"You’re Lady Glen Lyon. Of course you’ll wear a parure."
"You’ve already given me a ring."
"Two rings."
"Well, yes, but I’m talking about the engagement ring." Unable to resist, she lifted a left hand now weighed down with a simple gold band and a magnificent ruby. "That’s extravagant enough to be going on with."
With little fanfare, Hamish had produced the ring a few days after his proposal. Both rings symbolized the vast changes she’d faced, and the even vaster changes ahead. The wedding ring branded her as Hamish Douglas’s wife until the day she died. The ruby announced her new status as Lady Glen Lyon.
Briefly, Emily wondered about her husband’s Highland estates, so far away on the west coast of Scotland. He rarely talked about them. Just as he rarely talked about his family. She’d been surprised at the number of relatives who traveled down for his wedding. Surprised and envious. It was all too clear that his family adored Hamish, whereas apart from her close relationship with her father, she had no strong family ties at all.
Even worse, most of Hamish’s friends and relatives seemed to be happily married. Their joy in one another had been palpable, even to a stranger like Emily. The contrast with this empty union she entered into had been painful.
She shivered as the weight of her hair slithered down her neck. "You don’t have to undo my hair. I thought you were just taking off my veil."
"You know me. When I do something, I like to do it properly."
Surely only this intimate atmosphere building between them made his remark sound like an invitation to sin. It was an innocent enough comment.
"You can stop touching me now." She cursed how quivery her voice sounded.
He made a soft hum under his breath, and those clever, insinuating hands began to massage her skull. "I’m helping to get rid of your headache."
Emily wanted to tell him that he was her headache, but the sensations emanating from his hands were too delicious for her to summon the words.
"You’ve never touched me like this before." How could that sound like another invitation?
"I wouldn’t dare," he responded with the wry humor she’d always liked.
Right from the first, Hamish had set her hackles up, even when he wasn’t doing anything overly objectionable. But on those rare occasions when she didn’t want to cosh him with the nearest blunt instrument, he also had the knack for making her laugh.
"I don’t think you should touch me like this now." In concert with that lovely rubbing across her poor, tortured scalp, her heart pounded hard and deep. She should be more insistent. She should shift away. When Hamish took down her hair, it felt disturbingly bridal.
"Do you feel better?"
Better? Plague take him, she felt like melting into a puddle at his feet. Far from her hackles rising, her shoulders felt ready to slide off her neck and drop down to the floor. As he changed the pressure, she made a soft growl of pleasure. "I suppose so."
"You’re a bonny fighter, Emily," he murmured. "And you have lovely hair. For years, I’ve wondered how you’d look when you let it down."
There was something wrong with what he said, but she was too lost in weariness and the haze of pleasure to work out what it was. Her legs felt so rubbery, they were likely to collapse under her.
When her back met something large and warm, she realized with a distant shock that she leaned into him. Somehow his attention to the tight muscles of her head had loosened every other muscle in her body.
He made a soft sound of satisfaction, and she noticed that he’d stopped massaging her skull and had started stroking her hair. He ran his fingers through it, until it cascaded around her in long waves.
Since he’d started touching her, Emily’s vision had grown mistier and mistier. Now she closed her eyes and sighed with a mixture of physical wellbeing and exhaustion. For so long, she’d battled to stop everything caving in on her. Now for a miraculous instant, someone else held up the sky when her strength threatened to fail.
She had to move. She would move. If only because the man who propped her up was Hamish Douglas, and she wasn’t even sure she liked him.
But how she longed for one small moment’s rest. How she longed to take a breath that was free of fear and grief and worry.
Emily hardly noticed when he slid his arms around her, bringing her closer into his body. She was warm and safe and drifting in a world rich with the smell of citrus soap. She felt a ridiculous desire to cry. For months, she’d held herself as tight as a drum. Now all she felt was relaxed and unencumbered.
"Emily, my lovely wife…" A soft bass voice rumbled in her ear before lips brushed the sensitive skin of her neck.
