“At Tarbendale?”
Aisla tapped his heart and spread her palm wide over his skin, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath it.
“Here with you.” Her lips found his. “Wherever you are, I’m home.”
Epilogue
Two (lengthy) months later
Niall stood, stiff-backed, at the altar, his heart beating like a battalion of war horses on the attack. Hell, his nerves needed to calm down. He was getting married, not hanged. And he was marrying Aisla. The woman he loved. The only woman he’d ever loved. Why the devil was he so bloody nervous?
Beside him, Ronan cleared his throat as the rest of the wedding guests waited in the pews, their heads turned toward the church doors in preparation for Aisla’s appearance.
“Ye look like ye want to retch,” Ronan whispered.
“Shut yer gob.”
“What’s wrong? I thought ye wanted to marry the lass.”
Niall shifted his footing. He did. He wanted nothing more than to be able to call Aisla his wife again, and this time, for it to be real and legal in the eyes of God and the law. And for the love of Christ, he’d been the one to insist on a church wedding. The night she’d returned during Ronan’s birthday celebration, Aisla had lain in bed, her foot rubbing up and down Niall’s shin, and proposed they elope. Again.
“We’re already practically married,” she’d said, her luscious, naked body flush against his. His child—their child—growing inside of her.
Niall had refused. No, this time, they were going to do things the proper way. It was their second chance. Their new beginning, and he was going to make it right, with absolutely no regrets. Aisla had readily acquiesced, and now, after two months planning and waiting for the Montgomery clansmen and women to travel to Maclaren to see her wed in truth, the day had arrived.
And Niall wanted to kick his own arse for rejecting the idea of elopement.
“I want to marry her more than I want to take my next breath,” he told Ronan as the conversation in the church continued, thankfully masking their voices.
“Then what’s the problem, bràthair? I already told ye, scrubbing the debt ye owe me is yer wedding present.”
And Niall had been surprised and grateful for Ronan’s generosity. His brother had insisted he’d won the wager, after all. In truth, his nerves didn’t have anything to do with the number of people waiting to watch them wed. It didn’t have to do with the formality of it all. The ceremony or tradition.
“I want to make her happy,” Niall answered.
It wasn’t something he’d given much thought to the first time around. He’d been too young and selfish. Now, however, it was all that mattered. Had he already muddled everything by insisting on a church wedding with a grand reception after?
The doors to the church opened, letting in a wash of near-blinding early afternoon sunlight, and when Aisla stepped forward into view, every last worry was sucked straight out of his mind.
She looked radiant. Her golden tresses loosely piled atop her head, ringlets framing her lovely face. A harpist began to pluck the strings of her instrument, and Aisla started slowly down the aisle toward him, her oldest half brother, Brandt, the Duke of Glenross and the Montgomery laird on her right, and Lord Leclerc on her left.
Both men were walking her down the aisle, the Montgomery laird spearing Niall with a scowl of pure warning, while the Frenchman wore his usual smirking grin. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t inclined to punch it off his face. He was too worried about his brother-in-law. Brandt was married to Niall’s sister Sorcha, and she had never forgiven him for eloping the first time, which meant that he was already on the laird’s bad side. Not to mention the fact that he had practically ruined the man’s sister with their first sham of a marriage. He had much to make up for. But then his gaze caught his bride’s and everything else ceased to matter.
Niall’s heart threatened to burst in his chest when he saw her smiling at him, unabashed joy in her eyes, glistening with unshed tears. Aisla carried herself with regal poise and unswerving pride, her steps certain and eager. Her gown, fashioned of creamy white lace and silk, billowed behind her, and Niall saw the distinct wink of topaz gemstones, sewn into the bodice and hem, as the sunlight hit them at just the right angle. Ivory elbow length gloves covered her arms, the bracelet she’d bought in the village clasped on her left wrist. She fairly glowed, she did. She was so, so beautiful…and she was his.
“Ye want to make her happy?” Ronan murmured, Niall having forgotten him and everyone else in the chapel. “Looks like ye’ve got a good start.”
