The Highlander’s English Bride: The Lairds Most Likely Book 6

by Anna Campbell

  Then all she did was lie there, tired, mentally alert, physically…

  Physically, every fiber of her body insisted that it was wrong to be alone.

  Hamish had touched her with desire. But at least as important, they’d spoken like intimates. Joy had flowered in her soul when he’d trusted her enough to confide in her. There had been occasions tonight when he’d felt like her dearest friend. Could she rely on this surprising, erratic harmony that sprang up between them here in this magical place?

  She wished to heaven she’d taken the trouble years ago to talk to him properly. Tonight’s revelations had shown her that her husband was a million miles away from the impervious rock of arrogance she’d once believed him.

  At last Emily came to know him as someone other than a rival. Because she was ashamed to admit that he had been a rival, both intellectually and for her father’s affection. She’d now grown up enough to see that jealousy rather than pique had inspired a large part of her hostility toward her father’s favorite pupil.

  She loved Hamish’s mind. His intelligence left her in awe. But she began to wonder if perhaps his heart was even bigger than his extraordinary brain. If that was the case, it was time to clear away the obstacles standing between them and seek a genuine closeness.

  She burned to tell him she wanted him, too, that she was tired of being a virgin bride. If he kissed her the way he had tonight, he could do whatever he liked to her.

  But when she sought him out, her courage failed. The words inviting him to take her refused to emerge from her lips. Some cowardly element hoped that when she showed up half-naked, he’d take the decision away from her.

  He hadn’t, curse him. She should have known he wouldn’t. He had too much honor. At last, she acknowledged what a fundamentally good man Hamish was.

  Sometimes, like now, she wished he wasn’t quite so good.

  "Here." He passed her a glass half-full of golden liquor. "This should help you sleep. Slainte mhath."

  "What?"

  "It means ‘your health.’"

  "Slong chee..."

  He laughed softly. "Speak the English, lassie. Gaelic takes a bit of wrapping the tongue around."

  Inevitably that made her remember how his tongue had danced inside her mouth. That had seemed such a bizarre thing for him to do, yet in practice it had been wonderful. That disturbing yearning surged again, and she shifted from one bare foot to the other.

  "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?

  ***

  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 s
eedling of hope unfurled 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?"

  A faint smile lifted her lips, and she indicated the space beside her. "Are you waiting for an engraved invitation to come through the mail?"

  Dear God above, what the hell was wrong with him? And what the hell was he doing over here when he could be lying beside her?

  Elation swelled inside him, swept him out into a whirlpool of hot anticipation. In one huge stride, he landed back in the bed.

  Chapter 23

  Emily was almost sorry Hamish lit the lamp. The determination in his face sent a jagged thrill through her, half-panic, half-excitement. Then he came back to bed, and there was no time for second thoughts or fear or, heaven help her, retreat. He was kissing her wildly, madly, hungrily as if he starved for her. She hadn’t liked the taste of the whisky when she’d tried it. On Hamish’s lips, it turned into smoky nectar.

  She imagined she’d already learned about kissing, but this storm of passion proved she had no idea. She sank down and wrapped her arms around him, as his big body crushed her into the mattress. His arousal, hard and heavy against her belly, made all her secret places clench in wicked anticipation.

  An eternity of heat and hunger later, he wrenched far enough away to speak. "You make me so happy, Emily."

  He didn’t sound like the domineering Scot who always set her hackles up. He sounded vulnerable and desperate. As she gazed into his face, she understood that he had indeed longed for her. He’d been as lonely without her as she’d been without him.

  One trembling hand rose to his cheek, feeling new whiskers scrape under her palm. A tenderness so piercing it was painful filled her and briefly swamped her physical excitement.

  "You make me happy, too, Hamish," she murmured. He was infuriating and stubborn, and often wrongheaded. But he was also clever and principled and stalwart in his affections.

  And she loved him more than she loved anyone else in the world.

  At this profound moment, it didn’t even matter that he didn’t love her. She’d been married for almost a year. It was past time that she knew her husband’s body.

  The feverish urgency drained from his blue eyes, replaced by a glow that only heightened her poignant emotion. He shifted until they lay facing each other. He took her hand in his strong, capable grip. "I swear I’ll always do my best for you, Emily. You have all my loyalty."

  His rich bass voice was even deeper than usual. He spoke as if he made a sacred vow. Tears pricked at her eyes, not just because of his words but because of his intense expression. This wasn’t a mere meeting of bodies, powerful as that promised to be, but something much more significant. A matter of souls. For him as well as her.

  "You have my loyalty, too, Hamish. Always." You have my love.

  He dipped his head and kissed her with such reverence, her heart swelled and threatened to break free. She answered with all the unspoken love she’d only just recognized. For a space, sweetness reigned, before inevitably passion surged once more.

  Hamish was panting when he drew away. So was she.

  She lay silent, overcome by her tumultuous feelings, while he rose to his knees and tugged his shirt over his head. Twice before, she’d seen him without a shirt, but his male magnificence trapped the breath in her throat just like the first time.

  With an unsteady hand, she smoothed a path across one firm pectoral. The whorls of hair beneath her palm were soft, and his skin radiated heat. He closed his eyes and made a deep sound in his throat like a purr.

