Now, while she bit her lips in deep thought, Niall not only felt a lick of melancholy, but something more ignoble. His eyes canted to the painting where Mars sipped from Venus’s lips, and fell away. It had been so damn long since he’d tasted Aisla’s mouth. Or any other part of her body. The fast, hard press of his lips against hers the day they’d sealed their deal had been chaste. Hollow. He hadn’t allowed for anything more, knowing just how dangerous she’d already been in that night rail and wrapper, along with her attempts at luring him into bed with her and winning the wager, even before it had begun.
“Very well,” she said at last, her lower lip damp. “How many days until the feast?”
“Three,” he answered. Fenella and his new cook, Mrs. Wingate, and all the kitchen maids would already be well underway with preparations in the kitchens. If Aisla hadn’t been so busy up here in the upper rooms planning her clever renovations, she might have noticed.
Aisla nodded. “Excellent. That leaves me plenty of time to finish freshening up around here.”
Niall didn’t ask what she intended, nor did he want to know. He turned at the door, his gaze flicking to the obscene painting. His placid voice was at odds with the roaring beast in his trousers. “I admire your taste, but I do prefer Rubens to Titian.”
Still, three days later, he was forced to bite his tongue as his clansmen and women arrived on Tarbendale grounds to find pink silky flounces draped over the front door arches, pots and pots of exotic flowers procured from God knew where, and several more ridiculous paintings hung everywhere…paintings of lanky hounds for some reason. Though he was grateful for the lack of lust-provoking nudes, he was getting sick and tired of dogs.
“What in the name of sweet Saint Andrew happened here?”
Niall had known he could count on Hamish to tell it like it was, and he’d been prepared. His friend stomped into the entrance hall, grimacing at all the new decor.
“A hurricane disguised as a female,” Niall replied, the longing for something to drink—something stronger than tea or coffee or water—unexpectedly sharp. Not only did he have to endure the revelry, but he also had to weather his wife. He hadn’t seen her all morning.
After waking from yet another uncomfortable night spent on the couch in the study, Niall had gone for a ride through the woods and fields, toward the mine on the ridge. It had been ghostly in its silence, the workers off for the day of feasting and games. By the time he’d returned to the castle, the place had been teeming and he’d retreated into his study again. The ride hadn’t worked. His stomach was still coiled tight with apprehension.
He wanted to know what his wife was thinking this morning as she prepared to face her clansmen and women for the first time. A number had already seen her, of course, but not all, and not so formally as they would today. Again, apprehension kinked Niall’s stomach. Bloody hell. He was nervous, he realized. For her.
The foyer wasn’t empty. Men and women were passing through, carrying trenchers to and from the great hall, and harp music filled the air.
“Yer lady wife, I take it?” Hamish asked.
Niall scrubbed a hand through his hair, letting down his guard some. “She’s no’ as I remember. Or as I expected.” He’d wanted her cowed and disheartened, easy to seduce and manipulate to his own ends, but instead she was like wildfire razing everything in her path. Unpredictable, and that made her dangerous. It was one of the main reasons why he’d spent his nights in the study rather than insisting on sleeping in his own bed and attempting to seduce her in the process.
“People are curious about her. There are rumors going around that she’s causing ye grief.”
The rumors likely referred to the upheaval at the castle over the last week as she “settled in.” He doubted anyone was thinking about the other, more indelicate side of the upheaval. The one that plagued him from dawn to dusk, and especially at night when he lay upon the study sofa, thinking of his wife sleeping in his bed. Going to her would have cost him more than his pride now; it would cost him a substantial sum in his wager with Ronan, and he was in this for the long haul. The wager with his wife should have helped his cause, but instead, it had made his own state worse. So he’d relieved himself in the darkness of his study more than once, expelling the fire in his veins, even though the embers of desire still remained.
“’Tis nothing I cannae handle,” he told Hamish, who grabbed a goblet from one of the passing maids and ogled the lass’s backside at the same time. She batted her eyes at him, giggling, and then bustled away.
