He rolled off her, which didn’t put him nearly far enough away from temptation. So he left the bed and marched into the middle of the room. Behind him, he heard rustling bedclothes. Such an evocative sound. After a few seconds, light flickered.
He swallowed a groan and closed his eyes. His jaw ached from all the gritting of teeth. "No, don’t light the candle…"
It was too late.
Sitting propped up against the pile of pillows, Emily stared at him wide-eyed. "Dear heaven."
Her appalled gaze roamed every inch of his body. His bare and massively aroused body.
If his presence was a genuine mistake, he couldn’t blame her for her reaction. Even decently clad, he was a huge bugger. In a virginal lady’s bedroom in the middle of the night, he must seem as unnatural and terrifying as a naked giant.
In the uncertain light, he saw her turn as red as a beetroot. He blushed, too, when her gaze inevitably dropped to where his cock rose in brazen demand. "That’s not what they look like on the statues in the British Museum."
"For pity’s sake…" With fumbling hands, he grabbed for the bedcover and hauled it around his waist.
Still she stared at him…there. He suffered the horrid sensation that those clever hazel eyes pierced the rumpled swathe of material to where he was hard and heavy and ready. After far too long, she raised her gaze to his.
With a shock, he realized she no longer looked appalled. Instead she looked curious. The expression was familiar. This was how she looked when a new scientific theory caught her attention. He wasn’t sure whether he preferred this clinical interest to having his wife despise him as a ravisher of innocent maidens.
"I didn’t think you were interested," she said in wonder.
Battling for control, he ground his teeth together. "Well, it’s bloody obvious that I am."
When she licked her lips, his cock twitched. He smothered another groan.
"That’s so like you, Hamish. Just because you can’t have me, you want me."
"You do me an injustice. I’ve wanted you for years," he snapped. The night had been a trial for his already limited tolerance. He’d give her the truth, whether it disgusted her or not. "I might be stupid, but I’m not shallow."
With an alarmed squeak, she pressed back against the bedhead. It was the reaction he should have expected, but it still stung.
Despite his throbbing erection, his vision cleared enough to take in the details of her appearance. How he wished he damn well couldn’t see her. Tonight had provided quite enough new information about his wife to torture him, thank you very much. He knew how it felt to stroke her hair, and touch her breast, and lie on top of her, and drink in air tinged with her scent. He knew what she wore to bed.
Confound it, she wasn’t dressed to seduce. The billowing white flannel could have come out of his grandmother’s armoire.
But she hadn’t plaited her hair after she’d come upstairs. Now it tumbled about her shoulders, begging him to snatch it up in silky handfuls. The frail candlelight lent mystery to her features, made her hazel eyes smoky, turned her soft lips to kissable red.
"You’re not stupid," she said, sounding more like herself. "Although sometimes you do stupid things. I had no idea you’d noticed me that way."
Hamish sighed and ran a shaking hand through his hair. Then hurriedly lowered his hand to catch the sagging coverlet. This evening, he’d spent more than enough time with his tackle waving in the breeze. "I’m a man. Of course I noticed."
"But you don’t like me."
"You’re always saying that, and it’s not true," he growled. "Anyway, liking has nothing to do with it. It’s a natural reaction when a fellow sees a pretty girl."
She frowned. "You’ve never said I’m pretty."
"Yes, I have. I told you when I proposed."
"That was only to get your own way."
"That, too, but it doesn’t mean I was lying." He gave an exasperated hiss. "If you don’t want me to act on those natural impulses, we should change the subject."
She clutched the blankets to her breasts, although he could have told her that monstrosity of a nightdress already did an excellent job of preserving her modesty. The problem was that during that short, furious interval in the bed, his hands had learned too much about the delectable shape beneath the flannel. His powerful imagination had no trouble translating what he’d learned into picturing her naked.
Or perhaps she pulled up the blankets because it was colder than a polar bear’s toenail in here.
