“Is it so very bad?” Aisla asked, sniffing the air. She recoiled at the stench that greeted her nostrils. “Don’t answer that question. A bath would be lovely.”
Pauline bowed her head and set the linens on the table beside the copper tub. “You must have had an eventful afternoon at the festivities, my lady, to be asleep before dinner last night.”
Aisla didn’t have the energy to take her maid to task for digging for gossip. “You’ve heard all about it by now, I am quite certain, so don’t pretend to be ignorant, Pauline. Tell me…how angry are they?” She’d said horrible things about Maclaren and its people. Loudly, too. Aisla then sat up a little higher as confusion descended. She peered around the bedchamber at Tarben Castle. “And how did I get here? I was at Maclaren…”
In the garden with Niall. Curled up against him as she’d let loose the tears that had taken her by surprise. He’d believed her about Dougal. It had been such a relief to hear him say those simple words. And oddly enough, it had been a relief to tell Niall that she believed him about Fenella. She’d wanted to let go of those old hurts so desperately.
But everything else…the awful things she’d blurted out in the courtyard before…how could she face Makenna now? Or Julien, or any of the other Maclarens? She’d behaved dreadfully. Abominably.
“The laird brought you back here,” Pauline said, opening the window. A breeze gusted in, warm and sweet smelling. “And I’m not sure how angry the others are. They all clamp their lips shut as soon as I enter a room.” She scowled suddenly. “Except that Miss Fenella. She has a right vicious mouth on her.”
Aisla was stunned at Pauline’s outburst. Normally, the little French maid was quite staid with a reserve that could rival Aisla’s.
“What did she say?”
Pauline flushed. “Nothing of note, my lady.”
“Tell me.”
She swallowed hard and nodded. “She said, erm, that the little hussy is getting her comeuppance, and she was glad that everyone finally got to see the real you.”
Aisla shook her head and laughed at the woman’s spite. “It would be untoward if Fenella didn’t gloat or insult me in some asinine way. Hussy used to be one of my favorites.”
“She is a horrid woman,” Pauline declared loyally.
With a soft huff of laughter, Aisla sat up, letting the coverlet slip from her grip, and gasped. She was naked beneath it. A blush singed her cheeks. “Where is my night rail? Did you undress me?”
Pauline arched a bland eyebrow. “No, my lady.”
Oh, good God.
That meant Niall had. Even down to her stays and chemise. Why would he have divested her of all her clothing? She searched around the room looking for any clues. It made no sense. What was even more frightening was that she did not remember coming to her chamber or being put to bed. Had she done anything untoward?
“I should inform you that you have callers, my lady,” Pauline said, putting a clean pair of stays and a new chemise beside the gown. “Lord Leclerc and Lady Makenna arrived some time ago and are breakfasting downstairs with the laird.”
Aisla’s mouth fell open. “What? Why?”
“I cannot presume to know, my lady, but perhaps they wanted to see how you were faring?”
Hell. Aisla could not face any of them. Not now. Perhaps not ever. She flung herself back onto the bedclothes and winced at the subsequent hammering of her head.
“Please give them my regrets, Pauline,” she croaked.
“As you wish. I have also taken your gown to be laundered, my lady, if it pleases you. The silk chemise has been ruined, however,” Pauline said, ringing the bell pull for a footman. “If you are not joining the others, I think some simple tea and toast for breakfast, non?”
“Why has my chemise been ruined?” she whispered, looking up, almost unwilling to hear the answer, but Pauline was off to answer the scratch on the door.
Aisla’s imaginings, in the meantime, ran wild. Had she ripped it off in a fit of passion? Had he? Dear God, what in heaven’s name had happened last night? Surely, she would know if she’d succumbed to drunken lust, wouldn’t she? With a sinking heart, she recalled Niall tumbling into bed and having no recollection of ever touching her the next day. Aisla gasped for air that wouldn’t come.
The wager!
Forget the wager, you bloody fool, you’ve worse things to worry about.
“My chemise, Pauline?” she asked after the maid was finished speaking with the summoned footman.