The forbidden thrill that ripped through her jolted her out of her languor. With a gasp of horror, she wrenched away from Hamish.
"Let me go." On unsteady legs, Emily whirled to face him. "You’re trying to seduce me, you devil."
Despite everything, when he smiled, she needed to steel herself against the onslaught of charm. Her accusation didn’t prompt a scrap of guilt from the cad. "You can’t blame a fellow for trying, darling."
Her shoulders tightening, she scowled at him. "Don’t call me that. It doesn’t mean anything."
He arched those expressive eyebrows. "Do you want it to mean something?"
No, no, no. This wasn’t what she planned when she said she’d marry him.
"I want you to stick to the bargain we made." She meant her voice to cut like a knife, but it emerged wobbly and uncertain. She wished to glory he’d left her hair alone, however badly her head ached. With her hair flowing around her, it was impossible to maintain her dignity. Curse him, she must look like a wanton dairymaid.
"Are you sure?" When Hamish spread his hands, she hardened herself against the appealing picture he made. "It seems a dashed lonely way for us to go on."
He was right. Emily only had to recall all those smug, happy Scots making sheeps’ eyes at one another to understand that her marriage locked her inside an invisible cage. Inside her cage, she was safe. Outside her cage, she wasn’t. She just had to look back on these last few minutes to understand how dangerous Hamish could be.
But while a retreat to safety was her only choice, it still left her trapped in a cage.
"I’m sure." This time she managed to sound more convincing.
Disappointment shadowed his eyes, and she tried not to feel guilty. He’d behaved so well during the last month. She couldn’t have asked for a better betrothed. And he was right. Their marriage was going to be lonely.
"You knew our arrangement when I agreed to marry you, Hamish." She shouldn’t sound defensive. After all, she’d set out her conditions before their engagement and he’d agreed to abide by them.
As he lowered his hands, an uncharacteristically desolate expression settled on his face. "I knew, but it seems a waste when we could have so much more."
"Physical pleasure, you mean," she said in a snide tone.
"Don’t knock what you haven’t tried, my dear."
The insincere endearment struck her on the raw. "How do you know I haven’t tried it?" she asked, before she could question the wisdom of challenging him.
She saw straightaway that she didn’t fool him. He tilted one sardonic brow, and his reply was a sarcastic drawl. "You shock me, my lady."
"No, I don’t," she said, too tired to have this argument. "I’m going upstairs. I’ll see you in the morning."
"Really?" he said with a hint of bafflement. "That’s where you mean to leave things?"
"That’s where I mean to leave you," she said curtly, marching toward the door. "Good evening, Hamish."
When she paused and look back, he was still watching her. She’d wondered if her refusal might anger him, but his expression was enigmatic.
"My offer remains open, should you change your mind," he said, as though he asked her if she’d like a biscuit with her tea.
The scoundrel! Emily growled deep in her throat and stormed out, sl
amming the door behind her.
Chapter 10
Hamish set down the half-empty brandy decanter and stood to make his way to bed. Damn it, he was still stirred up from all that blasted touching when he’d taken down Emily’s hair. So stirred up that he only now realized that he had no idea where his room was.
When he’d lodged with the Baylors, the scholars had slept in the attic. It was a big room divided into cubicles, with a staircase up to the roof, in case anyone wanted to do some extra stargazing. He couldn’t imagine Emily would put her new husband there, no matter how much she disliked his presence.
It was late, well after midnight. He should have gone upstairs before this to change out of his wedding clothes. But after getting a curtailed taste of the pleasures his wife meant to deny him, he’d been too grumpy to leave the library.
A taste? Not even that. He’d had lovers before, and he knew the sweet tug of carnal hunger. But nothing had rivaled those sensual moments, when he’d taken down that wealth of sable hair and buried his hands in its lustrous thickness.
He’d soon wanted more. Emily had been so soft, lying against him, he couldn’t imagine she’d resist. But resist she had. As a result, he suffered an agonizing case of blue balls. Since then, he’d picked at his dinner and drunk too much. But nothing he did shifted the alluring scent of Emily’s skin from his nostrils.
