Page 21 of Sweet Home Highlander
“Mywife’sstay?” he asked, coming to a halt.
A vision in sapphire blue descended the stone staircase. It preceded a voice that made his ballocks and his fist tighten in tandem. “Why, of course, darling. You didn’t think I’d remain at Maclaren, did you? This is a much more convenient arrangement.”
Aisla’s face was all innocence, though he swore he could see a gleam of challenge in her eyes as if daring him to contradict her. It disappeared however when she reached the bottom step, her composed gaze flicking briefly to Fenella.
There was no love lost between the two women, he knew.
But he was more focused on the predicament at hand. Tarben Castle, though habitable, was not ready to receive guests. His wife would be much more comfortable at Maclaren where the guest rooms were in abundance and well appointed with comfort in mind. His mother could have easily found a room for her daughter-in-law, and despite her remark about Aisla and the Frenchman sharing a chamber, Niall knew his proper English mother would never go beyond the bounds of decorum. The duchess had only said that to rile him.
This washisdomain. His demesne. Tarben Castle was his safe haven from all the memories at Maclaren. It bore no mark of the marriage that had almost demolished him. Damn and blast it, he needed his wife at Maclaren, where she would be far enough away so that he could stage his strategy with cold precision. When she was near, he couldn’t think.
“And what of yer gentleman companion?” Fenella interjected. “Will he require a chamber also?”
Aisla’s expression was unruffled, and she directed her answer to Niall. “Lord Leclerc will remain at Maclaren.”
“Ye ken Stevenson said nothing about the peacock needing to stay. He could return to Paris.”
“And leave my side? No, Lord Leclerc is rather devoted to me and wishes to stay for as long as I must.” She smiled and gestured with an elegant hand. “Besides, his room at Maclaren suits him far better than this. Heisa French aristocrat, you know.”
His marauding wife didn’t have the right to just stomp in and make herself at home. Unless…it was part of her strategy.
Niall’s eyes narrowed. “Which bedchamber are ye in?”
“Yours, of course.” She waved an airy hand. “It was the only clean and furnished one I could find, and thus, I told your…housekeeper here that it would do. The rest of my things will be moved from Maclaren later this afternoon. Unless of course, you have objections, laird.” Her smile was the devil incarnate. The vixen was thinking of their wager, no doubt.
With a sense of foreboding, he took the stairs two at a time, past Aisla. And once inside his chamber, slumped against the wall.
Holyhell.
Her belongings dotted the formerly austere, simple room. It was an invasion of color. An invasion of femininity. Hell, it evensmelledlike her. Wildflowers stood in a vase on the mantel, while a brightly colored Montgomery plaid lay at the foot of the bed. A decorative chest stood in one corner, a handful of gowns peeking out. A gilt-edged hairbrush and mirror lay on the dressing table. And that wasn’t even the half of it. His breath fizzled.
Aisla cleared her throat behind him. “As I’ve said, the rest will arrive later.”
“There’s more?”
She made a tsking noise, lowering her lashes. “A wife for six weeks I believe you said.”
Devil take him and his stupid ideas. He should have agreed to the divorce and sent her on her way, just as she wanted. But no, he had to take it upon himself to take on his brother’s bloody wager and engage the chit in a war. Though he’d intended to do that with her ensconced at Maclaren. Not on top of his very toes in a dusty castle that catered to a man who essentially lived a bachelor’s life. It was no place forher.
“Do you concede? We can end this right now.”
Niall narrowed his eyes. She could not honestly believe he would crumble so swiftly. There was a wager to be won and a heavy debt paid. The stakes were too high for him to give up, just because she’d drawn first blood.
“On the contrary, wife, I’ve nae wish to end things at all,” he said, reaching for the hem of his damp shirt, still wet from his plunge into the loch. He stripped it off, tossed it aside, and turned to face her.
Her startled eyes lifted from the expanse of his bare chest, her lips parting in a soft intake of air. But just as Niall had quickly adjusted to the shock of Aisla’s belongings cluttering his room, she had the wherewithal to do the same. She raised her eyebrow in challenge. “That’s a nice view, but surely you didn’t think it would be that easy?”
He faltered with a dark flush. In truth, he had. Snatching a dry plaid and a shirt from a nearby chest, he turned on his heel and nearly mowed down his grinning wife who hadn’t moved from her position in the doorway. “Where are you going, laird?”
It’d been a long time since he’d had to answer to anyone. “To the tavern with the rest of the men.”
He detected the barest flicker of emotion in that placid expression of hers, something so bleak that it made his stomach sour. It made him pause because of its familiarity. He’d seen that emotion one too many time in her eyes, but he’d been too much of a drunken lout to understand it then. He drew a harsh breath; it looked too much like pain. A raw, intolerable kind of pain. But then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a faintly amused smirk.
“Will you be back in time for sup?”
“Aye,” he said. “Though ’twill be at Maclaren. I’ve no’ yet found a cook. Or butler.” He stroked his bristled chin. “Or valet, though Dunkirk has done a decent job there.”
“I’m surprised Fenella has lapsed in that regard. It always seemed like she’d expected to be mistress of the manor one day.” Aisla’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I gather she got what she wanted.”
