Page 22 of Sweet Home Highlander
He floundered for the right words. “Fenella was here…”
When you weren’t.
Niall trailed off without voicing the latter half of his thoughts, but his meaning was obvious, if the stricken look on Aisla’s face was any signal. As before, it was wiped away quickly, though the strain remained in her shoulders. They stood in frozen silence, tension beating between them like a trapped thing. Her chin rose infinitesimally as she inhaled an even breath. One inch more and her satin-clad breasts would be grazing his chest. One step closer and his lips could be on hers. But they stood, caught in the twist of something beyond the both of them…lost in the grip of the past.
It was Aisla who stirred, her breath hissing through pink, parted lips.
Niall did the smart thing.
He stepped back and took his leave, almost running out of the keep past a sullen Fenella. He changed in the stables before pointing his horse toward the tavern. Niall did not want to think of the woman currently situated in his bedchamber, who had appeared at Tarben Castle with all the delicacy of a typhoon. He had to chuckle at the sheer cheek of it. This brash confidence she exuded was new. He suspected she’d learned it in Paris; it suited her.
He needed to reassess.
But first, a few laughs with his men in the tavern would be just the thing to take his mind off of his surprising mystery of a wife. However, luck was not completely in his favor.
His men were there, but so was Leclerc.
The smug son of a bitch had taken a whole table unto himself in the corner of the tavern. Either that, or he’d settled there and none of the other men had wanted to join him. Leclerc’s sharp eyes cut to Niall’s the moment he walked through the front door, the smoke, sweat, and earth-scented air chasing up his nose. It was clear the other miners hadn’t gone home to change out of their work clothes. It made the picture of the French nob, in his perfectly dandy trousers, white shirt, claret-colored waistcoat, and deep gold coat look even more ridiculous.
Niall would not ignore the man, not when so many of the others were now watching him, waiting to see how their laird would treat such an unwelcome guest. To turn his back would be seen only as avoidance, and he was not a man who avoided anything. He’d meet this man head on.
“What are ye doing here?” Niall asked as he pulled out a chair at Leclerc’s lonely table, and took a seat.
A sly grin pulled at the man’s lips, and Niall saw him swiftly gauge the situation. Before Leclerc had even said a word in response, Niall knew he had a keen intelligence.
“I thought I’d settle in a bit,” the Frenchman said, taking a sip of his ale. “It looks as though I’m going to be in Scotland for the foreseeable future.”
He had a smooth, cultured voice, his French accent surprisingly light, and he was good looking. Leagues better than Dougal Buchanan—and himself, Niall thought. He was the sort of man who would have never lacked for female attention, or obvious interest from matchmaking mamas. And yet he’d had to go and propose to a woman who was already married. What did that mean? That he truly cared for Aisla? Hell, that helovedher?
“Don’t ye have an estate around here, somewhere?” A tidbit he’d gleaned from Ronan.
“Several days ride, but yes.” Leclerc’s coy grin stayed fixed. “Though I wouldn’t dream of taking my leave right now. Not with my future wife stuck here for an indeterminate period.”
His future wife.Niall scowled. The man could not even pretend at penitence, or remorse, for having shown up here with Aisla. Leclerc’s lips curled in that eternally irritating smirk.
“Ye’re amused, are ye?”
“Ever so much.” Leclerc lifted his mug. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Niall ground his jaw, his limbs tensed and aching. Half from the last few days’ physical labor, and half from unspent frustration. “Nae.”
“I understand. Accepting anything from your wife’s next husband might feel a little…conflicting.”
Not one ounce of sincerity or contrition laced his jovial tone, and Niall had a vision of reaching across the table, grabbing Leclerc by the lapels of his fancy French-milled coat, and pummeling him right in his pretty face. But he kept his body still, his arm propped on the arm of the chair, and merely grinned back at him. “I dunnae have a problem with that. If ye wanted to buy my supper, I wouldnae stop ye. I’m simply no’ here to drink.”
Leclerc’s expression transformed only slightly, from sly to amused to moderately curious. And with every new expression, Niall’s desire to toss the man out the door—or through a window—only increased.
“What does one do in a tavern other than drink?”
“Buy a round for other men,” Niall replied, and with a signal to Tandry, the barkeep, indicated that the next round was on him.
“Why, thank you,” Leclerc quipped.
“Ye’re no’ on my payroll.”
Leclerc laughed, unperturbed by the exclusion. “Highland hospitality is quite peculiar.”
His sarcasm stoked Niall’s temper. “Ye expect hospitality when ye show up here, with my wife on yer arm?”
