Page 34 of Sweet Home Highlander
“Twenty-five, actually,” Aisla said, coming toward the crate. Niall kept his hand on the trim of the crate, and when Aisla realized she would need to come within inches of him to inspect the box, she curtailed her approach. Her apprehension wasn’t surprising—this was all a show, after all. Though she was doing a damn fine job of it.
“Just how many baths do ye plan to take in the next few weeks?” he asked.
“Do you object to having soap in the castle?”
He’d already had the increasing feeling that his wife’s mind had become a labyrinth of clever twists and turns; Paris had, he figured, made her accustomed to such intrigues and schemes. It was a new side of Aisla that simply hadn’t been there years back. An astute and hot-blooded disposition. As much as he hated himself for it, it made him want her even more. Somehow, matching wits with her made him feel curiously energized, eager to see what she would do next.
“I dunnae object to soap,” he replied, and taking a step closer to her, “In fact, I hope ye take as many baths as ye please. However, what exactly do ye think I’m to do with all this hodge podge?” His gaze slanted upward. “Including that.”
He didn’t say“after you’ve left.”As much as he’d thought it in the last forty-eight hours as the stuff had started to arrive, his tongue wouldn’t form the actual words now.
“You said you wanted me here so I’m simply making myself at home,” she replied sweetly, bending at the hip to water another one of the plants that now comprised his jungle of a dining room. His eyes went to her behind and trim waist, and, instantly reminded of the nude Venus in the painting, he nearly forgot his planned response. He smiled tightly.
“Fine idea,” he said, averting his gaze. He had every intention of seducing Aisla, but it would not happen here and now. Not when she was expecting it, and he had no doubt that she was. That was what she’d intended with the painting, he realized, but desire was a double-edged sword. She would not be immune to the sting of it if he had anything to say about it.
“Is it?” she asked, a trace of real surprise on her tone. “I’m glad you see it my way.”
“Yes, all yer changes and additions to the castle…yer soaps and doilies and jade bulls…they’re just what Tarben Castle needs. Especially this week.”
Aisla straightened her back, distracted away from the plants. “This week?”
“Aye. For my annual summer feast.”
Niall watched the news of the feast settle, her shoulders drawing higher.
“It marks when I became laird three years ago,” he went on. “And this’ll be the first feast where my castle will indeed appear to be a home. All because of ye.”
He wanted to chuckle as she blinked and pressed her lips tight against the praise and flattery, when she’d clearly planned for a blustering argument.
“I see. A feast. Here, at Tarbendale?”
Niall never liked hosting the feast to begin with. He’d grown used to being alone, and had learned not to mind it, even welcoming the peace of a drafty old home. Of an empty bed, without a woman to hold close. The rare times when Tarben Castle ran rife with revelry never failed to challenge his own feelings.
Was he truly happy alone? Did he miss the wild times he used to have with his friends? Whyshouldn’the just be the man Aisla had despised and left? Why had he spent so much time trying so bloody hard to change?
But change he had, and so when he opened the castle up to the men and women who worked the cairngorm mines and their families, and all those who lived and worked on Tarbendale lands, he endured the several hours’ worth of feasting, drinking, games, dancing, and music. It was simply what a good laird did.
“Aye,” he said, and with a firm tone, added, “and ye’ll attend as the Lady of Tarbendale.”
Aisla bristled, her pert chin lifting the way it did whenever her temper had been stoked. “Did you imagine I might hide away?”
“I only want to be sure of it. There’s been gossip regarding your return.”
He hadn’t heard any such thing, of course, but he was certain a number of his clan were itching to see the woman who’d left their laird high and dry years back. Chances were, they weren’t going to be overly warm with their welcome, either.
As if she’d determined this for herself, Aisla’s skin looked a bit chalky all of a sudden. “I hardly think they need to see me. And I’m not the Lady of Tarbendale.”
“Oh, but ye are, at least for the next few weeks by my count. And they will.”
Niall would be sure of it. Already, his mind whirled with ideas on how to up the ante after the small fortune she’d spent on useless trinkets and unnecessary purchases.
The soapy rose scent curled around him as he stood within an arm’s length of his wife. She seemed to be grappling with some inner conflict. Or perhaps she was only busy trying to piece together what he was up to. She chewed the corner of her bottom lip, and the motion seemed so utterly artless and unintentional that Niall felt a shove of wistfulness. It snuck up on him, reminding him of the girl he’d met at Montgomery, when he’d visited his sister’s new home and first met her young sister by marriage.
She’d been so innocent, peering at him shyly at first, then openly curious. And once he’d snared her eyes a few times, letting it be known that he didn’t mind her staring, she’d started to tiptoe her way around flirting. He recalled being genuinely surprised that he’d managed to snag the eyes of someone so lovely, what with a useless stump of a left hand. But she’d never asked him about it. Or stared. Or flinched.
Now, while she bit her lips in deep thought, Niall not only felt a lick of melancholy, but something more ignoble. His eyes canted to the painting where Mars sipped from Venus’s lips, and fell away. It had been so damn long since he’d tasted Aisla’s mouth. Or any other part of her body. The fast, hard press of his lips against hers the day they’d sealed their deal had been chaste. Hollow. He hadn’t allowed for anything more, knowing just how dangerous she’d already been in that night rail and wrapper, along with her attempts at luring him into bed with her and winning the wager, even before it had begun.
“Very well,” she said at last, her lower lip damp. “How many days until the feast?”
