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

by Anna Campbell

  "It must be something about Scotland, my love."

  His love…

  If only that was the case. But he’d already given her so much, it would be churlish to ask for more. "It must be," she said faintly.

  Hamish smiled and kissed her again. "Anyway, you’ll like Lyon House."

  ***

  Emily did like Lyon House. The large gray mansion with its tall casement windows was set on a rise overlooking a spectacular sea loch. Hamish told her that he kept a yacht tied up at the quay, and he promised to take her sailing to Mull and Iona and Skye.

  Now, the morning after their arrival, her husband showed her around her new home. She’d toured the kitchens and met the staff. She’d heard more stories about Douglas exploits through the centuries than she could keep straight. She’d visited the morning room, two drawing rooms, and an imposing dining room. There had been a pretty little room full of delicate china – Hamish’s late grandmother had been an avid collector. They’d wandered through a large conservatory and a glittering ballroom.

  But her favorite room downstairs was the well-stocked library with its walls of bookcases and views south across the loch and hills. Or at least she thought it was her favorite. She couldn’t be sure, because Hamish had kissed her there and she’d lost all interest in architecture or furnishings.

  Upstairs were twelve bedrooms, including a suite for the clan chieftain and his wife. She’d slept there last night, in the clan chieftain’s huge four-poster bed, covered in carvings of the Douglas harp and sword emblem.

  In truth, she’d done precious little actual sleeping. After the strenuous night, all this marching up and down stairs and along endless corridors made her feel like a nap.

  "How are you holding up?" Hamish asked, as they followed yet another corridor.

  They were holding hands like sweethearts. He’d touched her all morning, and each contact only made her heart yearn more desperately for his love.

  "I had no idea you owned a house the size of Blenheim Palace."

  He responded with an appreciative grunt of amusement. "It’s not that big."

  "Not far off. Please don’t let go of my hand. Without you, I’ll never find my way to dinner."

  "The house is easy enough to navigate. The southern side faces the loch and so do most of the main rooms. The northern side looks across the hills. You’ll find your feet."

  "In a year or two."

  "There’s no rush." He released her hand and curled his arm around her waist. "And if you’re afraid of getting lost, it gives me an excuse to stay by your side."

  "Either that, or I’ll have to carry a ball of string like Ariadne so I can retrace my steps."

  "Go on with you, lassie. I’m much more fun than a ball of string."

  She smiled with nostalgic pleasure. "You are at that."

  What a fascinating man he was. She thought she’d known him in London, yet she’d had no idea what he was really like. At the peel tower, she’d imagined she ventured closer to his true self. And she had. But only now that he guided her around his clan seat with such pride did she start to understand the depths of his generous heart.

  And that heart, despite his crisp English accent, was as Scottish as bagpipes.

  He turned another corner and brought her into a long, light gallery lined with family portraits.

  She paused in front of a large canvas. "It’s your whole family."

  "It is. Me with my four blasted sisters." His older sisters, Prudence, Charity, and Grace, wore floaty white dresses and posed as the three Graces, their lovely golden hair caught up in the classical style. Elspeth was a baby in her mother’s arms. Emily could see how a vigorous young rascal like Hamish might feel smothered, surrounded by so much femininity.

  "Sisters you love to death."

  "Yes, I do. But when I was a lad, they drove me mad with their tears and tantrums and endless talk about dresses. By the way, that’s a devilish becoming dress you’re wearing today. Is it new?"

  After running around in Hamish’s shirts for most of last week, it had felt like an imposition to put on stays and petticoats. She’d compensated by choosing one of her favorite gowns, a pretty calico printed with flowers and peacocks.

  "New since you were last in London. I’m afraid I was so annoyed with you for decamping to Scotland and leaving me to face the gossip, I spent every penny of the allowance you made me. Or at least I did, once my mourning period for Papa came to an end. Not to mention that the house in Bloomsbury is looking quite à la mode."

