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

"Cheers," she mumbled and took a gulp of the whisky.

Aromatic fumes filled her head and made her cough. She was barely aware of Hamish taking her glass and pushing her into a seat.

"Emily, are you all right?"

Sucking in a broken breath only made her cough again. She stared up at him out of watery eyes and forced a response past her burning throat. "You drink that for pleasure?"

He went down on his haunches in front of her, resting one hand on her shoulder. "It’s probably an acquired taste."

"Probably?"

"Have a drink of water. It might help."

She hadn’t realized he held a glass of water in his other hand. When he lifted it to her lips, she gulped down a mouthful. "Bruce Mackenzie is a poisoner," she said, her voice still raw after her coughing fit.

"Never tell him that," Hamish said with theatrical horror. "He’s an artist and deuced sensitive."

She gave a cracked laugh. "I’ll remember that."

To her regret, Hamish stood and stepped away. "More water?"

"No, thank you."

"More whisky?"

"You’re so funny."

He stared down at her with that special smile that always made her heart perform somersaults. At least now she knew why. A dizzying wave of longing flooded her. "Hamish…" she began, but he spoke over her.

"You really should go to bed. You’ll be tired in the morning."

"What about you?"

"I’ll sleep now, too."

Her burgeoning hopes suffered a setback. If he could sleep, her presence mustn’t disturb him anywhere near as much as his disturbed her. She watched him pick up his glass and empty it in one swallow. Although why anyone would want to drink that vile brew, she had no idea.

"The chaise longue is too short." She spoke before cowardice silenced her again. "Why not sleep downstairs with me?"

He turned to her with a stern expression. "Emily, that’s not a good idea."

Yes, it was. It was the best idea she’d had in years. "We’re married."

He sighed. Which wasn’t exactly the response she’d expected when she offered him a place in her bed. "Very well."

Feeling sick with nerves, she preceded him down to the bedroom. She took off his coat and crossed to the big bed to slide between crisp white sheets. Hamish set down the lamp he carried and blew it out.

"You sleep naked, don’t you?" she asked through the darkness.

"Usually." There was a thorny pause. "Not tonight."

The bed sagged as he lay down and Emily braced for him to reach for her. After their kisses, she’d hoped that lying beside him might feel more natural. After their kisses, she’d hoped that he’d be on fire to possess her.

"Good night, Emily," he said gruffly, staying as far away from her as he could.

"Good night, Hamish," she whispered. Had she come so far only to make an utter fool of herself at the end?

***