They’d been at Bramble Park for a week now. Seven more days than Julien had intended to stay. And not because of his grandfather’s health. Aisla, in fact, had become too ill to travel. She’d convinced Julien that it was some kind of food poisoning. He’d been suspicious when no one else had become ill, and even went so far as to ask if she was only trying to draw out their stay so he that would reconcile with his grandfather. She’d denied it, and Julien had grudgingly agreed to the marquess’s offer of accommodation until Aisla felt well enough to leave.
Of course, she’d known the true reason for her debilitating nausea. Julien had been right—it wasn’t food poisoning. However, it didn’t have anything to do with him, either. She’d started to feel ill almost as soon as she realized she had missed her courses. It had been the same with the first, so many years ago.
She was pregnant.
There was no question as to the timing. She’d been with Niall just once—that final night at Tarben Castle. It was a miracle she hadn’t miscarried the next morning when she’d fallen at the mines, or in the days after, when she’d been slipping in and out of consciousness and fighting for her life. But human bodies were stronger than they looked. Or maybe this baby was different.
Pauline had known instantly, and not only because of Aisla being hunched over the chamber pot in agony most mornings, though that was a certain giveaway. No, she claimed it was because of her mistress’s bosom. Personally, Aisla could not see any increase in that particular area, but she supposed if one was constantly tightening corsets and adjusting bodices, such a change would be noticeable.
But bodily changes aside, the thought of a baby brought with it other concerns. Aisla was unmarried, and the baby had been conceived out of wedlock. If anyone found out, she would be well and truly ruined. She was of noble birth and carrying a bastard child. However, she still had one other option open to her, and given the circumstances, it was the only thing that made any sense.
“You wanted to see me,” Julien said, striding into the salon. His face was drawn and pale, his normally twinkling eyes dim. If a place could suck the life from a person, then this was it. Even his thick blond hair looked listless. Aisla stood, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Did you come from visiting him?”
He gave a brusque nod. “He’s no better. Insists on naming me as his heir presumptive. Apparently, all my cousins who could have inherited the title have all died, and I am the only one left of the old bastard’s line.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said, cutting her off and walking to the mantel where he poured himself two generous fingers of brandy. “I didn’t know any of my cousins to begin with, and I don’t care what happens to this heap now. He can rot before I claim any kinship with him.”
“Wouldn’t it make your mother happy?” she blurted out. “For reconciliation? It’s your birthright, after all.”
He didn’t answer, but his grinding jaw indicated that he’d heard her. “No.”
Aisla cleared her throat. She didn’t want to broach the subject with him in such a foul mood, but his answer would determine whether she went on to Paris or back to her parent’s estate in Scotland. “You said that you would still want to marry me…if I wanted it.”
A pair of pale eyes found hers. “Yes, of course.” Though he hadn’t hesitated to respond in the affirmative, she sensed a reticence. “Is that what you wish? I seem to recall you saying something else quite recently.” He forced a jaunty smile. “Surely, it’s not only because you hope to become a marchioness?”
“I’m with child, Jules.” He was at her side before she could blink, but now that the admission was out, she felt somewhat faint. Her knees wobbled. “It seems I must take you up on your offer, after all.” Her temper rose as she recalled his last statement. She punched him in the shoulder. “And no, how could you possibly think I’d care about a bloody title?”
He hadn’t been serious with the barb, of course, but Aisla had also heard a bitterness that wasn’t usually part of his usual humor.
Julien led her back to the sofa, his face horrified. “Forgive me, Aisla. That was rather beyond the pale, wasn’t it?”
Mollified, she accepted his apology with a laugh. “About as much as it was to ask you to be a father to another man’s child, I suppose.”
“I do not wish for children of my own, so yours will do quite well,” he said with a grin, a hint of the old Julien returning. “And I do not wish to marry for love or ever be the victim of such horror. My feelings have not changed.” He paused, sitting beside her to hold her freezing hands in his. “Are you sure this is what you want? Honestly, deep down, I suspect it may not be.”
