Sweet Home Highlander

by Amalie Howard

  Julien smiled brightly, nearly knocking the poor girl off her feet. “Whisky, if you have it. Thank you, mignon.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” she said, feeling light for the first time in hours. “Flirting in front of your future wife.”

  He smirked. “While sitting in the heap of stones belonging to the man my future wife is currently married to.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to wed.”

  “The prize isn’t worth anything if it’s not worth fighting for.”

  They shared a grin of commiseration just as Fenella appeared with a tray. With one glass of whisky. Aisla would have sighed if it wasn’t so predictable. She nodded for Julien to take the drink. After Fenella left with a scowl, he lifted the glass high in toast. “To getting what we both want.”

  Aisla frowned thoughtfully at him, sitting there so out of place in his fashionable clothes. “Why would you want to stay when you could go back to Paris? You don’t have to be here.”

  “And miss all the fun?” He grinned and drained the whisky. “I wouldn’t leave for all the gold in Scotland. It’s like being in the middle of my own personal bawdy-house theater production. The laird seduces the maiden. The wife seduces the master. Who will win? I’m on tenterhooks.”

  “Do be serious.”

  He pressed a palm to his chest in mock horror. “I am always serious.”

  “Why stay? The truth.”

  “If you must know, Maman is on the warpath about my future bride, and I’d rather not drown in swooning virgins being tossed on the sacrificial altar à la Julien.”

  “You haven’t told her about us?”

  He shot her a look. “After you announced you were already married? No, of course not. It would break her heart, if for some reason you chose to stay married and remain in this barren wasteland.”

  “That will never happen.”

  “Lie to yourself all you want, chérie, but I have seen the way you look at that man and it makes me blush.”

  “Jules.” Mortified, Aisla bit her lips and steered the subject away from her unfortunate attraction to her husband. “I know she’s ill and you wish to make her happy, but why is she being so insistent about marriage now?”

  Julien shifted in his seat and looked into his empty glass with a frown.

  “She received a letter from her father, the Marquess of Riverley. The old toad’s dying. She’s taken the news hard, even though she hasn’t spoken to the old codger in decades. His illness has made her obsessed about her own mortality. It’s made her declining health all the more real to her, and I suspect she feels backed into a corner with the need to continue the family line.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “No. I’d much rather be here, being threatened by braw Scotsmen.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh then. “Well, then, we must do whatever we can to protect the innocent.”

  “I better leave before your beloved returns and makes good on his promise to riddle me with holes.” He tossed her an aggrieved look. “Are all Scots so barbaric?”

  She thought of her brothers with a fond smile. “No. Some are worse.”

  Aisla rose from her seat, her amusement fading as she walked Julien to the door. “He’s not my beloved,” she added. “I’ll do everything in my power to shorten the six weeks, and put this behind us so we can all move on. I’m glad you’re here, Jules.”

  Julien paused to buss a kiss on each cheek. “As am I.” In an uncharacteristic display of seriousness, his expression grew somber. “Are you sure this is truly what you want, Aisla?”

  “Of course it is. Why would you ask me that?”

  “Because it’s clear that there is still something between the two of you, even to me and my jaded sensibilities.”

  Aisla went quiet. Surely, the tension between them wasn’t that transparent? It was on the tip of her tongue to say that the only thing there was, was lust, but she bit her lips. Lust meant nothing. And if she gave in to it, if she lost one ounce of control, Niall would claim his victory.

  “No, whatever was there is long gone. I won’t change my mind, either.”

  He looked at her a long time before responding, his eyes oddly unreadable. “Very well. Send a Scottish falcon if you need me.” He grinned and winked, the momentary awkwardness disappearing. “And try not to lose your temper, chérie. I shouldn’t like to risk coming back to rescue you. This body is far too precious to be decorated with bullets.”

  “Some knight you are.”

  “I have a feeling you are more than capable of taking care of yourself, my darling. Adieu!”

