And then he was out of his seat, and she was in his arms, his lips on hers, savage and wild. Aisla met him with the same fervor, holding nothing back, and the beast in him rejoiced. In that moment, she was his mate. Unlike their last kiss, there was nothing chaste in the joining of their mouths. It was a kiss born of suffocated desires, of anger and jealousy, of shared pain and buried hurts. It was a bridge between the past and the present, one made of thorns that pricked and burned even as it soothed.
His mouth parted widely on hers, his tongue sinking deep. Hers met his as ferociously, as ferally, tangling and dueling, caressing and plunging. She bit at his lips, making sounds in her throat that made his desire explode. He clutched her closer, the only thing between them a flimsy length of toweling. He ground his arousal into her, and tore his lips away to bend his head to her breast. With a groan, his mouth closed over her nipple, sucking hard through the fabric. Aisla moaned, her head falling back.
Releasing her breast, Niall climbed up the column of her neck in wet open-mouthed bites and nudges until he found her swollen lips once more. He took them almost gently, licking softly into the interior of her mouth, begging forgiveness for his earlier savagery. He wanted to sip from her body, to remember the tender sentiment that had filled him to the brim whenever he’d held her in his arms, when nothing had mattered but the two of them.
“Aisla… Aisla…” he muttered against her sweet-scented skin, his hand wandering down to the edge of the cloth and skimming up the inside of her warm thigh. His knuckles brushed that damp place between her legs, making her gasp. “Are ye wet for me, lass?”
She stiffened, and he paused, his hand falling away. “Niall.”
Lost in the throes of his desire, it took him a moment to realize that though she’d responded to his kisses, her own hands had remained at her sides, gripping the toweling in place. Her ragged breaths matched his, but she was tense, not soft. His eyes met hers, and he nearly toppled back. They were dilated with desire, but there was something else there, too. A queer, untouchable remoteness that made him falter…that made sanity come rushing back.
“Do you yield?” she whispered, her half-naked body still indecently glued to his.
“Yield?”
“In the wager,” she said in an aloof tone that belied her wet, bruised lips and slumberous eyes.
It took all his effort not to shove her away from him. Releasing her, Niall staggered back, scraping his hand through his hair. Good Lord, but she was as cold as stone. No one could have responded as hotly as she had, all to win a bloody wager. And yet, she had. His wife had become a better sybarite than he ever could have fathomed. He strode to the door, cursing his body’s stiff response, and looked over his shoulder.
She stood there, like the proud, unreachable goddess she was.
He’d been a fool to think she could ever be mortal.
“Do you agree to release me now that the wager has been won?” she said, chin and color high.
“Nae,” he said, his voice hoarse. “The agreement between us still stands. Dunnae insult my intelligence, or yers, by claiming it was fairly won. Ye succumbed to what happened between us as much as I did.”
After an interminable moment, his wife inclined her head in acknowledgment. It was a small victory, but at least she had not denied her participation in their kiss. Despite that cold shell of armor that surrounded her, she was too honest not to. They both knew her passionate arousal had matched his in force and fury.
“You taste of whisky,” she said softly. “Imbibing again?”
He swallowed, tasting the bite of it on his tongue. “I didnae drink it, though Lord kens I should have.”
Her lips whitened. “You might have everyone else convinced that you’ve changed, but you can’t fool me. You forget I know you, Niall. I’ve lived you. Grant me a divorce, and let me go.”
“Nae.”
“Why?”
He had no answer worth giving. Not unless he wanted to reveal how much was at stake. His debt to Ronan accounted to fifty thousand pounds. A fortune, and one he had no intention of losing. As Niall took his leave, his head was unclouded, but other parts of him remained confused. It was a long time before his erection subsided, but by the time it did, he was clear on two things.
One, his wife was a formidable opponent.
And two, underestimating her would be his downfall.
Chapter Twelve
“Aisla, are ye well?”
