“The clan with whom your father wanted to form an alliance?”
“Yes, well, Dougal Buchanan visited me at Maclaren out of the blue one day. His father had sent him to meet with a neighboring clan of the Maclarens, the Campbells, and he decided to stop in. He had no ill feelings about the broken engagement years before, and it was good to see a friendly face. I’d been so lonely, you see. But even that was misconstrued. One of the women put a maggot into Niall’s ear that I’d been intimate with Dougal.”
“And he listened to her?” Julien asked incredulously.
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Because you were his wife and pregnant with his child.”
“Nonetheless, he believed her lies. His drunken fog helped with that.” She shrugged, barely able to breathe but forcing the rest out. “Anyway, the tragic end of the story is that things fell apart from there, and I lost the baby. We were both drowning in grief, and instead of coming together for comfort, we drew further away from each other. In the end, Niall told me to leave and go back to Montgomery.”
She tried to keep her voice light, but it still cracked. For six years, she hadn’t been able to think of that moment, when her husband had thrown her away, without the sensation of a stone lodging in her throat.
“Mon Dieu, Aisla, I am so sorry.”
She drew a deep, cleansing breath. “That part of my life is over and finished. Now you understand why I kept my past such a secret, and now that you have heard it all, you can decide whether you still desire a life with me or not.”
Julien turned to face her, his pale eyes full of warmth and compassion. “I do, and I haven’t been entirely honest with you, either.” He paused with a wry smile. “It’s not in my nature to be so open, but in the interests of reciprocation here, you also deserve the truth of why I asked you to marry me.”
Aisla peered at him, alarmed and curious, especially when his usual wry grin flattened into a somber line. “My mother is dying.”
She sat back. “Oh, Julien. I’m so sorry.”
“She’s everything to me, and her only wish is to see me wed.” He took her hands in his and raised her knuckles to his lips. “I can’t think of a better daughter-in-law for her—or a better wife for me—than you. If you’ll have me.” He grinned. “After, of course, I thrash the living hell out of your estranged bean-brained Scot.”
She stared at him, incredulous. “You’ll come to Scotland?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
…
Tarbendale, Scotland, July 1828
Two months later
Niall consulted with William, the head foreman of one of his largest cairngorm mines to the west of his property at Tarbendale. There’d been frantic reports of a collapsed section in one of the tunnels, but thankfully, none of the workers had been hurt. He took the safety of his clansmen seriously, and for more than just the simple reason that he wanted to send them home to their families in one piece. They were all working toward the same common goal—to make Tarbendale as profitable as possible. It had been Niall’s solitary objective for the past five years, and he still had a long way to go.
He rubbed a filthy hand across his brow, accepting a cup from one of the women who brought fresh water to the mine workers. He turned back to the foreman, who was surveying the dust-covered men leaving the quarry. It would cost them a pretty penny to re-dig the section that had fallen, but they’d discovered a new vein that looked promising. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. They would just have to be more careful.
“Tell Duncan to take care when he goes back into that tunnel on the morrow. I dunnae want to risk the lives of anyone if more of it caves in.”
“Aye, m’laird.” William shifted restlessly as if he had something else to say, and Niall raised his brow. “Ye should ken that the retaining boards had just been checked a day or two ago, and there wasnae a loose one.”
Niall frowned. The boards, put into place to stop the walls and ceilings from caving in, were checked on a regular basis. The ground shifted now and again, and the boards would loosen over time. If William said they were all tight a day ago, he believed him. There would be no reason for them to be loose so soon unless someone had deliberately tampered with them, or removed a handful altogether. “Ye suspect foul play?”
“Mayhap. Those boards didnae loosen themselves, m’laird.”
Niall’s frown deepened. Lately, the feud with the Campbells had been escalating, but apart from missing sheep and cattle, and a few bloody border skirmishes where their lands intersected, it hadn’t been too bad. This kind of subversion, however, was new. And dangerous. Innocent workers could have been killed.