  After Julien rode back to Maclaren, Aisla’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since breaking her fast that morning. The hour for sup at Maclaren had come and gone, and Niall had not returned. In truth, she didn’t expect him to, and she was too tired to go up to the Maclaren keep. Surely, she’d be able to find something edible here. She didn’t require much, perhaps some bread and cheese, or an oatcake.

  She spotted the young scullery maid who’d run through the hall earlier and waved her down. “What is your name?”

  “Caitlin, yer ladyship,” she said with a curtsy.

  “Might you point me in the direction of the kitchen?” she asked. “I am in need of something to eat.”

  “O’ course, milady. ’Tis this way.” She smiled shyly. “Yer caller was very bonny.”

  Aisla shook her head and laughed. “And well he knows it, too.”

  To her surprise, unlike the rest of the castle, the kitchen was large and well appointed, with shiny pots and pans hanging from various hooks near a large stone hearth. And thankfully, there was no sign of Fenella, for which Aisla was grateful. She couldn’t conceive of dealing with someone so unpleasant on an empty stomach.

  “Please sit, milady,” Caitlin said, indicating a stool near a round table.

  Aisla looked around at the clearly refurbished kitchen. “How long has the laird been living here?”

  “Going on a year now,” Caitlin said. “It took months to repair the castle enough to live in it after so much of it was burned to the ground during the fire, but the laird was busy at the quarry, ye ken.”

  “At the what?” Aisla frowned, but there was no answer. Perhaps she had misheard.

  The young maid had disappeared into a nearby larder only to emerge with a roast chicken pie. Aisla promptly forgot her question or any other sensible thought in her head. Her mouth watered and she accepted the offering with gratitude. “Bless you, Caitlin.”

  The girl smiled. “Me mam made it fer the laird, but he’s at the tavern with the other lads from the mines.”

  “Mines?”

  “Aye, the work the men do at Tarbendale,” Caitlin explained. “I’m sure the laird willnae fash.”

  Aisla wasn’t so sure about Niall not minding his dinner going missing, but wild horses couldn’t have stopped her from eating it. She sat on a stool and bit into the cold but still flaky pastry, sighing with delight. There was nothing to be said for a good, homemade Scottish pie.

  “Mmm. Divine.”

  “That good, is it?” The deep, amused voice nearly made her tumble off her seat.

  She turned, discreetly wiping the crumbs from her lips with one hand, noticing that Caitlin had made herself scarce with the laird’s arrival. Aisla chewed and swallowed her mouthful. Niall’s face was flushed as he lounged on the inside of the doorway, one booted foot propped against the doorjamb, arms folded across his broad chest. His blue eyes sparkled with laughter and he looked so relaxed, so disarmingly boyish, that she almost had an attack of sentimental yearning.

  Until he pushed off the wall to walk closer, and she smelled the ale on him.

  She sniffed, nostalgia swamped by other, not so pleasant memories. Nights much like this one when he ignored her, or didn’t come home at all. Nights when bitter fighting over his drinking had ended in insults and tears.

  “My dinner?” he asked. Before she could blink, he reached down to lift the pie to his
mouth and took a bite. The bold intimacy of it made something awaken in her belly.

  “That’s mine.”

  “What’s yers is mine, leannan,” he said. “Isnae that why ye’re here in my castle?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He smiled, his thumb rising to graze her lower lip. “Ye have a crumb just here.” Aisla sucked in a gasp as he lifted the errant piece of pastry to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick the flake from his finger. He didn’t take his eyes from hers.

  “Ye’re right,” he rasped. “’Tis indeed divine.”

  Aisla had to shake herself back to her senses. Hard. This was all part of the game and his way of striking back. The hungry look in his eyes that said he wanted nothing more than to devour her was no more than a farce. A persuasive, chemise-incinerating sham, but one nonetheless.

  She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to breathe in the smell of sour ale on his person, and wrinkled her nose. “You stink. Still drowning your woes, I see.”