Following Hamish, Niall made his way toward the great hall, and nearly crashed into the man’s back where he stood goggling at the painting along with several of Niall’s clansmen.
“Och,” he said, his big face going ruddy. “That’s randy.” Niall sighed, and moved past him. “Heaps better than yer ugly grandfather, I reckon.”
Niall ignored the guffaws of agreement and walked between the tables of food and drink, where he found the shiny new tea service Aisla had purchased. Shaking his head, he had a maid pour, and couldn’t help a chuckle as he took the small porcelain cup, with gold-painted flowers, in his big hand. He’d barely taken a sip when the raucous voices in the hall ebbed. Niall glanced up and saw the reason why.
Aisla stood within the great hall’s entrance, her chin held high, her expression serene. But it was what she wore that made Niall’s grip tighten, threatening the fragility of the thin porcelain cup. Wound around her deep blue gown was a long length of pinned and tucked Montgomery plaid. Not Maclaren, Montgomery. It was a punch in the gut, even for Niall. Her chin was held high, her beautiful, haughty face proud. Even in his rush of anger at her boldness in rejecting his colors, he admired her daring. This Aisla was a warrior incarnate, and she was here to do battle. He steeled himself as he rose to meet her.
“Bold choice, my lady,” he murmured, taking her hand and leading her to the chair beside him on the raised dais.
“I am a Montgomery.”
“Ye are a Maclaren for six more weeks.”
“Fewer than five.” A cool smile curved her pink lips. “If you can withstand it.”
“I can take anything ye choose to throw at me.”
Glittering copper eyes met his. “A dance then, in honor of your feast.”
A dance? Niall wondered at her game, the odd thought occurring to him that he could not recall dancing with her at Maclaren or at any other point. Had he been such a drunken boor that he’d never danced with his own wife? They hadn’t even had a proper wedding reception. He’d meant to have one, and then the days at Maclaren had run into each other. Niall felt a spurt of guilt, but squashed it.
He stood and leaned over her, his voice low. “If ye want to dance, then ye will leave behind that plaid. Ye’re still my wife, and that means ye should dress like a Maclaren.”
“It’s only a tartan,” she said primly, “and I don’t recall clothing having anything to do with our wager.”
“Neither were soaps, trinkets, and bawdy paintings.”
Something passed between them, a charged moment in which two duelists recognized and appreciated the skill of the other, and then she nodded graciously, unpinning the plaid from her shoulders. Niall’s throat went dry at the succulent display of creamy flesh revealed beneath the cloth. Good Lord, he almost asked her to re-pin the damned thing. Her gaze was calm, but satisfaction shone in their depths.
She knew, the temptress. She’d known he would ask her to remove it. And that he’d then have to govern his reaction as his clansmen looked on.
Aisla rose, regal as a queen, and took his hand. “Shall we?”
“That dress is indecent,” he hissed, his mouth watering at the glorious expanse of bosom. Aisla had been well formed in her youth, but maturity had made her body rounder, her breasts lusher. And now, they threatened to breach the embroidered edge of her bodice. Niall fancied he could see the tantalizing pink edges of her nipples.
“I chose it especially for you,” she said, all i
nnocence. “Don’t you like it?”
Niall had the savage urge to press her palm to the swelling erection between his legs and show her exactly how much he liked it. Instead, he signaled for the musicians to begin a waltz and hauled her up against him, much closer than was socially acceptable. Intimately close so she could feel the iron-hard length of him through her skirts and his kilt. Aisla gasped, her eyes going wide as everyone around them cheered.
Niall smiled. “Aye, I like it.”
“You are much too close,” she snapped beneath her breath, a gorgeous blush climbing the slender column of her neck. He wanted to put his lips to it, see if it was as warm as it looked. He wanted to strip that indecently clinging silk from her body and make her flush all over…trace her blush with his tongue.
“We are dancing,” he returned, twirling her away only to pull her excruciatingly close once more. His cock throbbed at the delightful torture, but it was worth it for every time she gasped.
