"Those Sassenachs have no idea how to celebrate. May I have this dance? It’s a waltz."
At Emily’s request, the band had played some of the dances she knew, amongst all the unbridled Scottish measures. She smiled at her husband. "I’d love to, but I promised the first waltz to—"
"To me." Fergus spoke from behind her.
"Hamish, caro, perhaps you and I can show the world how it is done," Marina said. She clung to her tall, redheaded husband’s arm, and her olive skin was flushed. She’d danced every set with a Continental élan that Emily admired.
Hamish released Emily and bowed to the gorgeous brunette. "It would be my pleasure, Marina."
Marina cast him a flashing glance from her bright black eyes. "By the way, I approve of this mane d’oro, Hamish. It makes you look like a Viking."
"That’s what Emily says," he muttered with the hint of self-consciousness that never failed to melt Emily’s heart. "She won’t let me cut it, although I told her I only let it grow because I was holed up in my peel tower stargazing. And pining for her."
Emily bestowed a smile of fond approval upon him. She believed he’d been pining for her. Hadn’t she been pining for him down in London? Although she’d been too proud to admit it, even to herself.
"It makes you look molto bello, like a hero from a Minerva Press novel." Marina surveyed Hamish with the strangely impersonal air she sometimes adopted.
Emily had come to realize that it usually meant that she’d moved into artist mode and her mind flooded with abstract shapes and colors. Having grown up with one scientist and married another, Emily didn’t find the change too disconcerting, but she’d noticed other people caught out.
"Before you cut it, let me paint you. Madonna, with all that hair, you look like the King of the Highlands."
"Pardon me, mo chridhe, but should I be jealous? Surely in my wife’s eyes, I am the King of the Highlands," Fergus protested.
Marina’s laugh was low and sensual. "Tesoro, you’re king of my heart. Don’t be greedy."
Emily had so much to be grateful for, especially when she thought back to her marriage’s unpromising start. But the look of love and perfect understanding that passed between Marina and her husband stabbed a knife through her. How she envied the love the Mackinnons shared. How she wished Hamish was devoted to her the way Fergus was devoted to Marina. Her husband’s burning hunger for her body thrilled her. But she wanted more, so much more.
Would she and Hamish ever enjoy that almost spiritual connection she saw linking the other couple? She reminded herself to be patient. They’d been reconciled only a few weeks. She had time to stake out her place in his soul.
Hamish looked thoughtful. "I don’t need another blasted picture of me, but I do want to talk to you about painting Emily."
Marina smiled. "Andiamo. We can discuss this while we dance."
Fergus extended his hand toward Emily. "Shall we, lassie?"
They whirled off into the throng, while the clansfolk, who considered these London dances complete drivel, drifted away to investigate the free-flowing ale and whisky and the long tables groaning with food. There was wine and champagne, too, but the locals scorned those as too much in the English taste as well, it seemed.
"How are ye liking my homeland?" Fergus asked, once they’d found the rhythm and circled the ballroom like it was second nature.
"It’s beautiful," Emily said, hoping she wasn’t blushing. So far her time in Scotland had mostly been a series of explosive encounters in the laird’s bed or wherever the laird and his lady could find the privacy to pursue their passion.
"Ye and Hamish must come to Achnasheen for Christmas. Marina would like that."
"I would, too."
He studied her with sharp green eyes that didn’t miss much. "It’s bonny to see ye two getting on so well."
"I like Marina."
"So do I. But I was talking about ye and Hamish."
"Oh," she said, suddenly wishing that she’d put Fergus off and danced with Hamish after all. She wasn’t ready to confide in the autocratic Laird of Achnasheen.
"When I was down in London, I heard the talk about how the marriage came about. Despite the two of ye putting up a brave face, it was clear that neither of ye was overjoyed to be shackled to the other."
Emily frowned as apprehension began to coil in her stomach. This suddenly felt like an ambush – and one she wasn’t prepared for, here where she was supposed to be amongst friends. "Fergus, it’s a party. It’s not the occasion for looking back on older, sadder days."
"But it’s a braw chance for me to speak to ye alone."
She stumbled, but he caught her without effort. "You really don’t have to."
So her instincts were right. This was indeed an ambush. Her heart sank to her knees and she braced for what was to come.
His stubborn jaw hardened and out of the corner of her eye, Emily caught Marina sending them a concerned glance. Emily summoned a smile but wasn’t sure it was as convincing as it might have been.
"Och, I do. There are two men in this world who are like brothers to me, and one of them is the man ye married. Hamish gives the impression that life comes easily and nothing pierces his confidence, but it’s no’ true. I hope ye ken the damage you can do to him. The damage you’ve already done, by God. I hope ye dinnae intend to do more damage."
Emily stiffened and missed another step. The attack took her by surprise and stung even sharper because there was more than a shred of truth in it.
"I care for my husband," she said tautly, wondering how much talk it would cause if she marched away from the laird’s best friend in the middle of a dance.
She now understood why Fergus had insisted on the first waltz. Most dances involved changing partners or dancing in a group. The waltz, blast it, meant she was with one partner for the duration.
Astonishment vied with hurt that this man harbored such a low opinion of her. She’d hoped that she was making some headway in claiming her place at Hamish’s side. This unwelcome conversation was a painful reminder that she still had a long way to go.
Again Fergus corrected her stumble and sent her a straight look that wasn’t far off a glare. "I’m no’ sure ye do. He spent most of the last year slinking around Glen Lyon like a whipped dog."
She hid a wince. The picture was a little too vivid to bear. She hated to think of Hamish unhappy. She hated even more to think that she’d been the cause. "He’s back to king of the beasts tonight."
