Sweet Home Highlander

by Amalie Howard

  “Hell, Hamish, after all yer chatter the other day,” he drawled, his voice belying all of the emotion churning inside of him, “dunnae ye recognize my lady wife?”

  Chapter Three

  Aisla darted a glance at the brooding man sitting opposite her at the head of the dining table at the Maclaren keep and tried to quell the sudden hammering of her heart. Good Lord but her husband had put on a stone of muscle since she’d last seen him, and the Scottish sun had baked his skin a glowing bronze. He radiated good health and virility. Her traitorous pulse ratcheted up a notch.

  The elaborate dinner was nearing its end and had been unexpectedly pleasant, though tension had reared its head several times. Mostly when her husband’s searching blue gaze met hers. She’d hardly recognized him in the fields near Tarben Castle, where she and Julien had been directed upon their arrival at Maclaren. Aisla had caught the tail end of his fight with his older brother, Ronan. For a big man, Niall had moved with unearthly grace and unerring lethal force.

  Before they’d approached, she remembered laughing and telling Julien that a trip to the Highlands wasn’t complete without a brawl of some sort. Only when her gaze had swung back to the ring had she taken in the details of Ronan’s opponent’s appearance. And his missing left hand.

  She had not been prepared.

  Aisla had known it would be a shock seeing Niall again. But the visceral bolt of desire at seeing him stripped to the waist, his damp, muscled chest heaving with exertion and leashed energy, had taken her completely unawares. Her heart might have bent to her will in matters of estrangement, but her body had not. His boyish beauty had been whittled into something raw. Something primal and devastatingly masculine. Something that made her body respond with emotions she’d thought long dead.

  Aisla could not reconcile the imposing man who now dominated the hall with the boy she’d married. Certainly, the facial resemblance was there, in his Maclaren blue eyes and the square slant of his jaw. But apart from the startling physical changes, his full mouth no longer held a curve of secretive mischief, and his reddish-brown hair was longer than he’d ever worn it, glinting with strands of gold and copper. A sense of danger enveloped him now, a cold, cynical glint in those eyes. She sensed that he was not a man one would want to cross, not unless one wanted to provoke the very devil.

  A soft sound escaped her as her heart squeezed painfully, and Julien’s hand reached over to press hers in a reassuring gesture beneath the table. “Are you well, chérie?” he whispered.

  “Yes, of course.” She took comfort from his familiar presence and dragged herself back to the present, and the situation at hand. She was there for a purpose. She had to secure her freedom…her future.

  Julien grinned, his voice low even though the others in the great hall would easily drown his words. “You failed to mention that my competition was a brute the size of a house who looks like he wants to tear me in half.” He chuckled. “Not, of course, that I couldn’t give him enough of a challenge. I still intend to wipe the floor with him.”

  Aisla shook her head at the declaration. Julien was not a small man, but he was not a brawler. He’d avoided several duels caused by his sly humor for years. Though she knew he boxed and fenced in Paris to stay as fit as he was, that was a far cry from the brutal sport they’d witnessed in the field at Tarben Castle earlier.

  “It won’t come to that,” she said. “Niall hasn’t wanted me in six years. I doubt he’ll put up much of a fight now.”

  “Then he’s a fool,” he replied, lifting her knuckles to his lips.

  Aisla didn’t hear the snarl, she felt it. And then the force of her soon-to-be former husband’s stare bore down on her with the heft of a battering ram, along with several other pairs of eyes at the table. She had to force herself to keep from cringing, and instead, straightened her spine. But for a registry of a hasty marriage, Niall Maclaren no longer had any claim on her. Nor did she owe the Dunrannoch heir, Ronan, whose scowl matched his brother’s in intensity, anything. He’d assumed his father’s place for the evening since the duke was bedridden, but he’d hardly said more than two words of greeting to her.

  Aisla did recoil at the wounded look on the duchess’s face, however. During Aisla’s few months at Maclaren, Lady Dunrannoch had been nothing but kind to her, when she hadn’t been busy with her charitable duties at the nearby convent. Then, Aisla had been left to fend for herself. It wasn’t the duchess’s fault. It was her son’s. He’d abandoned her to the wolves in favor of drink and tomfoolery when she’d needed him the most.

