The Highlander's English Bride Page 16

  He didn’t glance back as he started to descend the stairs. "I say that if this is what you’ve come all this way to talk about, I need to be wearing more than just a bedsheet."

  Chapter 17

  Fuming, Emily stayed behind on the tower roof. Since the moment she first contemplated this expedition, she’d questioned the wisdom of coming north. Never more than now, when she felt so vulnerable. And her husband, instead of reacting with joy or even, curse him, meeting her halfway when she suggested a normal marriage, turned his back on her.

  She heard voices below and crossed to look over the stone parapet. From here, it was a long way to the ground.

  Hamish, still in his bedsheet, was talking to Big Billy. Probably arranging for the removal of his inconvenient wife back to Lyon House. Or London, more like.

  Emily was too far up to hear what they said, especially with the wind rising. She’d never been to Scotland before, but the weather on this first visit proved mercurial. Once she crossed the border, her carriage spent a lot of time bogged, or making little headway through driving rain. Although the sun had shone as she journeyed further north. What a pity that it didn’t turn out to be an omen for a brighter future.

  Hamish wasn’t sending her away, it seemed. Billy bowed and went off to catch his piebald pony. He left her stocky gray grazing near the trees. Wondering whether she should be pleased or alarmed at being marooned here with Hamish, she watched the brawny Highlander trot down the narrow track.

  Hamish glanced up to where she stood and gave her a brief wave before he went inside.

  It seemed he was willing to keep her here to discuss their situation. Although she wasn’t sure what he might say. Whatever it was, he’d ensured their privacy.

  She waited for him to seek her out, but there was no sign of him. The breeze strengthened, and she was getting cold. More of that mercurial weather.

  With a long-suffering sigh, she went down to the floor below and surveyed the chaos. All this proof of industry, however messy, confirmed her husband’s story that he’d spent their time apart working.

  When Hamish still didn’t appear, she began to tidy. It turned out he’d been dabbling in all sorts of things. The moons of Jupiter. Pages of observations of Saturn. Further work on his comet. Notes on a host of stars. Paintings of the northern lights. Detailed descriptions of the Perseid meteor showers, which she imagined were spectacular in this isolated corner of the kingdom.

  She became so interested in tracing his observations and placing each scrap of paper with its companion pieces that she forgot the time.

  "Emily?" Hamish said from the top of the stairs. "Come down to the parlor. I’ll make you breakfast."

  Startled she glanced up from a beautifully drawn chart of Orion. "Breakfast?"

  "Well, it’s breakfast for me. For you, I suppose it’s getting on for dinner." As if to confirm that remark, the clock on the mantel chimed five o’clock. Through the windows, the light softened toward evening, lending the endless lines of hills a golden glow. "I’m guessing you’re hungry. I certainly am."

  "Yes, I’m hungry." She paused. "But I’d like a chance to freshen up first. I’ve been traveling all day."

  He raised a hand to his bare chin. The beard had gone, which partly explained why he’d taken so long to come back to her. He’d tied that wealth of hair back in a neat queue.

  He might no longer look like a pillaging barbarian, but wearing a clean shirt and a kilt, he didn’t look like the Hamish she’d known in London either. There was something fiercely stirring about this new guise. He seemed more untamed, more primitive, more…magnetic than any other man she’d ever seen.

  "I straightened my room and changed the sheets. While you’re here, please consider the bedroom yours."

  She narrowed her eyes on him, wondering if he’d taken her reasons for coming here at face value. Before she shared her body with him, she wanted to straighten out a few things. "Where will you sleep?"

  His lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "That rather depends on how our discussion goes."

  Elephants started performing a quadrille in her stomach. "Hamish…"

  He laughed with a trace of chagrin. "Don’t worry. I’m not about to demand my conjugal rights. There’s a chaise longue in here." He waved toward a corner. "In fact, your sterling efforts have uncovered it."

  They had. She hadn’t even realized it was there, until she shifted the books piled around it. The dust had set her sneezing.

