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

She made a soft exhalation redolent of irritation. "We haven’t achieved anything out here."

"Emily, stop playing games," he said in a rush, and only realized he’d used her Christian name after he’d spoken. So much for staying on his high horse. He shivered and to make matters worse, it started to rain. "It’s as cold as a witch’s tit. If you mean to berate me, at least do it inside in the warm."

"It was your idea to come into the garden." She still sounded sulky.

It had been. Because he’d feared a scandal if anyone caught him alone in a side room with his mentor’s bonny daughter. Now if they both went back into the house, wet as herrings, questions would arise anyway. "Well, now it’s my idea to go inside. Are you coming?"

There was a silence while he wondered what in blazes fretted the pestilential girl now.

"I can’t," she said in a small voice.

"Emily," he growled, hunching his shoulders against the wet. “I told you to stop playing games."

"I’m not playing games. I’m stuck."

Chapter 2

"What?" Hamish bit out.

"When you shoved me into this bush, my dress got caught."

"I did not shove you," he retorted, even as he shifted around Emily to try and see where she was attached to the branches. It was dark in this corner of the garden. And muddy. Damp seeped into his shoes and chilled his feet. His evening pumps weren’t designed for anything but a dance floor. "Hold still and I’ll set you free."

"Try not to rip my dress."

Hamish ignored her habit of giving orders. He usually did. He dropped the pamphlet to the ground so he had two free hands. Bending down, he tried to use his fingers to work out where dress and thorns made contact. Devil if he could see a damned thing. And Emily’s smoky, alluring scent, all honey and jasmine, teased his nostrils and made it almost impossible to think. "Plague take you, stay still."

"Well, that’s charming."

He tugged at his coat and loosened it with what he hoped was minimal damage. "See if you can get out of my coat."

"I’ll tear it."

"I don’t give a fig if you do. You’ll freeze to death if you stay out here."

So would he. He’d intended taking a few unobserved moments to put this impudent miss in her place, but they’d been out here for over a quarter of an hour now, and his shirt offered precious little protection from the elements.

"If you say so."

With some trouble, she wriggled out of the fine black coat, and he heard fabric ripping. He ground his teeth in irritation. When he stood up on the podium to give his speech, he wasn’t going to make much of a show, by God.

He shrugged on the coat, immediately welcoming the warmth. But now Emily only had that damned becoming gown to cover her, and it was as unsuited to the outdoors as his pumps.

"Why the devil do women wear these ridiculous rags?" he muttered, trying to make sense of a million layers of petticoats tangled around the thorny bush. "Hell."

"What is it?"

Those thorns meant business. "Nothing. Can you move now?" he asked, striving not to bark at her.

"My skirt’s still caught."

Of course it was. Could this night get any worse? He muffled a sigh and went down on his haunches to see what else he could do to free her. "Keep still."

He could smell rain and cold fresh air. But as he kneeled at Emily’s side, mostly he just smelled her. Crushed flowers. And beneath that, a warm, alluring scent that he’d long ago identified as essence of Emily. By God, if he was a chemist, he’d work out how to bottle that. He’d make a fortune.

That scent turned his usually deft hands into ten thumbs. While here and now he’d like to consign this interfering besom to perdition, tonight that scent would twine its way through his dreams. It would make him hot and frustrated, and angry with himself for the depraved things he did to his mentor’s daughter in his fantasies.

"Hamish, I’m freezing." She didn’t sound nearly as full of herself. He wasn’t the only one who knew they’d been out here far too long.