“What are ye doing here?” Niall asked as he pulled out a chair at Leclerc’s lonely table, and took a seat.
A sly grin pulled at the man’s lips, and Niall saw him swiftly gauge the situation. Before Leclerc had even said a word in response, Niall knew he had a keen intelligence.
“I thought I’d settle in a bit,” the Frenchman said, taking a sip of his ale. “It looks as though I’m going to be in Scotland for the foreseeable future.”
He had a smooth, cultured voice, his French accent surprisingly light, and he was good looking. Leagues better than Dougal Buchanan—and himself, Niall thought. He was the sort of man who would have never lacked for female attention, or obvious interest from matchmaking mamas. And yet he’d had to go and propose to a woman who was already married. What did that mean? That he truly cared for Aisla? Hell, that he loved her?
“Don’t ye have an estate around here, somewhere?” A tidbit he’d gleaned from Ronan.
“Several days ride, but yes.” Leclerc’s coy grin stayed fixed. “Though I wouldn’t dream of taking my leave right now. Not with my future wife stuck here for an indeterminate period.”
His future wife. Niall scowled. The man could not even pretend at penitence, or remorse, for having shown up here with Aisla. Leclerc’s lips curled in that eternally irritating smirk.
“Ye’re amused, are ye?”
“Ever so much.” Leclerc lifted his mug. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Niall ground his jaw, his limbs tensed and aching. Half from the last few days’ physical labor, and half from unspent frustration. “Nae.”
“I understand. Accepting anything from your wife’s next husband might feel a little…conflicting.”
Not one ounce of sincerity or contrition laced his jovial tone, and Niall had a vision of reaching across the table, grabbing Leclerc by the lapels of his fancy French-milled coat, and pummeling him right in his pretty face. But he kept his body still, his arm propped on the arm of the chair, and merely grinned back at him. “I dunnae have a problem with that. If ye wanted to buy my supper, I wouldnae stop ye. I’m simply no’ here to drink.”
Leclerc’s expression transformed only slightly, from sly to amused to moderately curious. And with every new expression, Niall’s desire to toss the man out the door—or through a window—only increased.
“What does one do in a tavern other than drink?”
“Buy a round for other men,” Niall replied, and with a signal to Tandry, the barkeep, indicated that the next round was on him.
“Why, thank you,” Leclerc quipped.
“Ye’re no’ on my payroll.”
Leclerc laughed, unperturbed by the exclusion. “Highland hospitality is quite peculiar.”
His sarcasm stoked Niall’s temper. “Ye expect hospitality when ye show up here, with my wife on yer arm?”
“She put herself there quite willingly,” he replied, peering into his mug and swirling the dregs. “And for what it’s worth, I was completely unaware of your existence when I made my offer of marriage.”
That got Niall’s back straight. He sat forward. “I thought ye and Aisla had kenned each other for some time.”
“We have.”
“And yet, ye didnae ken she had a husband?”
“No one kenned,” Leclerc said, finishing his drink and setting the mug down. He peered at Niall, his expression shifting again, this time to something calculating. Though he kept his mouth sealed, patiently waiting for Niall to say something. To rise to the bait he’d dangled.
Had Aisla pretended to be single in Paris? Her aunt had to have known, of course, but…no one else? The knowledge uncoiled low and fierce in the pit of his stomach, making him feel like a cornered animal ready to strike. Niall knew very well who its target would be. His beautiful, perfidious wife.
“Learning she had a husband didn’t deter ye at all?” he asked, instead of reacting to the fact that Aisla had pretended he didn’t even exist.
“Nothing much does,” Leclerc answered. “I want what I want.”
An image, unbidden, of this man and Aisla sharing kisses…in bed…the intimacy Niall had known with her, caused a tremor to shake out into his arms. He pulled them off the tavern table so Leclerc wouldn’t see. But the man missed nothing. A blond eyebrow hiked.
“She told me about your hand.”
“Did she?” Niall drawled, his missing fingers aching to curl into a fist. Somehow, he still felt them there at times, like unseen spirits haunting him.
