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

by Anna Campbell

  "I’ll never call myself clever again – of course you love me." She sounded like she made a great scientific discovery – and in the last place she ever expected to find it.

  "I told you I do."

  "This just shows what a complete state I’ve been in. I’ve been so blind. I swear, my brain hasn’t worked since I got to Scotland. I should have seen what you felt. How did I miss seeing it?" She shook her head, still looking as if he’d tossed her world upside down. Self-disgust turned down her lips. "In your whole life, you’ve never had an emotion that you didn’t broadcast for fifty miles. For weeks, you’ve been showing me you loved me."

  He was glad she believed he loved her. At least that should stop her scurrying back to London. But he needed more than a one-sided declaration. He needed Emily to offer some hope that she might one day return his feelings. His voice flattened. "Now all I need to do is make you love me."

  "But I do love you. So very much." Before he could process that miraculous statement, she rose on her toes and kissed him quickly. He could never think straight when she kissed him. "I’ve been in love with you for a long time, too. I was certainly in love with you by the time I chased you down in your lonely tower."

  "You were?" For the second time in half an hour, his voice cracked with emotion. These past few weeks, he thought he’d been happy. Discovering that Emily loved him back showed him that he’d only tasted the beginnings of joy.

  "I was."

  A great wave of elation swelled inside him, until he was smiling like a lunatic. It might be incredible, it was certainly undeserved, but this gorgeous woman loved him as much as he loved her. They’d come through all their tribulations to find safe harbor at last. He could hardly believe it. Yet he must because when he looked into her beautiful eyes, they shone gold with an adoration he never imagined he’d see there.

  He swallowed to shift the poignant emotion constricting his throat. "I call that a very happy coincidence indeed."

  Emily smiled back and rose on her toes for a more leisurely kiss. This time, their lips met with a heady mixture of passion and tenderness. The kiss made a silent promise for a lifetime of love ahead.

  With visible reluctance, she shifted far enough away to speak. "I don’t hate Scotland, even if Scotland hates me. I’m happy to stay in Glen Lyon with you."

  "Scotland doesn’t hate you, you lovely, misguided creature. Once Scotland knows you, it will love you almost as much as I do. If anyone doubts your place here with me, they can jump off the top of Ben Nevis, for all I’m concerned."

  "Even if Scotland does hate me, I can bear it as long as you love me and I love you. You don’t have to give up your home for me. You don’t have to give up your best friend. Fergus wasn’t as tactful as he could be, but he just wanted to make sure that I had no plans to run off to London."

  "Fergus should mind his own damn business. He sometimes forgets that I’m no longer the ten-year-old boy he rescued in the mountains and that now we’re men, the four-year age gap doesn’t mean a farthing."

  With a sweetness that made Hamish’s heart cramp with love, Emily stroked his cheek. "I wonder if he guessed you loved me and was just trying to save you from more heartache."

  He shifted with discomfort. "Men don’t think like that, my love. He’d be more likely to punch me in the head and tell me to stop moping."

  "Hmm," she said, clearly unconvinced. Then she looked horrified. "I didn’t even ask – what on earth happened to Rory?"

  An unimpressed grunt escaped him. "I sent the foul-mouthed buffoon home in one piece. He has orders to come to terms with us as the Laird and Lady of Glen Lyon or pack up his tools and leave."

  Puzzlement drew her eyebrows together. "But you were angry with him."

  "I’m still angry. He’s always been a nasty drunk. He’s a dashed good carpenter, though, which is why I put up with him. But tonight he went too far." When she didn’t speak, he frowned. "What is it?"

  This time, she smiled at him as if he was sunrise on a chilly morning. "Hamish, my darling, I’m proud of you. I’m proud of myself for marrying you. Despite all my fears, it turned out that I married a reasonable man. Who would have dreamed it?"

  He liked hearing she was proud of him. He particularly liked it when she called him her darling. But he was still confused. "What on earth are you wittering on about, you daft lassie?"

  Her smile widened further. "You didn’t lose your temper."