  She regarded it doubtfully. "It doesn’t look big enough."

  He shrugged. "I’ll manage. I’ve become such a strange, nocturnal creature since I’ve been here, I’ll probably be awake all night anyway."

  She made a sweeping gesture around the room. "You’ve been busy."

  "Now do you believe me when I say the women of Glen Lyon have slept unmolested in their beds?"

  She’d believed him upstairs. He’d never been a liar. "Yes."

  "Good."

  He turned and went downstairs again, his voice rising to where she stood. "Come to the parlor when you’re ready."

  By the time Emily joined him, she’d had a wash and tidied her hair. She’d needed to use Hamish’s comb because she’d left her luggage at Lyon House. At least now she felt more prepared to deal with her troublesome spouse.

  In the middle of the afternoon, this room had been cold and forbidding. Now as twilight drew in, it seemed cozy and welcoming, with a fragrant peat fire burning in the huge medieval hearth.

  "Please sit down. I’ll scramble some eggs. There’s bacon and fresh bread and cheese and dried apples. I’m sorry for the humble fare."

  She straightened her shoulders and told herself to be brave. "Hamish, I’ve come up here to—"

  He waved her to silence. "You’re tired and hungry. Take a little while to eat something and catch your breath. Then we’ll talk."

  She released a relieved breath. Hamish was right. Far better not to rush into negotiations. She wanted his full attention when she addressed the issues that had brought her all this way north.

  Emily noticed the trivet over the flames and the makings of their meal on a wooden stool near the fire. "You cater for yourself?"

  "I’m not one of your soft English gentlemen, needing a servant to button up his trousers and wash his hands for him."

  He kneeled to pour the egg mixture into a skillet. As she sat at the table, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from her big, powerful husband cooking with noteworthy competence. The reference to English gentlemen had been a joke, she knew, but she wondered how many of her father’s aristocratic pupils had the first idea how to prepare a meal. There was something deeply satisfying about having an attractive man working for her comfort.

  "You sound like an English gentleman," she said, so hungry that she tore a roll in two and slathered it with rich golden butter.

  "I do," he said, still watching the eggs. "I’ve always hated that."

  "I imagine it made life in London easier."

  "Yes, it did. But not life in Scotland." His tone was neutral, but she had a feeling that his calm response hid deep emotion. "To many people up here, an English accent remains the sound of the enemy. It’s not that long since Culloden, after all, and there are folk on the estate who lived through the suppression of the Highlands after the Jacobite uprising."

  Surprised and concerned, she set her roll back on its plate. "But I’m English."

  He forked rashers of bacon onto the plates he had ready. "You are indeed."

  "Does that mean the people of Glen Lyon will hate me?" Everyone had been kind to her on the way north, and while she’d only spent an hour at Lyon House, the welcome had seemed warm.

  Hamish gave the eggs another stir, sprinkled a few herbs over the top and glanced at her over his shoulder. "My choice of an English wife wasn’t cause for celebration, but they’ll give you a chance. If you decide to stay, you’ll win them over."

  "Will I?" she asked doubtfully.

  Disquiet churned in her belly. She could think of a host of reasons for his kinsmen not to like her, not least that she’d lingered in London while her husband lived alone up here.

  He divided the golden eggs between the warmed plates and rose to carry them across to the table. "Of course you will."

  She wasn’t so sure. As she looked down at her meal, her appetite shrank to nothing. It had been hard enough coming to Glen Lyon to win over a reluctant spouse. Now it seemed she had to make headway against the prejudice of the entire Douglas clan.

  But Hamish seemed to be in an unusually confiding mood. She wasn’t going to waste it. His mother had already told her why such a proud Scot sounded like an upper-crust Londoner, but Emily would love to hear Hamish’s views on where he belonged. "You say you hated sounding like an Englishman."

