Dougal kept his gaze on her, and seemed to be waiting for a reply. Aisla frowned. “I suppose it would be, but shouldn’t Ronan be allowed to choose whom he aligns with? And that doesn’t imply dishonor.”
He didn’t reply for a moment, then looked away again. “It does if there’s an understanding. Alliances are made for the good of the clans, for the good of Scotland. This family”—he spat on the ground—“spits in the face of tradition. And now, the recent altercation in Edinburgh has only made the Campbell more convinced that these Maclarens need to be taught a lesson in humility.”
Aisla bristled at the low threat in Dougal’s tone. She couldn’t help but think to what Niall had said at the mines that time, about accidents that might not have been true accidents. Taking a look around the festivities, she noticed a number of Ronan’s warriors fully armed and looking fierce in their observation of the crowds.
“Are there any Campbells in attendance today?” she asked, wondering why Dougal had bothered to come if he despised the Maclarens so deeply.
“Oh, aye. A few of Rose’s cousins. The Campbells were only extended an invitation to the games out of politeness, I assume. Though I dunnae ken if Ronan expected them to accept.” Dougal’s smile was thin and forced. “Or me for that matter, considering my connection.”
As far as she knew, the Buchanans had remained in good standing with the Maclarens, even after Aisla had snubbed marriage to Dougal and married Niall instead. But that had been long ago, and Dougal was betrothed now. He’d make a good alliance for his clan with the Campbells, and was intelligent enough to know turning down the Maclaren invitation would have been an insult.
“I’m only sorry your Rose could not attend.”
“Dunnae fash,” he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. Dougal took a cup of ale from a passing maid and inspected Aisla with a piercing look. “And how have ye been? I’ve heard ye’ve been gone from yer husband’s side for quite a time.”
A rush of heat crept up Aisla’s neck, but she tamped it down and drained her wine. She had nothing to be embarrassed about. Dougal would have heard about her lengthy stay in France, and why shouldn’t he be curious? Everyone was. At least he was being plain spoken about it.
“Yes, I’ve been in Paris.”
He took a long draught of his ale, and then wiped his lips, a scowl transforming his expression. “I shouldnae ask, but considering I once pined over ye, I feel a duty. Why’d ye leave? Was he a bastard to ye?”
Something about sharing what had happened with Niall felt wrong…like a betrayal. Odd that she would still be so protective over a man who hadn’t wanted her, but she didn’t have it in her to malign him. Cursing her own weakness, she shook her head. “No. It’s a long, complicated story, but I’d rather hear how your family is faring. It’s been some time since I heard news of the Buchanans.”
It was enough to steer the conversation away from her and her presence at Maclaren. Dougal briefly told her about his brothers’ marriages and alliances with some lowland clans, and his mother’s death a handful of years back as they strolled the courtyard.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “How has your father been?”
“As unyielding as ever. He remarried within the year, ye ken. Has a new bairn, and what with my brothers’ wives all begetting bairns now, he’s nearly choking on all his pride.”
Aisla listened with an equal measure of curiosity and disappointment. It wasn’t so uncommon for a laird to take another wife after being widowed, but within the year of mourning? It seemed fast. And she must have been young to produce a bairn. But she did not know the Buchanan laird well at all, and couldn’t judge. Perhaps all he wanted was a loving spouse. Children to raise. A jolt of sorrow lanced through her. Julien wouldn’t give her children. They weren’t part of their agreement. And for the first time in a very long time, Aisla allowed herself to think about what might have been had she not miscarried. She would have remained at Maclaren. She might have seen Niall transform into a driven businessman and laird. She would have a young child racing about. Perhaps more than one.
Then again, perhaps none of those things would have happened.
Dougal must have sensed her distraction because he stopped walking. “Aisla? Are ye no’ well?”
She realized she was leaning heavily against him, matching the weight in her chest. Quickly, she straightened up and blinked away the haze of her morose thoughts. “I’m sorry, I was only thinking about how time passes, I suppose. But I’m happy for your father and brothers. And you. I truly am.”
He nodded and seemed to accept her excuse. “And I’m glad ye’re here. Come, let’s have a toast.”