  "No, although if I had, that clodhopping brute would have deserved it. But however angry I was, I knew it would reflect badly on you if I gave him the thrashing he asked for. You wouldn’t like it if I started snapping and snarling like an angry bear in front of all our friends and neighbors."

  Emily cupped his jaw with a tenderness he felt to the soles of his feet. "Now I really do believe you love me. A year ago, you would have run amok. You wouldn’t have given a fig who you inconvenienced."

  With a theatrical sigh, he drew her closer, reveling in how willingly she snuggled up to him. "You’ve turned me into a mere shadow of my former self, you wicked girl. You’d better have plans to make it up to me."

  Her low laugh played sensual music up and down his spine. "That can be arranged." She drew away to cast a lingering glance at the chaise longue. His blood lit to flame as she leveled those lovely eyes on him, lovely eyes bright with an unmistakable message. "In fact, there’s no time like the present. Do you think our guests will miss us if we’re absent for an hour or so?"

  His laugh rang with triumph as he caught her up and kissed her with all the love overflowing from his heart. "To Hades with them if they do. Why should I care, when I have my beautiful English bride in my arms?"

  Hamish’s English bride gave a very unscientific giggle and surrendered to his passionate kiss with wholehearted delight.

  ***

  Author's Note

  Sadly, Hamish Douglas, Laird of Glen Lyon, is not credited as the discoverer of Saturn’s moon, Hyperion. Hyperion was identified in 1848, twenty-five years after the events in The Highlander’s English Bride, by William Lassell in England and by William Cranch Bond and George Phillips Bond in the United States.

  ***

  I hope you’ve enjoyed the latest installment in The Lairds Most Likely. If you’ve missed out on any of them, the first five books in the series are The Laird’s Willful Lass, The Laird’s Christmas Kiss, The Highlander’s Lost Lady, The Highlander’s Defiant Captive and The Highlander’s Christmas Quest. Continue reading for an introduction to all five stories, and a short excerpt from The Laird’s Willful Lass.

  The Laird's Willful Lass: The Lairds Most Likely Book One

  An untamed man as immovable as a Highland mountain…

  Fergus Mackinnon, autocratic Laird of Achnasheen, likes to be in charge. When he was little more than a lad, he became master of his Scottish estate, and he’s learned to rely on his unfailing judgment. So has everyone else in his corner of the world. He sees no reason for his bride—when he finds her—to be any different.

  A headstrong woman from the warm and passionate south…

  Marina Lucchetti knows all about fighting her way through a wall of masculine arrogance. In her native Florence, she’s become a successful artist, no easy feat for a woman. Now a commission to paint a series of Highland scenes promises to spread her fame far and wide. When a carriage accident strands her at Achnasheen for a few weeks, it’s a mixed blessing. The magnificent landscape offers everything her artistic soul could desire. If only she can resist the impulse to smash her easel across the laird’s obstinate head.

  When two fiery souls come together, a conflagration flares.

  Marina is Fergus’s worst nightmare—a woman who defies a man’s guidance. Fergus challenges everything Marina believes about a woman’s right to choose her path. No two people could be less suited. But when irresistible passion enters the equation, good sense soon jumps into the loch.

  Will the desire between Fergus and Marina blaze hot, then fade to ashes? Or wil
l the imperious laird and his willful lass discover that their differences aren’t insurmountable after all, but the spice that will flavor a lifetime of happiness?

  Chapter One

  Achnasheen, Western Highlands of Scotland, September 1817

  The smart yellow carriage careered wildly along the steep, rutted track that snaked down into the glen. Fergus hauled Banshee to a stop on the bend of the road. Horror churned in his gut, as he watched the vehicle speeding toward the burn, swollen to river size after the rainy summer.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, digging his heels into Banshee’s sides. The mare set off through the twilight at a gallop, while his dogs Macushla and Brecon ran barking at her heels.

  The coach horses were running in a blind panic, out of control. As the carriage veered closer, he saw that the coachman had lost his grip on the reins. There was no way that the driver would negotiate the sharp corner at the base of the mountainside to keep the vehicle on the bridge and clear of the water.

