Sweet Home Highlander

by Amalie Howard

  She was lost to him then.

  He’d left Paris without announcing his arrival, his heart nothing more than a gaping hole in his chest. But her betrayal had lit a fire within him to become someone, to prove to her, and to himself, that her absence had no effect. That he could live without her as easily as she had chosen to live without him. Thrive, even. And he had…until she’d come slithering back.

  Niall watched his wife now. She’d lain beneath him, her eyes drowned in passion, her lips and thighs parted to receive him, and it had all been a bloody lie.

  “You came back for me?” she whispered, closing the distance between them, her fingers reaching up to touch his face.

  Niall fought against leaning into the caress, giving into the fresh memories of last night, and held himself like stone. Her scent invaded his nostrils, reminding him of the smell of her heated skin as pleasure overtook her senses. And other things, like the curl of her fingers into his back as she’d cried out in ecstasy and the clench of her muscles as she’d come around him.

  Lies. All of them. And more fool he to have trusted her.

  Steeling himself, Niall stepped away from her, his expression dispassionate. “Clearly, that was a mistake. Ye dunnae belong here, Aisla. Ye never did.”

  “Niall, please—”

  Ignoring her, he glanced at Leclerc whose own face was inscrutable, though his eerily pale eyes remained sharp and perceptive. His usual smirk played about his lips, and Niall had the strongest urge to punch it off.

  He met the man’s eyes. “Ye’re welcome to her with my blessing. Now get the hell off my land.” He then turned to his wife, his heart shriveling in his chest. “Both of ye.”

  He strode away without a backward glance.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aisla was still numb when she reached her chamber at Tarben Castle, slamming the door behind her.

  “My lady?” Pauline stood up from where she had been darning a chemise before the hearth. She took one look at Aisla and gasped, “Mon Dieu! What has happened?”

  Aisla took a few wobbling steps forward, the floor feeling more like the roiling surface of a loch. Pauline rushed to her, and guided her to sit on the bench at the foot of the bed. The moment she was still, everything she’d been holding inside since the folly broke. Aisla put her face into her hands, and sobbed, unable to answer Pauline. Unable to do anything other than feel the jagged pain ripping through her, tearing her apart.

  At the folly, the cold look in Niall’s eyes had sunken into her like lead. He hadn’t even given her the chance to explain—he’d turned on her just as quickly as he’d accused her of turning on him. It was impossible. She’d been a fanciful nitwit to believe he’d ever be able to overcome his feelings of mistrust and jealousy.

  The moment Niall had left the folly, Julien had insisted she go straight to Maclaren with him, but Aisla had refused. The excuses were paltry, thin as a length of muslin. Her things were at Tarben Castle. Her maid. She would gather them as calmly as she could and then retreat to Maclaren. It would take no more than an hour, she promised Julien, who had then insisted that he accompany her for the task.

  “No,” she’d told him, her stomach jumping and turning at the idea. Niall had ordered Julien to get off his land…he’d ordered both of them to leave…and while she didn’t fear for her own safety, she did fear for Julien’s if Niall were to catch him at the castle. She’d seen him fight with a claymore and bare knuckled. In his condition, he would not spare a thought for Julien’s welfare. Julien, who possessed a hot temper himself beneath all the layers of charm, would without a doubt rise to the occasion, and neither did she want Niall hurt.

  “One hour, Aisla,” Julien had replied, “or I will blacken his doorstep, regardless of his threats.”

  He’d gone then, back to Maclaren, unquestionably to begin packing his own things. Aisla had waited a few more minutes, so that on her ride back to Tarben Castle, she would not risk seeing Niall’s or Fenella’s backs.

  The woman made her seethe with fury, even now as she sat upon the bench in her chamber, her eyes swollen from tears. Fenella had led Niall to the folly, manipulated his penchant for jealousy, just as she’d done when they’d been newly married. Still, as malicious as Fenella was, the fact that Niall could fall for it so easily was the reason Aisla could barely stand. If he couldn’t see past Fenella’s lies now, after all this time, he never would. He’d never be able to trust her.

