The Highlander's English Bride Read online

  Hamish adopted his best brogue. "Och, lassie, we’re a braw race of Adonises north of the border, ye ken."

  It was too dark for him to see her roll her eyes, but he knew she did. That was another odd symptom of marriage. He’d always been aware of Emily – partly because he was waiting for her to pounce on his latest theory. Since they’d wed, he seemed to count her every breath.

  Perhaps he was so attuned to her because he wanted her so badly. Most times when he took a fancy to a girl, consummation followed soon afterward. Perhaps he was so keyed up about his wife because there would be no consummation.

  Or perhaps Fergus was right, despite speaking a lot of other rubbish, and a wife belonged in a special category of her own.

  "Not just the men," she said, and it took him a moment to remember what they’d been talking about.

  "So I don’t need to be jealous?"

  Her laugh was dismissive. "Given the trouble one particular Scotsman has caused me, I’m not lining up to take on another."

  Hamish felt the old urge to say he was sorry. He was disappointed to see Emily so flat. He’d hoped she’d relish the welcome she’d received, but this wasn’t a woman glorying in her social success.

  "The women are splendid, too," she said before he could muster that apology. A good thing. She’d told him she didn’t want him apologizing until the end of time. Even if he felt he owed that to her.

  "You have nothing to envy them for. You look marvelous."

  "Fine feathers."

  "No, you just needed to be set like the jewel you are."

  He heard her breath catch. "Hamish, that was almost poetic."

  "I have hidden talents, you know." He shifted uncomfortably, bracing for a sarcastic response. Her last comment might have been sarcastic at that. Nobody made him feel like a blundering fool the way Emily did. It was a wonder he wanted her as much as he did.

  Wanting her turned this carriage ride into torment. In the intimate darkness, he was too aware of her warmth and scent. He was too aware that if he leaned forward, he could take her hand. Once he held her hand, who knew where he’d end up?

  Probably sulking in the corner after she boxed his ears.

  Marriage was hell.

  He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, partly to stop himself reaching across the well between the seats and grabbing her. When he glanced out the window, they were only on Gower Street. A way to go yet before he could retreat to his lonely bed. It was late, and only a light or two glowed from the tall buildings on either side of the road. Although it wouldn’t be long until the streets teemed with people bringing produce into the city.

  "I nearly died when you left me alone with your mother," Emily said after a long silence.

  Hamish stretched his legs out. "You seemed to cope."

  "You checked?"

  "Of course I did. Was it so bad?"

  "I was waiting for her to denounce me as a wanton unfit to bear the Douglas name."

  "She’d never do that. She likes you. Anyway, when I called on her to say we were engaged, I explained that the scandal was all my fault."

  "You were just being gallant."

  "No, I was telling the truth." Then he paused, shocked, as he digested what she’d said. By gum, that was almost a compliment. "And she knows me well enough to believe me. Besides, she wanted me to get married. It was becoming something of a cause with her. My mother on a crusade is a terrifying sight."

  "I can imagine."

  "I suppose she told you all sorts of ways to handle me."

  To his relief, he heard a faint huff of amusement. "There might have been a bit of that."

  Or a lot.

  Emily didn’t sound like she much cared. Why should she? After all, she and Hamish would lead separate lives, once they finished making this show designed to contradict what all London knew – that the Laird of Glen Lyon and his lady were together only to stifle a scandal.

  When Hamish proposed, a separate life was the outcome he’d expected. Why now did that future seem so bleak?

  Damn Fergus and Marina. Damn Diarmid and Fiona. Damn his sisters and their husbands. Damn every other blissfully happy couple at that dinner tonight.

  The problem was that Hamish knew exactly what a successful union looked like. Which meant he was also wretchedly aware of how far his own fell short.

  Was it worth trying to renegotiate his arrangement with Emily? He wasn’t naïve enough to imagine she’d allow him into her bed just for the asking. But if she let him woo her, it would be something. It would give him a tiny thread of hope to cling to.

