“My dagger! Thank you.”
He stared at the woman he’d loved his whole life. “Thank ye, for saving Tarbendale and its people. If ye hadn’t discovered what ye did about Buchanan, more would have died.”
Her fingers shook as she pocketed the dagger. “You’re a good laird, Niall. You’re a good man.” Her voice caught and trembled. “I wish…”
“Ye wish?”
Her throat worked. “That we had met at a different time.” She reached up swiftly and kissed him on the cheek, the soft touch of her lips burning an imprint there. “Good luck, but I know you won’t need it. I’m proud of you, Niall.”
Her words stunned him. Humbled him. He loved that she was proud of him. He’d done it all for her, after all. He only wished she loved him enough to stay.
“Niall?” he heard Ronan calling. He was grateful for the distraction. Yet all he wished to do was stare at the woman he’d always believed was his wife. Stare at her and hold her in this place, forever.
“Your brother needs you,” Aisla said with a teary smile, and clearing her throat, looked to where Leclerc was waiting. “We should go.”
The Frenchman inclined his head. “Tarbendale.”
“Leclerc,” Niall said. “Take care of her.”
“I will.”
He took her arm and gestured toward the steps. Niall’s heart ached as she took the first few steps down, but he said nothing. It was what she wanted, he had to remind himself.
Aisla paused, turning to look at him over her shoulder. Her lips tugged into a half-hearted smile, and then, in another blink, she was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Niall climbed out of Tarbendale’s newly opened mine shaft to an outburst of raucous cheers, and nearly fell backward at the unexpected noise and commotion. He saw his laborers smiling and laughing, and felt hands clapping onto his back and shoulders, the dust from the tunnels puffing up into the air. And finally, Niall snapped out of it.
The vein.
His workers were cheering about the discovery, made just the day before, of a gigantic deposit of topaz in the tunnels. As if the veins they’d just found hadn’t been reward enough, now it looked as if this deposit would be enough to keep the mines in business for a decade to come.
The men and women had reason for their joy.
And though Niall smiled back and accepted the acknowledgment that he’d led them to this discovery, he couldn’t muster the energy to feel anything more than mild excitement. He wanted his mines to be productive, and his laborers to have work, and thus for Tarbendale and Maclaren to reap the benefits. But joy? As Niall made his way through the crowd, out of the tower house, he couldn’t feel an ounce of it landing anywhere inside of him to stick.
As he had for weeks now, Niall felt a hollow sensation within him. Not the pain of an aching loss, as he’d felt in the days after Aisla’s departure. Or the anger, that had come after. No, now it was more of an emptiness. A restless kind of existence. He worked. He slept. He ate. He worked again. And so on and so forth.
It would pass, he knew. In time, he’d feel…something. He hoped.
“Ye dunnae look like ye’ve just found the largest lode of cairngorm Scotland’s ever seen,” a pleasant voice said, drawing his eyes up from where he’d had them hitched to the ground as he walked.
Makenna sat atop her horse, smiling at him with an amused and knowing expression.
“I didnae find it,” Niall replied as he glanced back toward the tower house. “They did. I dunnae ken why they’re cheering for me.”
“Because ye’re their laird, and they wouldnae have found it at all if it werenae for ye, opening this mine up and digging new tunnels,” his sister answered. “Ye’re just as responsible for this windfall as they are.”
Niall exhaled, wishing she’d cease her praise. “’Tis work. Plain and simple.”
It wasn’t like before, when Niall had been breaking himself at the mines to prove that he could make a success of it. A success of himself. He had nothing to prove to anyone now. Aisla had come home to Tarbendale, she’d seen his improvements and successes with her own eyes, and now she was gone again. And his life was strangely empty.
“If that’s how ye feel,” Makenna started to say, still looking down at him from her horse.
“’Tis.”
She let out a long sigh, and when she said nothing more, Niall finished washing up and turned to her. “Is there some reason ye’ve come to see me?”