He took two goblets from a table, where maids were busy filling and refilling ale, and handed one to Aisla. She’d had a few sips of ale here and there since she’d been at Tarbendale, but after years of champagne and wine and sherry, she rather enjoyed the bitterness of the ale. She also tasted memories, of Montgomery and her life before she’d gone away.
“To yer return, and to time passing more slowly,” he said, clinking his goblet against hers.
She took a sip, and felt the ale push down the knot that had built up in the center of her throat. Another sip and the knot loosened a bit more. Compared to her own melancholy thoughts, the ale wasn’t bitter at all. It was chilled, from the casks’ time in the cellars she assumed, and with every sip, the ale seemed to battle the constriction in her throat and the sting of tears at the backs of her eyes.
She and Dougal continued their stroll, stopping to watch a braemer stone toss, a dancing competition among several of the clan children, and then a bit later, to listen to a trio of pipers and a man playing the bagpipes. Aisla closed her eyes and let the music fill her. It wasn’t hard to do, especially when the blare of the bagpipes reverberated through her, straight to her bones. She took a few more draughts of ale, surprised at the warmth flowing through her arms and legs. And as she tapped her foot to the tune of the music, felt relief that the melancholy swamping her not a half an hour before had been completely consumed by a hazy kind of joy. The music, the laughter, the smiling faces all around her, and then Dougal’s solid and friendly arm underneath hers…she couldn’t help but grin. For the first time in days she didn’t feel a speck of tension under her skin. She didn’t overlook the fact that Niall wasn’t anywhere in sight.
Aisla accepted a second goblet of ale as the bagpiper took a rest and the pipers continued on with a faster tune.
“Do ye still dance?” Dougal asked, his own foot tapping to the music. “I remember how ye used to jig ’til ye were flushed and sweaty.”
Aisla nearly choked on her mouthful. “Dougal! It isn’t kind to mention a lady’s sweat.”
“Oh, aye, I suppose it isnae,” he said, a slow smile creeping over his lips as he leaned closer to her ear. “Then again, I have seen ye naked.”
She froze, recalling what Niall had said. “As children! And you didn’t happen to mention that to anyone, did you? Like my husband?”
“Aye. I suppose I might have hinted at it. I was jealous,” he said easily. “Ye were supposed to be mine, ye ken. I was young and stupid, remember? Why wouldnae ye want to marry the big smelly lummox. Or is that no’ what ye used to call me when ye thought I wasnae listening?”
She did choke on her ale this time. Aisla coughed and her eyes watered as Dougal laughed and patted her on the back.
“I can’t believe I ever called you that,” she said once she could speak again. “You’re not smelly at all.” Aisla laughed and leaned closer to him, dragging in a purposefully loud inhalation. “You smell rather clean. Have you taken up bathing, then?”
Dougal roared with laughter, attracting a few startled glances from those around them. Then, feigning upset still, he said, “I demand compensation for that insult, Lady Maclaren…in the form of a dance.” He punctuated his statement with a gallant bow, and then held out his hand for her to accept.
Aisla took another long sip of her ale in order to
drain it, and set the goblet onto the ground before taking his hand. “Very well, I shall pay the piper accordingly.”
They joined a few other couples dancing to the pipe music, the group dance a much livelier and infectious version of the reels she’d been subjected to in Paris. Aisla and Dougal held hands as they spun in a circle, and as she followed the beat of the music, spinning and kicking up her heels, the movements all came back to her.
She’d danced at Montgomery at every opportunity, and Dougal hadn’t been wrong: she would dance until she was fairly glistening with sweat. It had always been so much fun to dance, unlike in Paris, where dancing wasn’t so much of an entertainment as it was a social necessity. One did not want to be a wallflower. As Dougal guided her through the reel, leaping and kicking up his own heels, and looking like he was thoroughly enjoying it, she felt lighter than she had in a long while.
The pipes quit playing much too soon, and Aisla let out a sigh of discontent as the musicians stood up, lifting goblets of ale to wet their lips. She spun around looking for her own goblet, and felt the ground tilt beneath her feet. Dougal caught her by the elbow as the courtyard became a blurry haze of bright colors, the noises suddenly amplified.