  Fergus had reached the stone bridge when the inevitable happened. The horses swerved at the sudden appearance of the burn in front of them. There was a crack as an axle broke, then another louder crack followed by the tinkle of shattered glass as the carriage rammed into the sturdy pillar supporting the end of the bridge.

  The coachman screamed as he hurtled through the air to land on the grassy verge of the road. For a sickening moment, Fergus was sure not only that the driver was dead, but that the carriage must overturn into the burn. His heart lodged in his throat, as the vehicle teetered on the crumbling bank above the rushing brown water.

  Fergus flung himself from the saddle and rushed over to the prostrate man. Banshee shifted uneasily, agitated by the other horses’ terrified whinnying, but bless her, she stayed put. As if things weren’t bad enough already, it started to rain.

  “Are ye all right, laddie?”

  Praise heaven, the man already started to stir. By the time Fergus got to him, he was sitting up and groggily rubbing his skull. His high-crowned hat lay upside down on the wet grass beside him. “Ma heed, ma heed.”

  Even through the shrill neighs of the carriage horses and the thunder of the rushing burn, Fergus noted the Glasgow accent. “Can you move?”

  The man’s resentful look told Fergus that any injuries he’d sustained weren’t too serious. What a miracle. “Aye, if I must.”

  “Then do something about the horses.” They’d both broken free and shied all over the bridge, trailing tack on the ground and showing the whites of their eyes. “Before they kill themselves or someone else.”

  Fergus helped the man up, made sure he was in fact unhurt, then turned his attention to the wrecked carriage. With each second, it appeared more unstable, Fergus guessed because the passengers moved around inside it.

  “For God’s sake, stay still,” he called out, as he dashed toward the vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the coachman stagger across to the jittery horses.

  When Fergus reached to tug the door, a woman in a rich crimson cape poked her head out of the shattered window. “Good. You can help.”

  Could he indeed? He bristled at her imperious tone, while common sense insisted that he had no time for pique, if he meant to save these travelers from a dousing. “Are you hurt?”

  She raised one slender, gloved hand and pushed back the hood on her stylish cape. He found himself under the regard of calm, dark eyes in a face that was striking for its hauteur.

  Not at all his sort of woman, he could already tell. Too high-handed by far. Nonetheless, despite the urgent circumstances, he couldn’t help taking a split second to admire her. While the lassie mightn’t be to his taste, she was a prime article.

  And by heaven, she was brave. Most women he knew would be in hysterics after that crash.

  “No. Just a little shaken,” she said steadily. “But I fear Papa has broken his leg.”

  To confirm this, a groan and a stream of curses in Italian emanated from the coach’s shadowy interior.

  “He’ll end up in the drink if we don’t get him out. So will you. Is there anyone else in the carriage?”

  “No, only the two of us.”

  For a brief moment, Fergus wondered why she wasn’t traveling with a maid. The carriage was expensive, and so was that cape. Discreet jewels sparkled at her ears and throat. Whoever the lady was, someone had spent money on her appearance and comfort.

  After months of rain, the bank was all mud and not the most reliable foundation. To anchor the carriage, he stood on the step. “Can you get out alone, or should I lift you?”

  When she shoved uselessly at the door handle, the coach gave an ominous creak and tipped closer to the rushing brown water. “I think—”

  “For pity’s sake.” Fergus wrenched open the jammed door with a grunt of effort, and hoisted her free.

  He had a brief impression of lily fragrance and a tall, nicely curved body, before he set her on her feet on the road. She clutched a worn leather satchel that seemed too big for a lady.

  “Well, that was decisive.” In the rain, she looked as ruffled as a wet hen, but he didn’t have time for politeness.

  “Stay there and don’t move.”

  He turned to shout at the coachman who was hauling the horses up the bank, away from the bridge. “Are the horses hurt?”

  “No, my lord, only frighted.” The man edged away from Macushla and Brecon who approached him, more out of canine curiosity than aggression, Fergus knew.

  “Then get down here and help me,” he said, blinking the rain away from his eyes.