His sister sat a bit taller in her saddle, peering down her nose at him like an unimpressed queen. “Aye. Mother would like ye to come to sup tonight. Father’s feeling better.”
Niall felt the weight of her relief settle inside of him. He’d ridden to Maclaren at least once a week to sit with his father. The duke’s health was on the mend for now, and the old warrior had yet to give up. However, soon, the time would come. Niall wasn’t prepared for it in the least.
“I’ll come,” he told Makenna with a decisive nod.
“Good,” she said, holding her horse steady as the mount grew restless. She didn’t leave, though.
“Is there something else?” Niall asked.
“I received a letter,” she answered, uncharacteristically quiet. “From Newcastle in England.”
He paused in rolling down his sleeves, covered in dust and silt, and felt the reply of his heart, thudding in his chest. “Aisla?”
“She’s staying for a time with Lord Leclerc’s grandfather. A marquess,” she answered. “She sounds…content.”
Niall went to his own horse and rubbed its blaze, avoiding Makenna’s stare. “Good. She deserves to be happy.”
He swung up into the saddle.
“I did no’ say she was happy. I said she sounded content.”
“What the difference?” Niall asked, becoming annoyed. Not with Makenna, but with the topic at hand.
“’Tis the difference between water and wine, ye ken.”
He peered at her, propping a brow. “I prefer water.”
“Ye’re a bloody dunderheid!”
“For preferring water?”
Makenna groaned and looked skyward, as if for guidance from the heavens. “For lying to yerself! Ye’re miserable, and ye ken it. Everyone does.”
Niall spurred his horse into a walk, ready to return to Tarben Castle and bathe before sup. Normally, he would have spent some time in his studio. But he hadn’t been through the door in weeks. On his desk, he presumed, was the unfinished topaz ring he’d been in the middle of smithing before Aisla had left with Leclerc.
“What does it matter?” he asked Makenna, as she followed him. “I got over it before. I’ll do so again. In time.”
The words felt weightless and meaningless, and his sister must have sensed it as well.
“Ye never got over her before. Ye still love her.”
“I do. But she chose to leave. Again, I might add.”
“And ye simply let her go.” Her lips took on a sardonic turn. “And I might add that ye told her to go six years ago. Ye probably dunnae remember because ye were three sheets to the wind.”
He twisted in his saddle to face her. “It just so happens that ye cannae force someone to stay someplace they dunnae want to stay. Ye, Makenna, should ken a thing or two about that.”
He pressed his lips thin as soon as it was out. His sister sat back in her saddle, as if slapped. “What do ye mean by that?” she asked.
He sighed, knowing he’d avoided talking to her about it for too long as it was. “The Brodie. Yer husband. Ye say ye’re here to visit, but ye’ve made nae mention of when ye’re going back home. And ye’ve been here for weeks.”
“This is my home, isnae it?”
“Ye ken what I mean.” Niall took a breath as their horses descended the ridge, into the valley below. “Makenna, tell me what’s wrong.”
She rode in silence for a minute, concentrating, it appeared, on the horse’s descent down the ridge. When she finally answered, it was with the same gua
rded reluctance she’d shown every time someone mentioned the Brodie.
“Why must something be the matter? I’m here for Father. He was deathly ill, Niall.”
“And yer husband didnae wish to make the journey as well?”
The Brodie laird and the duke had been on affable terms for a long while, ever since Makenna’s wedding nine years before.
“He’s busy,” she replied.
Their horses slowed to a trot as they rode toward Tarben Castle. Indeed, as laird, her husband would have been busy. But it had been over two months since Makenna had arrived at Maclaren.
“Have ye heard from him at least?” he asked.
“’Twas never like that with us,” she said, her voice barely audible over the sounds of their horses.
“Then what is it like?” Niall asked, suddenly suspicious. Had Makenna come home to Maclaren for a reason beyond their father’s ill health? Had the Brodie done something to drive her away?
“A marriage. An alliance,” she answered. “One that will never be blessed with an heir.”
