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

He’d spent weeks telling himself there was no point getting het up about sleeping with Emily. It wasn’t going to happen. But the company of all those happy couples tonight made his marriage seem more barren than ever.

"You didn’t enjoy it? I thought you did. Everyone liked you, at least."

"They’re putting a good face on things for your sake."

"I know them all well enough to see when they’re just going through the motions. You impressed them."

How could she not? She was pretty and funny and clever, and interested in other people. The perfect wife, in fact. Hamish wondered why he’d never thought of marrying her before.

No, he didn’t. They didn’t like each other.

Except he did like her. He always had, despite her eternal quest to puncture his vanity.

"They’re a remarkably handsome group. Are all Scots so picturesque?"

Hamish adopted his best brogue. "Och, lassie, we’re a braw race of Adonises north of the border, ye ken."

It was too dark for him to see her roll her eyes, but he knew she did. That was another odd symptom of marriage. He’d always been aware of Emily – partly because he was waiting for her to pounce on his latest theory. Since they’d wed, he seemed to count her every breath.

Perhaps he was so attuned to her because he wanted her so badly. Most times when he took a fancy to a girl, consummation followed soon afterward. Perhaps he was so keyed up about his wife because there would be no consummation.

Or perhaps Fergus was right, despite speaking a lot of other rubbish, and a wife belonged in a special category of her own.

"Not just the men," she said, and it took him a moment to remember what they’d been talking about.

"So I don’t need to be jealous?"

Her laugh was dismissive. "Given the trouble one particular Scotsman has caused me, I’m not lining up to take on another."

Hamish felt the old urge to say he was sorry. He was disappointed to see Emily so flat. He’d hoped she’d relish the welcome she’d received, but this wasn’t a woman glorying in her social success.

"The women are splendid, too," she said before he could muster that apology. A good thing. She’d told him she didn’t want him apologizing until the end of time. Even if he felt he owed that to her.

"You have nothing to envy them for. You look marvelous."

"Fine feathers."

"No, you just needed to be set like the jewel you are."

He heard her breath catch. "Hamish, that was almost poetic."

"I have hidden talents, you know." He shifted uncomfortably, bracing for a sarcastic response. Her last comment might have been sarcastic at that. Nobody made him feel like a blundering fool the way Emily did. It was a wonder he wanted her as much as he did.

Wanting her turned this carriage ride into torment. In the intimate darkness, he was too aware of her warmth and scent. He was too aware that if he leaned forward, he could take her hand. Once he held her hand, who knew where he’d end up?

Probably sulking in the corner after she boxed his ears.

Marriage was hell.

He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, partly to stop himself reaching across the well between the seats and grabbing her. When he glanced out the window, they were only on Gower Street. A way to go yet before he could retreat to his lonely bed. It was late, and only a light or two glowed from the tall buildings on either side of the road. Although it wouldn’t be long until the streets teemed with people bringing produce into the city.

"I nearly died when you left me alone with your mother," Emily said after a long silence.

Hamish stretched his legs out. "You seemed to cope."

"You checked?"

"Of course I did. Was it so bad?"