“I admit, I would not have noticed if she hadn’t said anything,” Leclerc said. “You are a man whom someone would underestimate at their own peril. She said you never let your…infirmity stop you, and I admire that courage.”
He wanted none of this man’s cajolery, sincere or otherwise.
“Why her?” Niall asked. “Ye could have any woman. Why chase a married one?”
He took no time at all to contemplate. “I’m not chasing at all. And I chose Lady Montgomery—”
“Maclaren,” Niall growled.
Leclerc canted his head in apology. “Forgive me. It’s only that I’ve grown used to addressing her as such the last few years. I chose Lady Maclaren for the same reasons I imagine you did. She’s quick on her feet, intelligent, funny, kind. We get on well.”
Was that so? They got on well. What the bloody hell did that mean? Niall wasn’t sure he wanted to know, though it didn’t sound much like love. Already, he could feel the dormant anger frothing up from where he’d buried it. This Frenchman…he was greener pastures. Just like Dougal Buchanan had been. Aisla had never admitted to breaking her vows, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t been with Dougal before she and Niall had eloped. It didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted to be with him.
Niall stood from his chair, his muscles tight. Restrained. “Ye willnae be getting on so well the next several weeks, ye ken. While she’s here, on my land, she’s still my wife. And I dunnae take kindly to sharing.”
He’d kept his voice low, but the conversation in the tavern had tapered enough to allow the other men to listen in. Niall didn’t mind. These were his clansmen, and they would, without doubt, side with him if they thought Leclerc was overstepping his boundaries.
Leclerc bit back another smug grin, though this time, it held less amusement and more concern. “I’m not entirely sure what you expect to gain during Aisla’s forced stay here, but it isn’t going to be her heart. That I know for a fact.”
Niall braced himself against the table, his right hand curled into a fist, knuckles digging into the pitted wood. Leclerc was only fishing for Niall to ask just who did have her heart…but Niall wouldn’t cave. He only glared at his wife’s silver-tongued lover and kept his pulse steady.
“Ye may be welcome at Maclaren, but if ye set one foot on Tarbendale lands, I’ll have ye shot.”
The murmuring inside the tavern went flat. Leclerc met his glare, and finally, that maddening smirk he wore disappeared. “That sounds like something I’d rather avoid.” He studied Niall with a contemplative look. “You’re not at all what I expected, Laird Tarbendale. But have a care. I may not be welcome, but if the lady feels threatened in any way, she will leave under my protection.”
Niall had to admire the man’s sheer ballocks—he hadn’t even flinched at the threat leveled at him and had the nerve to issue a warning to him. In any other situation, he might have bought the man a pint. Leclerc stood and went to where he’d hung his hat, by the door. After the slight incline of a bow, he left.
Silence stretched on for another handful of seconds, all eyes on Niall.
“Another round, I think, Tandry,” he said, and it had the effect he wanted. The men cheered and got back to their conversations.
Niall joined them, shaking his head at a mug of ale offered up every now and then. It was only polite, he supposed, and Niall was polite in return, listening to their talk and shaking off the confrontation with Leclerc.
Niall wouldn’t shoot him, of course, but he’d needed to
warn the Frenchman away. He was going to outmaneuver his clever, calculating little wife. So adroitly that she would be begging to stay. And once he’d won Ronan’s bet, then, he’d send her back on her way to Paris where she belonged.
Chapter Seven
Aisla stood at the narrow window looking out over the expansive Loch Rannoch. The glistening, reflective surface was one of the few beautiful memories she’d taken from Maclaren, and it looked much the same as it had from her bedchamber window at the Maclaren keep with the setting sun glinting off the water like dancing flames. Although Tarbendale was on the western edge of the loch, the view was still comparable. Better, even.
Niall had been fortunate that his sister had decided to sell the land to him. Aisla had never visited Tarbendale in her short time at Maclaren, and it was strange to think that Niall was now laird of the small but lucrative estate. The Niall she’d married had been young and carefree, and careless. A spoiled, indolent lord who’d been coddled to his own detriment. He couldn’t have been less motivated to do anything beyond drinking, brawling, and wenching.