Niall increased his speed, to keep up with his sister, who had slapped the reins and shot off. The rest of the ride to the castle was kept at a speed that made conversation impossible. Niall mulled over his sister’s comment about not being blessed with an heir. When a handful of years had passed and no news of a Brodie heir came to Maclaren, Niall had heard whispers. It was an uncomfortable subject, but as they arrived at Niall’s stables, he figured it would be best to clear the air and get it over with.
“Ye cannae bear children,” he said, once the mounts had been led away.
Makenna shook her head, refusing to look at him. It wasn’t like her, this timid version of his sister. “Nor do I wish to.”
“And the Brodie?”
Surely the man would want an heir. Someone to pass the title of laird to. Niall fleetingly considered the fact that he himself would have no heir to pass on Tarbendale. A chasm opened inside of him, unexpectedly, threatening to swallow him. He forced it closed. No matter. Evan and Finley had bairns aplenty, and Niall could leave the holding to one of his nephews.
Makenna slipped her arm in his as they walked toward the castle entrance. “I ken what ye’re doing. Ye’re trying to turn the conversation away from ye and Aisla.”
“Stop, Makenna,” he said, and he prayed it was firm enough to persuade her. “No’ everything can be cured by love alone. Or by wishes or what ifs. It seems as if we both ken that.”
She rested her head against his shoulder, and nodded. And nothing more was said on the matter, thank God.
Niall had a quick wash while Makenna waited, though he didn’t know why she felt the need to hover, and within the hour, they rode for sup at Maclaren.
“Yer new housekeeper is quite nice.”
“Mrs. Barlow, yes. She’s better suited to work at the castle than she was at the mines,” he replied. “Mrs. Wingate is happy to be back in the kitchens.”
He’d hired the widow at the mines originally, her role primarily to cook and feed the workers each day. But, in her late fifties now, making her way up to the mines every day had started to take its toll. When the position of housekeeper had needed filling at Tarben Castle, Niall had asked her if she’d be interested. Mrs. Barlow had nearly wept with joy.
They reached the keep, and though he’d been successful in turning the tide of conversation from Aisla with his sister, the moment he took his place at the table in the Maclaren great hall, the room teeming with clansmen and women and warriors, the tide rushed back and pulled him under. His brothers Evan and Finlay didn’t help matters by jumping to the heart of it for a bit of sibling sport as they were both wont to do.
“Ye need a wench,” Evan said, jabbing Niall with a beefy elbow. “Roll her around a bit and ye’ll forget yer wife.”
Evan’s wife smacked him on the shoulder, but Finlay only goaded him on.
“’Twasn’t his wife to begin with, amadan. He’s got nothing to forget,” he said, and lowering his voice, added, “Lucky bastard.”
Finlay’s wife heard the muttered oath and glared at him, though she remained silent. Niall had the feeling she’d have plenty to say later, once they returned home. He could easily ignore Evan and Finlay, but when Niall caught Ronan eyeing him from his chair at the head of the table, he felt the close inspection to his very bones.
“What is it?” he finally asked, setting down his fork.
Ronan tapped his fingers against his goblet, his expression inscrutable. “Ye look like hell.”
The voices up and down the table softened. Niall shook his head. “Thank ye. I appreciate the compliment.”
“What are ye doing here still?” Ronan went on, as if he hadn’t heard Niall’s reply.
“Ye invited me to sup. Or have ye forgotten?”
“Aye, ye’re here. Ye’re eating and drinking and talking, but ye’re not truly here. Ye look bloody half asleep. Wake the hell up, bràthair.”
Anger sparked through Niall, and he felt hot under his skin. Down the table, everyone watched cautiously, listening. Had their mother been present, she might have said something. But she was with their father, in his chambers.
“What are ye trying to say?” he asked. “Spit it out already.”
“She’s in England,” Ronan answered.
Damn it. The bloody letter Makenna had received had made its way into Ronan’s hand as well? “I ken where she is.”
“Then why are ye still here?” he asked again.
“Do ye no’ recall the last time I went after her? What I found in Paris?”
