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

This morning, he’d had all his belongings transferred over from the Albany. He would have thought the servants had had plenty of time to unpack for him. Excitement over the wedding must have led to some slackness in the household.

Hamish pushed open the bedroom door. Beyond the small circle of light his candle cast, the room was pitch dark. He’d have thought the servants would light a fire for him. It was late November, after all. Something else to talk to the housekeeper about.

He made out the dark shapes of furniture, including a large bed in a corner set off in an alcove. He placed the candle on a table near the door and blew it out. Barefoot and naked, he padded across the floor to slide between the sheets. As his body subsided into the thick mattress, he stretched out with a long, weary groan.

By God, he was tired. Perhaps he would sleep after all. If he could just banish Emily’s haunting scent from his dreams. Lying here in this empty room, it was more invasive than ever.

What a rum wedding night. Dinner on his own, followed by equally solitary slumber, if he managed to slumber at all. Good God, if his friends could see him, they’d laugh their heads off.

He released a depressed sigh and wriggled onto his side, straightening his arm. His hand landed on something soft and warm.

What the devil…

His thick head struggled to interpret what his senses told him. After all that brandy, his thoughts were confounded sluggish. "Emily?"

She made a drowsy sound and shifted under his hand, rolling onto her back. His fingers automatically curled to shape one round breast. Still far from alert, he squeezed the lush flesh and felt a sweet little nipple harden against his palm.

A sleepy growl of pleasure escaped him, and he went as hard as a flagpole. He didn’t know what the deuce she was doing in his bed, but he wasn’t going to ask too many questions. As his thumb teased that flannel-covered peak, he edged closer.

Emily went as rigid as a plank under his touch. "Hamish, what on earth are you doing?"

"Doing?" What in Hades did she think he was doing?

Frantic hands shoved at him, and she landed a couple of resounding blows to his jaw and chest before she managed to push him away. "Get your hands off me."

Brandy, tiredness, and a raging cock-stand stopped the blood flowing to his brain. He was still befuddled. Befuddled enough to hope this endless, miserable day might yet see a happy ending.

"What’s wrong with you, girl?" His eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he caught her flailing hands. "Settle down, damn you."

"What’s wrong with me?" she asked in affront. One might almost say she shrieked. One would be right. "What’s wrong with you?"

She started to kick which, given his unclothed state, could result in some serious damage. In an attempt to calm her, he rolled on top of her. "Stop it, Emily. I’m not going to hurt you."

The rolling didn’t help. For one quivering instant, she lay trembling beneath him, before she started to struggle again. "You’re…you’re naked, you filthy beast."

Her wriggling wasn’t doing much for his self-control, and every breath he snatched was alive with her bewitching scent.

Hamish flattened her hands on either side of her head. He was having trouble putting words together. "Couldn’t find my nightshirt," he finally managed.

She was panting, and her movements grew choppy as she ran out of puff. "A likely story!"

"What right have you to call me a filthy beast when you came to my bed of your own free will?" He was feeling aggrieved. He’d spent the whole bloody night playing the gentleman, and what had he got in return for his exemplary behavior, apart from a rampant erection and a headache? "For God’s sake, woman, will you lie still?"

"I’m not going to just let you…" She paused and spoke in a completely different tone. "Your bed?"

"Yes, my bed. And how the dickens did you think I’d react to finding you beside me? By the way, I might point out this is our wedding night."

"Your bed." She wasn’t wriggling anymore, but somehow during their epic struggle, Hamish had insinuated himself between her legs. Her knees rose on either side of his hips and only a layer of flannel barred his access to her body. All the while, that damned perfume, warmer and earthier than the everyday, tantalized him.

He set his jaw until it was like rock and told himself that he would not brush aside the frail barrier of her nightdress and touch her there. The fog of drink and drowsiness had evaporated from his mind. He wasn’t as sharp as he was in the full light of day, but a few things became clear. Dismally so.

Striving to rein himself in, he gulped for a breath. When he spoke, his voice was flat. "You didn’t change your mind about sleeping with me?"

"No, I did not," she said with an emphasis he couldn’t help but feel was uncalled for. "Why on earth would I?"

Piqued, Hamish spoke

with more heat than perhaps he should. "Maybe because you like me. Maybe because you saw sense and realized that this is a mad arrangement. Maybe because you had an itch to discover what it’s like to take a lover. How the bloody hell do I know what goes through that gorgeous, muddled head of yours?"