The Highlander’s English Bride: The Lairds Most Likely Book 6, Page 2

"I believe it’s unnecessary," he said coldly, although he was desperate to check the equation she’d singled out. He wouldn’t admit that to Emily, though, even under torture. Hamish held out his hand. "Allow me to escort you back inside, Miss Baylor."

  They’d known each other for ten years and been on first name terms for most of that time. He intended the formal address to wound. By God, after tonight he’d be happy never to see her again.

  "Now you’re acting like a child."

  "If I am, it’s of no concern to you."

  "Oh, Hamish, don’t be like this."

  The world of disappointment in the words made him grit his teeth until his jaw ached. "There’s nothing more we can achieve out here."

  She made a soft exhalation redolent of irritation. "We haven’t achieved anything out here."

  "Emily, stop playing games," he said in a rush, and only realized he’d used her Christian name after he’d spoken. So much for staying on his high horse. He shivered and to make matters worse, it started to rain. "It’s as cold as a witch’s tit. If you mean to berate me, at least do it inside in the warm."

  "It was your idea to come into the garden." She still sounded sulky.

  It had been. Because he’d feared a scandal if anyone caught him alone in a side room with his mentor’s bonny daughter. Now if they both went back into the house, wet as herrings, questions would arise anyway. "Well, now it’s my idea to go inside. Are you coming?"

  There was a silence while he wondered what in blazes fretted the pestilential girl now.

  "I can’t," she said in a small voice.

  "Emily," he growled, hunching his shoulders against the wet. “I told you to stop playing games."

  "I’m not playing games. I’m stuck."

  Chapter 2

  "What?" Hamish bit out.

  "When you shoved me into this bush, my dress got caught."

  "I did not shove you," he retorted, even as he shifted around Emily to try and see where she was attached to the branches. It was dark in this corner of the garden. And muddy. Damp seeped into his shoes and chilled his feet. His evening pumps weren’t designed for anything but a dance floor. "Hold still and I’ll set you free."

  "Try not to rip my dress."

  Hamish ignored her habit of giving orders. He usually did. He dropped the pamphlet to the ground so he had two free hands. Bending down, he tried to use his fingers to work out where dress and thorns made contact. Devil if he could see a damned thing. And Emily’s smoky, alluring scent, all honey and jasmine, teased his nostrils and made it almost impossible to think. "Plague take you, stay still."

  "Well, that’s charming."

  He tugged at his coat and loosened it with what he hoped was minimal damage. "See if you can get out of my coat."

  "I’ll tear it."

  "I don’t give a fig if you do. You’ll freeze to death if you stay out here."

  So would he. He’d intended taking a few unobserved moments to put this impudent miss in her place, but they’d been out here for over a quarter of an hour now, and his shirt offered precious little protection from the elements.

  "If you say so."

  With some trouble, she wriggled out of the fine black coat, and he heard fabric ripping. He ground his teeth in irritation. When he stood up on the podium to give his speech, he wasn’t going to make much of a show, by God.

  He shrugged on the coat, immediately welcoming the warmth. But now Emily only had that damned becoming gown to cover her, and it was as unsuited to the outdoors as his pumps.

  "Why the devil do women wear these ridiculous rags?" he muttered, trying to make sense of a million layers of petticoats tangled around the thorny bush. "Hell."

  "What is it?"

  Those thorns meant business. "Nothing. Can you move now?" he asked, striving not to bark at her.

  "My skirt’s still caught."

  Of course it was. Could this night get any worse? He muffled a sigh and went down on his haunches to see what else he could do to free her. "Keep still."

  He could smell rain and cold fresh air. But as he kneeled at Emily’s side, mostly he just smelled her. Crushed flowers. And beneath that, a warm, alluring scent that he’d long ago identified as essence of Emily. By God, if he was a chemist, he’d work out how to bottle that. He’d make a fortune.

  That scent turned his usually deft hands into ten thumbs. While here and now he’d like to consign this interfering besom to perdition, tonight that scent would twine its way through his dreams. It would make him hot and frustrated, and angry with himself for the depraved things he did to his mentor’s daughter in his fantasies.

