The Highlander's English Bride Read online

  Her father scowled at the bed as if it was an instrument of torture. "Yes," he said without enthusiasm.

  Miss McCorquodale held out a small glass. "Here’s a drink to settle you down, Sir John."

  Emily braced for some act of rebellion, but it seemed that Papa was exhausted at last. With help, the old man swallowed the sleeping draft, then with a docility in stark contrast to his earlier peevishness, he slid between the covers and closed his eyes.

  Hamish stood up from where he’d been stoking the fire, although the room wasn’t cold. "Go to bed, Miss McCorquodale. You’ve been with him all day, and you look wrung out. Emily and I will take over from here."

  "But it’s your wedding night."

  "My bride and I have a lifetime ahead of us. This is only one night," he said with the sudden flashing charm that hadn’t lost its power to make Emily’s knees wobble. It had been making her knees wobble since their first meeting. Now inevitably it made her remember quite how breathtaking he’d looked standing before her without a stitch to cover that superb body.

  "I’ll sit with him," Emily said, cramming those troubling insights into a remote corner of her mind where she hoped they’d never again see the light of day.

  "No, I will." Hamish set a chair at the bedside. "Tomorrow we’ll see what we can do about getting both of you some more help. I had no idea Sir John’s health had reached this pass."

  Miss McCorquodale curtsied. "Thank you, my lord."

  Hamish’s smile was weary as he sat down. "Mr. Douglas is perfectly fine."

  Emily struggled to remind herself that this man who treated her father and the nurse with such consideration was overbearing, irritating Hamish Douglas. Her antagonist for the last ten years. The man whose every remark made her snipe and snarl like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way.

  Now, watching him settle down beside her father’s bed with every sign of good grace, she couldn’t summon her usual animosity. Which was as troubling in its way as her odd response to his touch.

  She accepted his explanation of the mistake about his room. When he’d found himself lying beside her, his shock had been unambiguous. Anyway, he wasn’t a man given to sneaking around and dissembling to achieve his ends.

  Which didn’t mean she was at ease with what had happened.

  She had a nasty suspicion that tonight she and Hamish had crossed a barrier that until now had kept them decorously apart. She’d wake up tomorrow as virginal as she’d ever been, but not nearly so innocent.

  Now she knew that her husband wanted her, had wanted her for years. She knew what he looked like naked. As the unforgettable picture swamped her mind once more, she swallowed to moisten a dry throat. Even worse, she knew how it felt when a large masculine hand cupped her breast and a big masculine body pressed her down into a bed.

  Yesterday she’d been convinced those acts would frighten her. She had been frightened, at least for a moment. But along with the fear had come an extraordinary thrill that turned her blood to lava. It was a little like her shivery reaction when he’d taken down her hair.

  When he fondled her nipple, there had been an undeniable spark of…something. For one insane instant, she hadn’t wanted him to stop.

  She’d imagined that after their wedding, she and Hamish would remain virtual strangers. But already it became clear that sharing a house with her new husband posed challenges she’d never foreseen. They’d been married little more than half a day, and already her plans to lead a separate life were in ruins.

  What other disagreeable revelations awaited?

  She squared her shoulders and told herself to stop fretting. This bleak self-reflection just proved how tired and on edge she was. Hamish’s visit to her bedroom had upset her, even before Miss McCorquodale called for her help.

  Yes, upset. That was how she chose to define those bizarre tingling sensations when Hamish caressed her. She’d stick to that definition until the crack of doom, by heaven.

  He wouldn’t come to her bed again, not now he knew where his room was. Not now he’d discovered the cold welcome he’d receive in her chamber.

  That sudden weight in her empty stomach was not disappointment. She wouldn’t let it be disappointment.

  She and Hamish were a disastrous mixture. They always had been. Flame and touch paper. Gunpowder lit with a fuse. Their only chance of finding contentment was to avoid each other as much as possible.