  "Loathed it. This is my home, yet I always felt like an outsider when I was a boy. Too many people doubted my claim to be a Highlander, when I’m a Highlander through and through. The Douglases belong here. The land’s been ours for centuries." The ringing pride in his voice lifted her heart in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

  He wasn’t the same man she’d known in London. It wasn’t just his clothes that were different. What made her nervous was that in this rugged Highland setting, he was even more attractive than he’d been in London. And in London, she’d feared that she might fall under his spell, when she had no guarantee that he cared for her at all.

  She still didn’t. Except that he’d remained faithful. And he’d said he missed her. Not a guarantee, but perhaps something to build on.

  Hamish began to eat with gusto. She forked some eggs into her mouth. She feared they might stick in her throat, but hunger overcame her roiling uncertainty about her future.

  "This is good." The bacon was just as flavorsome as the eggs.

  "Thank you. We have venison steaks for tomorrow."

  "Are we still going to be here tomorrow?" After he heard her out, he might decide to ship her back to Bloomsbury. Or Tierra del Fuego.

  Half his plate was clear already. "We don’t have to decide tonight." He used a linen napkin to wipe his mouth. "Would you like wine or ale or water?"

  "Ale, please." She watched him fill two horn beakers and pass her one. "You were telling me about your childhood."

  His beaker paused on its way to his lips. "Good God, was I? I’m sure we can talk about something more interesting."

  The problem was that everything else was much more fraught than his life story – and anyway she wanted to know. The simmering hostility that had always marred her dealings with Hamish left her woefully ignorant of so much about this clever, complicated man. "No, tell me."

  He shrugged, took a long drink, and set the beaker down. "While both my parents are as Scottish as haggis and I was born at Glen Lyon, Papa placed his considerable abilities at the nation’s service during the war. Throughout the troubles with France, he was one of the most powerful figures in the War Office. Mamma and Papa loved each other too much to live apart, so when I was a wean, the whole family relocated to London."

  "Your mamma still misses her husband."

  "She does. They were wonderful together."

  Her lips turned down in a rueful smile. "I suspect they were terrifying."

  "Mamma has changed over the years. She was more approachable when I was a boy. That steely edge only appeared after she lost my father. I think she had to become harder, or grief would have destroyed her. Papa left us far too early. He was only in his fifties when an apoplexy took him. Overwork, I always thought."

  She set down her cutlery. This was the closest she’d ever come to sharing confidences with Hamish. And for once, their interactions held no edge. She was surprised that she almost felt at ease, despite the difficult conversation ahead of her.

  "My parents were in love, too." Strange to think they had this in common.

  "I know they were." Hamish’s response was gentle. "Your father talked about your mother with such affection. It was clear that he never ceased to miss her. He often said you were very like her."

  "I’d like to think that was true. She was wonderful." She swallowed the knot of sorrow that blocked her throat. Her mother’s loss still hurt. Her voice was husky as she changed the subject. "Did you see much of Glen Lyon as a child?"

  "We had summer holidays in Scotland. Mostly that meant a visit home and a few fistfights when someone called me a cursed Sassenach." He spat the word out, as if it had a rotten taste.

  "Did you win?"

  Hamish gave a huff of self-derisive amusement. "Once I started to grow into my size, I did."

  "One would think that your tenants would treat you with deference because you’re the heir to the estate. They would in England."

  He refilled his beaker. She’d hardly touched hers. "The Highlands are more democratic. The shepherd’s son is perfectly happy to knock the block off the laird’s son, if he feels the laird’s son deserves it."

  "I see," when in fact, she didn’t.

  A reminiscent smile curved Hamish’s lips. "I met Fergus during one of those holidays north. When Diarmid and I had got lost in the hills, he rescued us. By the way, you and he have something in common."

  "Oh?" She couldn’t imagine what. She’d found the Laird of Achnasheen almost as daunting as she found Hamish’s mother.

  Laughter danced in Hamish’s brilliant blue eyes, made him breathtakingly appealing. "It took Fergus a while to recognize me for what an all-round excellent fellow I am. He didn’t like me much when he met me. In fact, he might have dared to use the S word."

