Page 13 of Sweet Home Highlander
“Regardless, laird,” she said in an even tone, a mask of cool inscrutability descending across her features. “I am here now, and I have told you what I want.”
“Aye, ye’ve made that clear.”
“Then, are we in agreement?”
Conversation at the other end of the table had ceased. For an uncomfortable moment, Niall wished he had conceded to his wife’s wish for privacy.
Years ago, he could read every emotion written on that expressive face, know her thoughts before she voiced them. Now, he could barely discern a blasted thing. The new Aisla carried herself like an elegant queen, accustomed to her every desire being met and her every wish granted. In this case, a divorce.
He’d give it to her, of course. She had no future here, and he would not impose an unwilling lady upon his clan. They deserved better. But first, perhaps perversely so, Niall wanted to strip that icy equanimity from her. He wanted to see how far she would go to get what she wanted. He knew it was his pride talking, but he would not make it easy for her to leave this time.
Not if he had a damned thing to say about it.
Lifting his goblet, he drained the contents, watching as her eyes carefully followed his movements. Niall folded his arms across his chest and curled one corner of his lips into a lazy half smile.
“Even if I were to agree,leannan, on what grounds do ye think that divorce is even an option?”
Chapter Four
The way he’d drawledleannan, like it was something too delicious to be consumed, trickled down her spine. One bloody word, and inside Aisla melted like butter on a hot stone.
She sat rigid in her chair, the temperature in the great hall oddly warm and stuffy. Then again, it might have just felt that way to her, considering her entire body was aflame. With frustration and humiliation, to be sure, but also with something else. Some other infuriating heat that she wished to God wasn’t there.
It wasn’t because of the Gaelic endearment, either. Why did her blasted husband have to be so…bloodymanly? Even while he drove her mad with his stubborn arrogance, the deepest, darkest corner of her body and mind couldn’t help but acknowledge the sultry way he looked at her, as if he were remembering the times he’d taken pleasure in her body, and given her the same, world-shaking sensations.
Over the past few years, she’d convinced herself that she had forgotten what being tangled in bedsheets with Niall had felt like, the pure lust his mouth and hands could spin within her before they could even touch her body. And yet, mere seconds after setting eyes on him, those memories had sucked her back into their clutches. Six years hadn’t been long enough to bank the fire Niall had always been able to stoke inside of her.
Weak. That’s what she had felt like whenever she was around him. Weak for him, for his body, and his attention, or what little of it he’d been willing to grant her when they had been first married. What was it about Maclaren that had so completely changed the young man she’d fallen in love with at Montgomery?
The image of a pretty, dark-haired woman with a constant, disdainful stare flashed to mind. Aisla had trained her mind to jump away from any thought of Fenella over the last few years; the woman would have surely become Niall’s mistress. She’d been standing beside him earlier, with Hamish and Ronan, as if that were her place.
Her first few months in Paris, Aisla had driven herself into a deep and bitter depression thinking of the two of them together. She’d barely been able to leave her aunt’s home on some days. But with Lady Sinclair’s coaxing, Aisla had finally joined society and met people who drew her mind from those darker thoughts. Being with others who knew nothing of her true past made pretending easy. So easy, in fact, that even when she was alone, she continued pretending.
But now, as she stared her husband down from across the table, her food growing cold and the conversation around the hall tapering to whispers, Aisla felt the reality of her situation like a slap in the face. Grounds for divorce? They were innumerable.
“I should think that would be clear, laird.”
With a taunting curl of his lips, he added, “We were wedded and bedded, after all.”
Aisla locked her eyes on his, too embarrassed to dare meet anyone else’s eyes. Was he enjoying her mortification? It certainly appeared that way.
“I am not asking for anannulment,” she said evenly.
“Nae, ye’re asking for something even more impossible.” The amusement began to fade from his eyes.
It wasn’t impossible. Aisla had given it plenty of thought from Paris to Scotland, and there were indeed grounds for a divorce. Several, in fact. She only wished she didn’t have to say what they were in front of his entire family.
“Please,” she said again, hating that she had to beg. “This is a conversation better had in private.”
He stayed quiet a few moments, and she wondered if he might give in. She should have known better, though.
“I’m comfortable where I am.”
Aisla gritted her teeth. “Very well.”
But then Ronan slid his chair back deliberately and stood, his bulky figure casting a shadow over the table. “I, alas, have lost my appetite. I bid ye good evening.”
He left the table, and without having to say a word, several of his warriors at the other tables stood as well. Evan and Finlay’s wives immediately stood, and when their husbands continued to eat, they nudged them.
