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

"Oh. Right. As you wish, my lady." She bobbed into a curtsy and with barely concealed reluctance, left the room.

"I asked Madame Lisette to put you in bright colors. I’m glad she took me at my word."

"You’re too extravagant," Emily said.

One eyebrow tilted in her direction, and he smiled as if they shared a private joke. "After what happened at Pascoe Place, I owe you a new dress or two."

Taken aback, she regarded him with wide eyes. "You can laugh about that?"

"You can’t?"

"The memory is still too raw," she said somberly and saw him grimace. She still hardly credited that she had the power to hurt his feelings. "I’m sorry."

His smile returned, but she saw it took more effort now. He stepped closer. "Let me try and make up for my crimes by giving you the occasional present."

That was so far from the actuality of what he did that she gave a snort of laughter. "This is not the occasional present. You’re overwhelming me with your largesse. I feel like you’re King Cophetua and I’m the beggar maid."

"So you’ll call me Your Majesty?"

"Not on your life."

"Pity."

This teasing exchange left her unsettled. It made her wonder if she and Hamish could be friends, rather than wary adversaries. She wasn’t sure if getting any closer – in all senses – to her handsome husband was a good idea. A sudden and disturbing memory of his hand on her breast assailed her, and her heart skipped a beat.

His touch had made her feel like a different person. She didn’t want to be a different person. She wanted her world to stay as it was.

Except that wasn’t entirely true either. She wanted her father well, and she wanted the house properly staffed. These last months, she’d lost sleep over how to pay the bills. At least Hamish’s bounty saved her that worry.

Oh, you’re absurd, Emily. You want your independence, and you want your husband’s financial support. You’ve got a galloping case of having your cake and eating it, too.

But one thing was clear, and she needed to mention it. Her voice lowered into seriousness. "Hamish, you can’t spend the rest of your life using your wealth as a sop to a guilty conscience. That will blight every day we spend together."

"But I have got a guilty conscience." She was relieved to see the humor drain from his remarkable eyes. With amusement lighting his features, he was far too attractive.

"I’ve forgiven you," she mumbled, sitting at her dressing table again.

She chanced a glance in the mirror and caught Hamish’s expression. His skepticism was clear. "Have you indeed?"

Her traitorous heart crashed hard against her ribs, and the breath jammed in her throat. It turned out he was just as dangerous to her composure when he was serious, curse him.

Blindly she fumbled with the pretty jeweled reticule that matched her dress. "I’m doing my best. I can’t spend my days, crushed under the burdens of anger and resentment and disappointment."

A muscle flickered in his cheek. "By God, that’s a stark assessment of your feelings."

A remorseful smile twisted her lips. "You know I’m not the most tactful creature. My lack of tact got us into this mess. If I’d approached you in Greenwich with a bit more humility, you might have listened, instead of hauling me out into the night for a scolding."

His grunt was dismissive. "I doubt it would have made much difference. I’m inclined to fly off the handle."

"I know," she said glumly. "We’re a terrible mixture. We always have been."

"Yes, we are."

Another of those awkward silences descended. Eventually she broke it. "We have to find a way to go on."

"We do." He spoke the words as if pronouncing a death sentence. It was her turn to feel a sting, although how else would he sound? Without the scandal and despite his improbable claim that he desired her, he’d never have chosen Emily Baylor as his wife.

"Your every second word can’t be an apology."