“We do not have that kind of relationship. However, when we marry, I will honor my vows.”
“As ye honor them now?” he asked slyly.
“A sight better than you have.”
Being here again, with him, feeling the bubbling of anger, desire, and frustration just beneath her skin…it was all so familiar. Now, after one conversation with Niall, she found herself right back in the position she’d been in years ago. Feeling frustrated and ready to burst with vexation. All she’d ever wanted was an apology from him; for him to admit he’d wronged her. It would have been better if it had come while she’d still been at Maclaren, when there had been the chance to save their marriage.
At least now, if she managed to win, she would have her apology. Knowing the wager he had with Ronan, she also intended to be the coldest, thorniest woman imaginable for the next six weeks, so much so that Niall would pack her trunks himself and have them loaded into the carriage at dawn on the final day. If she managed to seduce him by winning her scandalous wager, she and Julien could be on their way from Maclaren within days. Maybe even hours.
With newfound determination, she assessed her opponent, still leaning forward in the chair by the hearth, his thick forearms propped on his thighs, his eyes hitched onto hers. They slipped, coasting down the front of her wrapper, and Aisla saw the subtle shift of his hips as he adjusted his seat in the chair. He’d accused her of still feeling passion for him, and he wasn’t wrong. But he felt it, too. And that weakness could be to her advantage.
The notion of seducing him shouldn’t have made guilt churn so slow and torturously in the pit of her stomach. But she had Julien and the ailing Lady Haverille to think of. While the idea of Julien taking a mistress didn’t bother her, she simply had no interest in anything physical for herself. That yearning had died six years ago, along with her heart.
Until now…when the stirrings of desire had shocked her.
They are memories, nothing more.
Julien was a better choice. A safer choice. They would lead separate, fulfilling, happy lives. They might lack for passion, but Julien also wasn’t a drunken liar. The more she thought about the careless way Niall had treated their marriage vows, the more determined Aisla became. She was no longer some tender, unworldly maiden to be manipulated and maneuvered. She would beat Niall at whatever game he was playing, and leave with her head held high.
“What is it that’s going through yer head right now?” Niall asked, standing up from the chair. Aisla’s kept her gaze level with his, though she was still able to see the swell of his arousal. Perhaps she could strike swiftly and end this now.
“I’m only considering how we can seal this agreement,” she replied, her tone light.
“Ye dunnae think a simple handshake would do?” He prowled closer, his eyes raking her figure, still reclined on the bed, elbows pressing into the soft down of the mattress.
Before she could change her mind, she reached for the wrapper’s ties. The silky ribbons slipped undone with a gentle tug, and the wrapper fell open. Niall’s hungry stare went straight to her breasts, the pert peaks straining through the tight bodice of her night rail. The moment it was done, Aisla felt a mixed pulse of thrill and guilt. Guilt that she felt anything at all. Then more guilt, when she realized that the thrill outweighed her guilt by far.
You can do this.
It had always been so easy before, when they’d been younger. All she’d had to do was look at him and he would be leading her into an alcove to shove up her skirts. She hadn’t cared. She’d wanted him just as desperately as he’d wanted her, in any place. In any way.
Digging deep into the well of memory, Aisla sat up a little higher, and walking her fingers down to the hip of her night rail, she began to ruche the linen. The hem rose bit by bit, exposing first her ankle, then her calf. Aisla let go of the fabric, and held out her hand to him. He stared at it, flexing his fingers before tucking them into a fist.
“I ken what ye’re doing,” Niall rasped as his eyes followed the rising hem.
“Afraid to touch me?” she asked, her voice husky. It wasn’t an act—her throat was thick with nerves.
His hand reached forward, brushing the lace edges of her night rail. Aisla bit back a gasp as he leaned over her, eyes shadowed with latent passion and his lips descending toward her bodice. His mouth curled into a devastating smile when he deftly re-tied the silk ribbons with one efficient hand and pulled the knot tight with his teeth.
“Ye’re going to have to try a lot harder than that, leannan. And we’ll seal our agreement with a kiss.”