“Too much spinning about’s made ye dizzy,” he said, breathing harder after the dance. He put his other hand to his heaving chest. “And I have to say, I’m no’ as light on my feet as I used to be.”
Her vision stilled a moment later, her ears became oddly muffled, and then she saw her goblet on the ground had been kicked and overturned. Dougal snatched it up for her, a wash of amusement in his eyes when he met her unsteady gaze. “How about another?”
Good Lord, a third?
She could hardly stay upright as it was after the mulled wine and two cups of ale. A firm hand closed around Aisla’s wrist, and on her next breath, she saw Julien sliding in between her and Dougal. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to have a word with Lady Maclaren.”
Julien’s voice was tight, and in the strange focus that seemed to be overtaking Aisla in the last handful of minutes, she could see the muscles in his neck and jaw tensing. With an odd expression that struck Aisla’s slow senses as irritation, Dougal bowed before taking his leave. Was it her imagination or did he look somewhat vexed? Surely, she wasn’t as foxed as all that?
The rest of the courtyard was a blurred haze again when Julien faced her.
“Chérie, I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink,” he said, a polite grin still fixed on his mouth.
“Jules, please,” she said, her tongue feeling oddly fluffy. “I’m simply relaxing. And Dougal is an old friend.”
“A source of contention as well, if I recall.”
“That was long ago,” she said. Julien shot down the excuse with a haughty prop of his eyebrow.
“In your half-sprung mind, perhaps. But there is a certain someone who hasn’t stopped grinding his jaw ever since you and your old beau started ambling, arm in arm.”
Niall? She knew she shouldn’t twist around and search for him so openly, but the thought seemed to form itself much too slowly, and her body leaped ahead. She staggered a bit as she searched the courtyard for her husband, and she had to admit—even if only to herself—that Julien might have a point about her having imbibed a hair too much. She felt ridiculously good right then, and she wasn’t sorry for it, not one bit.
“And, if I might add, he is firmly betrothed to one of the Campbell laird’s daughters,” Julien murmured. “Yet another source of contention.”
“The feud…you know of it?” she asked, her words still a little loosely formed.
Julien made a dismissive noise. “I have been living at Maclaren these weeks, my darling, and there is plenty of discussion regarding the Campbells. Though I don’t know as it’s a feud. Not yet, at least.”
Aisla couldn’t keep her mind on the topic of the Campbells as she continued to search the grounds for Niall. Her eyes even seemed to be stumbling as they skipped over faces. But then they slammed to a halt on a smoldering blue gaze. Niall stood across the courtyard, and he didn’t look pleased in the least. But then Aisla took in who he was standing with—a crowd of men, and one woman. Fenella stood at Niall’s side, and she, too, was staring at Aisla, a sneer touching the corner of her mouth. Aisla couldn’t help noticing that her hand rested on the laird’s sleeve, as if it had every right to be there. She blinked, swaying slightly. Perhaps it did.
It was just like before, she thought with a sour twist of her stomach, when Niall would spend the festivities with others instead of her. She’d been made to wait for Niall to notice her, to care that she was alone while everyone else enjoyed themselves. She’d been a fool, desperate for the crumbs of his attention.
Aisla tore her eyes from Niall’s stare, and glared defiantly at Julien as she whisked a glass from a passing server. Whisky, it looked like. She didn’t care.
“You’ll have a devil of a head in the morning,” Julien said.
“My behavior is my business, Lord Leclerc.”
“No need to get waspish, chérie.”
She bit back another reply and instead, swallowed. This drink, however, didn’t have the cooling and relaxing effect on her. She tasted the sharp kick of the liquor, and the moment it was down her throat, her stomach was revolting.
“You look a bit green around the gills,” Julien remarked.
“Hush,” she replied, feeling a burst of relief when the pipers sat down again and began to play. “Let’s just dance.”
She grabbed for his hand, but Julien went rigid as a block of ice. “I don’t think that would be wise. The ground is uneven here, and your sense of balance is likely skewed.”
