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

Hamish had gone to Scotland, her father was dead, and Emily felt more alone than she ever had in her entire life.

Part 2

Chapter 16

Glen Lyon, Highlands of Scotland, September 1823

A deafening pounding in his head smashed through Hamish’s slumber. Bleary eyes cracked open to cruel sunshine. What the hell had he had to drink last night?

Oh, that’s right. He’d been feeling sorry for himself and missing Emily like the very devil, so he’d taken a little too much whisky before he stumbled into bed. He should bloody well know better. During his long separation from his bride, he’d learned to place a tight lid on his loneliness. But he’d made the mistake of thinking how much his wife would love the immense northern skies, especially at night when the stars burned like fire.

He’d been so befuddled, with yearning more than with liquor, that he hadn’t even closed the bedroom curtains. Now daylight cut like a knife. Hell, sunlight like this didn’t belong in the Highlands. This part of the British Isles should be gray and cool and wet, but September had brought two weeks of warm weather.

The thunderous pounding continued, and he realized it wasn’t inside his head, but came from downstairs. It seemed someone required his presence.

There must be some crisis down at Lyon House, he supposed, or perhaps a band of travelers had become lost in the maze of hills surrounding the estate. Except nobody ever came to this isolated peel tower. It wasn’t on the way to anything, and the nearest neighbors were more than five miles away.

That was just how Hamish liked it.

He’d discovered this tower as a ruin when he was a boy. It was unusual to see one of these defensive structures from the Dark Ages so far north, but he’d known immediately that once restored, it would make the perfect observatory. It did. It also made the perfect refuge for a man with an aching heart who wanted to lick his wounds in private.

With a heartfelt groan, he rolled out of bed and staggered across the floor. He’d reached the top of the stairs before he recalled he was naked.

Stumbling back to the bed, he wrenched a linen sheet off the mattress and wrapped it around his waist. For a moment, a memory assailed him, of a frustrating wedding night when he’d confronted his uncaring bride wearing only a bedcover.

This time he was wise enough to push away all thought of his wife. Remembering Emily only paved the way to misery.

On unsteady legs, he made his way down the uneven stone stairs to the ground floor. The knocking continued. Damn it, whoever was outside must have a bloody tired arm by now.

"All right. All right. There’s no need to try and wake the dead. I’m here."

After a few seconds’ fumbling with the heavy iron latch, he flung the door open and squinted into dazzling brightness. The light was even more piercing outside than it was in his bedroom.

"What in sodding hell do you want?" he growled, hitching at the sheet which was inclined to droop.

"Well, that’s a charming greeting after all these months apart," a dulcet voice said.

Hamish’s headache evaporated in a flash, and he looked down his long nose at the two people on his doorstep. "Bugger me, if it’s not dear little wifey."

***

Emily stared at the disheveled blond giant standing in the rough doorway and battled the urge to punch that firm stomach. An urge once too familiar, but absent from her life since last December.

She hadn’t been sure what she’d feel when she tracked down her truant husband. Trepidation? Pleasure? Relief? A bitter regret that they’d turned into strangers? She hadn’t expected to feel the way her fourteen-year-old self had, that Hamish Douglas was an arrogant ass who needed taking down a few pegs.

"Good morning, Hamish." Her tone was sweet as sugar, sharp as a needle. "No, pardon me, it’s not good morning. It’s gone four, so it’s good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Emily." The devil didn’t display an ounce of embarrassment, despite sleeping the day away and appearing in front of her in nothing but a sheet. "What the deuce are you doing here?"

Beside her, Big Billy Mackay tugged his plaid bonnet from his rumpled orange hair and twisted it fit to rip it in two. "Och, did I do wrong, Glen Lyon? The lassie arrived at Lyon House around noon and said she was your wife and she needed to see ye. She is your lady fair and square?"

As if the reminder of her role in his life was enough to oppress his spirits, Hamish released a disconsolate sigh. "Aye, she’s that, all right."

Emily’s gloved hands clenched in the skirts of her stylish scarlet riding habit, but hitting Hamish would hurt her more than it hurt him. That outlandish garb he sported wasn’t just a reminder of her wedding night, it revealed far too many impressive muscles.

However debauched Hamish’s life might have been since he left London, he still looked fit enough to take on Gentleman Jackson and win. She told herself that the throbbing weight settling in her stomach had no connection to the superb, if scruffy, sample of masculinity before her.

Through the long journey, she’d worried about the reception her husband would give her. She’d hoped that at least they’d start out with politeness, wherever they ended up once she told him why she was here. Instead, it was as if she’d s