Without warning, he bent to touch his lips to hers, the brief kiss searing through to her bones before he abruptly pulled away, turned on his heel, and left her chamber without a second glance. Aisla sank back into the bedding, her heart thundering and her breath heaving. One chaste peck, and her entire body felt like it was on fire.
Good Lord, what had she gotten herself into?
Chapter Six
Niall spent the rest of the day down in the cairngorm mines, breathing in silt and dust as he lent a hand improving the rope and pulley system near a newly discovered vein. And yet, no amount of back-breaking labor could erase the sweet taste of his wife’s lips from his. It’d been like putting a lit flame to gunpowder, and now his tortured mind could think of little else.
What had he expected? That time would have tempered the spark between them? That his skin would not remember the silken feel of hers…if only the barest graze of her lips? If anything, he hungered for her with a desire of a man who had tasted heaven, and wanted to again.
And her wager. The sheer boldness of it had nearly unmanned him.
He felt the clench of those words low in his groin, yet again, as he gave the rope a solid pull. The framing for the shaft was sturdy, and he hoped it would guide load after load of cairngorm deposits to the surface of the mine. He tried to keep his mind focused on this new vein’s productivity and potential, but instead, all he could think of was his wife’s startled gasp as he’d kissed her. The look of disappointment when he’d re-tied her wrapper and left.
His self-restraint had been Herculean.
When he’d hatched his one-week-for-each-year plan, he’d waited to see what she would say, whether she would toss her haughty nose into the air or slap the suggestion from his mouth. But no, she’d stunned him. He’d never expected that response, especially after seeing how riled up she’d been at the news from Stevenson, that she had to stay put. For a few weeks, his mother had said. He wanted to laugh—nearly a week for every year she’d been away, just as he’d proposed. That was plenty of time to not only seduce his wife and get her to change her mind, but also flaunt everything he’d accomplished here in her absence straight into her face. He would show her that her leaving had meant nothing to any of them.
And now, after Aisla’s bold challenge, his plan for winning Ronan’s wager had turned into a dangerous game. A duel with seduction instead of swords, one that he did not intend to lose. Even against an opponent he no longer knew. Not that Niall was worried about his chances, but with turning Tarbendale into a moneymaking estate, he hadn’t had much time for women. Though seduction was like riding a horse, he supposed. One climbed on and one galloped.
Aisla hadn’t been immune to him…he’d felt the way she’d responded to him, seen the delicate pulse at the base of her throat flutter when he’d leaned over her. Christ, it’d taken every ounce of discipline he possessed not to press his tongue to that throbbing point and lick her velvety skin. Drag his lips down to those two tempting pearls hidden beneath the soft, transparent lawn. His mouth had watered, making him want to tear the fabric from her body and claim what was his.
What had been his.
Self-disgust curled within him. After all she had done, and despite her betrayal, he still wanted her with a ferocity that stumped him. Hell, he was half hard just from thinking about her, covered in grime and surrounded by his clansmen climbing from the depths of a topaz m
ine.
“Well done today, lads,” he said as the men packed up and made their way topside. “Ale on me at the tavern.”
A resounding cheer went up at his announcement.
Niall had made it a point to work just as hard as his men did whenever he could visit the mines. It was important for them to see their laird toiling alongside them to make their lands profitable. Though he was also busy spending most of his time managing his accounts and investments, Niall still liked to make the effort to visit the mines. They were the primary source of income for his future, after all. And despite having only one hand to do physical labor with, he worked just as swiftly and diligently as the other men. Faster than he could tally ledgers, too.
He decided to make his way down to the loch for a quick dip before heading to the village tavern with his clansmen. His plaid was filthy, as was every uncovered, sweaty inch of him. At the loch, he removed his boots and outer trappings, and plunged in, fully clothed. He cut through the cold water, feeling the dust and silt wash free from his skin and hair, and dousing both his temper and his longing. He emerged from the water a few minutes later, climbed onto his horse, and rode back up to Tarben Castle to retrieve a clean tartan and a shirt.