“It was stained, my lady, with…” Pauline cleared her throat discreetly. “With copious amounts of illness.”
Aisla wanted to crawl under the covers and die. She remembered casting up her accounts in the garden, but she must have done so again once they returned to Tarben Castle. And if her dress had been spared enough to be laundered, then she must have been almost nude when she’d been sick the second time.
A smile twitched at the corners of Pauline’s lips. “You, however, were quite clean.”
Oh, the horror—he hadn’t! Niall had washed her. Her gaze slid to the emptied pitcher and folded cloths that the ever-efficient Pauline would have already refreshed.
“His lordship refused my assistance,” Pauline added, salt settling in the wound. “At least, he is your husband, non, since he has seen you en dishabille.”
Aisla buried her face into the pillows, groaning. Had she maintained even a quarter of an ounce of dignity? This day couldn’t get any worse. She decided she would stay abed forever. No one would miss a screaming drunken shrew, would they? She’d eke out the remaining weeks in shameful solitude.
A timid knock on the door brought her out of her despair as the footman arrived with her breakfast tray. Pauline handed her a wrapper and laid out the tray on the small table next to the window. “Come, my lady, this will make you feel better.”
“I cannot eat anything,” she said, her stomach giving a wild lurch.
“You must or you will feel worse.”
Dragging herself up and over to the chair, Aisla balked at the sight of food, but she made herself eat the dry toast and sip the strong tea. The strength of the brew made her eyes water. Though her belly remained queasy, she nibbled obediently on one piece of toast, and stared out the window to the manicured gardens below.
She’d never indulged that much, not ever. After seeing what it had done to Niall, Aisla had only ever consumed champagne or wine on rare occasion, and ratafia or sherry in smaller doses at special dinner parties and balls. She had never drunk whisky. That had been her downfall, she knew. That and the bloody Maclaren ale that could fell an ox.
Aisla cringed, recalling her words. But she felt more vulnerable about what she’d said in the garden alone with her husband. She’d cried about her miscarriage, about the baby they had lost. She’d wept, and talked about pains and circumstances that should have been left buried and forgotten.
“Are you well, my lady?” Pauline said, rushing over.
“Yes,” she choked, blinded by tears. “I must have sipped too quickly.”
The sudden ache was too raw, too fresh. Oh, why had she reopened old injuries? It had to have been the garden. It guarded too many painful memories…the tree, the rosebush, what was left of her heart. And the drink had undermined all of her hard-won self-possession and fortitude.
Niall had seemed quiet and different, though. They’d forgiven each other for past misunderstandings. It seemed inconceivable that they could ever be in such accord. Then again, she’d been the drunk one, while he’d been sober. Aisla couldn’t quite count on her dubious recollection of events, no matter how much she wanted to believe it.
A second knock on the door announced the arrival of the footmen, bearing hot water to the bathing chamber. Aisla sighed. Perhaps she would drown and then she would be spared an eternity of ignominy. Though she imagined that drowning in a hip bath would be quite a feat even for the most determined of ladies.
“Will you take your bath now, my lady?” Pauline asked, once sh
e forced down her tea and most of the toast.
Aisla nodded and stood, gripping the side of the table. She couldn’t hide forever. “Yes, that may be best.”
After a good wash—all the while refusing to acknowledge the fact that Niall had done an efficient job the night before—Aisla felt marginally better. Enough to leave her chamber at least. Pauline combed and braided her damp clean hair, and she dressed in a simple muslin gown, before gingerly making her way downstairs. Her heart raced with every step. With luck, no one would be there. She did not want to see Makenna, or Julien, or Niall, or anyone for that matter.
“Courage,” she told herself, and entered the breakfast room.
To her relief, she did not see the broad, unmistakable form of her husband. However, her gaze was met by the other two persons in attendance. Julien rose, his face inscrutable, and her heart fell at the absence of his customary smirk. Things must indeed be dire if he hadn’t yet forgiven her. She’d already felt ill, but now another spurt of guilt and humiliation threatened to sink her.
“Good morning, Lady Maclaren,” he said with a short bow.
