Page 15 of Sweet Home Highlander
Ronan grinned. “Prove it then. Get her to change her mind about leaving ye, and I’ll forgive the debt ye owe me.”
Niall had laughed, half in shock at the unexpected offer. By his estimation, it would take him four years at his current rate of profit at the mines to repay Ronan his initial stake. Fifty thousand pounds was a lot of blunt. “What’s in it for ye?”
“Watching ye fall flat on yer face.” Ronan’s eyes had narrowed. “And maybe an owner’s share in yer mining holdings. Ye have a fair nose for profit.”
It had been an easy bet to take. Ronan would lose, and the debt would be lifted from Niall’s shoulders. His brother wanted to see him fall flat on his face, did he? Watching Ronan forfeit a large sum of money rightly owed to him would provide just as much entertainment. Competition between all the Maclaren brothers had never been lacking in good-natured fun.
But Niall had no intention of giving ownership of the mines to Ronan or anyone else. And Aisla, well, he’d make certain she would get a taste of what she had given up. Niall did not plan to rekindle anything between them in earnest, but he would do whatever it took to get her to change her mind, and then he would relish giving her the divorce. He only had to figure a way to force her to stay on long enough for him to see the wager through.
He had shaken hands with Ronan, fed the gelding a bucket of warmed oats, and taken his leave. The truth was it was an easy bet, but not an easy task he’d set for himself. He didn’t know what he felt at the reappearance of his wife, only a confused ache in his chest and an arousal so acute it was painful. Both were things he could do without. Especially the second.
Hence the before-dawn, breakneck-speed ride.
Did he still love Aisla? Ronan’s question had battered him in the few hours he’d spent in bed, staring into the dark. He could still remember what it felt like to hold her, that first time at Montgomery, when they’d finally met in the old stables behind the quarry. They’d laughed at how difficult it had been for each of them to break away from the castle and sneak to their rendezvous, but the moment Niall had slid his hands around her waist and hauled her against him, their nervous laughter had vanished. He’d known, in that moment, he’d found a treasure.
But that had all been before he’d made a mess of things.
Now, he knew there could be no way around letting her go for good. It’s what she wanted, and the truth of it, the sense of it, was undeniable. His clan needed a lady they could depend on, someone they could trust and admire, and show true loyalty to. Aisla was not that woman.
Niall reined in his horse and directed the mount toward the Maclaren keep in the distance. His eyes went to the upper casement windows of the chambers they had shared once a lifetime ago, it seemed. The last handful of years had also changed her in other ways. Her mannerisms were more refined, her clipped, cultivated speech more English. She wasn’t the same girl and he’d do well to remember that. And right now, he had a wager to win.
Niall nudged his mount into a canter and reached the castle minutes later. It was still early, and while the servants were up and bustling about, his parents, and his brothers and their wives would all still be abed.
“My wife’s chamber,” he asked a passing maid, who bobbed a fast curtsey. “Where is it?”
The woman blinked owlishly at the curt demand. “Lady Montgomery, m’laird?”
“LadyMaclaren,” he snapped. It seemed his darling wife couldn’t wait to cast off the lodestone that was the Maclaren name, so much so that she insisted on going by her maiden one. “Lord knew how she’d react to being called Lady Tarbendale.”
“I believe the lady…Lady Maclaren…was given the chambers in the north tower.”
Their old chambers, the ones his eyes had drifted toward out in the fields. He thanked the stammering maid and climbed the north tower, hoping to God that being given their old chambers had been a prick in Aisla’s side.
He found the door easily in the gloom, despite not having been up into this part of the keep for ages, and without a moment’s hesitation, slammed his fist against the wood. The door was too thick to hear anything happening inside, so he pounded on it again. And again. Until finally the door whipped open, and staring out at him was a wide-eyed, exasperated, and somewhat alarmed Aisla.
The picture of her, here in this place after so long, struck him again like a battle axe. With her pink cheeks, fresh from sleep, and the mussed braid she’d styled before going to bed the night before, she would have looked almost adorable, had it not been for the night rail she wore. Creamy white linen gripped her breasts in a snug embrace. The thin material might have been perfect for the humid summer night, but it was also perfect for showing Niall the luscious, rose-tipped nipples he had once had every right to touch and kiss.
And still did.
He must have stared at them for a beat too long, for Aisla crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back and half closed the door with one foot.
“Niall? The sun has not even risen. What is it?” she asked, the fog of being startled awake likely the reason why she didn’t correct herself and address him as laird.
“Ye can clearly see the sun’s up, Aisla. Or have ye forgotten how the sun rises in the Highlands? Now let me pass. We’ve a discussion to be had.”
He pushed past her before she could slam the door in his face. His feet came to a halt as he saw the four-poster by the hearth, the wardrobe in the corner, the table and chair next to the windows overlooking the courtyard and the fields beyond. Nothing had changed. Well…none of theinanimateobjects had changed. He and Aisla were two different stories completely.
A petite, pinch-faced maid bustled in from the adjoining room wearing a rumpled robe and a white cap that sat askew on her head. “Is anything amiss, my lady?”
“I’m well, Pauline,” Aisla said, leaving the bedchamber door open to the corridor. “Go back to bed. Laird Tarbendale won’t be long.”
“I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you, my lady,” she said with a frown in his direction.
“Pauline’s right,” Aisla said. “You shouldn’t be in here.”
He faced her. “Why? Afraid LeFrog might get himself boiled up in a lather?”
“Leclerc,” she corrected with a scowl. Aisla glared pointedly at him as she moved toward her maid, her voice lowering. “Pauline, all will be well. Go, please.”