  He dropped his arm from her waist and staggered back, looking overcome. "Heaven forfend, my lady, must I sell the family silver? My dear old father warned me against taking an extravagant bride. The bailiffs will be at the door any minute."

  She sent him an unimpressed glance, trying not to smile at his nonsense. She’d always known Hamish was charming, but now that he turned that charm on her, she realized quite how devastating he could be to a girl. No wonder the London ladies had been in a flutter over the young Laird of Glen Lyon.

  "You’re not upset. I can tell."

  He laughed and caught her hand up for a quick kiss. Her silly heart performed a somersault, although he’d done much saucier things last night than merely kiss her hand. These constant little caresses kept her in a ferment, both physical and emotional. She wondered if he’d join her for that nap after lunch. She had a yen for him now and didn’t want to wait until they retired for the night.

  "What’s the point of having a pretty wife, if not to show her off?"

  "Right answer." She examined the painting in front of her. "How old were you here?"

  "About ten. Thomas Lawrence sketched all of us in London, then traveled up here to paint the background. Papa was too busy to leave the War Office and bring the family to Scotland for something as trivial as a portrait. That was the year my parents rented a hunting lodge near Achnasheen for the summer, and Diarmid’s family joined us."

  "That was the year you met Fergus."

  "Yes, he saved my life and gave me a puppy called Blackie. Best damn dog that ever lived. I was twenty-five when he died, and I cried like a lost bairn."

  "Oh, Hamish," she said softly, laying her head on his shoulder. When he put his arm around her, her wayward heart staggered like a drunken sailor. She loved the glorious things he did to her in bed – how could she not? But their growing emotional closeness made her soul ache with longing. "You didn’t bring Blackie to London?"

  "No, he wasn’t a dog for the city, although we both pined when we were apart."

  She returned her attention to the group portrait. "Your father and mother look happy. I’ve only seen that rather stern picture of him that your mamma keeps in the dining room in London."

  "Yes, they were happy together. Unlike Diarmid’s parents who were in continual strife. I remember that holiday at Achnasheen as a paradise of masculine company. Diarmid and Fergus, and nobody nagging me to look at hats in the Belle Assemblée. But the adults didn’t have nearly so carefree a time of it. Diarmid at twelve was old enough to understand what was going on. I learned later that the holiday was a failed attempt to get my aunt and uncle to reconcile, but I remained oblivious. A ten-year-old boy is pretty blind to emotional undercurrents."

  "Poor Diarmid." She’d liked Diarmid. She’d particularly liked Fiona, who had been such a support during her father’s last illness.

  "Yes. I’m so glad he’s found happiness now. He deserves it."

  The painting still captivated Emily. This glimpse into the childhood of the man she loved intrigued her. "I’m always astonished at how beautiful your mother was. No wonder she took the beau monde by storm."

  "Yes, she was a stunner, wasn’t she? Her sister was just as lovely."

  "You’re a good-looking family. I remember being overawed the first time I saw you all together. It was rather like a mortal daring to set foot on Olympus."

  Hamish kissed the top of her head. She was in such a bad way. Whenever he did that, she felt like swoo
ning. "You’ll always be my goddess, Emily."

  What on earth could she say to that? And the worst of it was that he sounded like he meant it.

  She rested in his embrace, before she lifted her head to look down the long narrow room. "I suppose you should show me the rest of this rogues’ gallery."

  He smiled at her with a hint of devilry. "These musty old daubs can wait."

  "They can?"

  "Yes. I brought you up here to see Granny Phyllis’s cabinet of curiosities."

  "She really did have collecting mania, didn’t she?" Granny Phyllis was responsible for the priceless porcelain downstairs.

  "Mad old bat she was. But she had an eye for a treasure, and we keep the pick of her ferreting in a private room."

  Too little sleep clearly affected Emily’s intelligence. Only when she entered the small chamber at the end of the gallery and she watched Hamish lock the door behind him did she twig to the significance of the word "private." She subjected her husband to a narrow-eyed stare. "I’m guessing I won’t be doing much art appreciation."

