
time craving it. That was probably why—though she would deny it until the day
she died—her lips quirked. Just a tad, but it was enough encouragement for him,
apparently.
“I believe you owe me,” he said with a wicked smile.
“I owe you?” She turned and tipped up her chin and stared
into his eyes—really stared into them—for the first time. They were a lovely
warm brown with flecks of gold, and they were amused. There was something else
in there, a certain heat, that she preferred to ignore.
“I did save your life.”
“I believe I made it clear, I could have made the jump.”
“I don’t doubt that for a moment, but your stallion?” He
glanced at the steed, who was trying to lip an apple from the tree. “That is
questionable.”
“Perhaps.” She sighed. “So what reward would you ask?”
“First, that you put away your blade.”
“First? How many rewards are you asking for?” Was she
enjoying this . . . sparring? Why yes. She was.
He was terribly handsome, and not a highwayman after all.
Probably, judging from his clothes, a stable lad. Or a farmer’s son.
He shrugged. “How much do you value your life?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just as it is. I would like to ask for a
kiss . . .” Her heart skipped. “But to be frank, I prefer not to
kiss lasses with knives in their fists. You know, just in case.”
She straightened up and peered down her nose at him—no easy
feat, as he was much taller than she. “I doona kiss just anyone.”
He splayed his hand over his heart. “I am gratified to hear
it.”
“Certainly not . . .” She waved at his
person. “Stable hands.”
He grinned. “Is that what I am then?”
She pointed to his boots. “Do tell me that is mud.”
“What else could it be?” His playful tone made clear it
might well be something else one might find in a stable.
“And look at your hands.”
He did. She did, too. They were large, well made, with long
fingers. There was mud there, too, beneath his fingernails. One would hope.
“I can wash them in the river, if you like.” Again, that
charming smile.
She smiled back, but with a hint of restraint. It was an odd
feeling cloaking her shoulders. Restraint was hardly her forte. “Please do.”
He nodded and she tried to ignore the curl that flopped onto
his forehead as he turned and trotted down the bank.
With a sigh of regret, she took the reins of Lord Willouby’s
stallion and mounted. Best be gone before he returned or she might be tempted
to give him what he wanted.
She wanted it, too, which was stupid.
She was here for a few weeks while she waited for the
various arms of her family to collect here, and then they would make the long
trip down to London for a miserable Season. There was no time for a romance,
and certainly not one with a farm boy. Not even one as handsome as he.
Though she had to admit, she was tempted.
She kicked the stallion into motion and began riding back
the way she’d come.
What a pity.
She would have liked a kiss. Just one. She would have liked
to know if he tasted as delicious as she imagined. She would have liked to have
a story to tell Catriona, one that didn’t end with her plunging to her death
into the River of the Broken Bridge.
She should have known he would follow.
She heard the hoofbeats behind her and urged her stallion
on, bending low on his neck and whispering encouragement.
Her heart pounded.
She knew he would catch her.
He had before.
But still, she persevered.
She had no idea why she smiled. No idea why her soul sang.
No idea why, when he caught her, swooping her up into his
arms and onto his lap, she laughed.
No idea why she smiled as he cupped her face with his
still-damp hands and stared at her lips like a starving man.
No idea why, when his lips touched hers, fragrant and soft
and oh-so-sweet, she sank into the kiss with all she had.
Or perhaps she did have an idea after all.
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