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

"It takes more than a bonny face and a patronizing smile to fit in here in the Highlands. Life can be hard in these glens, and the people deserve better than a temporary lady who means to bolt back to London and her society friends the moment things get difficult. Hamish always said he’d marry a good Scots lass, right from the very first day I met him. From what I’ve seen so far, he’d be better off if he had."

Emily’s lips flattened, and her question emerged with a bite. "So now you’re saying I’m the wrong wife for him because I’m English?"

The ghastly truth was that Fergus could be right. His criticism sliced straight through to so many of her insecurities. In her earlier, more naïve days, she’d given little thought to the fact that Hamish was Scots and she wasn’t. But th

at was before she’d seen him on his home ground and realized how rooted he was in the rich soil of Glen Lyon. The Hamish she knew in London was a thin veneer over the man she encountered here, the man who was Scottish to his marrow.

When he proposed, he’d mentioned his disappointed hopes of taking a Scottish bride. At the time, she’d dismissed his remarks as yet another complaint against a marriage he didn’t want. But then she’d learned how his upbringing left him feeling like he didn’t belong in Glen Lyon and she’d discovered how he longed to be recognized as a true Scotsman.

As if Fergus heard her troubled thoughts, he went on. "I’m saying that he’s always had trouble finding his place here, because he sounds like a Sassenach and because he spent so much time in London."

"He can hardly advance through the ranks of science hidden away in these hills," she snapped.

"Aye, that’s true. But he cannae make a place for himself as chieftain of his clan if he’s off chasing a flighty London lassie who has neither his best interests at heart nor those of his people."

"You’re not being fair. You don’t know me." She felt sick as she stared into his uncompromising expression. Did everyone here despise her as featherbrained and selfish and…English?

"I ken what I’ve seen."

"Then you haven’t seen enough. And I can’t help being English."

"No, you can’t, but if your heart’s in it, ye can try to overcome that handicap."

Her heart was in it. More than this presumptuous Scot could ever know. "I don’t view it as a handicap," she said, ice dripping from each word. Her pride revolted at the idea of him knowing that his cruel remarks hit their target. "And I repeat that this is none of your business."

The urge to break away strengthened, but people other than Marina had started to stare at them. Fergus’s displeasure and her chagrin were becoming more difficult to hide under a social smile.

"It is, if I have to watch my best friend suffer the way he has this last year."

"We’re together now," she forced out, through lips that felt frozen. She kept moving, but her feet felt like lead and the cheerful music mocked her futile hopes of finding a place at Glen Lyon.

Haughty auburn eyebrows expressed skepticism. "Aye, but for how long? Do ye mean to give him a few weeks of hope, then run off back to Mayfair? Or do ye mean to stay and do your best to understand him and his home and his kin? Glen Lyon needs a lady, not a gawking tourist who finds the quaint locals an amusing diversion before she goes back to her city pleasures."

If Emily hadn’t been so angry and wounded, she’d laugh at that. This last year might have been hard on Hamish – and that wasn’t altogether her fault – but nor had it been easy for her.

Fergus had picked up the impression somewhere that she’d abandoned a life jammed with feverish gaiety to follow Hamish up here. Whereas she’d been as lonely in Bloomsbury as he’d been sulking in his peel tower.

Probably lonelier. After all, he’d had his clan within reach.

"You’ve overstepped the mark, sir. I’m not going to make a scene because that would distress Hamish and while you may not believe it, that would suit neither you nor me." Inside she might be cringing, but her voice emerged flat and steady. "If you call yourself any kind of gentleman, you’ll take me back to him this minute."

The frown Fergus directed at her was ferocious. If she wasn’t feeling so heartsick, she might be frightened. "Ye need to hear me out."

She pushed back against the hand on her waist. "No, I don’t."

"What the devil is going on here?" Hamish growled behind her.

"Hamish…" Emily struggled to sound as if she and Fergus hadn’t just been at daggers drawn.

She plastered a smile on her face, as she stopped moving and turned to him. Hamish looked ready to explode. Marina hovered beside him, her dark eyes troubled as they flickered between Hamish and Fergus.

Fergus was Hamish’s best friend and while right now, she’d dearly love to pummel some of the Scots arrogance out of the man, she couldn’t be the cause of a rift. Fergus’s accusations had pierced to her soul, but he’d spoken out of genuine love and concern for Hamish. She couldn’t hate him for that.

"What the hell have you been saying to my wife, you carrot-haired bastard?"

"Nothing," she said, cursing the betraying quiver in her voice. She met Marina’s frown and gave a small shake of her head. She’d had enough of airing her dirty linen in public. This brought back memories of that hideous evening in London, when she stumbled in from a rainstorm to face an almighty scandal. "There’s nothing to worry about, Hamish. You’re interrupting the dance."

He ignored her and glared at Fergus. "It looks like something to me. She’s gone as white as a sheet. If you’ve upset her, Mackinnon, you and I will have a score to settle."