  "Hamish, I’m freezing." She didn’t sound nearly as full of herself. He wasn’t the only one who knew they’d been out here far too long.

  "I know." Even with his coat on, he was cold. He was close enough to hear her teeth chatter. He reined in a lunatic offer to sweep her into his arms and warm her up. It didn’t help that he crouched mere inches from graceful hips and a nicely rounded rump. "Forgive me, I’m going to have to tear your dress."

  "Do it."

  His shoulders tensed as a cold dribble of water ran down the back of his neck. "People might notice."

  "I’ll make repairs in the retiring room before I return to the reception." She paused. "Or go back outside and wait in the carriage."

  "Very well."

  In the silent garden, the sound of ripping fabric was loud. Loud and too damned evocative to a man who might resent the girl’s effrontery, but who couldn’t help wanting the woman.

  As if they had a chance of getting together. What a disaster that would be. If he did manage to inveigle his way into her bed, she’d take notes on his performance. Once they were done, she’d give him chapter and verse on where he went wrong.

  The minute she was free, she staggered. As Hamish rose, he reached out to catch her. For one dizzying moment, he clasped Emily Baylor to his chest, and she wasn’t bossy or prickly or difficult. She was soft and supple, and she smelled sweeter than a flower garden in high summer.

  "Oh…" she gasped, lifting her face in surprise.

  The light from inside revealed shining eyes and lush red lips parted on a breath. As she struggled to find her balance, her hands tightened on his brawny arms.

  Then after too short a time – too long a time, rather, he should say if he had an ounce of sense – she let him go.

  "Thank you for releasing me." Her gratitude sounded grudging.

  "Emily…" He remained lost in the extraordinary moment when he’d held her.

  She stepped away, and her tone became all business. "You still have to withdraw your paper."

  His enchantment dissolved into the much more familiar and much more comfortable irritation. "Because Queen Emily of the Royal Society decrees it?"

  She made a growl of annoyance deep in her throat. "Because it’s flawed."

  He caught her hand and hauled her back toward the French doors. The urge to kiss her retreated. The rain was getting heavier, the wind whipped about them, and the ground under his feet was slick and muddy.

  "All right, show me the calculation. I’ll prove you wrong, then we can go back to the party, and you can eat humble pie while everyone showers me with congratulations."

  Another of those growls. After ten years, the sound was familiar. "You’re so full of yourself."

  "This is my night. And you’re doing your best to ruin it."

  They were back inside the anteroom now. "I’m doing my best to save your worthless hide, you great conceited clodpoll," she snapped back.

  She lifted the now soggy pamphlet detailing the discovery that would make his reputation. He snatched the paper from her and turned to the calculation. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware that she folded her arms over that very nice bosom. Less nice was the brazen superiority in her regard. That expression always made him want to kiss her into trembling acquiescence.

  Perhaps he hadn’t abandoned all thought of kissing her after all, God rot him.
<
br />   It took him a few seconds to control his temper long enough to make sense of the rows of figures.

  When he did, humiliation crawled through his belly like a slug through a lettuce patch. Humiliation and chagrin and disbelief.

  Hot color flooded his cheeks, and he raised his eyes to his bugbear. "Damn it, Emily…"

  "I’m right, aren’t I?"

  He sucked an audible breath in through his nose. "Yes, you’re right, devil take you. Feel free to crow all you like."

  "It could happen to anyone, Hamish. You still discovered the comet. You just have to adjust your figures."

  Hamish was so mortified, he hardly noticed that this time, she sounded neither triumphant nor belligerent. She sounded relieved, as if she really cared that he didn’t go out there tonight and make a fool of himself. "I have to destroy that pamphlet."

  "Yes."

  He should thank her, he supposed, but the words stuck in his throat. He scrunched up the paper and tossed it into the unlit fireplace. The only place fit for it, to his embarrassment. "Let’s go and get them off the table before anybody picks one up."