"Aye, and that’s just how I’d like him to stay."
"Would you indeed?" she asked with rising resentment. "You know none of this is your business."
"It is, if I make ye see that you can hurt him."
"I have no intention of hurting him," she said hotly. Guilt and injured feelings created a rancid stew inside her.
"I hope ye mean that."
"I do, not that it’s any of your concern. Please take me back to him right now."
The formidable jaw above the snowy white jabot firmed until it was like rock. "I havenae finished."
"Yes, you have."
Fergus ignored her and short of making a scene here where she was so keen to create a good impression, she was trapped until the end of the waltz. At least Fergus kept his voice low. So far, the scolding remained a secret from the rest of the ballroom.
"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 earlie
r, more naïve days, she’d given little thought to the fact that Hamish was Scots and she wasn’t. But that 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."
"Hamish, not here," Emily said in an urgent tone.
So far her husband had kept his voice down, but a six-foot-five man seething with fury was sure to attract attention, however discreet he tried to be. More and more heads turned in their direction, and the couples around them had stopped dancing to observe the storm gathering around the laird and his new wife.
"I was giving your lady some well-meant advice on how to handle you." Fergus’s voice was steady and self-confident. Emily had a suspicion Fergus would sound self-confident standing naked in the middle of a hurricane.
"Giving her a lecture, more like," Hamish grated out. He lunged forward and pushed Fergus away from Emily, then he turned to her. "Are you all right?"
Emily was relieved to feel Hamish’s arm go around her waist and she sagged in his hold. After that vile exchange with Fergus, she dearly needed the reassurance of his touch. "Hamish, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Don’t spoil the party."
"Bloody Fergus, he always thinks he knows best. Whatever he said to you, ignore it."
"Tesoro, what have you done?" Marina asked, and the endearment sounded more impatient than loving, however much she might love her husband. "I said that you were better off leaving well enough alone."
Fergus’s color had risen, and he subjected his wife to a furious glare down the long blade of his nose. "I did what I thought best."
Marina sighed. "And created a disaster."
"I want Emily to understand what she’s cost Hamish. We all ken they married under duress. Now they’ve lived apart for months. I dinnae want his heart broken a second time, when she decides to flit back to England again."
Emily’s "As if I’d leave him flat!" coincided with Hamish’s outraged, "You can leave my heart out of it, chum. It’s in very good hands right now, and I’ll thank you to keep that damned big beak well away from my business."
Marina caught Fergus’s arm. "Il mio amore, you should know better than to interfere. Every marriage is a world unto itself. You can’t hope to understand what happens between Emily and Hamish."
"I willnae have Hamish hurt," Fergus said stubbornly.
"What in blazes sort of fragile blossom do you think I am, you overbearing sod?" Hamish asked with searing heat. "I don’t need you to protect me."
"He doesn’t need protecting from me either," Emily said in a rush. "It’s true – Hamish and I did start out badly, but we’re finding our way now."
Hamish’s grip on her waist firmed. "Yes, we are."
Fergus leveled a penetrating green gaze on him and some of the aggression leached from his tall frame. "Och, then that’s all I need to hear."
"You didn’t need to hear anything," Hamish snapped and swept a forbidding glance around the circle of eager onlookers. "I’m hoping you’ve all heard enough, too."
Their audience looked discomfited and most of them turned away. The band had continued to play throughout. As the whispers faded, the sweet silly tune of the waltz drifted through the room. Except it turned out something else was going on that Emily hadn’t noticed while she fended off Fergus’s criti
cism.
Fighting the urge to burst into tears, Emily turned her head toward where a scuffle had broken out over near the supper tables. She craned to see, but there were too many people in the way. "What is it?"
"God knows," Hamish said, with what she thought was justified annoyance. This had been such a joyous gathering. Now it threatened to turn into a debacle.
"Och, I will speak. A Douglas is born a free man with a right to an opinion, God damn ye." The voice was loud and belligerent, and slurred enough to hint at the liberal application of spirits.
"That’s all I bloody need, Wee Rory opening his big mouth," Hamish growled.
As the music ended on a discordant clash of notes, a flurry of protest rose from the corner of the room. Above the hubbub, the tirade was clearly audible. "We’ve got to put up with a damn Sassenach laird who’s fool enough to think he’s a good Scotsman. But now he brings us a bloody useless Englishwoman as the Lady of Glen Lyon. Soon there willnae be room for a true Highlander to breathe in this glen. It will be nothing better than a wee England."
A storm of shushing followed, but the hectoring voice rose above the scandalized outcry. "No good Douglas will ever serve under the English. We should rise up and—"
"Shut your mouth, Wee Rory," Big Billy said, pushing his way through the crowd to the troublemaker. "Nobody wants to hear ye."
"I willnae shut my mouth, ye thick-witted yin. I’m only saying what every true Scotsman here tonight feels but is too chicken-hearted to say. Well, nobody ever called Rory Douglas a coward."
"Aye, but they often called him a ruddy great fool," a man called out.
Emily was cringing in Hamish’s hold. She didn’t dare to look at Fergus and Marina, for fear of seeing pity in their eyes. Pity – and the knowledge that while the man might be a drunken boor, he spoke the unwelcome truth.
Hamish released her and drew himself up to his full daunting height. "That’s enough."
The crowd parted, and Emily found himself staring at a wiry old man with a bald head fringed in a scruff of untidy red curls. His face was flushed bright red, and he clutched a tankard in one hand.
The Highlander’s English Bride: The Lairds Most Likely Book 6 Page 24