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

e suggestion of a wilder, more exciting world with him. He was huge, taller than any other man she knew, and built like a Viking raider. Broad shoulders, beefy arms, a chest that should be covered in chainmail instead of the perfect Savile Row tailoring he wore.

He was fair like a Viking, too. With wheat-blond hair, and golden skin that never faded to a London pallor, and bright blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing. On first meeting him, people sometimes assumed that Mr. Douglas’s overwhelming physical presence must equate to a dull mind. They didn’t assume that for long.

Emily had grown up surrounded by clever men. Hamish Douglas was the cleverest man she’d ever met. Or at least he was when his volatile emotions didn’t get the better of him.

The way they’d got the better of him two nights ago.

The recollection of the disaster he’d caused lent her voice a hard edge. "My father may have let you run tame over this house, Hamish. But right now I’m in charge, and I don’t have time for your nonsense this morning. In fact, after what happened at Greenwich, I doubt I’ll ever have time for you again."

Since leaving Lord Pascoe’s, her main concern had been calming her father’s agitation. Her secondary concern had been how on earth she could come around from the wreck of her reputation.

No one had called at the house yesterday, which was indication enough that the world was busy elsewhere, dragging her name through the mud. Her pride shied away from the thought. Even without fearing how this scandal would affect her future, she cringed from being the target of vicious gossip. With her odd intellectual interests and outspoken manner, she’d never been the ideal of womanhood. But in all her twenty-four years, nobody had ever questioned her virtue.

Which was why right now she’d happily slap the cheerful smile from Hamish Douglas’s face. If only he’d acted like a reasonable man in Greenwich and accepted her conclusions, she wouldn’t be in trouble.

"That would be a pity when we’re such old friends," Hamish said, which was a blatant lie. They’d never been friends. He cast a meaningful glance at Polly. "I’d like a word alone with your mistress."

"Polly, please show Mr. Douglas out," Emily said over the girl’s quick, "As you wish, Mr. Douglas."

"Polly!"

Hamish smiled at the maid with the flashing charm Emily had always acknowledged, however reluctantly. "Someone’s in a ticklish mood today."

"Miss Baylor was up all night to the master, sir. I’m not surprised she’s a bit grumpy."

"Polly, that’s enough," Emily snapped.

"Yes, miss. I’m sorry, miss." The girl blushed and avoided her eye. "I’ll go now."

"Not before you show Mr. Douglas to…"

But the maid had already scuttled out of the room and closed the door behind her. If Emily had a shred of reputation left to lose, she might worry about the propriety of staying behind a closed door with Hamish. She was too furious to be worried.

Surging to her feet, she clenched her hands at her sides. She told herself she couldn’t punch him. She was a lady. But by God, she’d like to, even if he was too lumbering and brawny to notice her flimsy attempts to harm him.

"Hamish, this isn’t your house," she said through stiff lips. "You no longer live here. You have no special rights. I’ve been polite and asked you to leave. I’ll thank you to cooperate."

One dark gold eyebrow quirked in her direction. "Polite?"

Her lips tightened. "At least as polite as you’ve been, barging your way in here, when you must know you’re the last person I want to see."

The spark of teasing amusement faded from his eyes, although he didn’t show any sign of leaving, damn him. As if to confirm that, he placed his high-crowned beaver hat on a chair. "I’m sorry to hear that."

"But surely not surprised," she retorted.

He shrugged. "Not entirely. I’m also sorry to hear your father isn’t well."

"He hasn’t been well for two years."

Hamish frowned, and she shrank from the compassion that softened his eyes. That unwelcome sensitivity was one of the most grating things about him. She’d dearly love to dismiss him as nothing but a mountain of puffed-up male conceit, but Hamish was among the few of her father’s protégés who had made a real effort to help Sir John in his decline. "I know. But I was shocked to see him at the reception."

Since her father’s health started to fade, anxiety and grief underlay everything Emily did. Now that sorrow threatened to rise and shatter her shaky control. Frantic not to break down, she chased after her anger and caught it in a firm grip.

Her anger with Hamish made her feel strong. Dissolving into a storm of tears in front of him would not.

"Your actions the other night didn’t help."

She waited for him to defend himself, but instead he leveled his shoulders and subjected her to an unwavering stare. She’d never seen him look so serious. "That’s what I’m here to talk about."