The sharp whisper came from her right. Aisla glanced up from her plate into the concerned gaze of her sister-in-law. This was the third time she’d been caught lost in her thoughts…and they weren’t ordinary thoughts, either. They were lewd and lustful, and thoroughly wicked. Though Aisla kept her face composed, her fingers were knotted tightly in her lap.
She nodded with a smile, feeling the other eyes of the dinner table’s occupants fall upon her. Gracious, she hadn’t been that caught up, had she?
“Yes, forgive me,” she murmured, turning to the woman at her side.
Worry clouded Makenna’s blue eyes. “Ye seem distracted. Are ye certain ye’re not ill? Did ye overexert yerself today?”
Aisla’s gaze swept the crowded hall, filled with men and women from several neighboring clans. She had completely forgotten about the Maclaren summer festival until Makenna had reminded her the day before. Lost in her intrigues at Tarbendale and studiously hiding from her husband, she hadn’t seen or been part of the preparations at Maclaren, which meant the festival had come as a complete shock.
“Yes, chérie, are you certain?” Across the table, Julien’s lips were curled into his usual half smirk, but he arched one eyebrow infinitesimally, making heat crawl up her neck. The scoundrel seemed to be able to read her mind at the worst of times. She flattened her lips and glared. He would know—he was the most notorious sexual dilettante on the Continent. And he’d caught her spending the better part of the day ogling a kilted laird in particular, despite Niall’s continued deceptions and refusal to concede.
She resisted the urge to kick Julien under the table, recalling their awkward conversation about boundaries earlier that morning. At first, Aisla had been adamant in refusing Niall’s demands to not see Julien, but using Julien was a two-edged sword. She would not win the wager and cut short this farce if Fenella succeeded in driving Niall to the mines with more lies, which was where he’d been. Aisla hadn’t seen him in days. Or nights, for that matter.
“Niall wishes for me to curtail our visits,” she’d said to Julien.
“Niall, is it?” His smirk had been infuriating, following her stare to where the object of her disaffection sparred with a claymore against another clansman. She’d been unable to tear her eyes away from the mesmerizing masculine display of strength, particularly since those same sinewy arms had held her so tenderly. “And since when do you let anyone tell you what to do?”
She’d ignored his jab. “I can’t flaunt another man in front of his clan.”
“You weren’t overly concerned with that when we arrived. What has changed?” he asked.
Aisla hated that he was right. She hadn’t cared. “It’s unseemly,” she replied, unwilling to admit anything had changed. It hadn’t. It couldn’t.
“It’s unseemly that he’s putting you through this rigmarole.”
“It’s a means to an end, Jules.” She sighed. “You know he can’t get the divorce unless the records are found.”
“Is that still what you want?” he’d asked softly.
“It’s what I promised you.”
The question had irked her as had her imperceptible hesitation before answering. She wouldn’t even be in Scotland, pandering to her madman husband’s demands, if she didn’t. But a kernel of doubt had wriggled its way into her mind. She knew what had caused it, just as she’d known why she couldn’t stop gawking at the man. One unexpected, scorchingly hot kiss that had taken her completely by surprise…not to mention her galling response and his utterly seductive words.
Are ye wet for me, lass?
Hell and damnation. He’d been so close to seducing her, even though truly, it had been she who’d risen from the bathwater. Good Lord, how were they even to tell who had seduced whom?
Aisla screwed her eyes shut and pressed her clammy fingers together in her lap, smiling ferociously at her sister-in-law. “Yes, I’m well, though I confess to having a touch of a megrim this afternoon.”
Makenna’s eyes widened at her exuberance. “Good, then. Hopefully, ye’ll be in better spirits for the dancing later tonight. And the rest of the games tomorrow. ’Tis the archery competition.”
“Aye, ye must compete,” Evan, her brother-in-law, chimed in from his spot at the other side of the table where he sat between his wife and Julien.
“Ye remember, dunnae ye, Aisla?” Evan asked. “Ye took both the lasses’ archery contest and the dagger throw. Sorcha would be proud.”