  Niall straightened in confusion and drew away, staring down at the damp, brown stain on his shirt. His expression was earnest. “One of the men at the tavern was over enthusiastic in his toast.”

  She’d forgotten how clever he was, how convincing. She’d fallen for his excuses so many times before. But her eyes were open now, and she wasn’t the girl she’d left behind a lifetime ago it seemed. Aisla stood, pushing her plate to the side, her appetite gone.

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. I’ve had the benefit of too much history, you see. If it smells like a wolf and acts like a wolf, then it is one. I would be a naive fool to believe otherwise.”

  “Aisla, I—”

  She cut him off with a hand. “Save your explanations and your oaths, Niall. If we’re going to continue this absurd pretense for the next six weeks, then at least do me the civility of not lying to my face. I know you, remember?”

  “Ye dunnae ken me,” he said softly. “No’ anymore.”

  They stared at each other in combative silence, any pretense of affability gone. Aisla couldn’t quite read the expression in his eyes. If she didn’t trust him or herself where he was concerned so much, she would have thought that his eyes appeared quite lucid. But she’d believed his lies before, fell for them quite willingly because she’d wanted to believe his excuses. She’d let herself be convinced by his promises and his fervent declarations of love. She’d been gullible once, and had had her heart trampled for it.

  Once a drunk, always a drunk. How many men had she known at Montgomery like him? And in Paris, too. The only loyalty they had was to the liquor in their cups. She glanced at Niall’s sodden chest. Or on his shirt, as the case may be. She might be blinded by a few bulging muscles, but she was not stupid.

  “Find another fool,” she finally said, walking away.

  Chapter Eight

  The bruising ride to Edinburgh to meet with Mr. Stevenson hadn’t begun to take the edge off Niall’s agitation. His industrious wife had more than made her presence felt at Tarbendale over the last week. She’d even gone so far as to take over his chamber, and he’d been forced to sleep elsewhere. He’d settled for an uncomfortable chair in the library after Hamish, that ungrateful bastard, got wind of why he did not want to return to Tarben Castle after the first few nights.

  “The lass is in yer chamber?” He’d guffawed, laughing until tears were running down his cheeks. “In yer bed at Tarbendale?”

  “Aye.”

  Hamish hadn’t stopped grinning. “A beautiful woman is in yer bed, and ye want to sleep in my keep?”

  “What of it?”

  “Where in God’s name are yer ballocks?”

  Hamish hadn’t seen Niall’s right hook coming, but it had shut the mouthy clotheid up for at least a quarter of an hour. Still, the ribbing had rubbed Niall raw. Why wasn’t he in his own bed? Why had he allowed some scheming woman to take up residence in his own home? And worse, allowed her to displace him? He was the damned laird.

  Niall wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but it wasn’t that he was afraid of Aisla. He was afraid of himself. His lust had only grown, until it raged like a caged monster inside his body every time she was near. The sound of her lilting voice made his chest clench, the scent of her made his brain scramble, and hell, the sight of her made walking nigh impossible.

  But he would die before letting Ronan or Aisla win, despite being caught between the two wagers. Changing Aisla’s mind about him and winning her over should have gone hand-in-hand with Aisla’s challenge to see who could seduce whom first. Seduce her, win her affections again. Win both wagers in one fell swoop.

  What Niall had not prepared himself for was just how out of control he felt whenever Aisla entered a room. He had to maintain the upper hand, but thus far, all he’d felt while in her presence was undiluted longing, irritation, and teeth-gnashing confusion.

  The ride to Edinburgh had been two fold. He would see his solicitor regarding progress on the divorce, and he would find relief with a courtesan. Anything to offset the need building inside of him like a storm tide, or else he would likely take his tempting siren of a wife and toss her skirts over her head. And lose that wager in the process.

  The thought of scrubbing his debt with Ronan had paled in comparison to the physical torture he’d subjected himself to. And that was only after one week. The real danger, however, came from the fact that outside of his sexual frustration, he was starting to like having her around. In typical Aisla fashion, she had not spent her days doing nothing, but had taken it upon herself to renovate and brighten the great hall.