"Why the hell don’t you have a fire? There’s no need to stint on coal now. I’m paying the bill."
"Don’t boast about your wealth," she snapped. "It’s laid, but I told Polly to leave it until the morning. Since Papa fell ill and money’s been tight, I’ve got used to doing without a fire."
Hamish ground his teeth again. At this rate, he’d soon have no teeth left.
Gathering the voluminous bedcover around him, he stomped around the bed to grab the candle. "I won’t have my wife freezing to death because she’s trying to save a few pennies."
He stalked across to the hearth. It was a relief to turn his back on Emily and hunker down in front of the fireplace. If he kept looking at her, he was likely to move from looking to touching, and she wouldn’t like that. She’d go back to calling him a brute and a beast, and he’d have to slink out of the room like a beaten hound. He didn’t want to go through all that. He’d already been humiliated enough for one night.
After tucking the coverlet around his waist so he had two hands free, he set to lighting the fire. She remained mercifully quiet while he fiddled with the kindling and got the flames going. Getting up presented a challenge, but he managed it with only a few flashes of thigh.
"You didn’t come here to force yourself on me?" she asked, once he was standing.
He reined in a blistering response. "If you don’t trust my word, you shouldn’t have married me."
"I did trust you." After he shot her a narrow-eyed look, she spread her hands in silent apology. "I do trust you."
"Doesn’t seem like it."
Impatience flattened that delectable mouth. "What are you doing here, Hamish?"
He ran his hand through his hair again. "I think it might be a misunderstanding. I asked Edward to show me to my room. As this is our wedding night, I imagine by my room, he thought I meant your room. He brought me to the dressing room next door. You know what happened after that."
"Oh." He waited for her to call him a self-serving liar, but she seemed to give his answer due consideration.
"I only realized my mistake when…"
When he’d put his hand on her breast. Once again, her cheeks tuned pink with embarrassment. They both knew how that sentence ended.
"I put you along the corridor, so the servants will at least think—"
"That we have a real marriage? They won’t, you know. It’s impossible to keep secrets from the staff." He hitched up his makeshift covering, wishing he presented a more dignified picture. This hadn’t been a great night for his self-esteem. "So once I’m out in the hallway, I turn left?"
"Yes, the next door down leads to another dressing room which is where I asked Roberts to put your belongings. The door after that is your bedroom. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before."
At least she didn’t sound angry anymore. "You had other things to think about."
After bouncing around on top of her, he had more than enough to think about, too.
"No harm done."
He wasn’t so sure about that either, damn it.
"I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions," she said softly. Her eyes shone gold in the firelight and seemed to send him messages that he knew couldn’t be true. The nascent desire in her face was nothing but wishful thinking on his part.
She didn’t want him. She’d made that more than clear.
"I should go." He didn’t shift from where he stood. "You’re tired."
Her attention dropped to his bare chest, and she lick
ed her lips again. Was that admiration? Despite everything he knew, he started to get excited.
Careful, Hamish, remember who she is. Remember you made promises.
"Yes, you should." That murmur didn’t sound at all like forthright, opinionated Emily Baylor. Those great hazel eyes ate him up, like he was a pot of brandy custard and she had a very sweet tooth.
Again he told himself to go. But his feet didn’t heed his brain’s command. As he stepped toward her, the heavy brocade cover slipped. "Emily…"
A rapid knock at the door smashed through his confusion. Without waiting for an answer, Miss McCorquodale stood at the entrance to the room. "Miss Baylor… I mean, my lady, your father is having a bad spell. He’s calling for you."
The dazed look vanished from Emily’s eyes, and her head snapped around in the nurse’s direction. "I’ll come straightaway."
Miss McCorquodale sent Hamish a blushing glance. "I’m so sorry to burst in like this, Mr. Douglas."
He hauled the coverlet back into place. It must be obvious he was naked beneath his unconventional garb. He supposed now the staff would believe that he and Emily had consummated their marriage.