The memories were still vivid, though they didn’t hurt as much now.
“Ye wouldnae find the same lass in London as ye did in Paris. She’s changed,” Ronan replied.
“I ken that,” Niall said, getting angry again. Why couldn’t they just leave it bloody well alone? He’d bungled everything up twice now. He’d lost her twice. And if he went after her now, again, hell, he’d likely ruin that effort, too. He’d hurt her again, and God, he didn’t want to do that. He couldn’t stand the idea of holding her back or being the whetstone around her neck.
“I want her to be happy,” he said, uncaring to who was listening. “And if she’s happiest without me, then so be it.”
He’d endure it. For Aisla, he’d endure anything.
No longer hungry, Niall stood and pushed back his chair. He bid them a good night, and left the great hall, feeling every last eye on his back as he went. Let them think what they would. Let them be disappointed.
They’d get over it.
He just wasn’t completely certain he ever would.
…
Rain lashed the windows of one of Bramble Park’s many luxurious parlors, and Aisla, seated on a chaise, watched as the rivulets of water coursed down the glass. She couldn’t help recalling Niall’s face on that last day. The yearning in his eyes. It would have taken only one word from him for her to fling herself into her arms.
But he hadn’t.
And she’d left.
England wasn’t the same as Scotland, but this far north, it could still very well be. Until she crossed the Channel, she was certain she would feel a desperate, soul-shattering longing for what she’d left behind. Which was nothing…simply a past chapter of her life, now closed. That didn’t mean her heart was immune to the loss. She missed him. Each day felt worse than the last, not better. Time, the repairer of all wounds, wasn’t keeping its end of the bargain. Nor had distance, and now even nature had conspired against her.
It had rained every day since they’d left Scotland. Before they had left Maclaren, Julien had received the strongly worded summons from his ailing grandfather, the Marquess of Riverley in Newcastle. His estate, Bramble Park, was a short distance away from the Scottish border. In his own haste to get back to Paris and his mother, Julien hadn’t wanted to linger, but the messenger had been adamant that his lordship was on his deathbed. Since the marquess was Julien’s mother’s father, albeit estrange
d, he’d acquiesced for his mother’s sake. Though, Aisla noted, it was without his usual grace.
“Do you dislike him?” she’d asked when he’d curtly relayed the change in plans at Maclaren and asked if she would mind the short detour. In all the years she’d known Julien, he’d never spoken of any relations beyond his mother and seven-years-deceased father. “Your grandfather?”
He didn’t have to answer the question. Cold hatred had rolled over his features, his lips going thin and his eyes glinting with a hardness that made her recoil. It was a side of Julien she had never seen.
“He disowned my mother when she married a Frenchman who was below their glorified standards,” he’d said after several minutes. “It didn’t matter that he loved her dearly or that she loved him. They punished her for it, forcing her to choose between her family and her lover. She chose love, of course,” he added dispassionately.
Aisla knew that Julien’s father had died from a fever some years before. “Did they never reconcile after your father passed?”
He shook his head. “No. Why welcome such common blood into the illustrious fold?”
“You’re not common, Jules.”
“My father was the penniless third son of a viscount who made his living as an artist, Aisla.” He’d laughed. “Their love wasn’t enough to live on, it didn’t put food in our bellies, or keep either of them from getting sick. She survived, he didn’t.” His voice had deepened with emotion. “The man you see before you now is someone I built to keep my mother and myself safe after my father died and left us destitute. I took work as a footman and then a valet, and I listened when my employer made investments. I wouldn’t take a penny of the marquess’s money if you forced me to the gallows.”
Aisla had gaped at the confession that he’d once been part of the working class. He’d been born into the aristocracy, and yet he’d had none of the wealth or opportunity that usually accompanied such a blessing. Julien had never told her any of this before.
“Then why agree to go now?”
“Because I want to tell the old man that face to face,” he’d snarled. “That he and his bloody title can go straight to hell.”
Sweet Home Highlander Page 28