Niall let out a gruff, flat laugh. “No’ anymore she’s no’.”
Stevenson nodded. “I see.” He stood, and shook Niall’s hand. “Then perhaps it will be necessary to remind her of that fact.”
Niall could see why the crafty old dodger and his father were friends. “I will take that into consideration. Thank ye for yer help.”
Once done, he decided to make his way to Ronan’s club, hoping he’d run into his brother along with a nice, accommodating bit of muslin.
Ronan had been at Maclaren when Aisla had arrived, but he’d been off to Edinburgh the next day for a meeting with the laird of a neighboring clan, the Campbells, after his continued refusal to marry one of the laird’s daughters for the sake of an alliance. Still, strained relations with a neighboring clan could prove jeopardous, and so this meeting in Edinburgh, taking place on mutually agreed neutral ground, would hopefully smooth the rift.
When Niall, climbing the steps to the club, met his brother on his way out, he noticed Ronan’s face was twisted into a menacing scowl. The meeting hadn’t gone well, then. Niall stopped him with a raised hand. “The Campbell?”
His brother’s expression relaxed, if only slightly, when he saw Niall. “Aye. And that bounder, Dougal Buchanan.”
Niall hadn’t expected to hear that name, and the very sound of it made his insides twist. “Buchanan? He was here?”
“Aye, the Buchanans and the Campbells are soon to be allies, ye ken, now that Dougal is betrothed to Rose Campbell, and they’re pushing for an alliance with Maclaren.” Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “What did ye do to him? Dougal.”
“No’ a thing,” Niall said. “Why?”
“I got the notion he hates ye.”
Niall’s jaw clenched. The feeling was mutual. “What did he say?”
“Nothing outright. But he made a habit of bringing up yer name, and each time he looked like he was choking on it.”
Niall chuckled darkly. “He was supposed to marry Aisla. Her father, the Mad Montgomery, had championed the match.”
“An alliance with the Montgomerys would have been a powerful one.” Ronan nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “No’ to mention fruitful in the extreme, combining land and sheep. Far better than the one he’s about to form with the Campbells. Does he carry a grudge then?”
“I suppose,” Niall answered, thinking of the last time he’d seen the man. “I had him thrown off our lands years ago, when he came sniffing around Aisla during the summer festival.”
“Did ye make him angry enough to make him want to cause trouble now?” Ronan asked.
Niall shrugged, frowning as he recalled the loosened boards at the mine and the slew of recent accidents. But it had been ages since he’d caught Dougal standing too close to Aisla at the festival, whispering in her ear and making her blush. Aye, he’d tossed him off their lands, and surprisingly, the bastard hadn’t put up a fight, though he’d smirked all the way to the Maclaren border.
Before leaving, Dougal said something strange about feisty women with the devil’s kiss, and to watch Aisla’s back closely. At the time, Niall had been half pissed and the comment had sounded like nonsense. Later on, however, the meaning had smacked him in the head. Devil’s kiss…it was what some called a birthmark. And Aisla had a delicate, strawberry-colored mark on her lower back, right above the curve of her buttocks.
Had he deciphered Dougal’s words immediately, he would have likely throttled him. Over the years, the fury over knowing Dougal Buchanan had seen his wife in the nude had tempered, though not by much. Still, all that was in the past.
“If so, what does he hope to gain? If it’s Aisla, he’s welcome to the lass. But he’s already betrothed and she plans to marry another. As it stands, maybe we can just offer her up in a trade.”
Ronan raised one of his dark brows at his thinly veiled sarcasm, and with a wide grin, waved on the men who’d accompanied him for the meeting. “Losing the wager already, bràthair? I take it yer wife has whipped things up into a froth back at Maclaren. I’m looking forward to enjoying my profits.”
“’Tis early yet. And she’s ensconced at Tarbendale, so dunnae get yer hopes up.”
Ronan led Niall back inside the gentleman’s club, where they sat themselves near a faro table and ordered a whisky and a coffee. Ronan sipped the first while Niall grimaced at the strong black brew of the second. The coffee left its bitter trace on the back of his tongue. Of course, that could have been from thinking about the mess he’d gotten himself into with Aisla.