  If right now the future seemed to stretch ahead of her like a vast and barren desert, that was only because she was worried about her father and exhausted and…upset.

  Yes, upset.

  It had been a day of upheavals, and Emily wasn’t herself. So she kept her voice calm and practical as she wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Miss McCorquodale, Hamish is right. You need your rest. Papa is in safe hands tonight."

  Hamish glanced up with a hint of a smile, and Emily struggled not to notice how handsome he looked when laughter lines formed creases around his blue eyes. "Go to bed, too, Emily. You look ready to collapse where you stand." The smile deepened. How she wished it didn’t. That strange heavy feeling in her stomach grew more acute. "I’ll come and get you if I need you."

  She suppressed a sour laugh. He didn’t need her. He never had, and he never would. He might express a yen to have her, but she had no illusions that meant anything beyond the male urge to claim and possess a nubile female.

  She turned to go. "Good night, Hamish," she said, and told herself that the emotion tinging her tone wasn’t wistfulness.

  Chapter 12

  On Emily’s second night as a married woman if not in any real sense a wife, she and Hamish were to dine at the home of Hamish’s intimidating mother. Emily was sickly aware that she would be the center of attention and an object of curiosity. Right now as she dressed for the event, she almost wished she’d taken a wedding trip, despite the thought of being alone with Hamish bringing her out in a cold sweat.

  "Smile, my lady," Polly said with her usual cheerfulness, as she placed the last pearl hairpin in Emily’s elaborate coiffure. "It might never happen."

  As a lady’s maid, Polly had proven a mixed blessing. It turned out she was a devotee of the fashion magazines and knew to the inch how to dress Emily for her newly elevated status. She was also unfailingly jolly. On the other hand, she carried the old familiarity forward. At times, Emily found herself longing for someone who treated her like a stern mistress, instead of a middle-class girl she’d known most of her life.

  Now Emily met her troubled hazel gaze in the mirror and obeyed Polly’s command to smile. Her reflection informed her that the attempt lacked conviction. "I just hope Papa will be all right while we’re out."

  After she left Hamish in charge of her father, she’d slept late and more soundly than she had in weeks. Some part of her must have known that Papa was safe. She’d woken to Polly telling her that Hamish and Miss McCorquodale were already interviewing nursing staff. By lunchtime, they’d employed two assistants for the sickroom and another footman fully dedicated to Papa’s service.

  Over the last months, Emily had found it harder and harder to juggle caring for her father and running the house. She should be grateful that Hamish lightened her burden, but she couldn’t help feeling he was taking over her life.

  Of course he was. He’d married her, hadn’t he?

  Resentment at her loss of independence came too late. If she complained that her new husband splashed his money around on presents for his wife and extra servants, anyone who heard her would think she belonged in Bedlam.

  Hamish hadn’t restricted his latest round of generosity to the household. This morning, a modiste had arrived to ensure that the new Lady Glen Lyon looked the part. A couple of the gowns Madame Lisette brought had only needed small alterations. Emily wore one now, an emerald green sarcenet that was the most spectacular dress she’d ever owned. How she wished it didn’t feel like yet another link in the chain tethering her to the bars of her cage.

  There was a soft knock on the door. Without surprise, she watched it open to reveal the man she’d married.

  Hamish stepped forward. He was so large, he made her spacious chamber seem small and unfamiliar, although she’d slept here all her life. In a dark blue coat that fitted him like a second skin and deepened the already extraordinary color of his eyes, he looked magnificent. "How is the dress?"

  "See for yourself." She hated how ungracious she sounded. Pushing away from the dressing table, she stood.

  If he noticed her moodiness, he gave no sign of it. Instead his eyes glittered with appreciation, as they devoured the sight of her. "Lovely. I thought it would be."

  "Our young lady do look pretty, don’t she, my lord?" Polly said with a proud smile.

  Emily saw Hamish consider correcting Polly’s use of the title, then dismiss it. He hadn’t had much success convincing the servants to address her as Lady Glen Lyon, while calling him plain Mr. Douglas. There were times when she knew exactly what ran through that handsome head.