  Only a few days into becoming a husband, and already he verged close to despair. Despair that worsened after tonight’s reminder of what he missed out on.

  As they turned into their street, for once he wasn’t thinking with his prick. He was thinking about every aspect of the life extending ahead of him. He didn’t want to be a stranger in his own house. He wanted friendship – love was too much to ask for – and companionship and trust. He wanted a home. He wanted…

  "Something is wrong," Emily said sharply, leaning forward and staring out the window.

  Her tone wrenched Hamish out of his fog of self-pity. In the Bloomsbury house, all the lights were on and people milled about on the doorstep.

  "Don’t expect the worst," he said, even as he cursed the remark’s inanity. What else would she expect but the worst?

  "It must be Papa," she said, opening the door and jumping from the carriage as it pulled up. "What is it, Roberts?"

  "My lady, thank goodness you and Mr. Douglas are home. We just sent a groom to fetch you. Sir John has taken a very bad turn."

  Hamish stepped down to the street and stood behind Emily. "What do you mean by a bad turn?"

  "Miss McCorquodale knows more. She’s been with him."

  "What happened?" Emily asked in a voice Hamish had never heard from her.

  "It seems he got up from his bed, determined to go out, then collapsed. We’ve sent for Dr. Allard."

  In a silent attempt to share his strength with her, Hamish settled a hand on Emily’s shoulder. She jerked away as if his touch offended her.

  "I must go to him." She picked up her emerald skirts and dashed into the house without a backward glance.

  Hamish, knowing he had no right to be hurt, but hurt anyway, followed her inside more slowly.

  Chapter 15

  Sir John Baylor’s funeral took place a week later. After the service, people called at the Bloomsbury house to pay their respects.

  Hamish stood with Diarmid and Fiona beside the drawing room fire. He was grateful that Fergus and Diarmid and their wives had stayed in the south long enough to attend. The day was wet and freezing, typical December in London. With bleak surprise, he realized that it was only a couple of weeks until Christmas.

  "How is Emily?" Fiona asked, as she sipped the sherry that Roberts had decreed was proper for this solemn occasion. What Hamish would give for a dram or ten of Bruce Mackenzie’s finest whisky.

  "She’s in shock." Worried, he observed his wife where she sat wearing deepest black beside his mother, who had proven a rock during these difficult days. He supposed if anyone understood grief, it was Mamma. "I’ve hardly got a peep out of her."

  A large number of mourners – the wake spread into the library and the dining room – lined up to express their sympathies to Sir John’s daughter. Emily greeted everyone with the same frozen politeness. Not even Sir Humphry Davy managed to coax more than a few words from her.

  "She told me she was very close to her father." During the last days of Sir John’s life, Fiona had helped in the sickroom, and she and Emily showed signs of becoming friends. Marina had offered to help, too, but it soon became apparent that however good her intentions, she wasn’t cut out for nursing.

  "She wasn’t just his daughter. She was his assistant and his sounding board and his inspiration. They were inseparable."

  "Even when the end is expected, it’s difficult to accept," Diarmid said. "You’ll need to be patient with her."

  "I don’t think she even knows I’m in the house," he said grimly. When he tried to talk to her, she looked at him as if his words made no sense.

  "The sharpest sorrow will pass with time," Diarmid said.

  "Yes." But even after it did, Hamish couldn’t imagine his presence would be any more welcome. Since her father’s death, Emily spent most of her time in her room. The first night when he’d heard her crying, he’d knocked on her door and asked if she wanted company. She told him to go away. She’d been silently telling him to go away ever since.

  He’d cooperated because what else could he do?

  He had his own grief to cope with. It mightn’t be on the scale of Emily’s, but he’d loved Sir John. One of the few joys of this hurried marriage was how much it had pleased Emily’s father.

  "We’re heading home tomorrow, laddie," Diarmid said. "The bairns have been out of their routine for too long, and they’re getting fractious. We’d love to have ye and Emily to stay, if you can bring yourselves to leave London. Perhaps a change of scene will do ye both good."

