The Highlander's English Bride (The Lairds Most Likely 6)

"I won’t pretend I’m not relieved that your material future is secure. But that’s the least of the reasons this match pleases me. You’re an unusual person, Emily. You’re a particularly unusual woman. I’ve long wanted you to set your heart on a man who appreciates you for the treasure you are."

"Papa…" she said, shocked and moved and cringing with guilt, because it was clear her father believed this was a love match.

Her father went on before she could clarify her arrangement with Hamish, which was fortunate. Far better that Papa believed she followed her personal inclinations, rather than just doing her best to keep her name out of the gutter.

"I’m happy that you’ve found a man who won’t seek to crush your spirit, just because you’re a girl. I’m happy you’re marrying someone who is your equal in intelligence and heart. You’re an exceptional woman, Emily, and I’m proud to call you my daughter. Hamish is a good man, and he knows how lucky he is to win you."

Her father’s generous praise left her floundering. He sounded like he was in full possession of his wits, and she couldn’t mistake how sincerely he meant what he said. "Does he?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"He told me so when he asked for your hand."

She should be grateful that Hamish had put a gloss of false affection on his proposal when he spoke to her father, but she was too busy digesting what her father told her to be tactful. "We’ve always clashed."

Her father smiled. "You’ve studied enough chemistry to know that when two volatile substances combine, there’s always an explosion. A bit of excitement is good for a marriage, kitten."

A bit of excitement? She was likely to strangle Hamish, if he didn’t strangle her first. The problem with explosive combinations was that there were explosions. "He’s a stubborn brute."

Her father leaned forward and took her gloved hand. "Yes, he is. But you’re stubborn, too. I long feared that you’d give yourself to someone who wasn’t strong enough to stand up to you."

"Hamish stands up to me."

"Yes, he does, and you stand up to him. I’ve known for a long time that you two are meant to be together. I’m just thankful that I lived to see this day."

Emily struggled to banish the mist in front of her eyes, and when she did, she saw the sheen in her father’s eyes. He was so happy she was marrying Hamish. She couldn’t destroy his illusion that she only suffered bridal nerves, instead of the conviction that this was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. "I’m glad you’re here, too, Papa."

At least that wasn’t a lie.

"I love you, Emily. I just wish your mamma was with us. She’d be so proud of you. You remind me of her so much. I just hope that you and Hamish are half as happy as we were."

A jagged lump of emotion clogged Emily’s throat. She always missed her mother, never more than in these last two years. Her determination to marry only for a great love was born in witnessing the bond between her parents. She betrayed that today by wedding Hamish Douglas.

But that was yet another insight she couldn’t share with Papa. So she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it with a reverence she saw he noted. "I love you, too, Papa. And I know Mamma is looking down from heaven and wishing us well."

She wanted to say more, tell him what a wonderful father he’d been and how grateful she was that he’d valued and nurtured her talents, despite her being a girl. But the carriage was drawing to a stop. "Too soon, too soon," she wanted to cry. When she looked out the window, she saw the imposing columns of St George’s portico.

"I wish you and Hamish all the luck in the world, Emily," her father said, as the footman opened the door and held out a hand to assist her to the pavement.

"Thank

you, Papa," Emily forced out, her nerves threatening to snap.

She didn’t want to do this, she really didn’t. But it was too late to back out. She raised her chin and straightened her spine. Summoning a smile, she emerged from the carriage to a ragged cheer from the crowd of onlookers gathered around the church.

***

Hamish stood at the altar beside his cousin Diarmid Mactavish, who had come down from Scotland to be his groomsman. Diarmid’s lovely wife Fiona sat in the congregation. The profound love his cousin had found with the pretty blonde provided a cruel contrast to the barren bargain Hamish made in wedding Emily.

"Stop acting as if you’re afraid she willnae show up," Diarmid hissed at him. His intense features were rigid with impatience at Hamish’s constant fidgeting.

"I am afraid she won’t show up," Hamish said, glancing behind him for what must be the hundredth time. But the wide doors to the big, ornate church remained empty.

The pews however were packed. All Hamish’s numerous family attended, most of them having crossed the border for the ceremony. His scientific colleagues were here, as were his society friends. It turned out Emily had very little family, but as she’d lived her whole life in London, she had plenty of people to fill her half of the church. It was a large enough crowd to witness his humiliation, if his intended decided to jilt him.

His original idea was that a splashy wedding would give his bride countenance, prove to the world that he and Emily had nothing to hide. Right now, he was rethinking that particular flash of brilliance.

The church was infested with massed hothouse flowers. The sickly sweet smell of lilies weighted the air and made Hamish feel nauseous. He resisted the urge to tug at his elaborately arranged neck cloth. It felt too tight, but he knew that was only because he was nervous and uncomfortable. He really wasn’t strangling, even if that was how he felt.

"She sounds like a lassie who kens her own mind. If she said she’ll marry ye, I suspect she means to. Especially as leaving ye flat will only add to the gossip."