She swallowed, looking at the man who’d been her best friend for as long as she could remember. No other would be as generous as he to accept another man’s baby as his own. They could be happy, she knew. Content. But Aisla didn’t want contentment. She wanted rapture and passion, and brilliant joy, and everything that made love so ungovernable.
Sadly, she shook her head. “Oh, Jules, you know me far too well.”
“What do you want, Aisla?” he asked gently. “If you could have anything without any consequences whatsoever, what would you choose?”
The answer was all too easy, all too clear. And yet it was still such a mess.
“Him.”
“Then make it so.”
She sucked in a breath, holding back a flood of tears that threatened to erupt. “It’s not that simple. He let me go. I can’t waltz back in there and—”
“Why not?” Julien interrupted. “He came to find you in Paris, didn’t he? Perhaps it’s your turn now. Grand gestures are not just the domain of the men, you know.”
Happiness leaped in her heart like a flame and spread through the rest of her limbs, centering at the place where their child grew. But she shook her head, her palms resting on her flat stomach. “But what if he doesn’t want me?”
Julien laughed, his old warmth coming back into his eyes for an instant.
“Are you blind?” he asked. “Trust me when I say that that man has wanted you from the day you set foot back in Scotland, and I’d wager long before that as well.” He smiled, taking her hand. “Sometimes, chérie, you have to fight for what it is you want even if it frightens the hell out of you.”
Aisla narrowed her eyes at him. He seemed entirely comfortable and resolute on shirking the title his grandfather wished to bestow upon him. “And what is it that you want, Jules? What would you fight for?”
“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you, and the father of the child you carry. I do happen to know, however, that I would make an excellent uncle.” He took her cheeks in his palms and kissed them both. “You love him, Aisla. You know you do.”
She laughed through her tears. “You say you don’t believe in love, but look at you, such a hopeless romantic.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe in love. I said it’s not for me.”
“One day, Lord Leclerc, you will not be as immune as you are at this moment, and I will laugh myself silly at your expense.” Aisla stood, still feeling unsteady with nerves. “But until then, if he does take me back, will you stand up with me at the wedding?”
“I would not miss it for the world.”
Julien was right. She had to fight, just as she’d fought to live in the abandoned mine, and in the days that followed. She loved her baby’s father to distraction, and it would be up to her to win him back—for the both of them.
She sent a footman to fetch Pauline and to gather all her belongings. Julien stopped at the bottom of the staircase, looking up to the east wing where his grandfather was being tended. His face was unreadable, but his fists opened and clenched at his side.
“Will you ever forgive him?” Aisla asked quietly.
A breath hissed from his lips. “It will be a cold day in hell before I ever need anything from that man, so no, it’s unlikely.”
He signaled t
o the silent butler, who for a moment, wore a pained expression Aisla would have missed had she not been looking right at him at that moment. “Yes, my lord?”
“Have my coach brought around, Higgins,” Julien said. “And inform the marquess of my departure.”
“Of course, my lord,” the older man said, then hesitated. “And might I say what an honor it has been to see you at Bramble Park, my lord.” He paused, his voice dropping softly as if he couldn’t help himself. “Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but you remind me so much of her. Of Lady Eleanor.”
A spasm of agony crossed Julien’s face, but it was gone in the next instant. Eleanor was his mother’s name, Aisla knew. He inclined his head with a smile for the longtime servant. “I will be sure to pass on your regards, Higgins.”
Then Julien turned back to her, a sudden, unexpected anticipation lighting his eyes that made her wonder at its source. “Now, let’s hie back to Scotland and find you a bonny Scot to marry.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Preparations at Maclaren for Ronan’s birthday had been ongoing for a solid week and showed no signs of stopping. Lady Dunrannoch was throwing a ball in his honor that evening and everything had to be just right. Though Ronan avoided aristocratic social events like the plague, Niall knew he would not dare to disappoint their mother, especially not with their father being so ill, coupled with Aisla’s departure and the curtain of despair that hung over the clan. Lady Dunrannoch simply wanted to cheer everyone up with a grand celebration.