Sorcha had been the one to teach her how to throw a dagger and how to nock an arrow when she’d first come to Montgomery with Aisla’s half brother, Brandt. Aisla swallowed past the sudden knot in her throat, the memories an onslaught. The Scottish girl buried inside felt pride, but that girl was long gone. Another had taken her place, one skilled in survival instead of silly frivolous games.
Finlay laughed. “Ye still hold the record for longest mark.”
“She does?” Julien asked, impressed. He, for his part, had behaved for most of the day, staying away from Niall and not antagonizing the laird.
“Aye,” Finlay said, lifting his ale with a grin. “She even trounced Niall with the dagger, and his skill is renowned.”
Aisla’s eyes slid for a fraction of a second to the man sitting beside her, but his attention remained firmly focused on Finlay who sat to his left. Niall had greeted her upon arrival for breakfast at Maclaren, but politely so with unfailing, cool courtesy. She supposed he had the right after their interlude several days before. Today was the first time she’d seen him since then, and even so, most of it had been at a distance.
Now at dinner, however, she remained profoundly aware of him…of every movement, every breath, every word that fell from his lips. God, she would have given anything to have been seated elsewhere, but her place was at her husband’s side. Even if everyone here knew how much of a parody it was.
“Can ye still throw?” Evan asked.
She opened her mouth to answer, but Niall beat her to it. “I can attest that her aim has not faltered.”
He wasn’t at all speaking about her skill with a dagger. She felt her cheeks color. “I haven’t practiced in forever,” she said with a scowl.
In weeks, she corrected silently. Not since she’d come to Scotland anyway. But she’d practiced daily in the attic of her aunt’s townhouse in Paris. Something about the methodical throwing of the blades had been soothing. Calming. But it’d been her secret. Not even Julien had known about her eclectic hobby.
“Afraid?” Niall turned to her, then, meeting her with glittering eyes. A bold challenge swam in them, and something heated rose in response inside of her.
She arched a supercilious eyebrow. “Of you?”
“Aye.”
“No.”
A sly smiled curved his full mouth. “Prove it.”
Evan stood up on wobbly feet with a laugh, which was half brought on by the pints of ale he’d consumed over the course of the day. “Shall we have a wee contest, then?”
Aisla balked, shaking her head in immediate dissent. But Evan’s suggestion was met with a whoop from Finlay, and a chorus of approval from the other clansmen further down the table, until it was taken up by the whole gregarious hall.
“Evan, nae,” Makenna protested.
“’Tis no’ the time,” Ronan boomed from the head of the table, his own countenance wreathed in a scowl. “We’re in the middle of sup.”
“Dunnae be a spoilsport, Ronan, and everyone’s done eating anyway,” Evan shouted and stared down the table to the men who remained in the hall. “Who wants to see the wee lass challenge the brave Tarbendale laird?”
A cheer went up, and it was no surprise that a few minutes later, Aisla found herself being shepherded out of the keep into the courtyard with a grinning Julien and half of Maclaren in tow.
“She’s in a dress,” Makenna said, making a last effort to thwart her brothers.
“That’s never stopped her, or ye for that matter,” Finlay said drily, opening a case that a footman had brought and handing her one of the three jeweled daggers that lay within. Three throws for each of them.
Her husband shot her a mocking smile. “Lasses first.”
Finlay called for silence and everyone in the courtyard immediately hushed.
Aisla hefted the weight of one dagger in her palm, her gaze narrowing at the targets. A wild rush of adrenaline coursed through her, and suddenly, the years seemed to fall away. She grinned as a laugh of pure exhilaration pushed past her lips and flung the first dagger. It lodged just to the right of center. A loud cheer rolled through the courtyard.
Good, but not good enough.
She lifted the second and released her breath on the throw. That one hit dead center. So did the third. Aisla bowed and stepped back while a footman ran down to retrieve the blades and also to mark her shots with white paint.
“Oh, well done,” Makenna said from behind her.
“Thank you.”