  She met Niall’s glower with cool hauteur, a look she’d practiced in Paris, and one she wielded as effectively as any weapon to deter even the most ardent of admirers. Niall simply stared back, his hard mouth curling into a blade of a smile.

  “So, my lady, to what do we owe the honor of yer visit? Yer letter did no’ say,” he finally asked, lifting his goblet, and Aisla’s eyes narrowed on the jeweled cup. Hers contained wine, his would be filled with whisky or ale. Some things hadn’t changed then. His voice, though, was the same, its husky timbre doing unwelcome things to her senses. “Surely, ye’re no’ bored of Paris or the fat purse I send to yer aunt every year.”

  Aisla flushed and then gritted her teeth. Any money he sent was part of her generous dowry from her brother, the Duke of Glenross. But she refused to argue the fact with him here, in front of everyone. “No, it’s a personal matter. I did not wish to write about it, and I had hoped for a response from you before making the journey here, in case you were not in residence.”

  “Where else would I be? This is my home.”

  It was a jab aimed at her, she knew. That she had abandoned it and him. Aisla squared her shoulders, keeping the past and its memories firmly locked away. She wasn’t there to reminisce or revisit old hurts. “I stand corrected.”

  Her husband’s eyes glinted as he lifted his cup to his lips, no doubt seeking reinforcement from its contents. He had to have guessed why she was here. It was the sole reason that would bring her back to Scotland, after all. She’d never belonged here, and a handful of hours back at Maclaren had only reminded her as much.

  “Well, then make your matters known, bhean, as some of us have responsibilities to tend to.”

  The Gaelic word for wife was delivered like an insult. Julien stiffened at her side, but it was the duchess who came to the rescue. “Niall is now laird of Tarben Castle,” she said hastily, though with some amount of pride.

  “Tarben Castle?” Aisla replied in surprise. “Doesn’t that belong to Sorcha?”

  Her sister-in-law had mentioned that the tract of land that bordered Maclaren had been part of her dowry.

  “’Tis mine now.”

  Niall was a laird. Aisla squashed the flare of pride. A part of her wasn’t surprised. When he wasn’t drunk and senseless, he’d had a fine enough brain, and was capable of accomplishing anything he set his mind to. Including his marriage to her. He’d planned it all—from the carriage to Inverness, to the tiny chapel that had been filled with purple heather and blushing lilies, to the inn where they’d consummated their vows by candlelight. He’d been so gentle, so loving, that when they’d found pleasure together, it had brought tears of happiness to her eyes.

  Aisla breathed through the sudden onset of sorrow. He was no longer that man, and she was no longer that naive girl.

  “Congratulations,” she murmured.

  “So, Lord Leclerc,” Ronan said when Niall didn’t respond and the awkward silence stretched toward incivility. “How do ye find Scotland?”

  “Fascinating in ways, boorishly savage in others.”

  Niall’s gaze snapped to Julien’s, the tension in the room going nearly solid, though an airy smile remained on Julien’s lips. He was provoking him deliberately, and Niall seemed to be seconds away from leaping over the table.

  Hoping to avoid bloodshed, Aisla addressed her husband. “May we speak privately?”

  “Whatever ye want to say can be said here, las
s.” He waved a rigid arm, one that looked like it would be happier throttling the man at her side. “We’re family, after all. Well, except for yer…companion.”

  Heat flared to the tips of her ears. He might have well as said lover to all seated at the table. Still, she would rather not twist the knife into the duchess’s heart with the true reason for her visit. It was clear that her own health had suffered from tending to the illness that debilitated her husband. “I beg for your discretion, laird. It’s of a delicate nature.”

  Niall folded his arms, an amused glint appearing in his eyes at her begging for anything from him. Little did he know how far she would go to procure his agreement. Beg, plead, grovel, whatever it took to be free of him.

  “We have no secrets here,” he said.

