Page 11 of Sweet Home Highlander
Her husband’s eyes glinted as he lifted his cup to his lips, no doubt seeking reinforcement from its contents. He had to have guessed why she was here. It was the sole reason that would bring her back to Scotland, after all. She’d never belonged here, and a handful of hours back at Maclaren had only reminded her as much.
“Well, then make your matters known,bhean, as some of us have responsibilities to tend to.”
The Gaelic word for wife was delivered like an insult. Julien stiffened at her side, but it was the duchess who came to the rescue. “Niall is now laird of Tarben Castle,” she said hastily, though with some amount of pride.
“Tarben Castle?” Aisla replied in surprise. “Doesn’t that belong to Sorcha?”
Her sister-in-law had mentioned that the tract of land that bordered Maclaren had been part of her dowry.
“’Tis mine now.”
Niall was alaird. Aisla squashed the flare of pride. A part of her wasn’t surprised. When he wasn’t drunk and senseless, he’d had a fine enough brain, and was capable of accomplishing anything he set his mind to. Including his marriage to her. He’d planned it all—from the carriage to Inverness, to the tiny chapel that had been filled with purple heather and blushing lilies, to the inn where they’d consummated their vows by candlelight. He’d been so gentle, so loving, that when they’d found pleasure together, it had brought tears of happiness to her eyes.
Aisla breathed through the sudden onset of sorrow. He was no longer that man, and she was no longer that naive girl.
“Congratulations,” she murmured.
“So, Lord Leclerc,” Ronan said when Niall didn’t respond and the awkward silence stretched toward incivility. “How do ye find Scotland?”
“Fascinating in ways, boorishly savage in others.”
Niall’s gaze snapped to Julien’s, the tension in the room going nearly solid, though an airy smile remained on Julien’s lips. He was provoking him deliberately, and Niall seemed to be seconds away from leaping over the table.
Hoping to avoid bloodshed, Aisla addressed her husband. “May we speak privately?”
“Whatever ye want to say can be said here, lass.” He waved a rigid arm, one that looked like it would be happier throttling the man at her side. “We’re family, after all. Well, except for yer…companion.”
Heat flared to the tips of her ears. He might have well as saidloverto all seated at the table. Still, she would rather not twist the knife into the duchess’s heart with the true reason for her visit. It was clear that her own health had suffered from tending to the illness that debilitated her husband. “I beg for your discretion, laird. It’s of a delicate nature.”
Niall folded his arms, an amused glint appearing in his eyes at her begging for anything from him. Little did he know how far she would go to procure his agreement. Beg, plead, grovel,whateverit took to be free of him.
“We have no secrets here,” he said.
Aisla flushed. No, they did not. Everyone in this hall, even those who had retired from dinner, knew that she had left her husband. She didn’t want to imagine what they’d been told or assumed after her departure. That she’d betrayed her vows, that she’d abandoned Niall for greener pastures, that she’d left a trail of lovers strewn in her wake. Half a decade of buried agony burst deep inside her breast, hard and devastating, and she fought to catch her breath.
There could be no mistake—she was the enemy here.
Aisla reached for calm. She’d endured worse.Muchworse. If she had to be the villain, then she would be. No one here could fathom the depth of her loss or what she’d suffered. They couldn’t begin to understand how much it had taken to will herself to keep breathing, to keep living. She’d run from Maclaren, run fromhim, and only then she’d been able to survive. She had forged strength in her sacrifice. Found a will to live after everything that meant anything was taken from her.
She would not cower. Not now. Not ever.
“Very well,” she said in a clear, strong voice. “I want a divorce.”
…
Niall fought the urge to crush the finely molded goblet in his fingers, the silence on the dais deafening once the shock had settled.
He had not expectedthat.
Around the head table where his family sat, not one person seemed to be drawing breath. Evan and Finlay, two of his older brothers, were the only exceptions. They sat shoveling in food and drinking ale, as if the tension coiling around the table wasn’t present. Their wives, seated next to one another, exchanged hesitant glances. They were too newly joined to the Maclaren clan to remember Aisla, though they’d likely heard every last detail of the story—of their ill-timed elopement leading to a fruitless marriage that had lasted less than six months before tragedy struck.
And why his wife had left him.
His gaze slid to his oldest brother, who had, long ago, pulled him back from the brink of self-induced hell. Ronan, at the fore of the table, sat rigidly, his manner reserved, but his eyes like twin darts as they assessed first Aisla, then Niall. Their mother, at Ronan’s side, simply appeared saddened. The duchess had been kind to Aisla; she’d accepted her when he’d brought her to Maclaren. And when Aisla had left, his mother had wept. Another spate of anger roared to life in Niall’s chest, this time for the hurt his wife had caused other people who’d cared for her.
Adivorce?
So, legal separation from him was the only thing that had brought her back to Scotland after six years? And clearly it had something to do with the arrogant Frenchman at her side, who’d worn a constant smirk from the moment they’d arrived. Niall itched to pummel it from his face. He took an even breath, filling his lungs to capacity, and held it for several seconds. He forced his fingers to soften around the goblet. Though he felt the stirrings of emotion beneath his skin, he’d long learned to control his temper.