He sighed, bleakly aware that his troubles were just beginning, and rang for Edward who had stayed up to look after him. He didn’t expect to sleep a wink, but it was time he retired and let the household do the same.
The young man appeared at the door. "My lord?"
"It’s Mr. Douglas," he said.
Edward frowned. "Mr. Roberts says you’re a lord up in Scotland."
"A laird. There’s a difference."
"So does that mean my lady is Mrs. Douglas?"
Not in any real sense of the word, plague take her. And there was no bloody sign of that changing before the dawn of doomsday. "No, she’s Lady Glen Lyon."
"But…"
A grunt of reluctant amusement escaped Hamish. "It all makes no sense, I know, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t ‘my lord’ me."
Edward nodded, although it was clear he remained confused. On the other hand, he was paid a generous wage to take orders without question. "As you wish, my…Mr. Douglas."
"Well done, lad. You’ll get into your stride in no time. Now I’d like you to show me where I’m sleeping."
"Very good, sir."
Feeling like his head was stuffed with lead, Hamish followed Edward upstairs and along a lamplit corridor until they stopped in front of a closed door. "Sir John sleeps in there. And you’re here." Edward opened the door across the hall. "Shall I stay and help you undress, sir?"
"No, thank you. I’ll manage." The way he was feeling now, he was likely to collapse fully clothed on his bed.
Edward lit him a candle and waited outside while Hamish entered the shadowy dressing room. Once he was alone, he flung off his clothes and stood at the washstand to splash himself with warm water.
He looked around for his nightshirt but couldn’t find it. None of his kit seemed to be in here. The shelves surrounding him were half empty and what was stored here seemed to be sheets and pillowcases.
This morning, he’d had all his belongings transferred over from the Albany. He would have thought the servants had had plenty of time to unpack for him. Excitement over the wedding must have led to some slackness in the household.
Hamish pushed open the bedroom door. Beyond the small circle of light his candle cast, the room was pitch dark. He’d have thought the servants would light a fire for him. It was late November, after all. Something else to talk to the housekeeper about.
He made out the dark shapes of furniture, including a large bed in a corner set off in an alcove. He placed the candle on a table near the door and blew it out. Barefoot and naked, he padded across the floor to slide between the sheets. As his body subsided into the thick mattress, he stretched out with a long, weary groan.
By God, he was tired. Perhaps he would sleep after all. If he could just banish Emily’s haunting scent from his dreams. Lying here in this empty room, it was more invasive than ever.
What a rum wedding night. Dinner on his own, followed by equally solitary slumber, if he managed to slumber at all. Good God, if his friends could see him, they’d laugh their heads off.
He released a depressed sigh and wriggled onto his side, straightening his arm. His hand landed on something soft and warm.
What the devil…
His thick head struggled to interpret what his senses told him. After all that brandy, his thoughts were confounded sluggish. "Emily?"
She made a drowsy sound and shifted under his hand, rolling onto her back. His fingers automatically curled to shape one round breast. Still far from alert, he squeezed the lush flesh and felt a sweet little nipple harden against his palm.
A sleepy growl of pleasure escaped him, and he went as hard as a flagpole. He didn’t know what the deuce she was doing in his bed, but he wasn’t going to ask too many questions. As his thumb teased that flannel-covered peak, he edged closer.
Emily went as rigid as a plank under his touch. "Hamish, what on earth are you doing?"
"Doing?" What in Hades did she think he was doing?
Frantic hands shoved at him, and she landed a couple of resounding blows to his jaw and chest before she managed to push him away. "Get your hands off me."
Brandy, tiredness, and a raging cock-stand stopped the blood flowing to his brain. He was still befuddled. Befuddled enough to hope this endless, miserable day might yet see a happy ending.
"What’s wrong with you, girl?" His eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he caught her flailing hands. "Settle down, damn you."