  Aisla flushed. No, they did not. Everyone in this hall, even those who had retired from dinner, knew that she had left her husband. She didn’t want to imagine what they’d been told or assumed after her departure. That she’d betrayed her vows, that she’d abandoned Niall for greener pastures, that she’d left a trail of lovers strewn in her wake. Half a decade of buried agony burst deep inside her breast, hard and devastating, and she fought to catch her breath.

  There could be no mistake—she was the enemy here.

  Aisla reached for calm. She’d endured worse. Much worse. If she had to be the villain, then she would be. No one here could fathom the depth of her loss or what she’d suffered. They couldn’t begin to understand how much it had taken to will herself to keep breathing, to keep living. She’d run from Maclaren, run from him, and only then she’d been able to survive. She had forged strength in her sacrifice. Found a will to live after everything that meant anything was taken from her.

  She would not cower. Not now. Not ever.

  “Very well,” she said in a clear, strong voice. “I want a divorce.”

  …

  Niall fought the urge to crush the finely molded goblet in his fingers, the silence on the dais deafening once the shock had settled.

  He had not expected that.

  Around the head table where his family sat, not one person seemed to be drawing breath. Evan and Finlay, two of his older brothers, were the only exceptions. They sat shoveling in food and drinking ale, as if the tension coiling around the table wasn’t present. Their wives, seated next to one another, exchanged hesitant glances. They were too newly joined to the Maclaren clan to remember Aisla, though they’d likely heard every last detail of the story—of their ill-timed elopement leading to a fruitless marriage that had lasted less than six months before tragedy struck.

  And why his wife had left him.

  His gaze slid to his oldest brother, who had, long ago, pulled him back from the brink of self-induced hell. Ronan, at the fore of the table, sat rigidly, his manner reserved, but his eyes like twin darts as they assessed first Aisla, then Niall. Their mother, at Ronan’s side, simply appeared saddened. The duchess had been kind to Aisla; she’d accepted her when he’d brought her to Maclaren. And when Aisla had left, his mother had wept. Another spate of anger roared to life in Niall’s chest, this time for the hurt his wife had caused other people who’d cared for her.

  A divorce?

  So, legal separation from him was the only thing that had brought her back to Scotland after six years? And clearly it had something to do with the arrogant Frenchman at her side, who’d worn a constant smirk from the moment they’d arrived. Niall itched to pummel it from his face. He took an even breath, filling his lungs to capacity, and held it for several seconds. He forced his fingers to soften around the goblet. Though he felt the stirrings of emotion beneath his skin, he’d long learned to control his temper.

  Other feelings were another matter entirely. At eighteen, Aisla had been sylph-like and comely. At four and twenty, her beauty had sharpened with exquisite symmetry, fulfilling the promises of youth and then some. She was still slender, but her body had blossomed into womanhood. Niall was hard-pressed not to notice the fuller rise of her breasts, draped in gold-embroidered emerald silk, and displayed to plush perfection.

  Those coppery eyes of hers were framed by long thick, dark brown lashes. And her mouth…God, that mouth. Sensual and sinful in equal measure, its luscious curves beckoned a man’s kisses and incited dissipated thoughts of those lips descending elsewhere. A bolt of raw lust ripped straight to his groin.

  Christ.

  He had expected to feel something, but he hadn’t expected his reaction to her to be so bloody intense. She felt it, too, he knew. He saw it in the subtle flare of her eyes and the way she pinned her lips together. Whatever remained between them hadn’t lessened with time or distance.

  Yet, she was asking for a divorce.

  Niall lounged back in his seat, keeping his expression bland. “Why?”

  “Because Julien…Lord Leclerc has asked me to marry him.” Her chin rose. “I’ve every intention of accepting.”

  A flare of jealous fury burst to life deep in his center, but the rest of his body did not display it. Niall refused to look at the Frenchman, and it was in both their best interests. If he had to see the man’s gloating smirk right now, he’d lose the control that was keeping his body anchored to his seat. He maintained his stare. “Is that so? A bit premature, do ye no’ think?”