The kitchens had been busy since dawn, and even Niall’s own cook was up at Maclaren, helping to prepare the enormous amount of food for such an undertaking. The ballroom had been opened and aired, the floors and chandeliers polished to a mirror shine. Invitations had been sent out far and wide. Musicians had been hired, large bouquets of hothouse flowers tendered. Lady Dunrannoch was sparing no expense.
Ronan, of course, had been hiding at Tarben Castle for days. Now, they sat in Niall’s study, dressed for the evening’s entertainment in formal jackets, waistcoats, cravats, and dress kilts. Ronan’s cravat was already unknotted, his hair standing on end. His valet would no doubt be peeved that his excellent handiwork had been so shabbily treated.
“I dunnae want the focus on me,” he groaned.
Niall chuckled. “Why? ’Tis about time ye fell from yer glorified pedestal, brother.”
“Ye do ken what Mother harps on at my every birthday?” he said, staring into a half-full glass of whisky. His third or fourth, Niall guessed. Though his brother seemed to have an incredible tolerance for spirits, Niall moved the bottle away. It would not be in his favor if their mother noticed that he smelled like a distillery. “Marriage and heirs.” Ronan hung his head into his hands. “I’m no’ ready for a wife.”
“Ye’re the Dunrannoch heir,” Niall said. “Ye have to marry sometime.”
“Tonight is nothing more than a meat market, ye ken that?”
“Aye.” Niall grinned. “And dunnae let Mother hear ye say that about her fancy ball or she’ll carve the hide from ye.”
Ronan went on, clearly uncaring of being overheard. “Every eligible maiden will be in attendance and foisted upon me like cakes on a platter.”
“Including the Campbell lasses. Gregor hasnae given up hope for a match.”
“Care to trade places?” he asked, looking up.
Niall guffawed loudly. “No’ a chance, brother, no’ even for the promise of a coronet. I’m done with women.” He meant what he said. He couldn’t even imagine taking a wife now. Marrying for alliance had never settled well in him, and giving his heart to another was out of the question. It was already gone, anyhow. He straightened his jacket and called for his own valet, Dunkirk, to fix the mess of Ronan’s cravat. “Now, buck up. We dunnae want to miss yer lassie buffet.”
“’Tis no’ funny,” Ronan growled, standing and coming around the desk, his fists raised.
Niall deflected a friendly punch and darted out of the way. “’Tis a little. And as much as I want to bloody ye up good, I’m afraid of Mother’s ire more. Move yer arse. We’re late enough as it is.”
Once Dunkirk was finished making the necessary repairs, they rode back to Maclaren together. Niall’s jaw couldn’t help falling open as they approached. Every inch of the castle was lit with warm lamplight, adding to the magical ambiance. The duchess had indeed gone over and beyond in her efforts. He’d never recalled Maclaren looking so magnificent. Lights lit the manicured gardens and the half dozen balcony doors leading to the ballroom were open to let in the balmy night air. The strains of a vibrant country dance reached them, and beautifully dressed people were already clustered on the terrace. After handing their horses to a groom, they approached the stairs to the terrace.
“Ready?” Niall asked his brother.
Ronan muttered an inaudible oath under his breath as they greeted a few people they knew and entered through the balcony doors. It would irritate their mother that they had not been properly announced or had not arrived early enough to be part of the family receiving line. They both hoped to avoid that confrontation and headed straight for the refreshments room. Hamish was already there, a whisky in one hand, and an ale in the other, his face ruddy from the heat in the room.
“Getting a head start, mate?” Niall asked, clapping his oldest friend on a brawny shoulder.
Hamish swore, nearly spilling his ale all over his clothing. “Och, ye bastard. Ye did that a purpose.” He scowled. “Where have the two of ye been? Yer mother is on the warpath. Christ, she’s spotted ye. Here she comes! Run, lads, if ye mean to escape.”
