Page 41 of Sweet Home Highlander
Aisla blinked. “You believe they’re behind these accidents?”
“Aye. Either them or their allies.”
She searched her memory. “The Sinclairs are their most powerful ally.”
Niall’s expression turned harder than before. “I havenae seen the Sinclairs with the Campbells lately, though Rose Campbell is betrothed to the Buchanan’s eldest son.”
Dougal.He wouldn’t say his name, she noticed. It didn’t surprise Aisla that she hadn’t heard about Dougal’s upcoming nuptials. She hadn’t heard from him at all since her husband, in a jealous rage, had ordered Dougal from Maclaren, years ago. In hindsight, a part of her wondered why Dougal had come around Maclaren that time. He had never sought her out at Montgomery in the two years between the end of their unofficial betrothal and her elopement with Niall. Had he visited to purposely stoke Niall’s jealousy? Had Dougal felt scorned about the broken betrothal? It seemed ridiculous. Men didn’t feelscorned.
“You’ve struck a new vein, I hear,” she said, changing the subject.
Niall peered at her. “Aye. Ye heard of that?”
She didn’t want to bring up Julien’s name so she just nodded. Niall watched her carefully, and she sensed he was thinking a great many things, though his mouth remained firmly shut.
“I didn’t know that you’d been working so hard to make the mines successful,” she said, and then immediately heard the words she’d spoken and winced. She hadn’t known. How could she have?
“I highly doubt word of it would have reached ye all the way in Paris,” he bit off.
She didn’t quail, knowing she should have expected as much.
“I’m happy for you,” she said, taking another look around. Besides the man named Gilroy, there were a few others with scarring on their faces. Burns. One man’s sleeve was pinned to his shoulder, his arm missing. “You’ve done so much.”
And she hadn’t known. She didn’t knowhim, she realized with a pang of sadness. He hadn’t been sitting at Maclaren, wasting away his life the last six years drinking and carousing. He’d been building up a livelihood, for himself and his clan. He’d become a man. All it had taken was some time, and hardship. And maybe…maybe he wouldn’t have managed any of it had she stayed. Hadshehindered him? Without her, he’d seemed to have thrived.
The wind rushed over the ridgetop and it pushed Aisla to the side. She felt suddenly hollow, and reed-thin. Niall’s left arm shot out to brace her as she listed to the side, the lance turned carefully away so that it wouldn’t impale her. Aisla caught her breath at the colossal strength bracing at her back, every inch of her skin beneath that arm firing to hot attention.
“Are ye all right?” he asked.
She nodded, though it didn’t feel convincing, not even to her. Where had this resolve and maturity been when she and Niall had been first married? Then again, he had been so young. So careless and unprepared. Their marriage, the baby, had been too much, too soon. With a wrench of her chest, she realized how lucky his next wife would be to have such a dedicated laird.
“Aisla?” Niall pressed, stepping closer, until she could smell the salty sweat on his skin.
“I’m fine,” she said, and gently dislodging the pleasing weight of his arm from her waist, Aisla reached for her horse.
She mounted, fast, determined to keep her eyes bright and clear, and free of the stinging tears threatening to show themselves. Niall stared at her with a somewhat wary, though warm, gaze. And suddenly, all of it—the mines he’d built, the revelation that he no longer drank, the pride evident in his stance—it overwhelmed her.
“I’ll let you return to your work,” she finished, and with a slap of the reins, rode away.
First the dance at the feast, and now this. Twice Niall had set her back on her heels, surprising her. If she wasn’t careful, she might well hand him the wager he had with Ronan.
Chapter Eleven
Niall’s study at Tarben Castle had been polished and cleaned to within an inch of its life, much like everything else in the keep. The massive mahogany desk gleamed with beeswax, the carpets had been beaten, and the furniture rearranged in a way that suited the space. A vase of fresh-cut flowers graced the burnished mantel, sitting beside freshly laundered drapes that had been purloined from Maclaren, he was sure, to replace the heavy velvet ones that had been there before. Light poured into the room. Two deep armchairs upholstered in warm brown and gold brocade now sat in front of the hearth invitingly.
Niall wanted to kick them.
He didn’t want his study warm and welcoming, damn it. He wanted the old, dusty carpets, mismatched furniture, and ugly drapes. He wanted everything the way it’d been, dark and dismal, beforeshe’dcome and disarranged it all. His wife was a dangerous tempest, determined to leave havoc in her wake. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Though it seemed she hadn’t brought her usual obscene flair to his study. There were no pastel flounces, no portraits of dogs, no lewd artistry. In fact, if he were in a more congenial frame of mind, he’d agree that the tasteful decor suited him.
Niall’s gaze lifted to the Rubens that hung over the fireplace. The gruesome painting of the chained Titan, Prometheus, being devoured by an eagle, was one of the artist’s more violent works. Though clearly in untold agony, the Titan held the eagle’s stare boldly. A savage, proud grin caught Niall’s lips. No matter what she thought of him or their marriage, this composition hinted at how shesawhim. It was how he saw himself, after all, as a man who had faced his demons and faced them still.
He stared down at the worn brown leather that encased the stump of his left arm. He’d learned to live with the pain and the ignominy of not having a hand, but he’d never let that defeat him. No, he’d trained as brutally as any other soldier, worked as hard as any other man. He pulled at the metal fastenings, loosening the leather, and opened a nearby drawer. A variety of accoutrements lay there, inventions of his own design like the lance, ones made to help him perform various tasks. The hook and lance were the most useful, but there were others that served as weapons, levers, pincers, and even a wooden carving shaped like a hand…whose only purpose was vanity.
Niall drew his fingertip down the sculpted thumb made of oak, and growled low in his throat before grabbing the pincers and slamming the drawer shut. He attached the device, refastened the leather hooks, and scowled at his neatly ordered desk. With a petulant swipe, he upended the stack of ledgers and books. There, that was better. Wasn’t it?
Now he felt like a child throwing a tantrum.
The faintest scent of honeysuckle blossoms wafted into the air as the papers fluttered to the floor.Herscent. The maddening thing was everywhere, in his chamber, in the corridors, in every blasted room. He closed his eyes and exhaled. Days before, when she’d visited him at the mines and nearly tumbled, he’d unthinkingly caught her around the waist. Even through the layers of her clothing, her skin had been imprinted on his. Every part of her was imprinted on him. This physical memory of her was the strangest thing. He’d been assaulted with images of her, long and lithe and lissome, in bed, in the bath, in his arms. It had taken everything inside of him not to draw her fully into his embrace then and there.