“She’s staying with ye?” Ronan finally asked. He leaned forward, true surprise lighting his usually stoic gaze. “How did ye manage that? I thought she was staying at Maclaren with that…” The muscles along Ronan’s jaw rippled, and Niall could only imagine the brutal things his brother was imagining doing to the Frenchman.
“Jackanape?”
“I can think of harsher names for that clinker,” Ronan muttered.
“Dunnae forget she plans to accept his proposal,” Niall said, the bitter coffee sliding into his stomach and making it sour. “Even if I win our wager, I intend for her to leave.” He drank a gulp of coffee. “And there’s more.”
Ronan sat back in the chair, his bright gaze receding into its usual contemplative state. Niall took a breath, and explained all that had passed since Aisla had made her own unexpected wager…to see who could seduce whom first, with the victor receiving a nod of defeat from the other.
“Let me see if I understand,” Ronan said, his expression incredulous when Niall finished. “Ye’ve agreed to a public apology admitting yer failures as a husband, and sending her back to Paris with a divorce if she’s able to tempt ye into her bed before the next six weeks are up?”
“Aye.”
Ronan did something rare then. His lips parted, breaking into a wide smile, and he barked out a short, harsh laugh. “Ye’ve already lost, brother, and she kens it.”
“How do ye mean?”
“What are ye, some sort of milksop? Do ye really think ye’ll be able to resist the lass when she offers herself to ye? I’d heard rumors from her time in France that she’s as clever as a fox.” Ronan shook his head as he sat back and took a sip of his whisky. “Ye couldnae wait to make her yers before the vows.”
Niall pushed his coffee aside and leaned forward. “Wait, what did ye hear about my wife in France?” he asked Ronan, frowning.
Ronan’s amusement fell off, and he looked slightly abashed. “Ye’re my kin. My brother. Ye think I wouldnae keep an eye on the lass while she gallivanted around Paris?”
“That wasnae yer duty.”
It had been his. And he hadn’t done it. He’d known where she was, and he could have written to her. Could have asked any number of friends and acquaintances who’d traveled to London what they’d heard of Aisla. But asking after her would have only drawn their pity. And there was no chance that he’d make the mistake of showing up in Paris himself—not again. He’d been doltish enough to try it once, to bring her home. He still felt the burn of humiliation whenever he thought about that wasted trip, and shoved it out of his mind now, too.
“Duty or no’, I had to make sure she wasnae in any trouble,” Ronan said.
The spear of guilt lanced Niall again. It was something he should have done. “What did ye learn?” he forced himself to ask.
“That she had a firm place in society. Balls, parties, friends. She was never alone, and didnae lack the attentions of male company.”
It came as no surprise that Aisla had been popular among the men of Paris. Niall had sensed a new maturity about her, a subtle sensual awareness that only experience could provide. The French fop, clearly, had not been her only champion. The guilt eating away at him changed then, transforming into a recognizable beast: hot, knife-edged jealousy.
Ronan tossed back the rest of his whisky and lowered his voice now that the faro game to their right had dissolved, and the clamoring around them had quieted. “Why dunnae we forget the wager? Ye’ve
worked hard, Niall. To move on. To forget her. And now, I can see it burning in yer eyes again. That old anger and hurt. I ken what ye were like when she left the first time—”
“I’m no’ the same man I was back then. And I fully intend to win the wager. Yers and hers.”
“I ken that. But ye’re still playing with fire, bràthair. No matter who wins at this game ye’ve got going on, ye’re going to get hurt.”
Ronan didn’t mince words. Never had. But he also didn’t truly understand, not if he thought Niall had been working hard to move on and forget it. Niall hadn’t been doing that at all. He’d been building himself, making himself into something more. And every step of the way, he’d also been dreaming of the possibility of being able to brandish it in Aisla’s face just how far he’d come. How much he’d changed.
He’d made mistakes, too, he wouldn’t deny that. But he wasn’t the only one at fault. And now, the only reason she was back at all was to finalize what she’d set into motion years ago—that he’d never been the man for her. No. She wasn’t here to stay.