“Please, Lord Leclerc, don’t get up on my account,” she said, unconsciously mirroring his scrupulous, polite tones. “Good morning, Makenna.”
“How are ye feeling?” Makenna asked.
She collapsed into a nearby chair, watching with no small amount of nausea as Julien signaled to a footman to refill his heaping plate. She suspected he was doing it to torment her. The cad. “Like I’ve been dragged behind wild horses, stampeded by wild elephants, and left to rot in a field surrounded by feral hogs.”
Makenna laughed, and Aisla winced at the sound. “That bad?”
“Worse than you can possibly imagine.”
“You deserve it and more,” Julien said, shoving a forkful of runny eggs into his mouth. Aisla closed her eyes.
“Hush, Julien,” Makenna chided softly. “Ye can see that she’s miserable. I suppose such an affliction is punishment enough.”
Aisla’s eyes flicked open, taking in Makenna’s gentle smile, and she drew a deep breath. The fact that she’d called him by his given name didn’t escape her notice, but it wasn’t worth fussing over. She owed the lady an apology. “I am sorry for what I said, Makenna. It was unforgivable in the extreme. I did not mean to imply that you were here because your marriage was inadequate in any way or that Maclaren was a hellish place…”
Makenna lifted a palm. “Say nae more, Aisla, truly. ’Tis forgotten.”
“And I love Maclaren,” she blurted out. “And the clansmen, most of the time. If you had been here before, I’m certain it would have been different. But I was so lonely, and Niall had his friends, and I had no one…” She trailed off helplessly. “I was angry.”
“I understand, but ye dunnae need to explain yerself to me.” Makenna paused, a heavy look crossing her face. “Or to anyone.”
“I do,” Aisla whispered. “I said hurtful things.”
“Perhaps, but the people ken yer character. They will ken that ye didnae mean it.”
“Will they?” she asked in a small voice. She didn’t understand how they could know her character when she’d been gone for so long. When she’d chosen not just to abandon her husband, but them, too. How could they possibly think well of her? And when had she started to care?
“Aye, ye will see. Ye think my brother didnae have a loose tongue when he was a tosspot? Even before yer marriage, he had a foul mouth.” Makenna shook her head, smiling. “And if ye’re worried ye were the only one to cause some excitement yesterday, ye should ken there was a good brawl after ye quit the festivities. I suspect Maclaren will be blathering more over that than the outburst of one tipsy lady.”
A thread of hope wound through Aisla at the idea. “A brawl?”
“Aye, between my loutish brothers Evan and Finlay and a few Campbells.”
Aisla recalled what Dougal had said about the tensions between the two clans. “I hope no one was injured too badly,” she said.
Makenna waved off the concern. “The Campbells were sent on their way easily enough, and my brothers were left with but a few bruises and a tale to embellish for the ages.” She glanced over to Julien. “We were thinking of taking a stroll to the village, if ye’re interested. The fresh air might do ye some good.”
“With Niall as well?” Aisla asked, though she hoped it wouldn’t be.
Apologizing to Makenna and meeting her husband face to face were two different things. The latter was far too daunting, especially after he’d undressed and washed her! Would he have enjoyed it? Would his touch have lingered at the appearance of her bare skin? God above, it felt as though she were on fire. Her nipples tightened and her legs went weak.
Get a hold of yourself. You probably smelled worse than a dung heap.
“He was here earlier, but he’s gone off to the mines,” Makenna said. “One of his pulleys broke, and ye ken Niall—he is brilliant at inventing such devices.”
Aisla blinked, the brief thought that it was yet another misfortune to befall the mines eclipsed by the second part of Makenna’s sentence. “He is?”
“Oh, aye,” Makenna said with a proud smile. “He’s right talented. Ye’ve seen what he can do with his harness for his left hand? That was all his creation.”
Aisla had seen the hook and a few others, but she hadn’t known that he had designed them. She sucked in a breath, once more surprised. Makenna noticed it.
“I suppose yer surprise is understandable, considering he didnae ken his own talent until a handful of years ago.” She touched the corners of her lips with her napkin before pushing back her chair to stand.
