The Highlander's English Bride (The Lairds Most Likely 6)
Looking for all the world like a reasonable man, he spread his hands in appeal. But with Hamish Douglas, she knew better than to rely on appearances. "I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me about the mistake. If I had, none of this would have happened."
"I suppose your masculine superiority couldn’t countenance a mere woman pointing out your error."
He subjected her to another of those piercing gazes that always breached her defenses. "You know, you’ve said something like that before."
"Like what?"
"That I think you’re a lesser creation because you’re a woman. As if being female makes you weak and foolish and incapable."
"Don’t you think that?" she asked, astonished. "Most men do."
"Not any men with a scrap of intelligence." He gave a wry laugh. "I might have made a few unfortunate remarks to that effect, but that was only to needle you. I grew up with formidable women. Damn it, my mother pretty much runs the government, whoever the newspapers might say is in charge."
Lady Glen Lyon, a vaunted beauty in her youth, was now a famous political hostess. Emily had met her a couple of times and found her absolutely terrifying. Charming but daunting.
"Then why do you always try to cut me down to size?"
He responded with another of those amused grunts. "That’s not because you’re a woman. That’s because you’re…you."
"I don’t understand."
He ran his hand through his thick mane of golden hair. In private, Emily admitted that his mother wasn’t the only Douglas who could be charming. He’d arrived this morning dressed fit for a royal audience, and she’d wondered in despair how such a common creature as Emily Baylor could aspire to marry him. Now with his hair ruffled and with a gilded lock falling over his high forehead, he looked disarmingly approachable.
"Do you really want to talk about this?"
She folded her arms, wondering why he looked shifty all of a sudden. "I’d like us to understand each other better."
He sighed and tilted his head back so he could stare at the plaster ceiling.
"Seeking heavenly guidance?" she asked in the sweet voice that she knew drove him to the edge.
His eyebrows arched as he shifted to survey her. "You always treat me like a blundering hound that someone had the bad manners to release in the drawing room. You act as if you’re not sure if I’m housetrained."
"That’s not fair," she said, although to her regret, it really was.
He shrugged. "You asked. When I arrived here ten years ago, you stuck that perfect little nose in the air. Since then, it hasn’t lowered an inch. Every time I opened my mouth, you delivered a crushing response. What else is a man to do but fight back?"
"That doesn’t paint a very flattering picture." She swung away, trying to evade his accusations.
Although looking back, he was right. From the first, she’d set out to puncture what she saw as Hamish’s arrogance. Which now seemed silly, given that he was considerably less arrogant than most of her father’s cronies. At least Hamish always acknowledged her existence.
"Is it Scotsmen you don’t like?"
She came to a stop near the fire and curled one hand over the corner of the mantelpiece, which as Hamish had pointed out, now lacked two Chinese vases. "You never sound like a Scotsman."
His features froze. She must have hit a nerve. Goodness knew why. It seemed a less controversial comment than some of the other things she’d said to him today.
"My father lived in London all through the war, so I was brought up with a crowd of useless Sassenachs." He sounded defensive, although she hadn’t meant to insult him. "I can’t help it if I talk like them."
"Sassenachs?"
"The English. North of the border, it’s no favor to sound like the enemy, believe me."
Startled, she stared at him. "Surely you don’t think of the English as your enemy."
He sighed again. "No, not really." As she noted the revealing "really," he went on. "Old hatreds die hard in my homeland."
She hadn’t factored his nationality into the barriers to their marriage. Perhaps she should. "Now you’re marrying an Englishwoman."