“This is not dancing, you…you…lout. This is highly improper. Everyone is looking.”
“As improper as that dress.” He spun her again as other couples joined them on the floor. “And might I remind you that we are married.”
“Not for long!”
He ignored her. “Everyone is looking. I’m their laird, and I’m dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room.”
His perfectly poised wife lost her footing, her gaze darting to his and going wide as Niall caught her to him, lifting her completely off the floor. Everything slowed until the world was theirs and theirs alone. Niall lowered her and only by a miracle he kept up with the steps. They moved in unison, music and dancers drifting around them.
Finally, she found her voice, and he was grateful for he’d lost his. “You’ve never called me that before.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Beautiful.”
“Surely, I have,” he said. Aisla shook her head, and once more, he felt that reprehensible clench in his stomach. “Then I’ve been remiss,” he whispered, his fingers gripping her waist convulsively. Aisla swayed toward him, her eyes hooked to his and dilating with desire. In their depths, Niall saw a glimmer of the girl he’d loved and felt something deep inside of his breast start to burn. “Because I should have told ye so every day.”
For an unguarded moment as her walls fell, Niall saw a heavy longing in her eyes that mirrored his. Her lips parted and he wanted to kiss her right then in front of everyone, pride and wagers be damned. She felt it, too, he knew. Then the music ended and his wife stepped away, out of the circle of his arms with an inarticulate sound, as if a spell had been broken.
“Thank you for the dance, laird.”
Her cool gaze regarded him, that brief glimpse of the past battened up once more, and Niall felt the small spark inside wither and die. The past was gone. And so was she. This was a game, nothing more. A means to an end…and wagers to be won.
He’d seen her softening toward him a few moments ago, when he’d called her beautiful. Had practically heard the first crack in the wall she’d thrown up around herself. He’d surprised her with that compliment, and yet he hadn’t handled it as he should have. Instead of feeling guilty, he should have pressed forward. It would have been craven, but it also might have worked in his favor. He’d have to get it right next time, ruthless or no.
The present—and the future of Tarbendale—were the only things that mattered.
Chapter Ten
Aisla cursed her third sleepless night in a row and bemoaned her weakness where Niall was concerned for the hundredth time. He did wicked things in her dreams that would make a hedonist blush, leaving her frustrated and unsettled.
And those devastating Maclaren eyes of his…they’d nearly killed her. She’d been a breath away from sealing her mouth to his during that dance. The feel of his strong, muscled body had made everything inside of her turn to liquid heat.
She had worn the dress to needle him, and needle him she had. She’d felt the evidence herself. But success had been a two-pronged demon. The feel of his thick arousal between her thighs had nearly made her throw herself at him and take what he’d been so clearly offering. If the music hadn’t stopped, bringing her to her senses, she likely would have clubbed him over the head and dragged him from the hall to have her way with him.
A thought that still made her burn in indecent places.
And that wasn’t even considering his heartbreaking words about calling her beautiful: I should have told ye so every day.
That had been the moment she’d nearly lost everything.
The wager. Her will. Her heart.
Idiot.
Thankfully, her husband had made himself scarce over the last two days following the feast. Aisla could not have borne seeing him, though she did wonder at his whereabouts. A tight-lipped, lace-capped Fenella had informed her that he was in the mines. It wasn’t the first time since her arrival that she’d heard the mention of them.
“Where are these mines?” she asked.
The woman sneered at her. “Here, o’course.”
Aisla had realized then that the mines belonged to Niall. “What do they yield?”
Fenella had stared at her sourly, muttering something about a month under her breath. “Cairngorm.”
“Scottish topaz?” Aisla perked up with interest, remembering Makenna’s stunning brooch.
“The very same.”
“How successful are the mines?”
Fenella glared. “Ye’ll have to ask the laird.”