She reached the altar, and when both Brandt and Leclerc peeled off from her side, Niall stepped forward to take her hand, his heart no longer drumming madly. There was nothing to be nervous about, at all, so long as she was by his side.
“Ye’re the most perfect thing in this world,” he told her, to which Aisla only laughed and shook her head.
“I’ve got a belly the size of Hamish’s,” she replied as the congregation took their seats and the harpist concluded.
He eyed her abdomen, which had, indeed, started to show a wonderful roundness. Niall wanted to place his palm against the swell, as he usually did, but resisted.
“Nonsense,” he whispered. “Ye’ve got a few more months before ye match his belly.”
She laughed, her eyes still twinkling and damp, and as the priest began to speak, Niall felt utterly bound to her. They’d come so far, each of them growing for a time in separate directions. But they’d found each other again, and he knew with the deepest conviction of his soul, that this time, they’d continue to grow together.
When the priest called for the rings to be exchanged, Aisla slipped a silver and bronze ceilidh band onto his ring finger.
“It belonged to my uncle, my mother’s first husband, the Duke of Glenross. He was her first and only love,” she explained. “As you are mine.”
Niall glanced out at the Montgomerys filling the pews, and caught Aisla’s mother’s tearful eyes. Lady Catriona smiled and nodded once, and when Brandt took his mother’s hand in his, Niall felt the laird’s equal approval. His sister Sorcha sat at her husband’s side, her pride and affection toward Niall unmistakable. His throat felt tight. Of his three sisters, Sorcha was the one he was closest to, and not because of the scarring on her face that she’d sustained from a wolf as a child, but because she’d always looked out for him. Perhaps because they were connected by tragedy—she used to be betrothed to the man who’d brutally taken Niall’s hand. Apart from Aisla, she was the strongest woman he knew.
He turned to Ronan then, who handed him a small wooden box. He removed the lid, and took out the ring he’d spent the better half of the last month crafting in his studio. He’d started the piece when she’d left and finished it in earnest over the last few weeks. When he took Aisla’s hand and slipped it on her finger, she gasped in wonder, and he knew it had been worth the effort.
“Oh, Niall,” she said, gently touching her fingertips to the intricately carved ring: two separate pieces of cairngorm topaz, one a darker shade of amber, and the other a clear gold, chiseled and cut into the shape of two hands, each one intertwined and clasping the other at the wrist. He’d chosen hands instead of the more traditional heart for a reason.
“It’s no’ just our hearts that are linked now,” he told her. “But our lives. Our families.” And ignoring his earlier resistance to putting his palm on her stomach, did so now. “Our future children. Ye’re my partner, Aisla. And finally, my wife.”
Her tears fell, unhindered, and yet she smiled so brightly, she was nearly as blinding as the sun.
“How I love you, Niall,” she said, throwing her arms around him and kissing him.
He laughed against her lips, as the priest politely coughed. Aisla quickly composed herself, though Niall saw the spark of mischief in her sly grin.
“I think we should finish the ceremony, don’t ye?” he whispered. She gave a pert nod, her adoring and eager gaze st
ill locked on him.
The sooner he could get back to calling her “wife,” the better.
…
The reception at Tarbendale wore on into the evening, and Aisla was starting to feel the ache of exhaustion in the small of her back. She was only about three months into her pregnancy, and was still worried for the babe, but at the same time something felt different. She didn’t know how to explain the odd confidence she had that this child would be born hale and healthy. Perhaps it was her own peace of mind with Niall, or the fact that the foundation of their marriage was stronger this time.
But as she sat at the head of the long table in Tarben Castle’s great hall, platters of meat and puddings and sweets piled high around her, her eyes heavy and sleepy as she watched her husband dancing with her sister-in-law Sorcha, Aisla felt complete and utter serenity.
“Don’t you look like the cat that got the mouse,” Julien said from where he sat beside her, nursing a goblet of wine.
“I wouldnae let my brother hear ye likening him to a mouse,” Makenna said from Aisla’s other side. The three of them were watching the festivities, which included in the far corner of the great hall, a man juggling daggers.
