Sweet Home Highlander

by Amalie Howard

  “Aye, ye’ve made that clear.”

  “Then, are we in agreement?”

  Conversation at the other end of the table had ceased. For an uncomfortable moment, Niall wished he had conceded to his wife’s wish for privacy.

  Years ago, he could read every emotion written on that expressive face, know her thoughts before she voiced them. Now, he could barely discern a blasted thing. The new Aisla carried herself like an elegant queen, accustomed to her every desire being met and her every wish granted. In this case, a divorce.

  He’d give it to her, of course. She had no future here, and he would not impose an unwilling lady upon his clan. They deserved better. But first, perhaps perversely so, Niall wanted to strip that icy equanimity from her. He wanted to see how far she would go to get what she wanted. He knew it was his pride talking, but he would not make it easy for her to leave this time.

  Not if he had a damned thing to say about it.

  Lifting his goblet, he drained the contents, watching as her eyes carefully followed his movements. Niall folded his arms across his chest and curled one corner of his lips into a lazy half smile.

  “Even if I were to agree, leannan, on what grounds do ye think that divorce is even an option?”

  Chapter Four

  The way he’d drawled leannan, like it was something too delicious to be consumed, trickled down her spine. One bloody word, and inside Aisla melted like butter on a hot stone.

  She sat rigid in her chair, the temperature in the great hall oddly warm and stuffy. Then again, it might have just felt that way to her, considering her entire body was aflame. With frustration and humiliation, to be sure, but also with something else. Some other infuriating heat that she wished to God wasn’t there.

  It wasn’t because of the Gaelic endearment, either. Why did her blasted husband have to be so…bloody manly? Even while he drove her mad with his stubborn arrogance, the deepest, darkest corner of her body and mind couldn’t help but acknowledge the sultry way he looked at her, as if he were remembering the times he’d taken pleasure in her body, and given her the same, world-shaking sensations.

  Over the past few years, she’d convinced herself that she had forgotten what being tangled in bedsheets with Niall had felt like, the pure lust his mouth and hands could spin within her before they could even touch her body. And yet, mere seconds after setting eyes on him, those memories had sucked her back into their clutches. Six years hadn’t been long enough to bank the fire Niall had always been able to stoke inside of her.

  Weak. That’s what she had felt like whenever she was around him. Weak for him, for his body, and his attention, or what little of it he’d been willing to grant her when they had been first married. What was it about Maclaren that had so completely changed the young man she’d fallen in love with at Montgomery?

  The image of a pretty, dark-haired woman with a constant, disdainful stare flashed to mind. Aisla had trained her mind to jump away from any thought of Fenella over the last few years; the woman would have surely become Niall’s mistress. She’d been standing beside him earlier, with Hamish and Ronan, as if that were her place.

  Her first few months in Paris, Aisla had driven herself into a deep and bitter depression thinking of the two of them together. She’d barely been able to leave her aunt’s home on some days. But with Lady Sinclair’s coaxing, Aisla had finally joined society and met people who drew her mind from those darker thoughts. Being with others who knew nothing of her true past made pretending easy. So easy, in fact, that even when she was alone, she continued pretending.

  But now, as she stared her husband down from across the table, her food growing cold and the conversation around the hall tapering to whispers, Aisla felt the reality of her situation like a slap in the face. Grounds for divorce? They were innumerable.

  “I should think that would be clear, laird.”

  With a taunting curl of his lips, he added, “We were wedded and bedded, after all.”

  Aisla locked her eyes on his, too embarrassed to dare meet anyone else’s eyes. Was he enjoying her mortification? It certainly appeared that way.

  “I am not asking for an annulment,” she said evenly.

  “Nae, ye’re asking for something even more impossible.” The amusement began to fade from his eyes.

  It wasn’t impossible. Aisla had given it plenty of thought from Paris to Scotland, and there were indeed grounds for a divorce. Several, in fact. She only wished she didn’t have to say what they were in front of his entire family.

  “Please,” she said again, hating that she had to beg. “This is a conversation better had in private.”