  "Thank you, cuz," Hamish said. "I appreciate you remaining for the funeral. I hoped we’d see more of each other during your visit."

  "Cannae be helped." Diarmid clapped him on the shoulder and gave him an understanding smile. "Think seriously about the visit. Ye both need family right now, and things between you and Emily mightn’t seem so strange and discordant when you’re with friends."

  Hamish would like to think so, but he doubted it. Right now, Emily seemed to hate him. She was locked away in a private world of grief, and his vitality and vigor offended her.

  But how could he abandon her when she had nobody else? He’d noted at the wedding that she had no close family. The school friend who had been her bridesmaid had called once, but the visit had only lasted twenty minutes. She hadn’t called again, although she was among those paying their respects today.

  "We should go and say goodbye to Emily," Fiona said, her delicate features expressing concern. "Hamish, if you think it would help, we’ll stay. Children or no children."

  Hamish summoned a smile and stifled the urge to say that nothing would help. "Thank you, Fiona. You’re a treasure."

  She was. Diarmid was a lucky man.

  "Not really. I care about Emily. I hate to see her suffer."

  Fiona knew more than enough about suffering. Her happiness now had been hard-won, and Hamish knew she never took it for granted.

  "It’s very nice of you, but you should both go home. Emily needs quiet and time to find herself again. These last few years, caring for her father has been her whole life." Only as he said it did he realize how odd that sounded from a new husband.

  "Be kind to her, laddie," Diarmid said. "You’ll find your way back to each other in time."

  Hamish was too heartsick to argue with his cousin’s unjustified optimism. "I’ll write."

  "So will I – or at least Fiona will." They embraced, parting with a couple of hearty slaps on the back that did nothing to hide their deep affection.

  "Goodbye, Hamish," Fiona said. "Come and see us for Christmas."

  Hamish couldn’t stifle a wince at the prospect of a big, boisterous celebration, brimming with jollity and love and laughter. "I’ll let you know," he said, although they both knew that he’d be spending Christmas far from the Highlands.

  He kissed her cheek, avoiding the pity he knew he’d find in her lovely blue eyes. "Goodbye, Fiona."

  He watched as Diarmid and Fiona crossed to Emily. His cousin bent over her hand with the courtly elegance that came so naturally to him. Fiona leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  As Emily raised her face to farewell Diarmid and Fiona, the window behind her cast stark gray light over her face. She was still beautiful. How could she be otherwise? But it was a beauty refined by sorrow. Hamish had suspected she wasn’t eating much. Now he was sure of it. Her pale, perfect skin stretched tight across her delicate bones, and her great hazel eyes were dull.

  He desperately wanted to make everything right for her. Just how desperately he wanted it surprised him, although he’d never wished her ill fortune, however much he might itch to give her a good shaking now and then.

  But that was the old Emily, the smart-tongued, quarrelsome adversary who gave as good as she got. One rough word to this frail, exquisite creature sitting across the room would shatter her to dust.

  By God, he loathed feeling so helpless.

  ***

  Hamish was relieved when the reception drew to a close, although he saw that Emily had found comfort in the tributes that Britain’s greatest scientific minds paid to her father. The last to leave the house was his mother. She looked magnificent in black silk. But then she looked magnificent in anything.

  "Hamish, such a sad event to follow so close on your wedding."

  Which for Emily had been a sad event, too. "I wish I could help Emily, Mamma. She looks so broken. Her father was her whole world."

  His mother sent him a sharp glance, and he shifted in discomfort as he realized he came close to betraying the truth behind his marriage. "You need to help her through this."

  Irritation with himself more than his mother had him answering with a touch of heat. "Of course I’ll help her. What sort of heartless brute do you take me for?"

  His mother was used to his mercurial temperament, and her voice stayed calm. "That’s not what I meant."

  He sucked in a breath and spoke in a more measured tone. "I’m sorry. It’s been a difficult few days for everyone."

  It had been a difficult few weeks. He and Emily had been wed less than a fortnight. Since then, Hamish felt like he’d lived through a lifetime.