  Pauline bustled about the chamber, a steady barrage of French streaming from her mouth as she emptied the wardrobe and filled open valises on the bed. It wasn’t a neat or orderly packing, but neither of them cared. The objective was to leave Tarben Castle as quickly as possible, and then to depart Maclaren for good by the afternoon. The sooner she left, the better. She’d bid Makenna and Lady Dunrannoch goodbye, and then…it would be over. The divorce would be settled through solicitors and correspondence.

  Just as she’d wanted from the start.

  Only now, why did the knowledge that it was about to end in her favor feel so much like agony instead?

  “Here, my lady,” Pauline said as she stopped before Aisla, who still sat upon the cushioned bench in abject lassitude. Her arms and legs felt like ship anchors, and even taking the cool, wet cloth from Pauline was a struggle. “For your eyes,” her maid explained.

  Of course. The tears had made them puffy and red. Aisla could feel their soreness, and her maid would have guessed that she would not want to be seen departing Tarben Castle looking so defeated and wretched. She had her pride, if nothing else.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, pressing the cool cloth to her eyes. “And you were right. I should have listened to you about meeting with Julien.”

  Pauline had warned her that if Niall caught wind of the meeting, it might end badly. For the first time, Aisla wondered if it had been more than just a little intuition on her maid’s part. She lowered the cloth and looked at Pauline.

  “How did you know he would find out?”

  Pauline paused in laying a gown into one of the open valises. “I did not know, my lady, but I suspected the housekeeper would discover it, somehow, and relay the information. You must understand that she has been tasking everyone in the laird’s employ here to spy on you. To alert her to your every action, especially missives to Maclaren. I tried to leave Tarben Castle unnoticed, but I must have been seen. I apologize, my lady.”

  “No, Pauline, it isn’t your fault. None of it this is anyone’s fault but my own. I’ve been nothing but a fool to come back here. To think I could handle facing my own choices and not let them crush me.”

  She swallowed hard and pressed the cloth again to her eyes, to absorb the next rush of tears.

  “I will happily lay some of the blame upon that woman,” Pauline hissed, and Aisla knew who she referred to.

  A knock upon the bedchamber door made Aisla nearly drop the cool cloth. Her muscles seized with the idea that it might be her soon-to-be former husband. She wasn’t ready to see him. In fact, she hadn’t expected to have to face him ever again, not after his blatant order for her to get off his land as if she were some diseased cur. Had he wanted to make sure she left? To throw her out bodily?

  Aisla stood on shaky legs. Pauline put out her hand, and gestured toward the antechamber where she usually slept. “My lady,” she whispered, “perhaps you should wait in there. I will see to your visitor.”

  “No,” Aisla said, dredging up as much determination as she had left in her reserves. “I will see to it myself.” After another moment, and a deep breath, she called, “Enter.”

  The door opened, and while it was not Niall, she felt no relief at who did walk in. A gloating Fenella.

  “His lairdship ordered ye from his land, and yet here ye are, trespassing. I’ve come to see ye escorted away.”

  The woman was relentless. An open wound, refusing to heal. Aisla felt none of the rage she’d come to expect when in her presence. Just the hollow drop of defeat. Fenella had won. She’d
succeeded in turning Niall against her, once and for all. “I am seeing to my things. Now please leave, so I can get on with it.”

  Fenella took a step farther inside the room. “He should have been rid of ye years ago and married someone in his own clan.”

  Aisla could only laugh at her spite. She couldn’t touch her, not any more. “And you think that’s you?”

  “Aye,” Fenella answered, either unaware of her sarcasm, or simply uncaring of it. “Ye were never wanted here. Ye should have just married Dougal as yer father wanted.”

  The mention of Dougal and her familiar use of his name made Aisla pause. She’d seen Fenella entering the inn with a man who, from the back, had looked like the Buchanan heir. Was it a coincidence? Aisla’s senses were firing on every level. Fenella was hiding something. Something to do with this man from her past, and the man who had been a thorn in her marriage bed for years.

  “What do you know of Dougal Buchanan?”

  Fenella hitched her chin and sniffed. “Everyone at Maclaren kens the gossip.”

