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

Hamish lay as still as a block of wood. He feared if he moved, he’d move in Emily’s direction. If he moved in her direction, all would be lost.

He felt like he was stretched on the rack. Why the hell had he agreed to sleep beside her? Although precious little sleeping would take place, he already knew.

He’d understood it was a terrible idea the moment he agreed, but he loathed the idea of leaving her, even for the few hours left of this endless night. After all these months of missing her like the very devil, he’d been so bloody desperate for her company. But he hadn’t factored in how her closeness would torment him.

Now he knew how it felt to kiss her.

Now he knew that she responded to him.

Now he only needed to move his hand a few inches to touch her.

He should have stayed on the damned roof.

Her scent enveloped him, set his blood clamoring. He didn’t need to see her. The image of Emily a mere shirt away from naked was etched on his aching eyeballs.

Closing his eyes, he fisted his hands in the sheets and prayed for control.

He didn’t know how long he lay unmoving and burning with desire before she spoke. It was a surprise he could hear anything at all over the pounding pulse in his ears.

"Hamish?"

"Yes?" he whispered.

The mattress dipped as she rolled in his direction. "Will you…touch me?"

Hell’s bells. His heart crashed against his ribs so hard, he feared they might crack.

He didn’t trust himself next to her any longer. He rolled out of bed and fiddled with the lamp. "What in Hades did you say?"

The answer emerged in jerky fits and starts. "I want you to touch me. I want you to kiss me."

"Emily, if I touch you, you know what’s going to happen," he said wearily. He broke off to swear at the uncooperative bloody lamp. "Light, you blasted useless contraption."

Finally a glow filled the room, enough for him to see his wife. She was sitting up against the heaped pillows, the sheet pulled up to her waist. Her magnificent hair cascaded about her, and her eyes were dark with uncertainty and what just might be longing. His gut twisted into a knot of ravenous hunger.

"I know what I hope is going to happen."

He hardly heard her. Instead his attention focused on the way her breasts swelled against soft white linen. "You wear that dashed shirt better than I do."

"Hamish, did you hear me?" Impatience drew her brows together. "I’m saying yes."

His breath hitched, and he froze where he was as he struggled to make sense of what she said. Through his bewildered astonishment, a fragile seedling of hope unfu

rled at last.

Had his beautiful Emily consented to be his? After all the cross purposes and misunderstandings, did they finally see their way clear?

He swallowed and warned himself to be cautious. She wasn’t his first lover, but he was painfully aware that she was the first lover to mean so much. He’d already made so many mistakes with her. He had to be sure this wasn’t one more.

"You told me you needed time to decide." He forced himself to look into that unforgettable face. Why had it taken him so long to understand that this was a face he’d happily look at for the rest of his days?

She was rosy with embarrassment. "Your kisses helped me to decide. It’s time. It’s past time. I want us to be a real couple. I want a true marriage, with both of us living together, not you in Scotland and me in London."

He still didn’t move. "You won’t change your mind?"

"I’m steadfast once I commit to something, Hamish. You know that."

"And you’re sure now?"