Emily picked her way down to the study and paused in the doorway to watch Hamish dig two small glasses and a squat flask from a corner cupboard.
"Are you sure you’re not cold?" Hamish asked without looking at her.
"No, I’m fine, thank you." Scotland in early autumn was warm, much more so than she’d expected.
However, she was most definitely suffering an agony of self-consciousness. When she’d prepared for bed, she’d considered sleeping in her crumpled shift. But much more appealing was one of Hamish’s clean white shirts, smelling of herbal soap and mown grass and sea salt – and the tiniest, most intriguing hint of him.
After those incendiary kisses in the moonlight, she hadn’t been able to sleep. Her blood fizzed like champagne shaken inside the bottle, and a needy restlessness made her feel like ants crawled over her skin.
It wasn’t just her body that was in a ferment. Her heart brimmed with the overwhelming love she’d only just acknowledged.
Was falling in love with her fascinating husband a blessing or the worst calamity that could befall her? For ten years, she and Hamish had fought each other to a standstill. If anyone had suggested she was likely to fall in love with her father’s swaggering protégé, she’d have laughed her head off. Yet now she ached for him to take her in his arms and tell her he loved her, too.
Emily was accounted a clever woman, but she found herself conflicted and confused. This dilemma was beyond the powers of science or mathematics to solve. Unless the equation really was as simple as one and one made two.
Troubled and unhappy – yet, strangely happy too, because love was a gift, whether returned or not – she’d stretched out on a bed that smelled like Hamish’s shirt. Trying to quiet the turmoil in her heart, she told herself that tomorrow, she’d make some decisions.
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 seedling 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.