  “But you know him personally, don’t you?” Aisla stepped closer to her, eyes narrowing on Fenella’s face. “I saw you together. He was escorting you into the inn the day after the festival.”

  Her pupils constricted, and Aisla knew she’d struck upon a secret. But Fenella quickly masked her surprise. “I made his acquaintance, aye. He confided in me all about how ye wronged him.”

  Wronged him? The admission made Aisla frown. The match had been made when they were children by her madman of a father. No one had expected it to stand once her brother became the new Duke of Glenross. And in any case, why would Dougal dally with Niall’s housekeeper, lamenting to her about ancient hurts? He was allied with the Campbells now, and happily betrothed. What could either of them achieve by swapping idle gossip?

  Unless, they weren’t just commiserating about lost chances.

  Aisla’s mind went to all the recent mishaps at the mines, and the burgeoning feud between the Maclarens and Dougal’s future clan. Had Dougal been involved somehow? He’d never held Niall in any esteem, and the timing of his arrival at Tarbendale seemed much too convenient to be discounted as chance. Not when so much was at stake, especially for Niall.

  “Fenella, what did Dougal want?” Aisla asked, frowning.

  Her mouth tightened. “Nothing but to right a wrong against him.”

  She tried to understand what “wrong” Fenella could possibly mean. Her elopement with Niall? “Dougal Buchanan is betrothed to Rose Campbell—”

  Fenella barked laughter. “Is he, now? No’ if he gets what he wants. And I hope he does, for the good of the clan, and for the good of my laird.”

  Her words were twisting around Aisla’s mind, refusing to settle. “And what exactly do you think Dougal wants?”

  “Ye, o’course, though God kens why he’s so set on ye.”

  Aisla glanced to Pauline, who was no longer pretending not to be listening in. The maid wore an expression of concern, much like the emotion chilling Aisla’s blood.

  “Fenella, surely you cannot be so blind. There’s something more going on here.”

  The housekeeper pinched her lips and clasped her hands behind her back. “’Tis nae secret I’ve wanted ye gone since the day ye set foot on Maclaren lands, and he was simply happy to help. Dunnae read more into it.”

  “Open your eyes. I’m trying to help you, you daft woman. You do realize Dougal is tied to the Campbells, and clan relations with them have been strained of late. You’d know that if you were in your laird’s confidence. I certainly hope you haven’t betrayed your clan somehow because Niall will never forgive you.”

  The woman’s eyes glittered with malice and triumph. “Dunnae fash about such things. Men are easier to manage than ye think. Just look at how easy it was to convince the laird of what ye’d done.”

  She’d known Fenella had always led Niall around with false rumors and lies, but it still maddened Aisla to hear her admit it so boldly and without care.

  “Did you manage Dougal, too?” she snapped, wanting to strike out but without any real venom. But then crimson flares pricked at Fenella’s cheeks, her triumphant expression faltering, and Aisla blinked as understanding dawned. They’d gone to an inn together, after all. Good God, the woman was shameless. Aisla shook her head. “Perhaps you should have reserved some of those names you called me for yourself.” She drew a slow breath, reason returning. “He was using you, Fenella, and you’re too blind in your hatred for me to see it.”

  “Ye’re wrong,” Fenella spluttered. “He wanted nothing more than bits of gossip, useless things, mostly about ye and Lady Makenna, to do what he could to get ye back.”

  “This is not about me, ye dunderheid,” Aisla nearly shouted, amazed at the woman’s wilful ignorance. “Where is Dougal now?”

  “As if I would tell ye.”

  “Then you are more of a fool than you realize,” Aisla said, reaching for one of her throwing daggers resting on the highboy. “Now get out before I get blood on the laird’s carpet.”

  Fenella blanched and flounced out while swearing a blue streak, the bedchamber slamming shut behind her.

  Pauline’s eyes widened, her hands rising to her mouth. “Well done, my lady,” she said, gaze hinged on the dagger. “Oh, Dieu, were you truly going to use that?”

  “No, of course not.” Aisla grinned and replaced the dagger. Her hand shook a little as she did, and with an unsteady exhale, wondered what exactly Dougal was up to. It was nothing good. She would wager her entire future upon it.