“Where my wife is concerned, I’m no’ playing with fire,” Niall said. “I’m wielding it.”
Ronan sat back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He held his brother’s steady gaze. “I hope so.”
A bubbly laugh cut through the gaming room, and Niall was grateful. He glanced up to find three scantily garbed women mingling on the floor. One looked his way, a curly haired brunette with a pair of jade eyes that might have once pinned him to the back of his chair. They were eyes that knew what they could do to a man. But they didn’t have any effect on Niall.
He had come to the club to speak to Ronan and to slake his pent frustration with a woman, any woman. Keeping his mind sharp and his lust drained had been the reasoning behind it. But the conversation with Ronan had been enlightening. Not once in six long years had Niall allowed himself to take a woman to bed. He’d felt cravings, to be sure, but his real appetite for the company of women had been snuffed out.
“The lass is looking over here,” Ronan said, beginning to stand. “I’ll take my leave so ye can have a chance with her.”
“Dunnae bother,” he told Ronan. “I’m leaving as well.”
Niall braced his hand and leather-covered stump on the tabletop to stand. The brunette’s eyes went straight to the stitched leather and hook covering there, and couldn’t mask her reaction, or her horror. She turned away. Niall only chuckled grimly. Her rejection couldn’t touch him. Not now, after building such a resistance to caring about other people’s opinions. Ronan had been right: Niall had come a long way, and he wouldn’t tumble back down into that hole he’d once lived in.
He had two goals now—one was to teach his wife a lesson she would not soon forget, and the other was to clear his ledgers with Ronan.
Both would allow him to move on.
…
Good Lord, Aisla could breathe again. With Niall gone, the constriction around her chest had loosened, like the strings of a husband-sized corset. She didn’t want to investigate that curiosity further, or admit it might have had anything to do with her residual feelings for him. Or worse, her current feelings for him. Instead, she put it down to the fact that Niall was a powerful laird, and his presence was simply everywhere. If it were up to her, she would leave and never look back. She’d done it once, and she could do it again. But she couldn’t, according to Mr. Stevenson, who was hopefully closing in on the missing marriage records.
This is for Julien’s dying mother, she reminded herself. And your one chance for a real family and a happy future.
A few measly weeks for a lifetime of freedom.
Less, if she could seduce her dratted husband. A prospect that was becoming more daunting by the day.
Aisla shook her head and continued her exploration. She’d taken the opportunity to investigate Tarben Castle in Niall’s absence. Fenella’s, too. The housekeeper had made herself scarce as if she couldn’t quite work out the new Aisla, who didn’t cower or cry, or go running at the slightest provocation. It wouldn’t have surprised Aisla if Fenella hadn’t gone to Edinburgh with her master. The sharp dig of jealousy took her by surprise.
Damnation, she wasn’t jealous, but the thought of that woman in Niall’s bed made her want to claw something. Aisla’s awareness of him was purely physical. After all, he was the only man she’d ever been with. He had always been handsome and charismatic, but now he exuded a potent masculinity that hadn’t been there before. Aisla had to admit that such sensual confidence was intensely appealing.
Despite being a drunk, Niall had never lacked for talent in the bedroom, though later on he’d become a bit artless in his inebriated haste. And even then, most times, she’d been well and truly satisfied. In the beginning, they’d been hardly able to keep their hands from one another, but shortly after their return to Maclaren, passion had given way to enmity.
Aisla slid her hand over her flat stomach, feeling the usual dull reminder of loss. There wasn’t a day that went by she didn’t think of the child they would have had if she had not miscarried. If the babe had lived, she would have been all of five, with rosy cheeks and happy smiles. Would things have been different? Or worse? Would she have left? Would Niall have changed with fatherhood?
Enough, Aisla.
This was no time for what ifs. Niall hadn’t changed for her, and a child would have made little difference. Shaking off her maudlin thoughts, Aisla opened two heavy, gilded doors into a massive gallery. She’d never been in this wing of the keep. Like the rest of the castle, the space was covered in cobwebs and needed a good dusting, but the walls were intricately carved and painted with old murals. Cracked paintings of previous lords garnished one end, while the other opened to a handful of French doors leading out to a balcony.
