Sweet Home Highlander_Tartans and Titans

by Amalie Howard

  “My God, Aisla, we were so worried about you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her mother-in-law smiled through her tears. “Don’t be sorry, dear. I was just glad when Niall found you. I’ve never seen my son look so crazed. You were black and blue, and he would not let you go, not to another until you were safe here in bed. Oh, my dear, had I known what sort of danger it would put you in, I never would have insisted you stay on instead of returning to France.”

  Aisla frowned. “You insist? I thought it was your solicitor…”

  Lady Dunrannoch squeezed her hands and another tear fell. “I may have meddled a bit, thinking more time together was all the two of you needed to reconcile. Oh, but it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  She broke off after a quelling noise from Ronan, her eyes wide with horror as if she’d said something she shouldn’t. Aisla’s eyes slid to Julien and Makenna who both wore a strange expression that bore a marked familiarity to the one on Ronan’s face. Something like dread scattered in her heart.

  “Where is Niall now?” she asked finally.

  The duchess looked horrified, her lips opening and closing, but no sound came from her mouth.

  Julien stepped forward. “Perhaps, you should rest, chérie. You’re looking rather peaked. We can talk later, I promise.”

  His evasive answer had all her senses reeling with worry. Where in God’s name was Niall? Was he hurt? Had he been injured at Dougal Buchanan’s hand? She pushed up onto her elbows, grimacing at the protest of her bruised and battered body.

  Pauline rushed to her side, propping a pillow behind her. “Easy, my lady. The doctor said you should not exert yourself needlessly.”

  But Aisla would not be deterred. Her eyes met the embarrassed faces of her friend, and her in-laws. “Where is my husband?”

  Julien walked to the foot of the bed, his expression pinched.

  “Aisla, please, trust me when I say that this is perhaps not the best time for us to be discussing such things,” he began, but she lifted a shaking palm to stop him.

  “Don’t patronize me,” she said, aware of the pathetic, pleading note in her voice. “Where is he?”

  Ronan cleared his throat. “She deserves to be told.”

  Aisla felt utterly bewildered. Deserved to be told what exactly?

  “He’s no’ here, Aisla,” Ronan said, holding her in a steady and steely glare.

  She was almost afraid to ask the question hovering on her lips. “Then where is he?”

  “He received word from Edinburgh,” he answered after an interminable moment, the expression on his face inscrutable. “He’s gone to finalize yer divorce.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Niall sat in the leather grasp of his study chair, his fingers lightly closed around the tumbler of whisky. He stared into the amber liquid, thinking of how much it looked like his favorite hue of topaz. It glowed like the jewel would, too, backlit by the fire in the hearth. But beyond their similar coloring, topaz and whisky were night and day for him.

  One had brought him disaster and hell, and the other success and peace. One had helped to ruin his marriage, and the other had, at least recently, tricked him into believing he could fix it. Aisla had been genuinely impressed by his mines and his artwork; she’d seen clear through to the man he’d become, and he’d basked in her praise.

  But it had all been for naught. He hadn’t fixed anything at all.

  She didn’t want him.

  He swirled the spirits with a few motions of his wrist, watching it whirlpool and lick the sides of the glass. He’d been back from Edinburgh for a few hours, his body still stiff and sore from the brutal pace he’d kept on the ride home. He wanted this over and done with, once and for all.

  To the left of the glass of whisky was a slim black file, sealed with a toggle and tie. Inside was the marriage register his solicitor, Stevenson, had finally received from Inverness. The book, one of many poorly stashed away in the bowels of the church he and Aisla had been wed in, had been located at last by the register clerk and sent on to Stevenson. A letter from Stevenson’s clerk had arrived the morning after Niall had found Aisla in the abandoned mining shaft. And no more than an hour after Aisla had risen from unconsciousness, asking to see Leclerc, mumbling words about love and need. She hadn’t been fully awake, her words slurred, but the fact that she’d immediately asked for Leclerc had told Niall everything he needed to know: he’d lost her.

  Or perhaps he’d never had her.