  "Thank you, Polly," she said.

  "My pleasure, miss… I mean, my lady."

  Hamish’s lips twitched, as Emily sent Polly a straight look. "As in ‘Thank you, Polly. That will be all.’"

  "Oh. Right. As you wish, my lady." She bobbed into a curtsy and with barely concealed reluctance, left the room.

  "I asked Madame Lisette to put you in bright colors. I’m glad she took me at my word."

  "You’re too extravagant," Emily said.

  One eyebrow tilted in her direction, and he smiled as if they shared a private joke. "After what happened at Pascoe Place, I owe you a new dress or two."

  Taken aback, she regarded him with wide eyes. "You can laugh about that?"

  "You can’t?"

  "The memor
y is still too raw," she said somberly and saw him grimace. She still hardly credited that she had the power to hurt his feelings. "I’m sorry."

  His smile returned, but she saw it took more effort now. He stepped closer. "Let me try and make up for my crimes by giving you the occasional present."

  That was so far from the actuality of what he did that she gave a snort of laughter. "This is not the occasional present. You’re overwhelming me with your largesse. I feel like you’re King Cophetua and I’m the beggar maid."

  "So you’ll call me Your Majesty?"

  "Not on your life."

  "Pity."

  This teasing exchange left her unsettled. It made her wonder if she and Hamish could be friends, rather than wary adversaries. She wasn’t sure if getting any closer – in all senses – to her handsome husband was a good idea. A sudden and disturbing memory of his hand on her breast assailed her, and her heart skipped a beat.

  His touch had made her feel like a different person. She didn’t want to be a different person. She wanted her world to stay as it was.

  Except that wasn’t entirely true either. She wanted her father well, and she wanted the house properly staffed. These last months, she’d lost sleep over how to pay the bills. At least Hamish’s bounty saved her that worry.

  Oh, you’re absurd, Emily. You want your independence, and you want your husband’s financial support. You’ve got a galloping case of having your cake and eating it, too.

  But one thing was clear, and she needed to mention it. Her voice lowered into seriousness. "Hamish, you can’t spend the rest of your life using your wealth as a sop to a guilty conscience. That will blight every day we spend together."

  "But I have got a guilty conscience." She was relieved to see the humor drain from his remarkable eyes. With amusement lighting his features, he was far too attractive.

  "I’ve forgiven you," she mumbled, sitting at her dressing table again.

  She chanced a glance in the mirror and caught Hamish’s expression. His skepticism was clear. "Have you indeed?"

  Her traitorous heart crashed hard against her ribs, and the breath jammed in her throat. It turned out he was just as dangerous to her composure when he was serious, curse him.

  Blindly she fumbled with the pretty jeweled reticule that matched her dress. "I’m doing my best. I can’t spend my days, crushed under the burdens of anger and resentment and disappointment."

  A muscle flickered in his cheek. "By God, that’s a stark assessment of your feelings."

  A remorseful smile twisted her lips. "You know I’m not the most tactful creature. My lack of tact got us into this mess. If I’d approached you in Greenwich with a bit more humility, you might have listened, instead of hauling me out into the night for a scolding."

  His grunt was dismissive. "I doubt it would have made much difference. I’m inclined to fly off the handle."

  "I know," she said glumly. "We’re a terrible mixture. We always have been."

  "Yes, we are."

  Another of those awkward silences descended. Eventually she broke it. "We have to find a way to go on."

  "We do." He spoke the words as if pronouncing a death sentence. It was her turn to feel a sting, although how else would he sound? Without the scandal and despite his improbable claim that he desired her, he’d never have chosen Emily Baylor as his wife.

  "Your every second word can’t be an apology."

  "Perhaps only once a week?"

  She didn’t smile, in part because she didn’t trust his charm. He charmed people as easily as a robin perched on a holly branch. It would be so easy to fall under his spell.