He wasn’t sure whether the interruption left him disappointed or relieved. Common sense insisted that if he’d followed up on Emily’s encouraging manner, she’d only slap him down again. Something addled in his mind whispered that she’d been edging around to the idea of saying yes just as the nurse barged in.
It hardly mattered now. The moment was lost.
Emily scrambled out of bed and flung a knitted shawl over her shoulders. "It’s all been too much for him."
Without a backward glance at Hamish, she followed Miss McCorquodale out into the hallway.
Chapter 11
"But I have to go to the Astronomical Society," Emily’s father said in a querulous voice from where he stood clinging to the mantelpiece with both hands. "They’re expecting me. I’m presenting my paper on the moons of Jupiter."
"No, Papa. It’s night time. You need to sleep." Emily kept her voice even, although her father had been saying the same thing for the last fifteen minutes. When she tried to catch his arm, he wrenched away hard enough to hurt her. The strength in his wasted body always surprised her.
The man who had spoken to her with such moving sincerity before her wedding was no longer in evidence. The abrupt changes that afflicted him were enough to break her heart.
"The wedding was too much for him," Miss McCorquodale said from his other side. "He got overexcited. And the recent disruption in the household has upset him."
"Who is this lady?" Papa fastened a hostile stare on the nurse, who looked as tired as Emily felt. "I don’t believe we’ve been introduced."
"I’m your attendant, Hilda McCorquodale." Her composure remained unruffled. "I’m here to put you to bed, Sir John."
"I don’t want to go to bed. I want to present my paper," he said fretfully. "I have some interesting observations on the Medici Moons. I told you all about them, Emily, my dear. Don’t you remember? Where are my notes?"
Ten years ago, his findings had been published in a well-received monograph. The paper had been one of the triumphs of his career. "Papa, it’s not time to leave. If you lie down for a moment, I’ll go and check that everything is ready."
"Yes, Sir John, they’re expecting you at the Astronomical Society, but not just yet," a deep voice said from behind her.
Startled, Emily glanced away from her father to see that Hamish had joined them. She’d been so preoccupied with Papa that she hadn’t noticed her husband arrive. He wore shirtsleeves and trousers. Hardly formal attire, but an improvement on the bedspread.
Briefly the magnificent image of a huge, naked and aroused Scot flooded her mind. The sight had made her feel like swooning. She’d almost asked him to stay there and let her examine him. In her whole life, she’d never seen anything so interesting as Hamish wearing nothing at all.
Her father took advantage of her distraction to approach Hamish where he stood in the doorway. "At last, someone sensible. I have to go to the Astronomical Society this morning, Hamish. Will you come with me?"
"Don’t let him out of the bedroom," Emily said urgently. "He’ll head straight for the front door. Once he’s on the street, he’s almost impossible to catch."
Hamish cast her a quick unreadable glance, before he stepped forward to take Sir John’s arm. "The lecture has been postponed. There’s a problem with the drains."
Her father stared blankly at Hamish. "You married my daughter today."
Hamish smiled. "I did indeed."
Emily watched fleeting awareness animate her father’s features. "I’m glad. You’re the son I never had."
Hamish was still smiling. Ridiculously Emily couldn’t help noting the open affection in his manner. He never treated her like that. He always acted as if he expected her to bite him.
With some justice, she supposed.
"And I think of you as a father. We’re both lucky that Emily decided to make me the happiest of men."
"She’s a good girl. I hope you mean to look after her."
"Nothing but the best for my wife. And for my wife’s father." He edged the old man back toward his bed, where Miss McCorquodale was restoring order to the chaotic bedclothes.
"What are you doing here?" Papa asked. "Shouldn’t you be alone with your bride?"
Hamish didn’t glance at Emily, but she saw the way his lips compressed. "We came to ask your blessing, Sir John."