Julien saw her and stood on ceremony, his mouth still full and his napkin falling out of his lap. “Are we not finishing our meals?” he asked after swallowing his bite.
“Ye’re the only one taking an eon to eat, my lord. We’ll meet ye in town. It looks like Aisla needs that fresh air I promised her.” Makenna flashed Aisla a mischievous grin. “Are ye ready?”
Aisla stood up, her limbs numb and clumsy with a rush of gratitude and relief. Makenna wasn’t just saying she forgave Aisla for the terrible things she’d blurted out the day before. She truly did forgive her. Julien bid them adieu with a promise to find them in the village, and the two women set off.
It wasn’t a long walk to the cluster of shops and businesses and even a few homes in the village. Just far enough for Tarben Castle to fall away behind a ridge, and for the towers of Maclaren to come into view to the east. Though Aisla had already been to the village, she hadn’t truly taken the time to look at it. She’d been too preoccupied rushing from shop to shop, finding items to send to Tarben Castle that might pick away at her husband’s patience and sanity. But this time, she felt calm, almost tranquil, as she and Makenna strolled along the village’s main road. She was feeling much better than she had when she’d sat down with Julien and Makenna, and with her clear head, she took the time to really glance around.
The roads were neat, the shop fronts simple but well kept. There were women and men walking, going about their business, some attempting to keep a gaggle of children from rushing off into trouble. Aisla heard the steady clanging of a blacksmith at work and smelled the yeasty scent of bread on the air. A couple entering the nearby inn caught her attention, and she blinked with delayed recognition. It was Fenella, and from the back, the tall, broad-shouldered man who accompanied her reminded Aisla of Dougal Buchanan. They were inside before she could take another look. Though, it could not possibly be him. Dougal was betrothed. And why would he be with Fenella?
She shook her head. It wasn’t any of her business, or concern, who either of them kept acquaintances with. Aisla turned back to her companion.
“I don’t remember the village being this quaint,” she said as Makenna waved to a few passing women carrying full baskets of bread.
“That’s because it wasnae always this way,” she replied. “When I was growing up, the place felt like a muddy pit
most of the time.”
“What changed?” Aisla asked.
“A few years back, an irrigation canal was put in just north of the village to reroute flood waters that used to come down through the center of town here. Things are kept dry now.”
“An irrigation canal? Whose idea was that?”
But she already knew.
Makenna looked at her, smiling slyly. “I told ye he’s talented. He has a gift for inventions.”
Niall.
“And what with the mines being so profitable, I suppose everyone in Maclaren and Tarbendale benefits in a way,” Makenna finished saying.
And all because of Aisla’s husband. Niall had built up the mines and he’d improved the village. He’d changed so much. Including himself. Yet again, Aisla felt a warm fist-sized burst of pride in her chest for his accomplishments, even though she had nothing to do with them at all. Or perhaps she did. After all, he’d only discovered his many talents after she’d left. Perhaps he’d simply needed something to focus on.
“He’s done so well for himself,” she whispered.
“Aye,” Makenna replied, though she sounded hesitant. As if she wished to say more.
“What is it?” Aisla pressed.
Her sister-in-law sighed. “Only that as well as he’s done for himself, he isnae satisfied. He’s never satisfied, never at ease. I ken I only see him a few times every year, but my mother writes, and she’s always concerned Niall isnae truly happy.”
Aisla didn’t know how to reply. She sensed the same thing about Niall now. That he worked hard, but never allowed himself any pleasure or time to enjoy what he’d accomplished. She wondered if he feared resting; if he worried he might somehow fall back into his old, disorderly ways if he stopped. She knew she’d often felt the same way in Paris—the more balls and soirees and dinners, the better to keep her mind off her regrets and the broken pieces of her past.
“He seems content,” Aisla said, diffidently.
Makenna gazed up at the clouds, which were white puffy blotches in front of a steel-gray horizon. She frowned, her eyes on the sky, but somehow farther away than that. “People can get rather good at pretending.”
Sweet Home Highlander Page 18