  While this marriage promised to be a disaster on so many levels, she refused to let him make her wretched. She’d seen so many girls go completely silly over him, and most of the time, he didn’t even notice. She’d always believed she was made of stronger stuff – but that was before she’d seen him naked.

  "Perhaps save the apologies for some new infringement."

  A faint smile returned. He smiled a lot. People were fooled into seeing that and not the razor-sharp mind operating behind those glittering eyes. Emily had learned long ago not to underestimate him.

  "You’re so sure there will be one?"

  "I’d wager my lavish pin money on the possibility."

  She had a sick feeling that those infringements would include women in his bed. Although given their arrangement, would he feel he owed her an apology for infidelity? Even before she’d seen his magnificent body in a state of sexual readiness, she’d known her husband was a virile, sensual man. He wouldn’t swear eternal chastity just because his wife preferred to remain untouched.

  "Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it." He paused "We’ve strayed a long way from what I came in here to talk about."

  "Oh?"

  He looked uncomfortable. "I know you hate to lie."

  Startled she turned on the stool to face him. "So do you."

  The unshakeable confidence he’d possessed even at twenty looked shaken. He brushed his hand through his hair, making one golden lock flop forward over his forehead. "You held your head up at the wedding. But tonight it’s only my family and closest friends."

  "I know," she said grimly, her nerves reviving to set a plague of grasshoppers leaping around inside her stomach.

  "Do you think…do you think you could pretend to be happy with the match?"

  "What?"

  "It’s only for one night. I don’t want the people who care for me to know that we share no affection. Especially when happy marriages abound in my circle."

  She tried not to flinch at the no affection remark, although she supposed she deserved it after what she’d said about anger, resentment and disappointment. "You’d like to save your pride."

  "And yours."

  And hers.

  She didn’t want Hamish’s nearest and dearest taking a dislike to her – or worse, feeling sorry for the laird’s unloved bride. "They must have heard about what happened at Pascoe Place."

  "My mother has. Which means my sisters, too."

  She cringed. None of his relatives knew her well enough to understand that she was a million miles away from a scarlet woman. "Don’t you think people who know you well will guess we married out of necessity rather than…love?"

  It shouldn’t be difficult to say that last word, but it stuck in her throat like a chicken bone. Perhaps because when she looked ahead, not one scrap of love awaited her. No love of a husband. No love of a child. The only person in the world who loved her now was her father, and she couldn’t pretend he’d be with her for much longer.

  She leveled her shoulders. No more self-pity. She refused to yield to maudlin weakness. As Hamish had pointed out, she had her pride. She might face a lonely, unhappy future, but she refused to be pathetic as well.

  He looked uncomfortable. "I’m not expecting the impossible, Emily, but I’d like my family to think that we’re compatible at least. Don’t jump like a scalded cat when I take your hand. Stop pokering up like I’m about to rob you every time I come near."

  "I don’t," she said in outrage.

  A sardonic arching of gold brows. "You do."

  She sagged in surrender. She did. "I’m sorry."

  "No apologies."

  "No, no apologies." She frowned. "They’ll still think our wedding was very sudden."

  "My Scottish relatives know little of my day-to-day life in London. My mother probably could find out what I’m up to, but she’s too busy nagging the prime minister to pay much attention. They remember that I was your father’s student. Our marriage isn’t as much of a surprise to the world as you might think."

  "It is to anyone who knows us," she retorted.

  He spread his hands in appeal. "Won’t you help?"

  "And carry on as if I’m giddy with triumph at capturing such a prince?"

  Her sarcasm fell flat. The problem was that most girls would consider Hamish a prince. He was rich and charming and generous, and he had no heinous vices. Heaven help the susceptible females of the world, he even looked like a prince.

  His smile was wry. "There’s no need to go overboard. But perhaps when we’re in public, avoid ordering me around as if I’m a thick-witted pug."

  He was trying to make her laugh, but it didn’t work. She slumped on the stool. "You make me sound like such a witch."