  He stepped forward and caught her arm and only then noticed the damage rain, mud, his fumbling, and Lord Pascoe’s shrubbery had done to her appearance. "Emily…"

  "Yes?"

  "Plague take you, you can’t go out there looking like that. I’ll have to escort you to your carriage after all."

  "The retiring room—"

  "This is more than a few pins and a handkerchief can put right. You look like you’ve been with Wellington, following the drum across Spain. Through an earthquake and a thunderstorm."

  When she glanced down at her gown, dismay flooded her expression. "Oh, for pity’s sake, you’re right."

  "We need to get you out of here before anyone sees you."

  "What about Papa?"

  "I’ll make sure he gets home safely. You can’t hang about. You’ll catch pneumonia." Time was getting short, and he was due to make his speech in a few minutes. After he got her safely into her carriage, he’d need to come back in and tidy himself up. He wasn’t in much better state than Emily. "I’ll take you along the terrace, then down to your carriage. That way, there’s a bit of shelter from the upper floors. It’s raining cats and dogs out there now."

  He waited for an argument. With Emily, there was always an argument. But to his relief, she nodded.

  Once more, he removed his coat. He could see her shivering from here. "Take this, or you’ll catch your death. Not to mention it will help you fade into the shadows."

  "Thank you." This time, she responded with suitable gratitude, although she looked sad and put upon.

  Unwilling pity pierced him. He could imagine the evening hadn’t worked out the way she’d wished either. Since her father’s illness had worsened, she hadn’t been out and about very much. Tonight had been a chance for her to see her friends and sample a little high life.

  While she pulled his coat over her shoulders, he checked to make sure the terrace was empty. Although who in their right mind would choose to be outside in this tempest? He turned back to her. "Ready?"

  "Yes." She didn’t look like a harridan right now. He wished to heaven she did. Instead with her wet tangle of hair and her oversized covering, she looked like a winsome urchin.

  Winsome? That would be the day.

  "Let’s run," he said.

  As they dashed out into the blustery night, he somehow ended up holding her hand. It felt small and cold and fragile in his grasp, and a surge of unaccustomed protectiveness caught him unawares.

  With the wind blowing and cold rain lashing them, they darted between the squares of light shining from inside the house. They slipped on the cold, wet marble and a couple of times he nearly fell to his knees, but they kept going. He could see the top of the steps ahead. He just needed to get Emily down to the road and into her carriage and they were safe.

  Hamish began to hope that they’d make it without being seen.

  He shouldn’t have.

  As they scurried past the ballroom, one of the French doors swung open. Before Hamish could drag Emily into the shadows, a plump blonde girl appeared in the gap and released an ear-splitting scream.

  Startled, Hamish slammed to an abrupt stop. Emily stumbled and crashed into his back with an audible oof.

  In one calamitous instant, the whole damned world collapsed around his ears.

  Chapter 3

  The high-pitched female shriek sliced through the buzz of conversation filling the ballroom. Silence crashed down, and every eye in the room arrowed in on Hamish and Emily poised between the open doors like actors in limelight.

  "Oh, my goodness, Emily Baylor!" Matilda Conley exclaimed on top note, although at least now she’d stopped screaming. "I thought I saw someone sneaking around outside. Now I find it’s just you and Mr. Douglas. But look at you! What on earth have you two been up to? Your dress is in absolute tatters."

  Wrenching her hand free of Hamish’s, Emily stifled a curse. Of course the silliest girl in Christendom had to catch her slinking away from the reception, not to mention notice her dishabille. And noticing, had to announce it to the world.

  "N-nothing, Matilda." She hated the betraying stutter in her voice. She also hated the telltale heat flooding her cheeks.

  She could imagine what a spectacle she must make. She recalled Hamish’s appalled expression when he saw her in the anteroom. Not to mention, she was wearing his coat, and he was in his shirtsleeves. Any transfer of clothing between a well-bred young lady and a rakish young man reeked of scandal.

  "You look like you’ve been crawling around a muddy shrubbery," Matilda said, still speaking in a piercing soprano. People crowded in behind Matilda, craning their necks to see what was happening.