  His smile was roguish in the extreme. "I think you’re going to be very appreciative."

  "That you’re set on despoiling me in the middle of the day?"

  "I did at the tower." He frowned. "Don’t tell me you’re shocked. I won’t believe it."

  When she laughed, the sound was resonant with anticipation. "I was going to suggest we retire to our chambers this afternoon."

  "We can do that as well – but it’s too far off. I had a fancy to have you on one of the library tables, before I saw the damn gardeners scratching around in the parterre. It was easier to have my wicked way at the tower, by God."

  She glanced around the confined space. High windows cast light across shelves of exquisite curios and a wall of miniatures. Her attention focused on the chaise longue in the middle of the floor. It seemed an odd inclusion.

  "Did you have that carried in?"

  "No. It’s been here for years. I suspect my parents worked out that this was a fine place to escape their rambunctious offspring."

  "If it’s a family tradition to dally in the cabinet of curiosities, who am I to object?" She stepped across and sat, her gaze unwavering on her handsome husband.

  "We’ll make a Douglas of you yet." Laughing, Hamish came forward and fell to his knees before her. When next he spoke, his voice held no teasing. "Do you trust me yet?"

  She frowned. "Given everything we’ve done together, I must."

  "Good." He lifted the frothy skirts of her dress and gently pulled her knees apart. "You’re wearing drawers."

  Silly to blush. "We’re back in civilization now."

  Emily had an inkling what he intended to do. Since their first night at the tower, this had felt like unfinished business. In their encounters, he’d used his hand on her but not his mouth. The thought of him kissing her between the legs still struck her as perverse, but she’d progressed a long way beyond the nervous maiden of a week ago.

  "Slide your bottom forward to the edge of the seat and keep your legs spread."

  "You’re going to do…that, aren’t you?"

  She waited for him to mock her mealymouthed phrasing, but his eyes were grave as they met hers. "If you really don’t want me to, I won’t."

  She leaned back on her elbows and widened her legs to fit his imposing shoulders. "You’re set upon this course."

  "If you agree, yes."

  "I can’t see how it will give you any pleasure."

  His lips quirked, and the sly knowledge in his expression had her shivering with anticipation, whatever her quibbles. "Giving you pleasure gives me pleasure."

  "How very…unselfish."

  "I told you that you married a prince."

  Emily gave a disdainful huff of amusement then subsided into trembling silence as he untied the tapes holding her drawers up.

  "Lift your hips for me," he murmured.

  She cooperated. He’d seen her secret places before, but this time, something about his deliberately stated intentions awoke all her uncertainties.

  Gently he straightened each leg and drew the sheer linen down, teasing her with every inch. Her drawers slipped over silk stockings and pretty pink slippers with their ribbons crossing over her instep and ankles.

  He touched one of her pink embroidered garters, tied below her knee. She felt the contact like an earthquake. "Nice."

  "Are you going to take off my stockings?" she asked in a shaky voice.

  He leaned in to kiss the soft flesh behind her knee, flicking his tongue against her bare skin in a way that made her tremble. "I don’t think so."

  "What should I do?"

  When he spread her legs again, he didn’t glance up. Instead he stared at the apex of her thighs. Emily thought she’d overcome her old modesty, but she had difficulty resisting the urge to shield herself from his curiosity.

  The strange thing was that while she remained deeply unsure about what was to happen, a whirlpool of arousal agitated her blood. And Hamish had barely touched her yet.

  "Lie back and enjoy yourself. I’ll do all the hard work."

  He usually did all the hard work. When they came together, her inexperience meant she ceded control.

  As she lay back at his command, a wicked thought struck her. If Hamish gained such satisfaction from placing his mouth on her sex, could she return the favor? A week ago, the idea of taking his rod into her mouth would have revolted her. At this moment, the notion offered tantalizing possibilities.