“Why did ye no’ say something?” Fenella scowled when he walked past the kitchen, dripping water onto the stones.
Fenella had taken on the role as chatelaine of the keep over the past few years, and Niall had been grateful for her help, particularly when he was busy in the mines. Her father had passed when she’d been but a child, and her mother a handful of years back. With no brothers or sisters, and no marriage prospects that she’d ever deemed acceptable, she would have been on her own. He could not have allowed a friend to be in want of a living or protection, so he’d offered her the position of housekeeper, and they’d settled into a comfortable and convenient routine that had worked well for both of them. Though in the past she’d made several overtures that she would be open to more, their relationship had never progressed beyond friendship.
He blinked, surprised at her caustic tone as she threw her hands onto her hips with a glower. “Something about what?”
“About yer wife’s stay.”
“My wife’s stay?” he asked, coming to a halt.
A vision in sapphire blue descended the stone staircase. It preceded a voice that made his ballocks and his fist tighten in tandem. “Why, of course, darling. You didn’t think I’d remain at Maclaren, did you? This is a much more convenient arrangement.”
Aisla’s face was all innocence, though he swore he could see a gleam of challenge in her eyes as if daring him to contradict her. It disappeared however when she reached the bottom step, her composed gaze flicking briefly to Fenella.
There was no love lost between the two women, he knew.
But he was more focused on the predicament at hand. Tarben Castle, though habitable, was not ready to receive guests. His wife would be much more comfortable at Maclaren where the guest rooms were in abundance and well appointed with comfort in mind. His mother could have easily found a room for her daughter-in-law, and despite her remark about Aisla and the Frenchman sharing a chamber, Niall knew his proper English mother would never go beyond the bounds of decorum. The duchess had only said that to rile him.
This was his domain. His demesne. Tarben Castle was his safe haven from all the memories at Maclaren. It bore no mark of the marriage that had almost demolished him. Damn and blast it, he needed his wife at Maclaren, where she would be far enough away so that he could stage his strategy with cold precision. When she was near, he couldn’t think.
“And what of yer gentleman companion?” Fenella interjected. “Will he require a chamber also?”
Aisla’s expression was unruffled, and she directed her answer to Niall. “Lord Leclerc will remain at Maclaren.”
“Ye ken Stevenson said nothing about the peacock needing to stay. He could return to Paris.”
“And leave my side? No, Lord Leclerc is rather devoted to me and wishes to stay for as long as I must.” She smiled and gestured with an elegant hand. “Besides, his room at Maclaren suits him far better than this. He is a French aristocrat, you know.”
His marauding wife didn’t have the right to just stomp in and make herself at home. Unless…it was part of her strategy.
Niall’s eyes narrowed. “Which bedchamber are ye in?”
“Yours, of course.” She waved an airy hand. “It was the only clean and furnished one I could find, and thus, I told your…housekeeper here that it would do. The rest of my things will be moved from Maclaren later this afternoon. Unless of course, you have objections, laird.” Her smile was the devil incarnate. The vixen was thinking of their wager, no doubt.
With a sense of foreboding, he took the stairs two at a time, past Aisla. And once inside his chamber, slumped against the wall.
Holy hell.
Her belongings dotted the formerly austere, simple room. It was an invasion of color. An invasion of femininity. Hell, it even smelled like her. Wildflowers stood in a vase on the mantel, while a brightly colored Montgomery plaid lay at the foot of the bed. A decorative chest stood in one corner, a handful of gowns peeking out. A gilt-edged hairbrush and mirror lay on the dressing table. And that wasn’t even the half of it. His breath fizzled.
Aisla cleared her throat behind him. “As I’ve said, the rest will arrive later.”
“There’s more?”
She made a tsking noise, lowering her lashes. “A wife for six weeks I believe you said.”