  “But the horses, my lord—”

  “They willnae wander far, if they wander at all.”

  Fergus returned to the step and stuck his head into the carriage. The lady’s father turned out to be a portly gentleman huddled in the far corner, just where he was most likely to tip the vehicle. The light inside was dim, but not too dim to hide the unnatural angle of the man’s left leg as it dangled in the well between the seats.

  “Maledizione. I told Marina this viaggio was cursed, but does she ever listen to her papa?” the man said in a thick Italian accent. “No, not that one. She always knows best.”

  “Papa, stop complaining and come forward so we can pull you free,” the woman—she was no ingénue, but at least in her middle twenties—said from beside Fergus’s shoulder.

  He stifled a growl of annoyance. No wonder she hadn’t objected to his orders. She’d decided to ignore them instead. At least when she added her weight to his on the step, it helped counterbalance the tilting carriage. Even if things were a wee bit cozy for strangers, with the two of them sharing the narrow metal platform.

  “My leg, she hurts,” her father groaned, shifting further away.

  Fergus bit back a curse. If the coach slipped now, all three of them would end up in the burn.

  “The rest of you will hurt if you fall into the river,” the woman said, edging closer to Fergus. The scent of lilies mixed with the fresh smell of the rain. When she reached inside for her father, the carriage gave another alarming creak.

  “Get out of the way, lassie. This is no place for a woman,” Fergus snapped, catching her by the waist again. He’d already rescued her once. He shouldn’t have to do it twice. “And mind the broken glass.” Jagged shards littered the seats and floor.

  “Oofff,” she gasped as, with little ceremony, he hauled her off the step.

  “And stay there, ye wee besom,” he said, plopping her back on the road with no great expectation she’d heed him. She hadn’t yet.

  If he had time, he might call her unwomanly. If he had time, his appreciation for those fine eyes might convince him she was very much a woman after all. “You’re getting in the way.”

  “My father isn’t a small man,” the woman said breathlessly, as she staggered to keep her feet. He noted that, unlike her father, she spoke English with the clipped accents of the upper classes. Perhaps once they were out of this blasted mess, he’d find out why. “You’ll n
eed help.”

  “I’m sure I can manage, madam.” He didn’t delay to make sure she was all right. Using his sleeve to brush the glass shards from the seat, he leaned in to assess what he needed to do. “Can you slide across to the door, signore? It will be easier on your leg that way.”

  “I can’t move,” the man moaned, pressing against the far door. When the shift in weight set the carriage rocking, Fergus’s stomach twisted in dread.

  “Si, you can,” the lady said. She was back peering over Fergus’s shoulder. Just his luck to be stuck with a woman unable to recognize the voice of authority, not to mention good sense. “I know it hurts, Papa, but if you use your good leg, you can do it.”

  The man’s terrified eyes sought out his daughter, and Fergus recognized paralyzing fear. So far, the older man showed considerably less fortitude than his daughter. “You’re una ragazza crudele, and the angels despair of you.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Fergus said between his teeth.

  “Papa, if you don’t come out, I’m coming in to get you. Then it will be your fault if we both drown.”

  “Per pietà, this won’t work.”

  “Try, Papa. Per favore. You don’t want to be buried in Scotland.”

  “Certo, I do not! Even for a dead man, this country is too cold.”

  “In that case, you have to move.”

  Fergus was about to tell the woman to be a bit gentler with her father’s fears, when to his surprise, he saw determination seep into the plump features. “For you, then, figlia mia.”

  “Take my hand,” Fergus said on a surge of hope, reaching in, while still trying to use his weight to keep the carriage level.

  “You, Coker, come and hold the broken shaft to keep the coach steady,” the woman said sharply behind Fergus. Coker must be the blockhead of a coachman.

  Grunting in pain, the Italian began to shift gingerly in Fergus’s direction. Halfway along the leather seat, he stretched out a shaking hand. Fergus lurched forward to grab the man’s wrist as he felt the carriage settle further into the mud. Coker must have at last decided to lend his aid.