“Excellent advice, my lady,” Julien replied, leaning slightly forward to look at Makenna. “Would you care for a dance?”
“I’ve already told ye nae three times,” she said. “Ye’re either stubborn or dumb as an ox.”
“If you’re trying to dissuade me from wanting to dance with you, it won’t work. I’m used to insults from this one,” he said, patting Aisla on the arm.
She swatted at him, laughing. “Please dance with him, Makenna. He’s making me miserable with all his wretched pissing and moaning like an old woman.”
Julien pushed back his chair. “See what I have to put up with?”
Makenna threw up her arms and stood as well. “Very well. I suppose I’ll make the sacrifice.”
Julien grinned and finished his wine in one gulp to follow Niall’s sister to the floor. Aisla laughed at them, feeling the first tug of sadness all day. Though Makenna hadn’t yet spoken of returning to her husband, Aisla knew it had to happen soon. She had promised to stay at Maclaren until the wedding, but she had to have been gone from the Brodie for long enough. The man would surely want his wife back.
And with the duke now recovering from his illness, there was little reason for her to linger. She’d miss Makenna dearly, and as she and Julien joined the other dancers, Aisla had the curious notion that he would miss her as well. Not that Julien would ever admit to it, though. He would return to Paris shortly, and “get on with things,” as he’d called it. Whether or not that meant searching for another potential wife Aisla didn’t know. She found it hard to believe there were many women who didn’t long for love and passion in a marriage.
What a fool she’d been to believe she was one of them. Lord, she’d nearly had herself convinced.
Her eyes caught on Niall, making his way from the floor and toward the table. He stalked toward her with the same secretive grin he’d worn all day whenever they crossed glances. As if he had something entirely naughty on his mind—which he likely did. Aisla would be lying if she said she wasn’t anticipating their wedding night. They’d made love countless times since the night she returned to Maclaren to propose, and yet, every time she felt some new level of wonder with him.
“I sincerely hope ye’re not in any danger of falling asleep, Lady Tarbendale,” he murmured as he leaned over and kissed the lobe of her ear. Her body leaned toward him, as if pulled by a magnetic force. The effect he had on her was inexplicable. She never stopped wanting him or craving his touch.
“I’m quite certain I’ll be too…aroused to so much as close my eyes,” she replied, her attention drifting pointedly toward the front of his trousers as he took the chair beside her. Niall’s eyes flared. He looked ready to toss her over his shoulder and carry her upstairs.
“I’m ready if ye are,” he said, and she felt a physical thrill of want pulse through her. “Bloody hell,” he growled, making her blink with surprise at the sudden shift in tone. She noticed his attention had drifted to the dancers. “Leclerc is taking too many liberties with Makenna.”
“It’s a waltz, Niall.”
“He’s a rake and she’s married.” Only Aisla’s hand on his arm restrained him from stomping to the dance floor and separating them like a mother hen. He glared at her.
“Let them be. Makenna looks happier than I’ve ever seen her, and at least Julien isn’t busy provoking any of our brothers to fisticuffs.”
Niall looked mollified at the thought, but Aisla couldn’t help noticing the undercurrent between the waltzing couple. They made a striking pair—with her vibrant, fiery coloring and his tall golden Adonis looks. If Makenna weren’t already married, she’d be worried for her sister-in-law’s sake. Julien did have a reputation for leaving wrecked hearts in his wake, and she would not want Makenna to be yet another casualty. The dance ended and each of them went off in different directions. Aisla let out a relieved breath, as did Niall.
“See,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.”
She did not remark on the fact that Julien went around the hallway toward the very exit Makenna had taken. Perhaps it was simply a coincidence.
Niall scowled. “He’s a bounder.”
She tweaked her husband on the ear. “He’s family to me, and he’s not entirely a scoundrel. He did offer to marry me, you know…if you refused to, I mean.”
“I’ll pound him into the ground.”
“There’ll be no fighting on our wedding day, Niall Maclaren. And you do have him to thank for seeing me safely here.”
“Aye,” he grumbled. “I suppose I’ll have to allow him back on Tarbendale lands in return. But that Frenchman is nae family of mine.”