  Emily smiled, although she didn’t feel much like laughing. Hamish told this tale as if it was a high old adventure, but she knew enough now to see the unhappy, displaced child at the heart of it. "So did you like growing up in London?"

  "Not much. I missed Scotland like the very devil, although I’d have missed my family more if I stayed here. And life was no easier south of the border than it was in the north. When I went to Eton, I had to defend my honor even more often than I had to up here. I was too English for my clansmen and too Scottish for the stuck-up swine who went to school with me."

  So in the end, Hamish had belonged nowhere. When he swaggered into her father’s house, Emily had immediately resented his cocky self-assurance. Now she wondered if his pride had led him to overcompensate, to hide his fears of being the eternal outsider.

  "You make school sound lonely."

  "It wasn’t too bad, especially once I started winning the fights."

  More pride. At last, she learned to recognize it and the fierce defenses he placed around it.

  "And of course you were clever."

  "That doesn’t translate to universal popularity."

  He spoke with uncharacteristic hesitation, as if afraid he betrayed himself. But it was too late. She’d caught a glimpse of the boy beneath the glamor. She couldn’t view him through the prejudiced eyes of her childhood ever again.

  "Cambridge, however, was a lark." His expression brightened. "Lots of high jinks, plenty to drink, clever chaps to hang about with, and people who taught me all they knew about the stars. I was happy as a pig in mud there. And afterward, I came to your father. That was best of all."

  "You were happy with us."

  "When my professor’s daughter wasn’t glaring at me, I was."

  After what she’d learned tonight, she had the grace to feel a stab of guilt for how she’d treated him. When it came to placing blame for their prickly relationship, she deserved her share. "I was a snotty little madam."

  "You were, but I suspect I was insufferable." He shrugged. "I suspect I still am."

  Blindly she stared down at her empty plate. "You’re not so bad," she mumbled.

  "What did you say?"

  She raised an unwilling gaze to his face. "I said you improve upon acquaintance."

  He cupped one hand around his ear and did a fair impersonation of a deaf old man. "No, I still can’t be sure I heard you aright."

  Emily struggled not to laugh. What a revelation. She felt like she shared a sweet moment with someone who understood her better than anyone else in the whole wide world. How strange, when she’d braced for an encounter bristling with antagonism and recrimination. "Hamish, don’t tease."

  He lowered his hand, and the laughter drained from his face. The expression in his eyes made the eggs she’d eaten coagulate into a cold lump in her stomach. The preliminaries, gentler than she’d ever predicted, reached their end. It was time for the main bout.

  She wasn’t surprised when Hamish came around to pull out her chair, with a courtesy she remembered as innate.

  "I should wash up." She cursed the quiver in her voice. Now the moment arrived, she was desperate to put it off for a little longer.

  "Later." Hamish took her hand and seated her in a leather chair in front of the fire.

  She watched him settle in the chair beside hers. With his long hair and traditional Highland costume, he could be a man from another age. The ancient tower rising about them deepened the impression of the past crowding in upon the present.

  He stretched his long bare legs toward the hearth and turned to her. Flames flickered across his chiseled features and made him look like a stranger. Her heart fluttered with fear – and with something that she now recognized as sensual awareness. Ten empty months had given her plenty of time to examine her own confused reactions to the man she’d married.

  "You’ve come a long way to see me, Emily. After nearly a year without a word." His voice was deep and persuasive, with no hint of belligerence. "Will you tell me what you want?"

  Ah, that was a question indeed.

  She curled shaking hands over the worn lions’ heads carved into the arms of her chair and made herself answer. To her surprise, the words emerged smoothly. Those unexpected revelations about Hamish’s lonely childhood gave her a shred of hope that he might understand.

  "I don’t want to be alone anymore."

  Chapter 18

  Hamish frowned unseeing into the fire, as those astonishing words ricocheted through his mind. The whole day had been astonishing. He’d never expected to see Emily here at his bolt-hole. The sight of her had awoken his desire to almost painful life.