Hamish lowered the old man until he sat on the edge of the mattress. Suffering and ill health had turned her father’s face gaunt and pale, and his nightshirt hung loose from his bony shoulders. Only a year ago, he’d addressed the Royal Society to great acclaim, although not about the moons of Jupiter. How his world had shrunk over these months. Emily stared at her father, trembling and uncertain in the care of her strong, vital husband, and recognized that he wouldn’t be with her for much longer. She’d known this rationally for weeks, but only now in the middle of this shipwreck of a wedding night did her heart accept the unavoidable truth.
Some sound of distress must have escaped her, because Hamish shot her another glance. For once, he didn’t look superior. Instead he looked as devastated as she did. He, too, must see that Sir John’s health reached a critical point.
"My blessing…" Papa looked around him and plucked at the nightshirt as if checking for pockets.
"Yes, sir. If you’re willing to give it."
"Where the deuce are my spectacles?"
Miss McCorquodale picked them up from the bedside table and held them out to him. "Here, Sir John."
"What on earth do I want those for, you nitwitted woman? It’s the middle of the night."
"Oh, I see," Miss McCorquodale said with admirable calmness and put them back. "I do beg your pardon."
"Emily, come and stand beside Hamish. It does my heart good to see you two together."
"Yes, Papa," she said meekly and stepped up next to the man she’d married against her deepest inclinations. Although seeing him so gentle and patient with her father, especially when by nature he was neither gentle nor patient, she could almost imagine loving him.
Hamish took her hand. She knew it was all for show, just as everything today had been for show, but reviving strength flowed from his firm clasp. Right now, she dearly needed that strength.
"I promise to cherish your daughter and do my best to make her happy," Hamish said in his deep voice. If Emily didn’t know better, she’d almost think he meant it.
There was a pause, and Emily realized it was her turn to speak. The truth was too unacceptable. How could she tell Papa that she’d married Hamish to muffle a scandal and that she and her husband would never live as man and wife? Her father would have no grandchildren to carry his line into the next generation.
She licked dry lips, and her voice sounded scratchy when it emerged. "I promise to honor Hamish and care for him through all the vicissitudes of life."
> As a statement of lifelong intentions, it was weak, but she already felt enough of a hypocrite. Lying declarations of eternal devotion stretched her too far.
To her relief, the lukewarm vow seemed to satisfy her father. With difficulty, he rose from the bed and placed his hand on her head. He even laughed as Hamish had to bend to allow him to reach his crown. "I bless this union. I bless both of you, my dear children. Knowing you go forward into life hand in hand eases my heart and makes me thank heaven that you found each other. I loved your mother very much, Emily, and I know she’s looking down on you now and wishing you and Hamish a long and happy life together."
As her father’s hand rested a moment longer on her head, Emily blinked back tears. How she wished she did love the man she’d married, so her father’s beautiful words didn’t make her feel like a fraud.
"Thank you, Papa," she said thickly, when he lowered his hands.
"Thank you, Sir John," Hamish said, straightening.
Emily glanced at him. He sounded as choked up as she did. She was touched to see tears brightening those blue eyes, but she wasn’t surprised. Hamish had always worn his heart on his sleeve. She supposed there was some advantage in marrying a man who could never tell a convincing lie.
Then with a pang, she realized that there were disadvantages, too. When he sought his physical pleasure elsewhere as he inevitably would, she’d know the minute he strayed. She shouldn’t care that he went to another woman’s bed, especially as the only thing she could do about that was to take him into hers. She wasn’t just a fraud, she was a dog in the manger as well. Sometimes she didn’t like herself very much.
The crisis with her father had pushed tonight’s revelations into the background. But Emily suddenly recalled Hamish saying that he’d always wanted her. She mightn’t want to believe it, but Hamish didn’t lie. It shouldn’t change things between them – she was no more eager to yield to him than she’d been before. But somehow it did, leaving her curious, unsettled, and filled with a forbidden excitement that made no sense.
The Highlander’s English Bride: The Lairds Most Likely Book 6 Page 9