  Pauline sighed. “That woman is dangerous, but your friend Dougal sounds even more so. He has a score to settle.”

  “If he’s behind all of this, he’s no friend of mine,” Aisla said.

  “Oui, and neither is she. Not a good combination.”

  “Which means I need to find the laird and warn him.”

  Pauline lifted an eyebrow. “And risk more of his ire?”

  Aisla went to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Retrieving her own blades had reminded her that inside, lay the topaz dagger Niall had crafted. She lifted it, feeling the weight of the stunning dagger right in her heart instead of her palm, and pocketed it.

  “Ire or no, I’m worried Fenella has either wittingly, or unwittingly, helped Dougal and the Campbells somehow. And that the accidents at the mines are connected. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I have to say something before I leave.”

  It would be on her conscience if she didn’t. Aisla forced down her dread and went for the door. Her hand was on the knob when a solid knock came down on the other side. Praying it wasn’t Fenella yet again, she whipped the door wide.

  “Julien?” She took in the uneasy expression on her friend’s face, and frowned. “You said you’d give me an hour to pack my things. It’s hardly been half that. Has something more happened with Niall?”

  “No.” He entered and peered around the room, his eyes passing over Pauline. “Is Lady Makenna here?”

  Aisla closed the door, watching Julien closely and the way he paced a tight circle in the center of her room. “At this hour? I’d think she’d still be abed. Why?”

  “She isn’t there. Her maid said she never rang for assistance, and yet her bed is empty.” He came to a stop and faced Aisla, and it was then she saw the concern brimming in his eyes, before the full measure of his words hit her.

  Pauline, too, propped a thin eyebrow from where she stood near the antechamber, folding more clothing. “Pauline, will you give us a minute?”

  Her maid bobbed and disappeared into the next room. Aisla turned to Julien. “Why on earth would you go to Lady Makenna’s chamber?”

  “I didn’t go to her room at first,” he said, his gaze skating away from hers. “I rode north to the border between Maclaren and Campbell lands.”

  She peered at him, confused by the leap. “For what reason?”

  Julien looked to be grappling with an answer, his chest rising and falling as he raked a hand through hi
s hair. “I came across Lady Makenna there one morning about a week past. Apparently, she likes to take early morning rides, and her route takes her along the border. I happened across her that morning, and considering the tensions with the Campbells, I advised her to take someone with her next time. I volunteered, but I arrived the next morning to find she had not heeded my advice, and well…she did not the following morning, either.”

  Aisla was quiet a moment. It wasn’t like Julien to worry for anyone beyond himself, though she, Aisla, was the rare exception. And things between he and Makenna had been a bit prickly not so long ago. “So you kept going with her?”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her overt dig. “You can’t fault me for seeking a diversion to pass the time. It became a game, you see, and it’s not like Makenna to not make a countermove. But her maid is in a froth, and I need to appease the dear woman.”

  “Lady Makenna, Jules.” Again, his concern struck her, as did his casual use of her first name, but just then her earlier exchange with Fenella shifted back into the front of her mind. Fenella had mentioned Makenna by name.

  “I’m sure she’s somewhere, and safe,” Aisla said, distracted by her rioting instincts. “It’s possible you missed each other.”

  Julien shook his head. “I’d hoped she would be here. I’ll return to Maclaren, and check the stables.”

  He gave Aisla’s arm a light touch as he passed by her, toward the door. His worry was palpable, and the more she thought of Fenella’s mention of Lady Makenna, the more concerned she became as well. She left the bedchamber on Julien’s heels and headed straight for the kitchens. Mrs. Wingate and a few maids were already at work, and Fenella was pouring herself a cup of tea. She saw Aisla and scowled.

  “Why are ye still here?”

  “You said you also spoke to Dougal about Lady Makenna, the laird’s sister,” Aisla said, finished with petty insults. Fenella set her cup down, splashing tea, and cut her eyes to the cook and maids. They left the kitchens without a word.

  “Aye. What of it?”

  Aisla’s eyes narrowed. “What did he wish to know about her specifically? And be honest or I go straight to the laird with what I know about the two of you.”