  The timing of Stevenson’s letter had been fate, he supposed. Niall had left Tarben Castle, arriving in Edinburgh the next day, and had gone straight to the solicitor’s offices. Stevenson had tried to get Niall to sit and talk, go over the papers inside the register, but Niall hadn’t wanted to sit, let alone speak. He’d grabbed the register, thanked Stevenson for his time, and left.

  Now, he stared at it, sitting like a coiled viper on his desk and ready to strike.

  It was what she wanted. He’d lost both wagers. The brilliant arrangement that had turned into a race of seduction, of wits pitted against the other, had been a game neither of them were meant to win. Ronan had been right to make the bet—Niall had never had a chance. Not when her heart clearly belonged to another.

  Leclerc had been surprised when Niall had fetched him from his vigil in the sitting room at Maclaren. It had almost destroyed him to search out the other man after hearing his name fall from Aisla’s lips, when he’d been the one to find her lying limp and bloodied in that blasted mine. When he’d been the one driven practically delirious with fear and anguish that she might be lost to him for good. Niall had nearly died then. Everything else had ceased to exist…all the games and the wagers, the anger and the jealousy. He’d never prayed a day in his life, but he had prayed then. All the life had drained from his body at the sight of her, unconscious and frail. The only thing that had given him hope had been the faint rise and fall of her chest.

  And then she’d refused to awaken for days more, and the misery of waiting and worrying continued. Doctor Stewart had been non-committal in whether she would survive such a severe injury to the head…whether she would even be capable of speech or understanding if she did overcome the odds and wake. Niall had almost come to blows with the man until Ronan had intervened and sent him away to cool off. And when she’d finally awakened, she’d asked for Leclerc.

  Niall’s fingers clenched on the tumbler in his hand, and with one move, he downed the contents in a swift gulp. It burned on his tongue, in his throat, and in his stomach, the bite of it like a draught of hellfire. All he could think of was the glorious dimming sensation it would bring in its wake. The numbing oblivion. Even after so many years, his memory of the effects were sharp. With a shaking hand, he poured another, which went the same way as the first. The liquor wasn’t enough to tamp down the memories, and they surged to mind, lush and vibrant. Such beautiful demons.

  Aisla with a bow and arrow, the first time he’d seen her. Aisla in a field of purple heather, spinning and dancing like a woodland sprite. Aisla in a ball gown at Montgomery, stunning and wild and his. Aisla in his bed, caught in the throes of passion, which no ordinary words could describe. The blissful night they’d shared, when they’d held nothing back. She’d writhed in his arms, stared at him with her heart in her eyes, and come apart with all the fierceness of a falling star. So extraordinarily beautiful.

  Incomparable, they’d called her in Paris. They were right. Nothing could hold a candle to his wife. God, he’d cocked it up good and proper. Niall poured a third glass of whisky, studying the swirling liquid. It was paralysis in a bottle, and that was what he deserved. He tossed back the spirits with a bitter grunt. His just deserts.

  New images assaulted him then. Ones of Aisla sitting in the folly, Leclerc kneeling before her, his hands holding hers in her lap. He could have been a suitor proposing to the love of his life. But Leclerc had explained since then that she’d summoned him to tell him she couldn’t marry him. Had she change
d her mind? Had the threat of death made her see her own heart?

  Niall had been rife with jealousy and bitterness, but he’d done the right thing. The only thing.

  “I won’t stand in yer way. I wish ye every happiness,” he’d told Leclerc, after communicating Aisla’s wish to see him. The man’s expression had been one of bewilderment, but he’d nodded and disappeared into the bedchamber.

  Then Niall had taken his leave for Edinburgh.

  The door to his study crashed open then, startling him from his thoughts. “I told ye I didnae wish to be disturbed,” he roared.

  “’Tis only me, bràthair,” Ronan said, arching an eyebrow at the bottle and the empty glass sitting in the middle of the desk. “Are ye sure that’s a good idea?”

  “’Tis better than the alternative.” In defiance, he poured another.

  Ronan moved the bottle and glass out of reach. “There are better ways for ye to deal with the things that pain ye. We’ve been down this road before, and ’tis no’ a pleasant one, if ye recall.” His eyes narrowed. “How much have ye had?”

