She released a relieved breath. Hamish was right. Far better not to rush into negotiations. She wanted his full attention when she addressed the issues that had brought her all this way north.
Emily noticed the trivet over the flames and the makings of their meal on a wooden stool near the fire. "You cater for yourself?"
"I’m not one of your soft English gentlemen, needing a servant to button up his trousers and wash his hands for him."
He kneeled to pour the egg mixture into a skillet. As she sat at the table, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from her big, powerful husband cooking with noteworthy competence. The reference to English gentlemen had been a joke, she knew, but she wondered how many of her father’s aristocratic pupils had the first idea how to prepare a meal. There was something deeply satisfying about having an attractive man working for her comfort.
"You sound like an English gentleman," she said, so hungry that she tore a roll in two and slathered it with rich golden butter.
"I do," he said, still watching the eggs. "I’ve always hated that."
"I imagine it made life in London easier."
"Yes, it did. But not life in Scotland." His tone was neutral, but she had a feeling that his calm response hid deep emotion. "To many people up here, an English accent remains the sound of the enemy. It’s not that long since Culloden, after all, and there are folk on the estate who lived through the suppression of the Highlands after the Jacobite uprising."
Surprised and concerned, she set her roll back on its plate. "But I’m English."
He forked rashers of bacon onto the plates he had ready. "You are indeed."
"Does that mean the people of Glen Lyon will hate me?" Everyone had been kind to her on the way north, and while she’d only spent an hour at Lyon House, the welcome had seemed warm.
Hamish gave the eggs another stir, sprinkled a few herbs over the top and glanced at her over his shoulder. "My choice of an English wife wasn’t cause for celebration, but they’ll give you a chance. If you decide to stay, you’ll win them over."
"Will I?" she asked doubtfully.
Disquiet churned in her bel
ly. She could think of a host of reasons for his kinsmen not to like her, not least that she’d lingered in London while her husband lived alone up here.
He divided the golden eggs between the warmed plates and rose to carry them across to the table. "Of course you will."
She wasn’t so sure. As she looked down at her meal, her appetite shrank to nothing. It had been hard enough coming to Glen Lyon to win over a reluctant spouse. Now it seemed she had to make headway against the prejudice of the entire Douglas clan.
But Hamish seemed to be in an unusually confiding mood. She wasn’t going to waste it. His mother had already told her why such a proud Scot sounded like an upper-crust Londoner, but Emily would love to hear Hamish’s views on where he belonged. "You say you hated sounding like an Englishman."
"Loathed it. This is my home, yet I always felt like an outsider when I was a boy. Too many people doubted my claim to be a Highlander, when I’m a Highlander through and through. The Douglases belong here. The land’s been ours for centuries." The ringing pride in his voice lifted her heart in a way she couldn’t quite explain.
He wasn’t the same man she’d known in London. It wasn’t just his clothes that were different. What made her nervous was that in this rugged Highland setting, he was even more attractive than he’d been in London. And in London, she’d feared that she might fall under his spell, when she had no guarantee that he cared for her at all.
She still didn’t. Except that he’d remained faithful. And he’d said he missed her. Not a guarantee, but perhaps something to build on.
Hamish began to eat with gusto. She forked some eggs into her mouth. She feared they might stick in her throat, but hunger overcame her roiling uncertainty about her future.
"This is good." The bacon was just as flavorsome as the eggs.
"Thank you. We have venison steaks for tomorrow."
"Are we still going to be here tomorrow?" After he heard her out, he might decide to ship her back to Bloomsbury. Or Tierra del Fuego.
Half his plate was clear already. "We don’t have to decide tonight." He used a linen napkin to wipe his mouth. "Would you like wine or ale or water?"
"Ale, please." She watched him fill two horn beakers and pass her one. "You were telling me about your childhood."
His beaker paused on its way to his lips. "Good God, was I? I’m sure we can talk about something more interesting."
The problem was that everything else was much more fraught than his life story – and anyway she wanted to know. The simmering hostility that had always marred her dealings with Hamish left her woefully ignorant of so much about this clever, complicated man. "No, tell me."
He shrugged, took a long drink, and set the beaker down. "While both my parents are as Scottish as haggis and I was born at Glen Lyon, Papa placed his considerable abilities at the nation’s service during the war. Throughout the troubles with France, he was one of the most powerful figures in the War Office. Mamma and Papa loved each other too much to live apart, so when I was a wean, the whole family relocated to London."