Aisla felt a spurt of fury and insult. “Stop coddling me. Now, I’d like to dance. If you won’t accommodate me, I’ll simply find Dougal again.”
“Nae, ye willnae.”
The whisper of a snarl cracked through her and she spun to see Niall standing not one arm’s length away. Aisla took far too long puzzling over how he’d reached her side so quickly. Hadn’t it only been a few seconds since she spied him across the courtyard?
“As much as I hate to say it, Leclerc’s right,” he growled. “Ye need to rest a bit.”
This time, it was more than fury and insult she felt at being chastised. It was embarrassment, too. Trailing closely behind Niall was Fenella, and even with her mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smirk, she still managed to look comely. Then again, at the games, Fenella wasn’t in her usual role as his housekeeper. Now, she wore an indecently tight dress and had abandoned any attempt toward deference with respect to their stations. Triumph and malice glinted in her eyes.
Niall reached for Aisla’s palm—the one that held the snifter of whisky. “I think ye’ve had enough, lass.”
She jerked it back, causing the contents to splash over the brim and onto her hand and wrist. “I am not drunk, and I don’t appreciate being spoken to as if I were a child.”
Her cheeks went hot when she realized her tongue had tripped over the word “appreciate.” Fenella snorted laughter, and though Niall turned his ear, clearly hearing her, he said nothing. Something inside of Aisla broke then. A glowing hot poker felt as if it were branding the inside of her chest and stomach, and all Aisla wanted to do was scream at the pain.
“I’m no’ treating ye like a child—”
“No, you’re being a hypocritical boor,” she shot back, her tongue coming unhinged, loosened by ale, whisky, and a half-decade of stifled hurts. “Am I not allowed to dance? Am I not allowed to try to have fun in this place that has never given me anything other than heartache? I don’t know what I was thinking! I don’t even know why I bothered to come here at all. I shouldn’t have subjected myself to the torture of this place or its people or of you.”
“Aisla—” Julien stepped in, the warning clear on his tone.
But she was too far gone to stop—her fury had been six years in the making.
“I left Maclaren for a reason, and I
don’t regret it. I haven’t, not for one moment. At least in Paris, I didn’t see the same faces everywhere I turned. You’ve closed yourselves off up here in your little corner of the world, where everyone knows everyone and every newcomer is treated like a three-headed interloper simply because they aren’t the inbred cousin of a cousin of a cousin!” She swayed. “I am a Montgomery to the end.”
Niall stepped forward and seized her arm, his voice low. “That’s enough. Ye’re insulting my clan, Aisla.”
“You made it my clan, too, or have you forgotten that? I’ll say what I want about it. Arrogant, pretentious Maclarens. Too good for alliances. Too good for anything.”
Makenna pushed through the throng of onlookers, and Aisla realized the pipe music had ceased. Everyone had stopped to look on.
“Aisla?” Makenna said gently. “Why dunnae ye come with me for some air?”
She met the eyes of several men and women, all looking at her the same way she’d just described—like she had three heads. They’d looked at her like that when she’d first arrived, too. Young, lonely, and pregnant. A pitiable outsider.
“I don’t need your help!” she cried bitterly, suddenly feeling a wave of dizziness. She pressed a hand to her temple. “You escaped this place once. I don’t know what’s happened in your own marriage to make you come crawling back here, but I’m not like you. This prison is not my home.”
Makenna’s eyes widened and she took a step backward, as if she’d been shoved. Aisla felt instant guilt and shame. She clammed up, sealing her lips tight. She tried to jerk her arm out of Niall’s grasp, but he only gripped her tighter.
“Enough, Aisla,” he ground out, his breath hot against her ear. “That’s enough.”
Aisla blinked and twisted around, looking for Julien, but when she met his eyes, knew she’d made a mistake. His constant smirk was gone, his brows pinched together. Even he, the Dionysus of Paris himself, looked shamed by her appalling conduct. He wouldn’t hold her stare. Instead, he made to follow Makenna, who had turned and walked away. Fenella moved aside to allow Makenna to pass, her usual sneer even more potent now. Aisla felt nothing but misery.
Sweet Home Highlander Page 16