It could have been a ballroom at one point, Aisla thought as she hummed a tune under her breath and spun to the middle of the dusty floor. She did miss the excitement of all the balls and the parties in Paris. While she’d never cuckolded her husband, she had allowed herself the enjoyment of social activity. It had been the only thing that could fill the gaping hole inside of her, and fill it she had with balls, soirees, musicales. It was, Aisla supposed, how she got such a reputation as a social butterfly in the first place.
At first, she hadn’t planned to disabuse anyone of the notion that she was married, but one person had assumed she was unmarried and then another had assumed she was a widow. Aisla simply hadn’t bothered to correct either assumption. As the years passed, she decided she was well on her way to spinsterhood, and she had been driven to enjoy life without the encumbrance of a husband who had not wanted her.
Lifting her hands toward the painted ceiling, she spun again, imagining the sounds of an orchestra behind her, and laughed.
“I agree,” an amused voice said. “’Twould be wonderful with music.”
Aisla almost tripped over her own feet as she stumbled to an abrupt halt. A statuesque, flame-haired woman she had never seen before stood just inside the gallery doors. The prideful way she held herself suggested she wasn’t a servant, though she was dressed simply in a brown dress with a red and black plaid draped over her shoulders. She looked flushed, as if she’d just finished a brisk walk or ride.
“Oh, I didn’t know anyone had arrived,” Aisla said. “I’m…” She trailed off, at a loss to introduce herself as the lady of the house, which she was most decidedly not.
“I ken who ye are,” the woman said, ambling closer. “I’ve always thought this room could be put to better use.”
Aisla frowned, certain they’d never met as the woman stopped an arm’s length away. “Forgive me, but I don’t think we are acquainted, and if we are, I do beg your forgiveness. I havenae been back to Scotland in some time.”
The woman smiled. It was then Aisla noticed her striking blue eyes. Maclaren eyes. Niall’s eyes. “We havenae met. I’m Makenna, Niall’s older sister.”
“You’re married to the Brodi
e laird,” Aisla said, belatedly recognizing the red and black tartan as Brodie clan colors.
A shadow of something crossed the woman’s face before it was quickly hidden as she nodded. “Aye.” She surveyed Aisla with open curiosity. Aisla cringed, but endured the scrutiny and returned it with one of her own. Lady Makenna was a few years older than she, though the lady wasn’t by any means old. Eight and twenty at the most. And she was striking, as Aisla had noted before, with that fiery hair and uncommon height.
“The accounts of yer beauty are true, Lady Maclaren.” She paused, her gaze speculative. “Though in truth, I am surprised to find ye here and no’ in Paris.”
Aisla loosed a breath. “As am I, Lady Brodie.”
“Please, call me Makenna,” she said instantly, that same pained shadow shifting across her eyes.
“You’ve just arrived at Tarbendale, then? To see Niall?” Aisla asked while thinking of just how far Brodie lands were to the north. It would be a journey of several days, at the least.
Makenna nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation, replied, “Aye, though I’m staying up at Maclaren.”
“And your husband, he’s not with you?”
“Nae.”
She didn’t offer anything more of an explanation, and a heavy, guarded silence fell between them. It didn’t linger long, however. Makenna shook her head as if to clear it, and looped her arm through hers with a suddenly bright, wide grin.
“And ye must tell me why ye’re here at long last, before that scoundrel of a brother of mine returns. Where is he anyway?”
Aisla smiled, but she gently disengaged herself with the pretense of moving toward the balcony doors. “I’m only here for a few weeks, and he’s in Edinburgh,” she said, blind to the plethora of wild Scottish roses sprouting as far as the eye could see. “Seeing about procuring a divorce.”
Makenna’s gasp was loud. “A divorce?”
The lady had to have bypassed Maclaren all together if she had not yet heard the gossip.
“Once this is over, I hope to marry Lord Leclerc, the Frenchman currently staying at Maclaren. You must know your brother and I have been estranged, my lady,” Aisla replied softly. “It’s the reason I was in Paris, after all.”
Sweet Home Highlander Page 10