  "What a ridiculous idea," Emily muttered, consigning the younger Miss Conley to Hades. Her father was a brilliant man who edited a respected scientific journal. His three daughters didn’t have a brain between them.

  "It’s not ridiculous. You’ve got twigs in your hair, and your dress is torn and wet, and your hem is all muddy."

  "Miss Matilda, there’s no need for concern." Hamish’s deep rumble of a voice emerged from too close behind Emily. She heard the ironic weight he put on the word "concern," but she doubted Matilda did. "I was merely showing Miss Baylor a constellation we were discussing earlier."

  "On your knees in the dirt obviously," Matilda said, and she didn’t sound hysterical at all. She wasn’t shocked at Emily’s breach of propriety. She was gloating at this public fall from grace.

  As Emily met the girl’s sharp little eyes, she had cause to regret her former behavior to the Conley girls. She hadn’t hidden her dismissive attitude as well as she might.

  Emily edged into the ballroom, further away from Hamish. Mortification and an utterly futile wish to turn the clock back created a sour mixture in her stomach. "I…I tripped," she said, with no hope at all that anyone would believe her.

  "Into Mr. Douglas’s embrace, I’m assuming," Matilda said snidely.

  Shut up, Matilda. What Emily would give to scratch the silly widgeon’s eyes out. The girl was clearly set on causing trouble.

  As she observed the sea of faces turned in her direction, she saw trouble was exactly the result. Some expressions were concerned, some expressions were shocked. The majority were brimming with salacious curiosity.

  People outside the rarefied world of science imagined that its denizens devoted their time to higher matters. From long experience, Emily knew that wasn’t the case. An interest in learning didn’t preclude an equally powerful interest in scandal. Catching the man of the moment skulking around in the dark with Sir John Baylor’s spinster daughter provided a tasty tidbit.

  "The weather worsened while we were outside," Hamish said, stepping up beside her, plague take him.

  Emily closed her eyes and prayed for control. Couldn’t Hamish see he only made things worse? She wished to heaven she’d thrown him to the wolves when sh
e found that error in his calculations. What did she care if he faced professional criticism? It wasn’t as if they’d ever been friends.

  "Why would you go stargazing when it’s raining?" This from Matilda’s older sister Cassie, who now hovered at Matilda’s side.

  "Just how long were you out there, young man?" Lord Pascoe asked, and Emily cringed when the question drew forth a muffled snicker. "Long enough to be grubbing around on your hands and knees, if the state of your clothes is any indication."

  "Miss Baylor’s honor is untarnished," Hamish said, then spoiled everything by taking her arm. She stiffened under his touch and only just stopped herself from jerking free.

  This whole disaster was all Hamish’s fault. Damn him.

  Except it wasn’t. She knew better than to go out into a dark garden alone with a young man. His arrogant dismissal of her concerns had made her so cross that she’d given no thought to how all this would reflect on her reputation. It was so unfair, the restrictions the world placed on a woman of brains and spirit.

  Except right now, she could lay no special claim to possessing brains. She might call Matilda Conley a nitwit, but Matilda wasn’t the one facing a wall of disapproval and nasty curiosity. Matilda Conley wasn’t the one feeling sick with humiliation and self-hatred. No, it was that intellectual prodigy, Emily Baylor.

  Then the worst thing of all happened.

  "Emily?" The crowd parted as her father tottered up to her. "What’s all this fuss?"

  "Nothing, Papa." She broke away from Hamish and rushed forward to take his arm. She’d been too angry to cry before, but the bewilderment in her father’s voice had her blinking away tears. "It’s time we went home."

  He’d been so good this evening, almost like his old self. Seeing his friends and hearing praise for his protégé’s brilliance had sparked some of his former fire.

  Now he frowned in incomprehension. "But Hamish hasn’t made his speech. I’d dearly like to stay for the presentation."

  "My speech has been delayed," Hamish said, taking her father’s other arm.

  Emily cast Hamish a killing look that he ignored. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t escape him, it seemed.