  Aisla’s fair cheeks had turned a rosy shade of pink, but she continued to keep that pert chin of hers high. “We married for the wrong reasons, you must agree with that. There is no reason either of us should not find happiness with another.”

  “Is that what ye’ve been telling yerself these last several years while ye’ve been gone? That ye deserve happiness?”

  The word itself sounded so piteously light and airy. It lacked any real substance, any real weight or definition. What did happiness mean to the woman seated across from him? Did it mean society and parties and comfort in the arms of well-bred men in well-tailored clothes, like the fop she’d brought to Maclaren? Niall felt his control beginning to slip.

  “I believe we both deserve it,” she said.

  The Frenchman cleared his throat. “If you’ll see reason, my lord, Lady Montgomery chose to come here in person, rather than include painful details in her letter requesting—”

  “Maclaren,” Niall said. “Her name is still Maclaren, and ye’ll do well to refer to her as such. And I’m a laird, not some dandified English or French lord.”

  “Of course,” Leclerc said, inclining his head. “Though, you are the son of a duke.”

  Niall kept his eyes pinned upon Aisla, refusing to acknowledge the fool, and spoke before Leclerc could utter another word. “Any letter such as that would have only fed the fire in the hearth. My wife is here in person because I can’t ignore her when she’s sitting right in front of me.”

  Aisla’s gaze narrowed, her lips flattening. “My mere presence never had that effect on ye before.”

  The slip from her cultivated, proper English made him smile. Maybe she wasn’t as calm on the inside as her expression and poise would have him believe.

  “It’s been years, wife. Ye might be surprised at all the things that have changed.”

  Including him. She couldn’t know who he was any more. He’d spent the last several years neck deep—sometimes quite literally—in the lands Sorcha had foisted upon him after his marriage had crumbled. His sister had meant well, only wanting to give him something to concentrate on, to take his mind from the pain and loss. And it had. The crown-shaped ridge of land to the west of Tarben Castle had taken everything he had left to give, and in return, it had made him whole again. And when the people had started calling him their laird, it had felt like a new beginning.

  He hadn’t done it alone. Ronan had made a substantial investment in the mines early on, the initial costs for such a serious and expensive venture more than Niall had been able to incur on his own. The day he’d turned enough of a profit to buy the lands from Sorcha had been one of the proudest days of his life, but he still had Ronan’s investment to pay back.
It hung over him, even though his oldest brother had never mentioned it once.

  Niall still had a long way to go, but he owed them. He owed his brother. He owed his clansmen. To be fair to them, he should have a wife who wanted to be their lady, who wanted to live in Scotland, who wanted him. Not some flaky socialite who preferred to spend her nights in Parisian luxury.

  Niall’s gaze shifted to the woman whose eyes had not left his. Too much knowledge rested in those siren’s eyes of hers now. No, his young and not-so-naive wife would have taken Paris by storm. His mouth twisted with bitterness. He’d seen it for himself.

  “That you’re now laird?” Aisla replied with cool composure. “I imagine that is what you meant by changes?”

  “Aye, one of them.”

  “You never lacked for fortitude, Niall.” She broke off with a soft gasp at the lapse and then collected herself with the discipline of a seasoned soldier. “I beg your pardon, laird.”

  The sound of his name on her lips stirred something within him, and his desiccated heart stuttered. He’d buried what had been left of it so mercilessly that he’d never thought to feel anything again.

  “I prefer Niall.” The admission was out before he could stop it.

  Her startled gaze met his as if she hadn’t expected it either, her hand fluttering beside her plate and reaching out for something. Courage, perhaps. Niall’s jaw clenched as he saw Leclerc take her palm into his and murmur something inaudible to her. Clearly, she took comfort in both because she nodded and squeezed his hand before replacing hers in her lap.

  Niall’s chest tightened. The sudden vulnerability made him nervous; he hadn’t felt so unsettled in years. Six years to be precise.

  “Regardless, laird,” she said in an even tone, a mask of cool inscrutability descending across her features. “I am here now, and I have told you what I want.”