Aisla finished her breakfast and informed a hovering footman that she wanted her horse saddled. She would ride up to Maclaren and search out Julien, as she’d done for the past few days. She’d used Julien shamelessly as an excuse to avoid any interaction with Niall, spending hours on end with him, and though they were usually accompanied by Makenna, Aisla knew her behavior bordered on being cowardly. It sickened her, but she refused to lose the wager because she couldn’t control herself, or her inconvenient attraction to the dratted man.
Such a thing had gotten her pregnant and wedlocked.
Aisla had thought she’d well and truly weaned herself, considering that in Paris she’d felt nothing for anyone. Not even Julien. She’d taken pleasure in small things—conversations, people, food, but never in matters of the heart or of the body. The part of her that had understood the pleasures of lovemaking had simply disappeared. Until now.
Now, it was all she could think about.
Desire. Lovemaking. Pleasure.
In the bath the night before, her fingers had drifted from her breasts to her aching thighs as she’d imagined Niall touching her. He had been the one to teach her about the secrets of her body, after all. Though he was different now. Even through layers of clothing, she’d felt the changes in his unyielding shoulders, his brawny arms, and his…his… She went up in flames at the thought of that unforgettable part of him. Even through the yards of fabric, his heat had branded her.
“Stop, Aisla,” she growled harshly to her image after her maid had helped her into a forest-green riding habit and secured her hair.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Pauline said. “Is anything amiss?”
Aisla pinched her cheeks, hoping for some color to hide the fact that she looked like a corpse. Her face was gaunt, and dark shadows smudged below her eyes. “No, not you, dear. I look a fright, don’t I?”
“Have you not been sleeping well, my lady?” the maid said with a critical look. “Your eyes are a bit swollen. Perhaps I can fix a poultice to help with the swelling?”
“Thank you, that would be lovely, Pauline.”
Her puffy eyes also had a slightly feverish look about them. Aisla scowled. She recognized that wild look intimately. It was the same one she’d worn early in her marriage when Niall had been too drunk to do anything but collapse on top of her after lovemaking. Only this time, she’d brought it upon herself.
A brisk ride, she decided. That would take the edge off.
&nbs
p; Then she would seek Julien out and perhaps pay a visit to these mines of her husband’s. Somehow, she would have to find a way to regain control. She took her horse the long way around the loch to Maclaren through the wild Scottish countryside, letting the fresh air soothe her agitated senses and the horse’s gait rock her tense body into grateful fatigue. By the time she arrived at the castle, her legs were weak and her chest heaving from the exertion. She threw the reins to a waiting groom and took herself up to the hall.
“Where is Lady Dunrannoch?” she asked a footman.
“She’s in the village, my lady.”
“And Lord Leclerc?”
The footman bowed. “I believe his lordship is in the conservatory. I can escort ye there, if it pleases yer ladyship.”
Aisla declined his assistance and made her way through the halls of Maclaren toward the spectacular indoor greenhouse that was Lady Dunrannoch’s pride and joy. The differences in decor were marked between Maclaren and Tarben Castle, but that was mostly due to the duchess’s lovely touches. When she’d lived here, she’d loved the keep. The warmth of it had reminded her of her own home at Montgomery. It hadn’t been enough, however. Not to combat the loneliness. Still, she had fond memories of the place.
Pushing open the door to the conservatory, she thought she heard raised voices, and Aisla frowned. But before she could follow the sound, Makenna came hurrying around the side of a row of potted orchids, her face screwed up in anger, the threat of furious tears glistening in her eyes.
“Makenna?” Aisla asked. “Are you well?”
“Oh,” she said, startled. She made a visible effort to compose herself and then nodded. “Aye, of course.”
“What is it? What has happened?”
“Nothing. A minor disagreement.”
Aisla’s frown deepened. “With whom?”
But the answer to her question came striding around the same row of orchids, his face missing its customary smirk. Julien’s expression was carefully schooled into a mask of impassivity, though a muscle jerked in his jaw at the sight of her. For an instant, something like guilt flashed in his eyes.
Sweet Home Highlander Page 12