Aisla laughed and looked over the crowded great hall. Her brothers, Callan and Patrick, and Niall’s brothers, Evan and Finlay, stood in close conference, the four of them loudly arguing over something or the other. But whatever the problem was, Aisla knew it would be forgotten in the next few minutes—or whenever the next round of whiskys were poured. Brandt and Sorcha were dancing slowly, their attention firmly pinned on each other now that their two young children, Aisla’s rambunctious nephew, Rabbie, and her darling niece, Gavina, had been bustled off to bed. Lady Dunrannoch and Lady Catriona were seated together with glasses of claret, whispering and giggling intermittently. Even Niall’s father, the duke, had made a brief appearance.
“They all look happy, don’t they?” Aisla murmured.
“Aye,” Niall agreed. “Though I suspect that Evan and Finlay are up to nothing good with yer brothers. I wager there’ll be a drinking contest or someaught soon, which means there’ll be brawling.”
She laughed. “As long as they keep their kilts over their knees, your mother will be pleased.”
“What about my kilt?”
Aisla’s mouth went dry at the lewd suggestion in his voice, her gaze sliding to his lap once more and darting away. “Behave.”
Her husband leaned over, and with a Herculean display of strength, lifted her up and into his lap in one swift movement, making her gasp. He nuzzled her neck, his right hand dancing up the outside of her thigh. “What if I dunnae want to? What if I want to start a scandal to end all scandals, in which the randy laird debauches his sumptuously pregnant wife in the grand hall during their wedding feast.”
“Niall!” she protested. “The servants are staring.”
His hot tongue swirled against her sensitive skin, making her tremble. “That’s the point of a scandal, leannan. We’re new-married.” He chuckled wickedly into her ear. “It’s no’ as though the servants haven’t heard yer screams the last few weeks.”
Aisla blushed ferociously and bit her lip. It was true that she had been pushed to the pinnacle of pleasure so much so that she hadn’t been able to control herself, but it was truly dreadful of him to mention it. She pinched his arm. “Hush, you aw
ful man!”
“I’m only teasing ye.” He kissed her on the lips, licking sweetly, a promise of things to come. “I love ye madly, lass. And everyone here is happy because we’re happy.”
It was true—they were. Their families had always gotten on well, but there was a palpable relief in the air now that she and Niall were together again. Properly. She thought of the wedding band Niall had made her, of the clasped topaz hands that represented more than love. It represented endurance and family, and ties that weren’t so easily severed. Seeing the Montgomerys and Maclarens together now, Aisla felt as if her two halves were finally merging seamlessly. Finally, she was where she belonged.
Aisla turned to Niall, mischief underscoring her lilting brogue. “I love ye, too, ye ken. And I’ve been ready for ye since the first time I laid eyes on ye,” she whispered, lacing her fingers with his. “Ye’ve ruined me for any other, Niall Maclaren.”
“Good, because I dunnae want to have to kill anyone.” He smothered her laughter with his lips, his gaze going tender. “Ye’re my match, Aisla. My love, mo gràidh, my heart. And I am devoted to making ye deliriously happy for the rest of yer life, if ye’ll allow me.”
Aisla beamed at her husband, the joy in her heart overflowing. “That sounds like a perfectly wonderful plan.”
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Authors’ Note and Acknowledgments
Sometimes, historical research can deliver surprises. While researching for Sweet Home Highlander, we discovered a gem: divorce in nineteenth-century Scotland was more modern and far less of a hassle than it was in England, and had been for quite some time. After the Scottish Reformation in 1560, it was possible for a marriage to be dissolved through the Commissary Court of Edinburgh and the Court of Session on the grounds of adultery and desertion, whereas before, the options for an unhappy couple were limited to annulment or separation. Though there was a stumbling block, in that the expense for legal proceedings barred most Scottish citizens from seeking them out. With the right resources, power, and determination, however, a divorce was obtainable. For Aisla and Niall, this possibility opened up doors for their story—though, of course, we aimed for a happy ever after, instead!
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