  He stayed quiet a few moments, and she wondered if he might give in. She should have known better, though.

  “I’m comfortable where I am.”

  Aisla gritted her teeth. “Very well.”

  But then Ronan slid his chair back deliberately and stood, his bulky figure casting a shadow over the table. “I, alas, have lost my appetite. I bid ye good evening.”

  He left the table, and without having to say a word, several of his warriors at the other tables stood as well. Evan and Finlay’s wives immediately stood, and when their husbands continued to eat, they nudged them.

  “Quit yer pinching,” Finlay growled as he stood, taking the roasted leg of chicken he was in the middle of consuming with him.

  They bid their mother good evening, and followed their wives from the dais and out of the hall. Slowly, other clansmen and women were taking their leave, the sounds of their departure rising up to the beamed ceiling and echoing in a loud rustle of skirts and clatter of feet and benches.

  “It seems ye got yer wish,” Niall said once the noise had finally stopped, and more than three-quarters of the hall had cleared. Julien and Lady Dunrannoch remained, though. Niall’s mother would want to stay and support her youngest son. Still, Aisla’s stomach clenched at knowing how much the woman must despise her, but she couldn’t allow it to keep her silent.

  “Well?” Niall pressed. “On what possible grounds do ye think the Crown will grant ye a divorce?”

  Julien again closed his fingers over Aisla’s hand, fisted in her lap, and squeezed. Thank goodness he was there. She wasn’t certain she could have done any of this without him. Then again, if it weren’t for Julien or his proposal of marriage, she wouldn’t have even considered asking for a divorce.

  “Desertion,” she blurted, the sound of it out loud even worse than it had been inside her mind. “I abandoned our marriage.”

  Niall wasn’t quick enough to mask his surprise at the admission, though a moment later his expression had resettled into the well-worn look of apathy.

  In her seat, Lady Dunrannoch shifted her weight. “Divorces are notoriously difficult to procure,” she said in a lightly accented voice. She was an Englishwoman through and through, despite having lived in Scotland her entire adult life. “Even on grounds of desertion.”

  She was correct. Divorces were rare, though Aisla knew of many married couples who had simply dissolved their marriage by agreeing to live separately. They would be unable to marry again, but at least they would not have to endure their spouse’s company. Some believed it a price well worth paying. Aisla had, too.

  However, the solicitor she’d hired had confirmed it was possible—that divorces had been granted for desertion in Scotland for centuries now—though it would be expensive and arduous.

  “Aye,” Niall said after a minute of silence. “Although,” he went on, his eyes flicking to Julien, “grounds of adultery could be more convincing.”

  “Adultery?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I speak of yer current association. We are still married, are we no’?”

  Her cheeks burned, and the air she breathed felt thinner. Why wouldn’t he think it? She’d shown up at Maclaren with the man she wanted to replace Niall with, after all. She would die before admitting that Niall had been her first lover and her last. She’d shrivel up and waste away before she let
him know that she’d been alone all these years, while he’d no doubt enjoyed whatever female company he could get his hands on, including Fenella.

  Aisla let out a breath, and did as she had done in Paris for so long: pretended. “If that makes it easier for the courts to grant a divorce, then yes, by all means, appeal on the grounds of adultery as well. I abandoned our marriage, and you’ve accused me many a time of betraying my vows.”

  Niall spent an eternity glaring at her, the hard lines of his sculpted jaw tensing and softening, as if he was battling some skirmish inside his mind. For a moment, she thought she saw regret there as well, but it was gone too quickly. His hot stare threatened to burn past her stalwart defenses, and Aisla stiffened, bracing for whatever would come out of his mouth.

  As if breaking from a trance, Niall rose abruptly from his seat. “I’m finished with this discussion tonight. I’ll send a messenger to Edinburgh to my solicitor to see what can be done. Ye’ll have my answer as soon as he returns.”