"What’s wrong with me?" she asked in affront. One might almost say she shrieked. One would be right. "What’s wrong with you?"
She started to kick which, given his unclothed state, could result in some serious damage. In an attempt to calm her, he rolled on top of her. "Stop it, Emily. I’m not going to hurt you."
The rolling didn’t help. For one quivering instant, she lay trembling beneath him, before she started to struggle again. "You’re…you’re naked, you filthy beast."
Her wriggling wasn’t doing much for his self-control, and every breath he snatched was alive with her bewitching scent.
Hamish flattened her hands on either side of her head. He was having trouble putting words together. "Couldn’t find my nightshirt," he finally managed.
She was panting, and her movements grew choppy as she ran out of puff. "A likely story!"
"What right have you to call me a filthy beast when you came to my bed of your own free will?" He was feeling aggrieved. He’d spent the whole bloody night playing the gentleman, and what had he got in return for his exemplary behavior, apart from a rampant erection and a headache? "For God’s sake, woman, will you lie still?"
"I’m not going to just let you…" She paused and spoke in a completely different tone. "Your bed?"
"Yes, my bed. And how the dickens did you think I’d react to finding you beside me? By the way, I might point out this is our wedding night."
"Your bed." She wasn’t wriggling anymore, but somehow during their epic struggle, Hamish had insinuated himself between her legs. Her knees rose on either side of his hips and only a layer of flannel barred his access to her body. All the while, that damned perfume, warmer and earthier than the everyday, tantalized him.
He set his jaw until it was like rock and told himself that he would not brush aside the frail barrier of her nightdress and touch her there. The fog of drink and drowsiness had evaporated from his mind. He wasn’t as sharp as he was in the full light of day, but a few things became clear. Dismally so.
Striving to rein himself in, he gulped for a breath. When he spoke, his voice was flat. "You didn’t change your mind about sleeping with me?"
"No, I did not,"
she said with an emphasis he couldn’t help but feel was uncalled for. "Why on earth would I?"
Piqued, Hamish spoke with more heat than perhaps he should. "Maybe because you like me. Maybe because you saw sense and realized that this is a mad arrangement. Maybe because you had an itch to discover what it’s like to take a lover. How the bloody hell do I know what goes through that gorgeous, muddled head of yours?"
He sounded cranky. He couldn’t help it. Four weeks ago, his life had been exactly as he wished. He’d been poised on the brink of a brilliant career. He’d been as free as a bird, and as happy as a spring lamb at Glen Lyon.
Since then, he’d endured a month of putting a good face on an engagement he didn’t want. He’d borne Emily’s barely hidden disdain, the snickering of his friends and colleagues, the prospect of professional ruin. And all without a tip-top swiving of his new bride to look forward to as compensation for his trouble.
Good God, a saint would be disgruntled.
"But I left you downstairs, saying I didn’t want to see you."
What was new? She never wanted to see him. "People can change their mind."
"Only a lunatic could undergo such a change in mere hours."
"Is that so?" he asked on a rising intonation.
He would not lose his temper. He wouldn’t. His pestilential temper never helped matters. Look at the disaster he’d sparked the last time he got angry. But his good intentions grew shakier by the minute.
"Yes, it is."
She squirmed again, which given the circumstances wasn’t wise. He closed his eyes and did long division in his head as her supple body slid and shifted around his. It turned out even long division couldn’t distract him from what he burned to do to his wife.
"You’re turning me into a lunatic," he muttered.
Wisely she didn’t respond to that. "For pity’s sake, will you get off? You’re crushing me."
"With pleasure," he bit out, although disentangling himself from yards of flannel and piles of winter bedding proved more of a task than he’d like.
All this wriggling around wasn’t conducive to sticking to the straight and narrow. Although one part of him was very straight indeed. The rest of him might be vastly displeased with his bride, but his dick liked her very much and had ambitions to get much closer.
The Highlander’s English Bride: The Lairds Most Likely Book 6 Page 8