"Ye will." Diarmid’s expression turned pitying, too. Damn it, did both his dearest friends want him to give them a bloody nose? "If ye dinnae, you’ll never have a happy life."
"She’ll come to heel." Hamish hoped they didn’t hear the false note underlying his bravado.
"A wife doesnae come to heel. She walks at your side as a partner." Diarmid sent another glance toward Emily, who hadn’t yet fled the room in tears. That was a good sign. Perhaps for once, his mother was behaving. "You’ll never cow that lassie in a month of Sundays, anyway."
"She’s a wonderful girl," Hamish said with some heat, although his cousin’s remark hadn’t sounded like criticism.
Fergus nodded. "That’s the first smart thing you’ve said tonight. Aye, she is. Look at how she’s managing your mother. So dinnae mess this up."
"Mess this up?" Hamish asked on a rising note. "You’re treating me like the village idiot."
"I’m just saying that for a braw clever man, ye can do the stupidest things."
"You’re all looking very serious over here, tesoro. I thought this evening was meant to be a celebration for Hamish and the bella new Lady Glen Lyon."
The arrival of Fergus’s half-Italian wife Marina saved Hamish from having to respond to her husband’s patronizing comment. Which was probably a lucky thing.
His best friends were mistaken to think he was blind to the changes in his life, now he was married. If nothing else, he was uncomfortably aware that his actions reflected on his wife, for good or ill. Which meant he must forgo giving Diarmid a black eye and knocking that smirk off Fergus’s face.
More was the pity.
"Thank you for saving me from these two blockheads." Hamish liked Marina, he always had. Although if anyone had told him before the marriage that Fergus would choose an independent, self-confident woman like this, he’d have scoffed. Fergus had always said he’d marry a meek little miss who would put up with his dictatorial ways.
But Marina was perfect for Fergus. She’d brought him down to earth and taught him that he wasn’t the King of the Highlands.
Nor had Diarmid married the sort of woman Hamish imagined he would. After enduring a chaotic childhood with his vain, flighty mother, Diarmid had sworn he’d never wed a beauty. Yet Fiona was one of the loveliest women Hamish had ever seen.
So what lesson could Hamish draw from his friends’ marriages? That an unexpected bride might end up the ideal choice? Emily was certainly unexpected. Even aside from their quarrels, she was English, when he’d always vowed that he’d wed a good Scots lass.
If only his wife’s Englishness was the biggest problem facing them.
"They’re both laying down the law, I’m guessing." Marina slid her hand around Hamish’s elbow. "The gospel for a happy marriage, according to St. Fergus and St. Diarmid."
"Aye, and why no’, mo chridhe?" Fergus asked. "We manage pretty well, would ye no’ say?"
"Si, caro, I would. But it took us time to learn how to live together, and what works for us won’t necessarily work for other people. It wouldn’t be right for Diarmid and Fiona, for example."
"Aye. Dinnae take this the wrong way, but there’s a wee bit too much push and pull between the two of ye for me," Diarmid said fervently. "I like a quiet life."
"Hamish and Emily will find their own way, too. You don’t need to march in with your big heavy boots, m
y love. Per l’amor di Dio, sometimes discretion is the better part of valor."
Hamish took unworthy enjoyment in seeing his autocratic friend scolded by his spectacular wife. "Discretion isn’t Fergus’s style."
"I’m just giving him the benefit of my experience in taming a termagant," Fergus responded in a haughty tone, then looked offended when everyone around him burst out laughing.
***
"That wasn’t nearly the ordeal we expected," Hamish said in relief, as they sat in the dark carriage on their way back to Bloomsbury.
"Speak for yourself," Emily retorted from the opposite seat.
If they had a real marriage, he’d be sitting next to her with his arm around her. If they had a real marriage, he’d take advantage of the privacy to steal a kiss or two and a few cuddles.
If they had a real marriage, those kisses and cuddles would lead to a night of bliss in Emily’s bed. He’d long suspected that Emily would be a lover a man would never forget. Under her cool exterior, she was all fire. Even when she was annoyed with him, she was an exciting woman. The thought of how she’d flare up in the throes of passion made the blood thunder in his ears.
And all for nothing. They’d return home, say good night, and go their separate ways. What a waste.