  "I’m trying in my ham-fisted way to say you’ll need to use patience and care with Emily. And while you’re kind enough, patience has never been easy."

  His lips flattened. His mother did mean to chide him after all. "I’m not ten years old anymore."

  "No, but you’re still inclined to let your emotions rule you, especially when it comes to people you love."

  He bit back a protest at her use of the word love. He and Emily didn’t love each other. Right now, he’d lay good money she couldn’t stand him, given her pained expression whenever she set eyes on him.

  "It’s not altogether a criticism," his mother said, when he didn’t give an immediate response. "You’re incapable of dissembling, and that’s an attractive quality. But grief is a strange world to live in. Often people don’t act the way they would in happier times. I’m asking you to be understanding and forgiving, and willing to take the long view. Emily isn’t herself at present."

  "That’s true. She usually crackles with energy. She’s like a ghost in the house."

  "Under the pall of sorrow, she’s still the woman you married."

  "I wish I knew how to reach her."

  "You’ll find a way. Just let her set the limits for now."

  He shot his mother a questioning look. "You really like her."

  She looked startled. "Of course I do."

  "I thought with the way the wedding came about…"

  "I must admit I dreaded meeting a scheming hussy who had your fortune and your title in her sights. You’re not the first young man caught in a sly girl’s machinations."

  "I told you the scandal was entirely my fault."

  "Which I put down to natural gallantry. But the moment I met Emily, I saw she was perfect. Society misses bore you silly – not their fault, they’re educated to be nothing but pretty little dolls. Emily has such substance, and she doesn’t let you get away with being king of the beasts either."

  Hamish struggled to hide his astonishment. As his mother said, he wasn’t good at concealing his emotions. One emotion however he didn’t have to conceal. "I’m so glad you welcome her into the family. I’ve only recently realized how alone she is in the world. You’ve been very kind to her since Sir John passed away."

  His mother tilted her head with an effortlessly regal air. If he acted like the king of the beasts, he knew where he got it from. "It’s easy to be kind to her. She’ll find her place, Hamish. She has you and God willing, the children that will come. Life will offer consolations for her bereavement. It’s what happens."

  Guilt settled like a lump of melted iron in his gut. There would be no children, and he was no consolation to Emily at all. Guilt along with sorrow, because he knew his mother spoke from her own experience after his father’s death eleven years ago.

  The lost expression Emily wore was familiar. He’d often seen it on his mother’s face.

  He took his mother’s hand and leaned in to kiss her cheek. The familiar childhood scents of vanilla and roses filled his head and made him feel better, despite the fact that he was a child no longer. "You found your way, Mamma. I’m sure Emily will, too."

  His mother cupped his jaw in one hand. "You’re a good lad, Hamish. You’ll come through with flying colors. Just listen to your old mother."

  He mustered a smile, although that blasted heaviness in his gut wasn’t going anywhere soon. "You’re not old, Mamma. Your beauty is immortal."

  She responded with the famous husky chuckle that Lord Melbourne said was worth fifty votes in the House of Commons. "Oh, you’re such a flatterer, my son." She glanced over at Emily who still sat on the sofa, staring into the distance. "I’ll say goodbye to your wife and leave you alone. The two of you must be desperate for some quiet and privacy."

  Emily was, he knew. All day, she’d looked strained. Now she appeared brittle enough to snap into a hundred pieces. The problem was that Hamish suspected her idea of quiet and privacy included the absence of her unloved husband.

  ***

  Over the last few days, Hamish had taken his dinner in the library. While the dining room wasn’t overly large, it felt overly large when he sat alone at the head of the shiny mahogany table. Since her father’s death, Emily had retired to her room in the evenings. Avoiding him, he guessed.

  He was staring with little enthusiasm at his congealing fish soup when the door opened. He looked up, expecting one of the servants, but it was his wife, still wearing the elegant black dress. Propriety frowned on women attending funerals, but he admired that she’d insisted on being there.