Precisely what he might be doing now.
Not that she cared. Niall’s behavior no longer had the power to hurt her.
Aisla drew a reassuring breath and pushed away from the window. A satisfied smile curved her lips as she recalled the look on his face when he’d first seen her at Tarben Castle, and then took in the fact that she would be staying. Attack was the best form of defense—her sister-in-law, Sorcha, had taught her that. In hindsight, Aisla did not know if her impulsive decision to move her trunks into his home would cost her more than she was prepared to pay.
Tarben Castle was neutral ground. It did not have the memories that the keep at Maclaren did. And while she understood that this was no more than a game, Aisla did not want to be upended by the past. But this was his space. Filled with his allies. One in particular.
Though she’d put Fenella out of her mind, it’d been a shock to see her in the role of Niall’s housekeeper. The venomous look the woman had given her hadn’t changed, nor had her attitude.
“’Tis ye,” she’d said with a sneer upon seeing Aisla on the doorstep.
Aisla had smiled graciously. “Aye, it’s me. You look well, Fenella,” she’d said. “Though I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Why?”
“I would have thought you’d be married with a family of your own by now. You know, moved on from being the cuckoo in her master’s nest.”
Fenella’s scowl had darkened. “Ye’re still a bitch.”
“And you’re still a foul-mouthed parasite,” Aisla replied, all delivered with a smile.
The woman’s mouth had opened and shut like a fish. Aisla had learned more than a thing or two in France when dealing with particularly vicious young debutantes. Bullies didn’t much like it when their victims stood up to them.
“Niall willnae like that ye’re here,” Fenella said, changing tactics when she’d seen Aisla’s portmanteau and trunk. “We’ve nae rooms prepared.”
“I’m certain my husband won’t mind if I share his chambers.” She waved an idle arm. “This was his idea, after all.”
Technically, Aisla’s presence at Tarben Castle wasn’t his idea, but Fenella wouldn’t have known that. Aisla had taken great pleasure in sweeping past the gaping woman and having the groom from Maclaren ferry her things up to his chamber. It hadn’t been hard to figure out which was his, given that Fenella was of no assistance, but thankfully, it’d been the only furnished one.
She had spent the morning redecorating the masculine and spartan space, and making sure her wifely presence was glaringly obvious. Her longtime Parisian maid, Pauline, had not been pleased with the reassignment, though she’d borne the change with her usual grace, even helping with the redesign. And when Niall had returned, Aisla could not have hoped for a more gratifying response.
Delightful satisfaction aside, now that she was alone and evening was upon her, she couldn’t help but realize that there was only one bed. Two armchairs stood in front of the fireplace. Perhaps Niall could sleep there. Or on a pallet. Pauline had taken the tiny antechamber next door. Perhaps, if push came to shove, Aisla could make do there.
Where did Fenella sleep? She was his housekeeper, but she wasn’t exactly a servant. And if she was more…
Aisla glanced at the huge bed and immediately resented the direction of her thoughts, and the host of unwelcome images that followed. She did not care who slept in that bed or whether he housed a harem of women there. It was certainly large enough. Then again, her husband had matured into quite a large man—surely honed by hours of hard, outdoor labor—as she’d discerned when he’d shed his damp shirt. His chest had been chiseled, his skin bronzed by the sun.
When he’d stood there earlier, dwarfing the entire room, Aisla had been hard pressed not to notice just how well built he was. Clad in nothing but a damp tartan, all that was missing was a claymore for him to resemble a Highlander of old. He’d always been tall, but his youthful leanness had given way to an astonishingly broad physique with thick, muscled arms that would wield a broadsword as if it were a toothpick.
The sound of footsteps drew her out of her reveries. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” a young, wide-eyed maid said with a bob. “The rest o’ yer things have arrived. And ye have a caller.”