Niall stepped up, dagger in hand and assessing the targets, and met her exhilarated, triumphant gaze. “Indeed.”
Without wasting any time, he flicked his wrist and the first dagger lodged in the middle of the target. A round of raucous cheers went up as Niall smiled, reaching for the second blade. His body barely moved as the weapon whistled through the air and again sank dead center. Aisla sucked in a shallow breath. One more throw like the first two and he would be the undisputed winner. Obviously, she’d underestimated his skill—or overestimated her own.
Dazzling blue Maclaren eyes met hers and held them, making her breath fizzle in her chest. Aisla felt tendrils unfold in the pit of her stomach and reach downward, almost as if she were the intended target in some way. Niall’s stare did not release hers as he cocked his wrist back and let the third dagger fly. With a gasp, she dragged her gaze away to see that unlike the first two, the dagger had connected slightly to the right of center.
“I declare a tie!” Finlay shouted, and everyone shouted in agreement.
Aisla blinked, her eyes narrowing on the target, belatedly noticing that each of the blades were lodged exactly into the painted spots she’d hit before. It wasn’t a tie at all. He’d done it on purpose. He’d well and truly bested her.
Niall smiled in her direction. “Congratulations.”
“You won,” she said.
“Nae. ’Twas a tie. Ye heard Finlay.”
“Your shots hit mine directly,” she insisted. “That was no accident, was it?”
With a shuttered smile, he inclined his head and walked away. It was a message, Aisla realized. A retaliation for the kiss, the memory of which still left her rattled and weak. She’d fought for every inch of poise, using everything she’d learned in Paris, to hold herself cold and apart when all her insides had felt like hot, mulled wine. If he’d only known how close he’d come to nearly demolishing her with that kiss, and losing the stupid wager, the triumph would have been his.
She’d walked through hell once…she could not afford to lose herself there again.
After luncheon, the crowd had dispersed to the lower fields where other events were set up, and Aisla wandered aimlessly. She ambled past where the musicians were getting ready for the evening dancing in the courtyard and headed toward the largest throng of people. Julien had disappeared with Makenna to watch the jousting and she found herself alone until she came to a field where several Scots were starting to toss cabers. Lifting and hefting the giant sheared trees was a feat of colossal strength and the sport was beloved by many a Scotsman. Aisla watched for a while, cheering the competitor
s on while she sipped on a cup of mulled wine.
“Aisla, is that ye?”
At the familiar address, she turned and saw a well-muscled man standing directly behind her. It was another moment before recognition set in, followed by a sweep of anxiety as she glanced around for the Laird of Tarbendale. He would not take kindly to this particular visitor, though she did not know why she should care about Niall’s feelings. She stalled, recalling his admission that Dougal Buchanan had been the one to taunt him with intimate knowledge of her body, and felt a dark urge to kick the man now smiling at her. Why would he have done such an awful thing? No wonder Niall didn’t trust him.
Then again, perhaps Dougal was the advantage she needed to speed things along. “Aye, it’s me. Though it’s Lady Maclaren, as you well know.”
He grinned at her, crossing his thick arms and vaulting an eyebrow. “Yer a sight for sore eyes.”
“Dougal,” she said cheerfully, despite the thread of unease in her belly. “You look well.” She peered around him. “Have you come with your betrothed?”
A mixed look of regret and caution flickered over Dougal’s face. “I thought it wise for her to remain home, being how she hails from the Campbells.”
Aisla shook her head, feigning ignorance. “I don’t understand. Are the Campbells not on good terms with the Maclarens?”
Dougal took a circumspect glance around the festival grounds. “Aye. No’ since Ronan insulted the Campbell laird and his daughters in Edinburgh two weeks past.”
Aisla gaped at him. “How so?”
“By refusing, yet again, a marriage to align the two clans,” Dougal said, letting his eyes rest on her again. He paused before saying, “’Twas an insult, ye ken? A matter of honor.”
Sweet Home Highlander Page 15