  An expansive space that had once been bland and uninspiring, was now covered in tapestries and furniture she’d purloined from Maclaren, with his mother’s help, he suspected, along with sweet-scented rushes in the hearth. She’d also arranged for a cook. The scullery maid’s mother who had made the delectable roast chicken pie. The one he’d found Aisla enjoying by herself in the kitchens, a few buttery crumbs clinging to her full, lower lip.

  Niall’s groin throbbed. Hell, he couldn’t even think of sodding pie without getting aroused. The wager wasn’t the only thing at risk of being lost. He was about to lose his dashed mind.

  Leaving his horse with a groom, he entered the offices of his solicitor, also his father’s longtime advisor.

  “You’re looking well, Laird Maclaren,” the bespectacled man with a balding pate said. “Please have a seat.”

  “And ye, Stevenson.” He didn’t waste time getting to the point. “Have ye been successful in finding the documents? I cannae believe it will take six weeks. My wife is eager to return to Paris.”

  “Six weeks?” he asked with a quizzical frown.

  “Yer messenger a week ago advised that she should stay in Scotland for a few weeks to a month or so.”

  He shook his head. “No, my laird, my message said it might behoove the lady to return home until the documents are found.”

  Niall blinked. And then sighed. The duchess. What purpose could she have for wanting to keep Aisla in Scotland? She wouldn’t have known about the wager he’d made with Ronan. Surely, she did not hope for reconciliation? He and Aisla were different people, living in different worlds. The attraction might still be there, but despite his intention to use it to win the wager and erase his debt to Ronan, it was not the basis for a marriage. Not one that lasted anyway.

  “Have ye found them?”

  The man shook his head. “Not yet. The records in Inverness are in shambles, and according to the register clerk, it will take weeks to sort through.” He paused, a frown creasing his brow. “They cannot seem to find any record of your marriage.” At Niall’s expression, he rushed to continue. “Though, however, they have assured me that they are still looking.”

  “We signed a book. With witnesses.” The witness had been the vicar’s own son, if Niall recalled correctly. Or perhaps it’d been his footman. More than one person had been in their cups that night, including him.

  “Several ledgers ar
e missing, laird.” He fumbled with the papers on his desk. “That vicar in particular had a problem with spirits.”

  Niall’s gaze narrowed. “What are ye saying?”

  “I will get to this bottom of this, but it will take time. Once we are able to locate the records, we will be able to proceed with the divorce in the courts.” He cleared his throat discreetly. “With the duke’s influence, and the uncontested grounds of desertion and adultery, it should be accomplished within months, if that is still your wish.”

  “It is.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Proceed.”

  “Laird Maclaren,” Stevenson began. “If I may be so bold, I have known your family a long time. I consider the duke a dear friend, and you are like my own son. Is there any way your marriage can be saved?” Niall’s brows contracted in warning, but Stevenson marched on. “I fear it will devastate your father, you see.”

  The Duke of Dunrannoch might have been bedridden for months, but he still enjoyed making his desires heard.

  “Has he sent word?” Niall asked. A part of him regretted that he hadn’t confided in his father, but he hadn’t wanted to add to his burdens. And more importantly, he’d been ashamed to acknowledge his failure as a husband. He shook his head, shrugging off the faint touch of guilt.

  “No, but I know he would want you to be happy. All of his children.” The solicitor paused delicately. “And while your estranged situation is singular in nature, there’s no reason for you not to take your wife in hand now that she’s returned.”

  Niall laughed drily. “If ye kenned my wife, ye would understand how ludicrous a statement that is. She wants the divorce, Stevenson, to marry another.” The man’s eyes widened, but Niall held up a staying hand. “And I owe it to my clansmen to find a Scottish lass who wants to be their lady. My father will understand that it’s best for the whole clan.”

  “But Lady Maclaren is Scottish.”