  Her lion of Glen Lyon. She smiled as she lifted her hand away.

  He smiled back and waved toward the crumpled shirt she wore. "Your turn."

  Trembling, she shifted up and drew the shirt over her head, casting it to the floor. She lowered her eyes, not sure she was ready to see his reaction. She’d never been naked in front of a man. Hamish’s stare felt like a physical force.

  She waited for him to catch her up in his arms, but he didn’t touch her. After a few seconds, she dared to meet his gaze. The appreciation in his eyes warmed her skin, and she found the courage to straighten her spine and endure his wondering attention.

  "You’re lovelier than a clear night sky," he said softly.

  With a sigh of purely feminine pleasure, she curled her toes into the sheet beneath her. For the first time in her life, Emily felt genuinely beautiful. She basked in the waves of desire radiating off him.

  Hamish caught her around the waist and hauled her up for a deep kiss that felt like the promise of pleasure to come. He started to explore her body, kissing her nose and her chin and her cheeks while his hands discovered her curves. Sensation after sensation rioted through her. She shivered and twisted beneath his touch, encouraging more daring forays. His lips trailed delight down her neck, then ventured lower until he took one pearled nipple into his mouth.

  She cried out in startled pleasure when his tongue flicked against the aching point, then again when he drew on her. Arousal rushed through her and settled as a simmering weight in the pit of her stomach. She arched up in shameless appeal for more and buried her hands in the heavy silk of his hair. When his fingers teased her other breast, she moaned and gripped his hair harder.

  "I love your hair," she gasped, as it tumbled over her hands. I love you.

  He gave an unsteady laugh against her breast.

  "Ooh," she said, as that sent new sensation to join the others shooting through her. The brush of his breath on her flesh gave her goosebumps.

  He raised his head. "I look like a vagabond."

  The glittering amusement in his eyes made her smile back. She smoothed the tumble of rich gold hair away from his face. "You do indeed. If the London girls saw you now, they’d swoon."

  "Devil take the London girls. There’s only one girl I’m interested in, and she’s much closer than London."

  That was true. Wasn’t she lucky? Her smile widened. "I’m glad I came to find you."

  "So am I," he said fervently.

  "I’m sorry I made you wait so long."

  His expression turned serious. "Emily, we weren’t ready to come together when we married. I needed to know you. You needed to know me."

  "There’s still so much to discover."

  His answer emerged on a husky note. "You’re my constellations and my galaxies, darling. You’re as lovely as any star in the heavens. You’re as mysterious and spectacular as the stellar clouds. Of course there’s more to discover. A mere lifetime won’t be enough to reveal your secrets."

  She’d called him a poet. She’d had no idea. His words turned her into a puddle of syrup. "Oh, Hamish…"

  "What a voyage awaits us, my beautiful wife. We set out with joyful hearts."

  "That’s…" She swallowed to shift the giant boulder of emotion blocking her throat. "That’s a good start."

  He kissed her, one of those long, rapacious kisses that made her quake with yearning. But beneath the passion, tenderness lingered. Hamish began to kiss her stomach then inched lower to the feathery, dark brown curls hiding her mound. When his mouth brushed her t
here, shock banished the daze of pleasure.

  "Hamish!" She wriggled away.

  For the first time since he’d started this exquisite torture, she tried to cover herself. Her legs had eased apart, and he must be able to see her…there.

  "I promised you joy." He caught her fluttering hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. "Let me show you."

  She stared into intent blue eyes the color of a midnight sky, and shook her head as much in puzzlement as in denial. "Down there?"

  A faint smile lifted his lips. "Down there."

  "It seems…strange."

  His hold tightened. "To a virginal maiden such as yourself, Lady Glen Lyon, much of what we do together will seem strange. At least at first."

  His teasing didn’t ease her uncertainty, although the warmth in his eyes made her feel all shimmery inside. "Perhaps we should wait."

  "Is this Emily Baylor, the fearless seeker after scientific truth?"

  "This isn’t like plotting a planet’s orbit."

  "It’s a chance to discover something new."

  Without question. But she shook her head. "Would you mind if we don’t do that tonight?"

  "I want to give you pleasure. I want you to feel free to enjoy the magic we make together." His voice lowered into persuasion. "I want you to trust me."

  Helplessly she stared at him. How could she say no to that? Gingerly she lay down and stared up at the plaster ceiling. "I trust you."

  He kissed her again. "I can’t tell you what that means, Emily."

  She braced for his lips to touch her cleft, but he devoted his attention to her breasts. She’d feared all that lovely pleasure might be lost, but under his skilled hands, she was soon squirming with delight again. When he tugged at her nipples, heat sizzled all the way to that place between her legs, a place that suddenly seemed so very empty.

  He stroked her as if he created her anew with every caress. No more lonely, scholarly, prickly Emily Baylor. Instead she was queen of a new, sensual world.

  So this time, when his hands moved to her thighs and gently parted them, she didn’t protest. He traced tormenting circles over her stomach and legs. With every touch, that emptiness at her core became more acute. As she tilted her hips toward him, an incoherent grumble of frustration escaped her.