It was almost amusing to watch his oldest brother try to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Hard to do when one was the size of a small mountain, but he gave it a valiant effort nonetheless as the duchess approached. Lady Dunrannoch looked beautiful, and quite regal, in a gorgeous emerald-colored gown, trimmed in silver braid with a Maclaren sash at her waist. Niall kissed his mother on the cheek and told her so. She blushed, her anger forgotten for a moment, until she caught sight of her first-born cowering like a wee baby lamb.
She sighed, tilting her chin for a kiss. “Now, Ronan, it’s a ball in your honor. At least pretend to enjoy it for my sake.”
“Aye, Mother,” he said and bent to embrace her.
He hadn’t even completed his bow before she was introducing him to a young woman she’d practically hidden behind her skirts. Niall took the opportunity to slip away, ignoring the glare Ronan shot him. He accepted a glass of whisky from a footman and sipped, letting the smoky taste of it curl over his tongue. He’d made the decision that avoiding spirits altogether wasn’t completely necessary. He knew he was capable of restraint now, as he probably had been for some time. It had been fear of falling down that old spiral of drunkenness, of disappointing those he loved, that had kept him from touching a drink for so long. But now, he trusted himself more. He would never over imbibe, but he did like savoring the flavors of an excellent batch of Dunrannoch whisky. And theirs was the best this side of Hadrian’s Wall.
Makenna spun past him on the ballroom floor, dancing with a young buck wearing a black and yellow tartan, her eyes sparkling. Her partner was from the Mackenzie clan up north, and he looked smitten. Niall didn’t blame him. Makenna had outdone herself—she wore a pale silver gown that set off the darker auburn tones in her bright hair. He’d never seen her look lovelier. She looked entirely too pretty to be let loose on the unsuspecting puppy she was dancing with. His eyes narrowed, recalling how well she’d evaded the talk of her husband. When the ball was over, he’d get to the bottom of it.
He almost laughed when he saw Ronan leading a lass out to the floor for the next set, a reel. One would think he was heading to the gallows from the dark, embittered expression on his face. Niall didn’t know why the man was so dead set against marriage. He was a titled laird, heir to a dukedom, filthy rich, and by all accounts, didn’t have a face that would send a maiden scurrying for cover. Yet, his brother had avoi
ded matrimony at all cost. In addition to denying the Campbell lass, he’d refused to marry the daughter of the Sinclair laird years before, which would have been a valuable—and profitable—alliance. Lady Mairi would have been an extremely biddable wife, though with feathers for brains, she likely would have been terrified of her husband.
“Ye’re no’ dancing?” a red-faced Hamish asked, joining him where he stood near the open balcony doors. It was cooler and afforded a quick escape route, Niall had told himself. But in truth, he was having too much fun watching Ronan get tortured. And since many people didn’t yet know about Niall’s second separation from his wife, or perhaps they did know and felt pity for him, they did not approach.
“Nae,” he said.
“Ye’ll dance with me,” Makenna announced in a breathless rush, arriving in a swirl of satin skirts. He tried to decline, but she was already pulling him with considerable enthusiasm to the floor for the next set. Hurriedly, he handed a footman his empty glass. “Ye know the steps, dunnae ye? ’Tis an English country dance.”
“I learned the same as ye, lass.”
It was not a dance conducive to conversation, so Niall concentrated on the steps, smiling as they came together and then twirled apart, changed partners, and repeated the sequence. It was entertaining, particularly to watch Hamish, who’d also been pulled into the dance, bumbling the steps beside them, and Niall was enjoying himself. On one of the quarter turns, suddenly, something prickled against the back of his neck. An instinctive awareness that filled him from head to toe—one reminiscent of danger, or what felt like danger, at least. His eyes flicked to the entrance and his breath deserted him at the woman who had just entered the ballroom.
Aisla.
The sight of her nearly knocked him to his knees. As it was, he went stock still. The other dancers nearly twirled into him, while others took extra steps to avoid a collision. He was blind to all but her. She stood at the top of the staircase like a vision in sapphire satin, her shoulders poised and her face as exquisitely beautiful as he remembered. A rope of diamonds twisted into her lustrous golden hair, a blush riding high on those proud cheekbones. She looked stunning and fierce. His Venus.
Sweet Home Highlander Page 29