  The brush of his lips on her inner thigh wrenched her out of her depraved musings. When he ventured a little higher, her womb clenched in longing. She braced for him to kiss her cleft, but he began to stroke her legs and place soft, almost innocent kisses across her thighs and stomach.

  Every time his lips skimmed across her skin, a bolt of heat sizzled through her. Those touches weren’t innocent at all.

  Hamish started to linger on each kiss, varying the sensations until Emily whimpered with need. Sometimes he’d graze his teeth over a sensitive spot. Sometimes he’d give her a soft nip. Sometimes he’d use his tongue.

  Her fingers curled into the velvet seat beneath her as thrill after thrill rocketed through her. Her vision of the pink and white angels painted on the ceiling grew misty. While her body softened into liquid readiness, hunger churned in her belly.

  "Hamish, I want you," she gasped, wriggling forward to get closer to that tormenting mouth.

  His grip on her thighs tightened. "Soon."

  "Now, you brute," she said in a hoarse voice.

  He answered her with a nip to the top of her leg. Then he placed his mouth over her and every muscle tightened in immediate reaction.

  "Hamish!"

  The capacity for speech left her entirely, as he licked her with a luxuriant languor that threatened to hurl her heart from her chest.

  "Oh," she shuddered, blindly reaching forward to bury her hands in his soft, long hair. "Oh, yes."

  His low growl told her that he was lost in sensual delight. He licked her again, then pushed his tongue inside her. A surge of warmth welcomed him, and Emily gave another incoherent moan of encouragement.

  For a long time, he toyed with her, using his mouth to take her to places she’d never been. When he sucked on the pearl of flesh, she raised her hips in astonished pleasure. He sucked again, harder, and she plunged into bliss. She cried out and quaked against his mouth for what felt like an eon.

  She’d felt rapture so often before. He’d given her pleasure with his hands and his body. He’d even taught her to pleasure herself and watched with delight as she dissolved into forbidden joy.

  Every time was different. Every time she thought it couldn’t get better. Then God help her, it did.

  Breathless, she slumped back against the seat, while he lifted his head and smiled at her with unconcealed triumph.

  "You smug devil," she said without heat.

  Chapter 26

  "Can you blame me?"

  E
mily gave a weary laugh as she struggled up onto her elbows. "No." Her voice lowered to husky sincerity. "That was wonderful, Hamish. Thank you."

  "You’re welcome." He placed a kiss on her thigh, very near where he’d taken her to paradise. Shifting back, he pulled down her colorful skirt.

  With a shock, Emily saw that he meant to leave it there. She sat up and stared at him in consternation. "Aren’t you going to…"

  "I wanted to show you pleasure." He rose to his feet, towering above her. In this small chamber, his great height was even more noticeable than usual.

  "You did." She summoned all her courage and held out her hand. "Now let me give you pleasure."

  "You do." His smile was sweet. "Surely you know that."

  Those stray thoughts that had tiptoed through her mind returned with a vengeance. "I want to do more."

  He went as still as a statue, an arrested look on his face.

  She lowered her hand, uncertainty rising anew. After all, she was a novice when it came to dealings between men and women. Beyond the things that she and Hamish had already done, what did she know about pleasing a husband?

  Still, she’d launched this ship. She’d sail on aboard it, until she either foundered against the rocks or reached safe harbor. "You always take the lead."

  He looked a little disgruntled, and she reminded herself to be careful. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. To think that once she wouldn’t have thought Hamish had feelings to hurt.

  "That’s because—"

  "You’ve done this before. I know. And I appreciate your expertise. When I’m in your arms, you make me feel like the most desirable woman in the world."

  His eyes sparked at her declaration. "It’s not just technique. It’s the two of us together. You make me feel more than I have with any other lover."

  Speechless, she stared at him as she struggled to make sense of what he said.

  He gave her a rueful smile. "Shocking, I know. But a clever girl like you must have noticed that I’m utterly mad for you."

  Cautious happiness seeped through her. Could he be closer to falling in love with her than she’d ever dared to imagine?