  …

  The bruising, early morning ride had not tamed the storm whipping and railing inside of Niall. Nor had the ones he’d taken the last two nights since Aisla’s arrival, nearly breaking his own neck in the darkness. His body was exhausted, but his mind spun endlessly at the thought of her.

  God, she made him feel like a fumbling dunderheid with one look. Time had been kind to her, maturing her beauty with an artist’s touch. Her face was fuller, as was her lush, tempting figure. Knowledge and experience gave her eyes depth. He was no more immune to her than he had been at fifteen when he’d first met her, or eighteen when they’d eloped. Or now…a grown man hardened by life and circumstance.

  He’d run into Ronan the night before at the stables at Maclaren after he’d ridden his brother’s prize gelding into the ground. He’d been brushing down the lathered animal when Ronan had entered the stall.

  “He runs like a Highland storm,” Niall had said.

  “And he has a temper like one.” Ronan smiled, dragging a hand down the horse’s nose. Not one to waste time, he’d cleared his throat. “What are ye doing, bràthair?”

  “With what?”

  “Dunnae play daft. With the lass.”

  He’d shrugged. “I’ll give her what she wants, but I’ll no’ make it easy for her.”

  “Ye want a divorce?”

  Niall had hesitated. “I want what’s best for my clan,” he’d said eventually. “Ye told me to think about that, or have ye forgotten?”

  His brother had shot him a shrewd look. “I think ye still love her. And the one woman ye truly want, doesnae love ye.”

  “Are ye joking?” he’d scoffed. “If I wanted her, she wouldnae want to leave. The lass doesnae ken the new Niall Maclaren.”

  Ronan grinned. “Prove it then. Get her to change her mind about leaving ye, and I’ll forgive the debt ye owe me.”

  Niall had laughed, half in shock at the unexpected offer. By his estimation, it would take him four years at his current rate of profit at the mines to repay Ronan his initial stake. Fifty thousand pounds was a lot of blunt. “What’s in it for ye?”

  “Watching ye fall flat on yer face.” Ronan’s eyes had narrowed. “And maybe an owner’s share in yer mining holdings. Ye have a fair nose for profit.”

  It had been an easy bet to take. Ronan would lose, and the debt would be lifted from Niall’s shoulders. His brother wanted to see him fall flat on his face, did he? Watching Ronan forfeit a large sum of money rightly owed to him would provide just as much entertainment. Competition between all the Maclaren brothers had never been lacking in good-natured fun.

  But Niall had no intention of giving ownership of the mines to Ronan or anyone else. And Aisla, well, he’d make certain she would get a taste of what she had given up. Niall did not plan to rekindle anything between them in earnest, but he would do whatever it took to get her to change her mind, and then he would relish giving her the divorce. He only had to figure a way to force her to stay on long enough for him to see the wager through.

  He had shaken hands with Ronan, fed the gelding a bucket of warmed oats, and taken his leave. The truth was it was an easy bet, but not an easy task he’d set for himself. He didn’t know what he felt at the reappearance of his wife, only a confused ache in his chest and an arousal so acute it was painful. Both were things he could do without. Especially the second.

  Hence the before-dawn, breakneck-speed ride.

  Did he still love Aisla? Ronan’s question had battered him in the few hours he’d spent in bed, staring into the dark. He could still remember what it felt like to hold her, that first time at Montgomery, when they’d finally met in the old stables behind the quarry. They’d laughed at how difficult it had been for each of them to break away from the castle and sneak to their rendezvous, but the moment Niall had slid his hands around her waist and hauled her against him, their nervous laughter had vanished. He’d known, in that moment, he’d found a treasure.

  But that had all been before he’d made a mess of things.

  Now, he knew there could be no way around letting her go for good. It’s what she wanted, and the truth of it, the sense of it, was undeniable. His clan needed a lady they could depend on, someone they could trust and admire, and show true loyalty to. Aisla was not that woman.

  Niall reined in his horse and directed the mount toward the Maclaren keep in the distance. His eyes went to the upper casement windows of the chambers they had shared once a lifetime ago, it seemed. The last handful of years had also changed her in other ways. Her mannerisms were more refined, her clipped, cultivated speech more English. She wasn’t the same girl and he’d do well to remember that. And right now, he had a wager to win.