Aisla’s curiosity was piqued as she went down the stairs. No one apart from Lady Dunrannoch knew she’d removed herself to Tarben Castle. At the bottom of the staircase, her eyes narrowed at the sight of Fenella simpering and giving Julien an inspection worthy of a farmer looking over new steer. The woman was shameless. Then again, it was Julien. He’d always had that effect on women. At least three debutantes each Season went into a dead faint in his presence. It was a wonder that she wasn’t attracted to him, but then again, her tastes seemed to run to hard-eyed and equally hard-hearted, ruthless Scotsmen.
“Lord Leclerc, what a charming surprise,” she said, standing on the last step. “I see you’ve already met Fenella, the laird’s housekeeper, and clearly the latest casualty of your charms.”
Fenella glared daggers in her direction and bustled back to the kitchens, where Aisla hoped she was overseeing an evening meal that preferably did not include poison.
“Chérie,” Julien said, coming forward to kiss her on both cheeks. “I had to see how you were faring.” His pale eyes took in the stone walls and the bare hall that was partially furnished with long eating tables and benches. A few armchairs stood in one corner near a giant hearth. Apart from the occasional maid running in and out, the great hall was deserted. “It is quite provincial, is it not? Charming in its own way, I suppose. Are you well?”
She smiled and drew him toward the chairs. “As well as can be expected. Shall I see if I can get us some tea?” Aisla frowned in the direction of the kitchen. “Though we’re more likely to be served tea made with water from a horse trough.”
“Your nemesis, I take it?” he said with a grin.
Aisla grimaced. “Fenella’s welcome to Niall. If he’d only agree to the divorce, she could have him, free and in the clear. I’d walk them to the altar myself.” She sat and put her head in her hands. “Oh God, Jules, thank the heavens you’re only a short ride away. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can survive six weeks here alone with him. It’s positively…”
“Uncivilized?”
“I was going to say idiotic.” She met her friend’s perceptive gaze. Telling Julien the truth about her past had been difficult, and while he’d proven understanding, she wasn’t certain he’d approve of this wager she’d made with Niall. So far as Julien knew, they were being held in place at Maclaren and Tarbendale upon orders from the family solicitor. Aisla saw no reason to alter that. “I certainly hope Mr. Stevenson comes through with the marriage record sooner rather than later.”
He met her gaze and sharpened his own. “Before there is any danger of dredging up old feelings?”
Aisla gaped at him.
“Hardly. It’s over between us.”
“He doesn’t seem to think so.”
She sat forward. “What do you mean?”
“I took a great personal risk in coming here, you know,” Julien told her, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial fashion. “I just saw your very ominous, scowling husband at the tavern. I gather he was not pleased about your new living arrangements. And honestly, Aisla, you could have warned me he has an ego to match his size.”
“I didn’t know,” she said indignantly. “I haven’t seen him in six years! Of course he wasn’t pleased. And he’s always been arrogant.” She vaulted an eyebrow, staring at him pointedly. “Which man isn’t?”
He gave her an affronted, over-the-top Julien look that normally made her laugh, but this time only made her want to hit him. She shook her head and groaned. Scotland brought out her Highlander blood in full force. “What did he say to you?”
“Since we don’t have the opera or the theater, you must indulge my need for drama, chérie, particularly when my life is at stake every second that passes,” he went on. “As I was saying, I was sitting there in the tavern, minding my own business, when your husband sat down for a chat. Sadly, he did not like what I had to say. Most of the men there were well into their cups, and I barely escaped unscathed.”
Aisla fought an eye-roll. She knew exactly the kind of provoking things Julien liked to say. “Then what happened?”
“Nothing happened,” he said, with an infuriatingly blasé laugh. “There was a bit of cock-strutting and posturing, but beyond an empty threat to shoot me should I set foot on Tarbendale lands, it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”
She gasped. “He threatened to shoot you?”
“If I set foot here,” he said solemnly and patted his heart. “Oui.”
This time she did roll her eyes and laugh. “You’re safe. If they’re at the tavern, it will be all night before anyone returns.” Aisla signaled to a maid hurrying past. “Please ask Fenella to send in some refreshment for his lordship. Wine, ale, whisky, or whatever is available.”
Sweet Home Highlander Page 8