Devil take him and his stupid ideas. He should have agreed to the divorce and sent her on her way, just as she wanted. But no, he had to take it upon himself to take on his brother’s bloody wager and engage the chit in a war. Though he’d intended to do that with her ensconced at Maclaren. Not on top of his very toes in a dusty castle that catered to a man who essentially lived a bachelor’s life. It was no place for her.
“Do you concede? We can end this right now.”
Niall narrowed his eyes. She could not honestly believe he would crumble so swiftly. There was a wager to be won and a heavy debt paid. The stakes were too high for him to give up, just because she’d drawn first blood.
“On the contrary, wife, I’ve nae wish to end things at all,” he said, reaching for the hem of his damp shirt, still wet from his plunge into the loch. He stripped it off, tossed it aside, and turned to face her.
Her startled eyes lifted from the expanse of his bare chest, her lips parting in a soft intake of air. But just as Niall had quickly adjusted to the shock of Aisla’s belongings cluttering his room, she had the wherewithal to do the same. She raised her eyebrow in challenge. “That’s a nice view, but surely you didn’t think it would be that easy?”
He faltered with a dark flush. In truth, he had. Snatching a dry plaid and a shirt from a nearby chest, he turned on his heel and nearly mowed down his grinning wife who hadn’t moved from her position in the doorway. “Where are you going, laird?”
It’d been a long time since he’d had to answer to anyone. “To the tavern with the rest of the men.”
He detected the barest flicker of emotion in that placid expression of hers, something so bleak that it made his stomach sour. It made him pause because of its familiarity. He’d seen that emotion one too many time in her eyes, but he’d been too much of a drunken lout to understand it then. He drew a harsh breath; it looked too much like pain. A raw, intolerable kind of pain. But then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a faintly amused smirk.
“Will you be back in time for sup?”
“Aye,” he said. “Though ’twill be at Maclaren. I’ve no’ yet found a cook. Or butler.” He stroked his bristled chin. “Or valet, though Dunkirk has done a decent job there.”
“I’m surprised Fenella has lapsed in that regard. It always seemed like she’d expected to be mistress of the manor one day.” Aisla’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I gather she got what she wanted.”
He floundered for t
he right words. “Fenella was here…”
When you weren’t.
Niall trailed off without voicing the latter half of his thoughts, but his meaning was obvious, if the stricken look on Aisla’s face was any signal. As before, it was wiped away quickly, though the strain remained in her shoulders. They stood in frozen silence, tension beating between them like a trapped thing. Her chin rose infinitesimally as she inhaled an even breath. One inch more and her satin-clad breasts would be grazing his chest. One step closer and his lips could be on hers. But they stood, caught in the twist of something beyond the both of them…lost in the grip of the past.
It was Aisla who stirred, her breath hissing through pink, parted lips.
Niall did the smart thing.
He stepped back and took his leave, almost running out of the keep past a sullen Fenella. He changed in the stables before pointing his horse toward the tavern. Niall did not want to think of the woman currently situated in his bedchamber, who had appeared at Tarben Castle with all the delicacy of a typhoon. He had to chuckle at the sheer cheek of it. This brash confidence she exuded was new. He suspected she’d learned it in Paris; it suited her.
He needed to reassess.
But first, a few laughs with his men in the tavern would be just the thing to take his mind off of his surprising mystery of a wife. However, luck was not completely in his favor.
His men were there, but so was Leclerc.
The smug son of a bitch had taken a whole table unto himself in the corner of the tavern. Either that, or he’d settled there and none of the other men had wanted to join him. Leclerc’s sharp eyes cut to Niall’s the moment he walked through the front door, the smoke, sweat, and earth-scented air chasing up his nose. It was clear the other miners hadn’t gone home to change out of their work clothes. It made the picture of the French nob, in his perfectly dandy trousers, white shirt, claret-colored waistcoat, and deep gold coat look even more ridiculous.
Niall would not ignore the man, not when so many of the others were now watching him, waiting to see how their laird would treat such an unwelcome guest. To turn his back would be seen only as avoidance, and he was not a man who avoided anything. He’d meet this man head on.
Sweet Home Highlander Page 7
