Page 33 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
“I willnae hold yer words against ye, so long as ye can admit when ye’re wrong—and perhaps change yer mind about the north.”
Something flashed in her eyes then, and she looked out the window, her chest rising and falling.
Grant leaned forward, wanting to ask what she was thinking, feeling as though they were on the precipice of something. But she only nodded and went back to her meal.
“Ye can admit that ye like it, Emma,” Grant whispered.
She looked up. “The food? I already said?—”
“Scotland.”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No—I mean…” She looked out the window again, and this time Grant saw the longing in her expression, the sense that she realized therewas a freedom here that she’d never find in England. “It is breathtaking.”
“Perhaps ye’d like to explore—see more of it. And the village.”
“Oh,” Emma murmured. “Well, I suppose it would give me more color to add to my letters.”
Grant felt a weight sink in his gut and set down his cutlery. “Letters?”
“Oh, yes, I must write home and let them know I am alive,” Emma said. Then, she clapped a hand on her cheek. “How foolish. No, I will not let them know I’m in Scotland. I shall say I’m with my aunt. After all, that’s where I hope to be soon.”
“Is that to whom ye hope to run?” Grant asked.
Emma nodded and took a sip of wine. “Yes, she has quite a bit of sway in Court. And, she is a widow, so she likes to have companions. It is always a merry time with her in town or at her estate. Cambarelle, in Yorkshire. Not as large as my father’s properties—or he would have tried to take it from her—but magnificently modern. Adream.”
Grant took a draught of wine and pretended that her words did not land like a blow. But he’d never felt so far removed from the world she knew and expected to move in.
Me bride must feel the same. Is that why?—
“Why did ye run?”
Sitting back in her chair, Emma regarded him and then shrugged one shoulder. “Is it not obvious? I cannot…” She gestured around the room, then outside. “This is not the world I know or the life I am meant to have.”
“In what way?” Grant pressed as a strange pressure grew between his ribs and threatened to crack them. “What do ye expect from an English nobleman that a Scottish Laird cannae offer ye?”
His tone was harsher than he had intended, but Emma did not seem deterred, only thoughtful.
She leaned forward and tugged at a curl, then said slowly, “I suppose I expect gentleness. They are gentlemen and are good to their wives, despite their impulses.”
Are those impulses so abhorrent to ye? Or have ye never had a mix of the two?
But Grant didn’t voice that thought.
“Ye must give me an example, at least.”
“Why?” Emma asked, her eyes narrowing. “What does it matter to you what I think?”
Her question took him aback, but then a lazy smirk tugged at his lips.
“I’m afraid we arenae speakin’ about ye, lass, but me future bride,” he drawled. “What should I offer her to be more like the English lover—lord sheexpected?”
Huffing out a breath, Emma toyed with her knife for a moment. “Enjoying music and dancing comes to mind.”
“Dancin’?” Grant echoed.
“Yes, My Laird,” Emma said and took a sip of her water. “Dancing.”
Grant shoved back his chair and stood up, not sure what he was doing until he held out a hand to her. She looked at it, then up at him, and shook her head.