  “Two,” Niall said. “Nae, three. I plan to finish the whole damned bottle in celebration.”

  His brother made himself comfortable in the armchair on the other side of the desk, propping one booted foot up on the other as if he intended to stay a while. Niall groaned. He wanted to be alone with his misery. He did not need saving.

  Ronan lifted the glass in a mockery of a toast. “What are we celebrating?”

  Niall slid the slim black file across the top of the desk. “My freedom. Her freedom. What she wanted from the start, only I was too stupid, too bloody proud, to let her go. And yer stupid, sodding wager.” He laughed. “How the mighty have fallen!”

  “I’ll toast to ye.” Ronan drained the whisky in one gulp, though he kept the bottle on his side of the desk.

  Niall laughed again, humorlessly. “The sorriest sack of shite this side of Hadrian’s Wall, eh?”

  “Nae,” he said. “Ye fought for what ye wanted.”

  “And lost.”

  Ronan nodded. “Perhaps, but at least ye tried.”

  The words were slow in coming, but they came. His confession.

  “I wanted to win the wager…only my schemes rebounded on me. In the end, I wanted her to stay more than I wanted anything else, even the debt forgiven.” His eyes burned with an unfamiliar pressure. God, he wouldn’t cry. Men didn’t weep like ninny-headed idiots. “We were doomed from the start. And that, dear brother, is the remnants of our youthful folly.” He eyed the file from his solicitor balefully. “A blasted divorce.”

  Ronan didn’t answer, but reached for the black case, untying the toggle, and scanning the documents within. It only took him a few minutes, but when he looked up, his expression was unreadable. “Perhaps ye should take a look, Niall.”

  “To ken what divorce on paper looks like? Nae, thank ye.”

  “Look.” Ronan shoved the open folio back toward him. Niall wanted to defy him, toss the entire sheaf of papers to the floor, but his eyes caught on the topmost sheet. He wasn’t enough in his cups not to understand what it meant.

  “What the hell is this?” he said, his narrowing. “Some kind of jest?”

  “Read for yerself,” Ronan said. “Looks like the two of ye were never married.”

  It wasn’t a jest, far from it.

  According to the testimony of his solicitor, he and Aisla had never completed a civil registration after they’d eloped to Inverness to wed. They had gotten married, Niall recalled, though the priest had been thoroughly stewed, to the point of slurring the prompted wedding vows at the time. If what he was reading was correct, technically, there was no official proof that their marriage had even happened.

  “This makes nae sense,” he muttered, reading the documents a second time, and then a third. They had a remarkable effect on his sobriety. “We were wed.”

  “No’ according to that, ye werenae.”

  He blinked. “Then…”

  “Ye dunnae need a divorce.”

  If their marriage wasn’t legal in the eyes of the Scottish courts, then that meant Aisla was free. And if she didn’t have someone who was willing to marry her, she would have been ruined. Though, he couldn’t imagine a paltry thing like ruination stopping her. His Aisla was fearless. Niall sobered. She wasn’t his Aisla. According to these documents, she’d never even been. He sucked in a breath with a rush of guilt. Yet one more thing that he could have done differently. He should have married her properly, with the presence and the blessing of both their families. He’d failed her, yet again.

  Doomed didn’t begin to cover it.

  Without a word, Ronan slid the bottle of whisky and the empty glass over to him, but Niall shook his head. “Nae, I’ve had enough, ye ken.”

  “What will ye do?” Ronan asked.

  “What I should have done from the start—let her go.”

  …

  Aisla wanted to scream her frustration at being confined to bed. She was more than recovered enough to not be coddled like a child. She wanted to go for a walk, she wanted fresh air, and most of all, she wanted to see Niall who had avoided her ever since he’d returned from Edinburgh. And Aisla had learned from the servants, and the ever-resourceful Pauline, that he had come back and retired at once to Tarben Castle.