  Niall nudged his mount into a canter and reached the castle minutes later. It was still early, and while the servants were up and bustling about, his parents, and his brothers and their wives would all still be abed.

  “My wife’s chamber,” he asked a passing maid, who bobbed a fast curtsey. “Where is it?”

  The woman blinked owlishly at the curt demand. “Lady Montgomery, m’laird?”

  “Lady Maclaren,” he snapped. It seemed his darling wife couldn’t wait to cast off the lodestone that was the Maclaren name, so much so that she insisted on going by her maiden one. “Lord knew how she’d react to being called Lady Tarbendale.”

  “I believe the lady…Lady Maclaren…was given the chambers in the north tower.”

  Their old chambers, the ones his eyes had drifted toward out in the fields. He thanked the stammering maid and climbed the north tower, hoping to God that being given their old chambers had been a prick in Aisla’s side.

  He found the door easily in the gloom, despite not having been up into this part of the keep for ages, and without a moment’s hesitation, slammed his fist against the wood. The door was too thick to hear anything happening inside, so he pounded on it again. And again. Until finally the door whipped open, and staring out at him was a wide-eyed, exasperated, and somewhat alarmed Aisla.

  The picture of her, here in this place after so long, struck him again like a battle axe. With her pink cheeks, fresh from sleep, and the mussed braid she’d styled before going to bed the night before, she would have looked almost adorable, had it not been for the night rail she wore. Creamy white linen gripped her breasts in a snug embrace. The thin material might have been perfect for the humid summer night, but it was also perfect for showing Niall the luscious, rose-tipped nipples he had once had every right to touch and kiss.

  And still did.

  He must have stared at them for a beat too long, for Aisla crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back and half closed the door with one foot.

  “Niall? The sun has not even risen. What is it?” she asked, the fog of being startled awake likely the reason why she didn’t correct herself and address him as laird.

  “Ye can clearly see the sun’s up, Aisla. Or have ye forgotten how the sun rises in the Highlands? Now let me pass. We’ve a discussion to
be had.”

  He pushed past her before she could slam the door in his face. His feet came to a halt as he saw the four-poster by the hearth, the wardrobe in the corner, the table and chair next to the windows overlooking the courtyard and the fields beyond. Nothing had changed. Well…none of the inanimate objects had changed. He and Aisla were two different stories completely.

  A petite, pinch-faced maid bustled in from the adjoining room wearing a rumpled robe and a white cap that sat askew on her head. “Is anything amiss, my lady?”

  “I’m well, Pauline,” Aisla said, leaving the bedchamber door open to the corridor. “Go back to bed. Laird Tarbendale won’t be long.”

  “I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you, my lady,” she said with a frown in his direction.

  “Pauline’s right,” Aisla said. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

  He faced her. “Why? Afraid LeFrog might get himself boiled up in a lather?”

  “Leclerc,” she corrected with a scowl. Aisla glared pointedly at him as she moved toward her maid, her voice lowering. “Pauline, all will be well. Go, please.”

  “And you needn’t worry,” Aisla said, turning back to him after the maid left. “Julien isn’t a jealous man. It’s rather refreshing to be trusted.”

  Niall felt the walls of the bedchamber squeeze, pushing him toward the thoughts and memories he’d worked so hard to bury. “’Tis good to ken my initial estimation of him was right. The man’s an idiot.”

  “For trusting me, I presume,” she said, lifting a heavier linen wrapper from the bottom of the bedstead. She threw it on, cloaking the dusky nipples and plump breasts that had sung a wicked song to his groin.

  “I should ken.”

  “Why have you come, Niall?”

  He turned away from the tapestries, forcing his brutish erection under control, and speared her with a hard glare. He’d developed it in the mines over the years, when working with laborers who weren’t willing to give their best efforts, or who were lazy and ended up endangering other men, deep in the subterranean tunnels.