Things had been tense between the Maclarens and Campbells ever since Ronan had refused to wed one of the Campbells’ unmarried daughters. And rightly so. When her father had suggested the alliance to Ronan last year at a clan festival, Ronan had dismissed the proposal, along with the next two propositions by Laird Campbell. Ronan’s continued refusal to marry for a one-sided alliance had only made things more fraught between the two clans.
“Post a few watchmen,” Niall said with a dark scowl. “At least until we get to the bottom of it. If it is the bloody Campbells, they’ll have me to answer to.”
“Aye, m’laird.”
“What’s this about the Campbells?” a deep voice asked.
Niall turned to see Ronan stalking down the hillside toward him. The corner of his mouth tilted up into a grin. “About yer marriage, bràthair. Or lack of it.” He proceeded to summarize what had happened with the mine and William’s suspicion that the collapse hadn’t been an accident. “They’re growing bolder. Trying to antagonize us, so that we either go to war or give them the wedding and alliance they’ve been seeking.”
“They have nothing of value to offer us,” Ronan said, crossing his large arms over his chest. “And I dunnae wish to marry.” His blue eyes centered on Niall, one brow hitching. “Speaking of marriage, it’s about time that ye consider the same.”
Niall’s humor vanished at his brother’s words. First Hamish, now Ronan. The pair of them had to be in league. Though the thought of his erstwhile wife was never far from his mind, no one ever had the ballocks to speak to him about her. No one but Hamish or Ronan, clearly. His hand curled into a fist at his side as he resisted the urge to lay his brother flat on his presumptuous arse.
“Careful, bràthair.”
“It’s been six years, Niall,” Ronan said, and every inch of him bristled at the ugly reminder. “She’s no’ coming back. Perhaps ye should marry one of the Campbell’s daughters and save me the trouble.”
“As far as I know, bigamy is still a crime,” Niall mumbled.
By law and by God, Lady Aisla Maclaren was still his wife.
The love of his life, too, if he was being honest, until he’d taken her home to Maclaren and she’d turned as icy as a loch in the dead of winter. His family and clan had been upset over the elopement, but he and Aisla had known to expect as much. Hell, he’d have wagered good coin and a barrel of whisky that he’d suffered more than she had when they’d first arrived. Ronan had given him a walloping that had left his head ringing for a day and his teeth loose for a week. Yet she brooded, day in and day out, barely speaking two words whenever they were together.
He’d imagined she might be homesick, but her turnabout had been something else. A complete change of heart. Desire had never been lacking between them, but something had shifted, the remote look in her eyes growing more distant by the day. Niall suspected she regretted it all. Regretted the fact that she was with child. Regretted marrying him.
Old feelings resurfaced to swamp him as he stood there, and Niall swallowed the bitter emotions. It was over…all in the past, and yet the memory of it still twisted him up in knots. No wonder he’d gone straight for the bottle.
He glared at his brother. “I married once. I dunnae intend to make that mistake again.”
“It willnae be a mistake, n
o’ if ye do it right this time. Ye should look to a clanswoman, one of yer own people. I’m sure Fenella would be more than open to the possibility.”
Aye, Fenella would. The lass had been angling for marriage since before he’d even met Aisla. Niall felt a twinge of discomfort. It was no secret that Aisla had mistrusted Fenella, and the feeling had been mutual. But Fenella had been his friend longer than his short marriage to Aisla. She’d been there after the Marquess of Malvern had ordered his hand removed, helping her mother, a healer, to care for the gruesome stump, and making sure it didn’t turn septic. Never once had Fenella flinched at the sight of it while changing his bandages, and she’d always slip him extra sips from a whisky flask that she hid in her skirt pocket. She hadn’t pitied him, like some of the other women and men tended to do, and when, years later, he’d been at a complete loss at how to make his wife happy, Fenella had been there for him once again, as ballast.
Aisla had even accused him of encouraging Fenella, which was absurd. Fenella was a striking lass, but he hadn’t desired her, or any other, since the day he’d met Aisla. He’d wanted his bloody wife. And he’d wanted her to want him again, the way she used to. But wanting something didn’t make it happen.