  She eyed Makenna who was reading Romeo and Juliet to her. Aisla hadn’t heard a word of her sister-in-law’s recital, though she knew the play well. She’d loved it as a girl, but to tell the truth, now she loathed it. She hadn’t had the heart to tell that to Makenna, however. Instead, she’d let her mind wander, imagining all the ways she could stage her escape, and find out why in hell Niall had decided to finalize the divorce now, of all times.

  No one would tell her anything!

  Not even Pauline could find out, only that the laird had left in a hurry, taking only his horse and not even a change of belongings. He hadn’t returned immediately, either, spending a few days there. But now he was back, and she deserved answers. Ones, it appeared, only he could give.

  “Good night, good night!” Makenna read with a soft sigh. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

  Aisla rolled her eyes. If she were Juliet, she’d search out Romeo and demand that he well and truly publicly ruin her. That would be the quickest way to the altar, she thought with grim humor. Secret marriages never turned out well. She’d idolized the play in her younger years, the tale of the doomed, star-crossed lovers fodder to her young, romantic heart. It’d been the reason she’d eloped with Niall, after all. But now, she was older and wiser. Betrayal didn’t always come from external forces. And the marriage bed wasn’t made of roses.

  She thought of Dougal. And Fenella. Both wanting what they could not have and coveting it to their own detriment. She thought of herself and Niall, and their shared tragedy. They had loved each other, but sometimes, it took more than love. It took grit and determination. It took fight.

  “I’ve heard he’s returned,” she said decisively, interrupting Makenna.

  Her sister-in-law shot her a blank look. “Who?”

  “Your brother.”

  Makenna closed the slim volume and folded her hands in her lap. “Oh, has he? I hadnae heard.”

  Aisla sighed. “Please don’t play games with me, Makenna.”

  “Oh, very well. Aye, he’s back, but hasnae spoken to anyone. Apparently, he’s in a devil of a mood, too. Ronan’s gone over there to talk to him, and find out if everything has been finalized.” She smiled sadly, her lips pinching. “I suppose once it’s all over, ye’ll head back to Paris.”

  Makenna’s bleakness hit her like a heavy spear to the breast. Her lungs tightened almost painfully. “No, that’s just it, I—”

  But the sound of voices in the hall downstairs—one in particular—drifted up, making her halt all conversation. Niall. She strained to listen, but there was no more forthcoming. Had it been him? She pushed herself up in
bed, groaning at the pressure of her healing torso, and slid her legs over the edge.

  “What are ye doing?” Makenna gasped. “Ye cannae—”

  “I can and I will.” It was a colossal feat that she managed to get herself standing, one driven by pure determination. But she’d barely taken two steps to the door when a footman knocked, carrying a silver salver with a black file and piece of folded foolscap.

  “A note for ye, my lady.”

  Her heart hammered as she closed the distance to the doorway. “From whom?”

  “From the Laird of Tarbendale, my lady.”

  She snatched the folded paper and read the first line:

  Dearest Aisla, I’m sorry to have to write this…

  Aisla saw red. Now, that was simply outside of enough.

  Nearly shoving the poor footman aside, she rushed to the balustrade and shouted with all her might, uncaring of whether she sounded like a maniacal shrew or that there were servants and clansmen milling about. “Niall Maclaren, dunnae ye dare take the coward’s way out with a bloody note and not face me, do ye hear me?” She sucked in a breath, ready to unleash hell when she heard a low chuckle, and then a voice…his voice.

  “Aye, lass, I hear ye, and I ken everyone heard ye for at least five miles.”

  Her fingers gripped the marble railing, her legs already threatening to give out when he turned the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Oh God, he looked tired and drained, but so incredibly handsome that she wanted to weep. His russet hair was uncombed, the start of a beard on his jaw, and those blue eyes took her breath away.

  She steeled herself and shoved the offending note in his face as he came within two steps of her. “What, pray tell, is this? What are ye sorry for?”

  “Did ye read it?”

  “Nae.”

  He smiled and she nearly melted. “Yer brogue is back.”

  “I’m angry.”

  “I gather that.” He stepped closer and reached for her arm. She was close to snatching it away when he murmured, “May I? Perhaps yer room will afford us some privacy.”