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

Yes, upset. That was how she chose to define those bizarre tingling sensations when Hamish caressed her. She’d stick to that definition until the crack of doom, by heaven.

He wouldn’t come to her bed again, not now he knew where his room was. Not now he’d discovered the cold welcome he’d receive in her chamber.

That sudden weight in her empty stomach was not disappointment. She wouldn’t let it be disappointment.

She and Hamish were a disastrous mixture. They always had been. Flame and touch paper. Gunpowder lit with a fuse. Their only chance of finding contentment was to avoid each other as much as possible.

If right now the future seemed to stretch ahead of her like a vast and barren desert, that was only because she was worried about her father and exhausted and…upset.

Yes, upset.

It had been a day of upheavals, and Emily wasn’t herself. So she kept her voice calm and practical as she wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Miss McCorquodale, Hamish is right. You need your rest. Papa is in safe hands tonight."

Hamish glanced up with a hint of a smile, and Emily struggled not to notice how handsome he looked when laughter lines formed creases around his blue eyes. "Go to bed, too, Emily. You look ready to collapse where you stand." The smile deepened. How she wished it didn’t. That strange heavy feeling in her stomach grew more acute. "I’ll come and get you if I need you."

She suppressed a sour laugh. He didn’t need her. He never had, and he never would. He might express a yen to have her, but she had no illusions that meant anything beyond the male urge to claim and possess a nubile female.

She turned to go. "Good night, Hamish," she said, and told herself that the emotion tinging her tone wasn’t wistfulness.

Chapter 12

On Emily’s second night as a married woman if not in any real sense a wife, she and Hamish were to dine at the home of Hamish’s intimidating mother. Emily was sickly aware that she would be the center of attention and an object of curiosity. Right now as she dressed for the event, she almost wished she’d taken a wedding trip, despite the thought of being alone with Hamish bringing her out in a cold sweat.

"Smile, my lady," Polly said with her usual cheerfulness, as she placed the last pearl hairpin in Emily’s elaborate coiffure. "It might never happen."

As a lady’s maid, Polly had proven a mixed blessing. It turned out she was a devotee of the fashion magazines and knew to the inch how to dress Emily for her newly elevated status. She was also unfailingly jolly. On the other hand, she carried the old familiarity forward. At times, Emily found herself longing for someone who treated her like a stern mistress, instead of a middle-class girl she’d known most of her life.

Now Emily met her troubled hazel gaze in the mirror and obeyed Polly’s command to smile. Her reflection informed her that the attempt lacked conviction. "I just hope Papa will be all right while we’re out."

After she left Hamish in charge of her father, she’d slept late and more soundly than she had in weeks. Some part of her must have known that Papa was safe. She’d woken to Polly telling her that Hamish and Miss McCorquodale were already interviewing nursing staff. By lunchtime, they’d employed two assistants for the sickroom and another footman fully dedicated to Papa’s service.

Over the last months, Emily had found it harder and harder to juggle caring for her father and running the house. She should be grateful that Hamish lightened her burden, but she couldn’t help feeling he was taking over her life.

Of course he was. He’d married her, hadn’t he?

Resentment at her loss of independence came too late. If she complained that her new husband splashed his money around on presents for his wife and extra servants, anyone who heard her would think she belonged in Bedlam.

Hamish hadn’t restricted his latest round of generosity to the household. This morning, a modiste had arrived to ensure that the new Lady Glen Lyon looked the part. A couple of the gowns Madame Lisette brought had only needed small alterations. Emily wore one now, an emerald green sarcenet that was the most spectacular dress she’d ever owned. How she wished it didn’t feel like yet another link in the chain tethering her to the bars of her cage.

There wa

s a soft knock on the door. Without surprise, she watched it open to reveal the man she’d married.

Hamish stepped forward. He was so large, he made her spacious chamber seem small and unfamiliar, although she’d slept here all her life. In a dark blue coat that fitted him like a second skin and deepened the already extraordinary color of his eyes, he looked magnificent. "How is the dress?"

"See for yourself." She hated how ungracious she sounded. Pushing away from the dressing table, she stood.

If he noticed her moodiness, he gave no sign of it. Instead his eyes glittered with appreciation, as they devoured the sight of her. "Lovely. I thought it would be."

"Our young lady do look pretty, don’t she, my lord?" Polly said with a proud smile.

Emily saw Hamish consider correcting Polly’s use of the title, then dismiss it. He hadn’t had much success convincing the servants to address her as Lady Glen Lyon, while calling him plain Mr. Douglas. There were times when she knew exactly what ran through that handsome head.

"Thank you, Polly," she said.

"My pleasure, miss… I mean, my lady."

Hamish’s lips twitched, as Emily sent Polly a straight look. "As in ‘Thank you, Polly. That will be all.’"