After the loss of the bairn, Aisla had taken to sleeping in the adjoining antechamber. At first, Niall had thought she needed the space, which he had as well. The loss of the babe had devastated him, and the only way he could cope had been to drown the feelings before they suffocated him. He’d turned to drink so he wouldn’t have to think. Or feel.
In the end, he had driven her away. Acid built in his throat. Niall remembered the day like it was yesterday, even though he’d been nearly three sheets to the wind. Dougal Buchanan had returned with his wife atop his horse from a local fair, claiming that her mare had turned up lame. Stung by jealousy and jug-bitten, Niall had speared his wife with a look of contempt after Dougal had taken his leave.
“Ye speak with a forked tongue, lass,” he’d accused in a hard voice. “Accusing me of wanting Fenella when it’s clear ye still have feelings for yer first love.”
“Are ye foxed?” she said.
Niall had bared his teeth in a smile, refusing to back down. “No’ enough to miss the way he looked at ye.”
“Well, at least someone does!” she’d snapped back.
“Do ye want him?” he’d asked, his own anger rising. Why wouldn’t she have desired the Buchanan? He was strong. He was the eldest son of a wealthy chieftain. And most of all, he was whole and in possession of all his limbs. His words had been heedless, meant to hurt. “Did ye spread yer legs for him, Aisla?”
Her eyes had sparked with tears and defiance. “Ye’re a useless drunk.”
“Better a drunk than a tart. Did ye?”
Even now, years later, Niall knew he would never forget the expression in his wife’s eyes at that moment; the hardness that had descended over the look of excruciating anguish. Her chin had wobbled and hitched, her voice as clear as a bell.
“What if I did? Would it make any difference to ye?”
Nor could he forget the pain that had burned through his ale-muddled mind, and his subsequent reply, “Then ye should go back to Montgomery.”
“Ye want me to leave?”
“Aye.”
And proud as she was, she had. She’d left him.
In hindsight, Niall knew his drinking had been out of hand. Perhaps things would have been different if he’d been the man then that he was now. He sighed. It was no use dwelling on what could have been. He drew in a heavy breath. Maybe Ronan was right. Maybe it was time to move on, to marry someone who actually cared about Scotland or Clan Maclaren. Or him.
Because Lord knew Aisla Maclaren didn’t.
Ronan cuffed him in the shoulder to capture his waning attention. “How about one of Hamish’s sisters? The MacLeods are like family anyway. Ye need to have some bairns.”
Niall shot his older brother a sour look. “I’m no’ the one inheriting the title of the Duke of Dunrannoch and having to concern himself with miniature future dukes.”
“But ye are laird of Tarbendale,” Ronan shot back. “And yer people want ye to be happy. Isnae it time to move on?”
“My current wife might have someaught to say about it,” he said, scrubbing his right hand through the tangled snarls of his hair. “Wherever she is.”
“Ye ken where she is,” Ronan said drily. “And even if ye didnae, a letter came for ye at the Maclaren keep.”
His gaze slammed into his brother who had removed a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. “A letter?”
“Aye, from Paris, dated seven weeks ago.”
“What does it say?” he said dispassionately, ignoring the sudden slow throb of his treacherous, stupid heart. And his sudden desire to snatch for the paper. What did he care what the damned letter said?
“Do ye no’ want to read it?”
Niall growled his displeasure. “Ronan.”
“Fine.” Ronan laughed and unfolded it. “It says yer wife wants to talk in person.”
His surprise was immediate. “About what?”
“She doesnae say, only that she asks for a modicum of yer time at yer convenience. At Maclaren or in Paris.”
Niall frowned. What on earth would his wife want to talk about now? The only possibility that occurred to him was reconciliation, and he would never take her back. Not even if she got down on her knees and begged. His breath snagged.
The picture of his wife on her knees before him—golden blond hair falling in glossy curls over bare shoulders, her deep copper-colored eyes peering up at him, desire burning in them—struck him like a caber to the head. His knees almost snapped at the hot surge of lust that swept through him.
He swore a foul oath and turned to face his brother. “Care for a turn in the ring?”
“With ye?” His brother shot him a knowing grin.
Niall bared his teeth. “Aye.”
“I hope ye ken what ye’re asking for, little bràthair.”
Ronan would give him the bracing round he needed to thrash the useless memories swimming around inside of him. “I do.”
Once they were in the fighting ring and armed with claymores, Niall shoved unwanted images of Aisla to the back of his mind and focused on the fight with his brother. In one-on-one combat, he’d only ever beaten Ronan twice. His brother’s skill was legendary. At first, he’d only fought Niall with his left hand, but after Niall’s own finesse became evident, Ronan had had to fight with all his own considerable expertise and without holding back.
Niall fended off a few bone-jarring hits, countering his brother’s bearlike strength with several sleek turns of his own sword, as steel met steel in a shower of sparks. After several punishing turns, Niall shifted backward out of reach. He was panting with exertion. Ronan wasn’t holding back now. His blows were exacting. And Niall was distracted. Too distracted with thoughts of that sodding letter.
Should he respond? It’d been nearly two months since she’d written it. Did she expect it? He had no desire to see her, here or in Paris. Nor was he amenable to whatever it was she wanted. A larger allowance? More pin money? He’d seen to it that she had more than enough to live in the lap of luxury, even while they’d been apart.
What the bloody hell does she want?
Ronan’s claymore slammed into his breastplate with the force of a stampeding elk, and Niall felt his feet go out from underneath him. His back met the dirt in the paddock, driving the breath straight out of his lungs. He lay on the ground, stunned, for only a second before he rolled to the side and leaped to his feet. Raucous guffaws reached him. Hamish, who had joined the small crowd watching the match, stood nearby with Fenella, doubled over in laughter.
“How the hell did ye no’ see that one coming?” Hamish crowed, the surrounding men and women who’d been watching the match joining in his friend’s amusement. Niall’s skin flushed, the desire to crack Hamish in his meaty jaw stronger than his earlier urge to be pummeled
by Ronan.
“Go chug yerself, Hamish,” Niall said, knowing the fight was over. He was lucky he hadn’t lost his remaining good hand to Ronan’s blade with his grievous lack of focus. Niall tore off his soaked shirt and wiped his face with the soft fabric. Perhaps a swim in the ice-cold loch would be less fratricidal.
“I dunnae ken why ye’re laughing, Hamish,” Fenella said loyally, coming to stand at Niall’s side. “’Tis no’ as though ye could have fought Ronan and remained standing.”
Ronan grinned at her praise. He had claimed victory this time. Niall flexed his fingers, re-gripping the handle of his own sword, while the leather-covered stump of his left hand hung at his side. It tingled, and he could almost feel his missing fingers. It wasn’t the first time it felt as if his hand was still there…but invisible. He handed his claymore to Fenella and rubbed along the length of his forearm.
“Next time, bràthair, I’ll go easy on ye,” Ronan said.
Niall scowled. “Next time, ye’ll no’ have the advantage with news of that damned letter.”
“Letter?” Hamish asked, curiosity lacing his tone.
Niall sighed and turned to explain to his friend. Hamish would find out sooner or later. But the man was not focused on him. His mouth had dropped open, his question currently forgotten, his eyes fastened on something in the distance.
“Who the bloody hell is that?”
Following his stare, Niall turned and froze. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him atop the small hill heading back toward Tarben Castle. Two people approached on horseback, a man and a woman. But it was the smaller figure who captured his attention. A stunning woman who made his heart drum out of time.
Every muscle in his body tightened to the point of pain.
She sat like a queen, back ramrod straight, her expensive silk skirts carefully arranged over the side of the horse she rode. Her flaxen hair was styled to within an inch of its life, a cluster of shining curls artfully falling at her temples. Her face, though older, was exquisitely beautiful and haughty.
She murmured something to the stranger at her side, her chin turning regally in his direction as they guided the horses down the encampment. Glacial eyes the color of iced sherry fell to Niall and the woman beside him, her mouth tightening and that proud chin of hers jutting higher. Despite the wild conjecture of his pulse, Niall pushed a mocking smile to his lips.
Sweet Home Highlander Page 3
