Page 24 of Sweet Home Highlander
Aisla stood at the narrow window looking out over the expansive Loch Rannoch. The glistening, reflective surface was one of the few beautiful memories she’d taken from Maclaren, and it looked much the same as it had from her bedchamber window at the Maclaren keep with the setting sun glinting off the water like dancing flames. Although Tarbendale was on the western edge of the loch, the view was still comparable. Better, even.
Niall had been fortunate that his sister had decided to sell the land to him. Aisla had never visited Tarbendale in her short time at Maclaren, and it was strange to think that Niall was now laird of the small but lucrative estate. The Niall she’d married had been young and carefree, and careless. A spoiled, indolent lord who’d been coddled to his own detriment. He couldn’t have been less motivated to do anything beyond drinking, brawling, and wenching.
Precisely what he might be doing now.
Not that she cared. Niall’s behavior no longer had the power to hurt her.
Aisla drew a reassuring breath and pushed away from the window. A satisfied smile curved her lips as she recalled the look on his face when he’d first seen her at Tarben Castle, and then took in the fact that she would be staying. Attack was the best form of defense—her sister-in-law, Sorcha, had taught her that. In hindsight, Aisla did not know if her impulsive decision to move her trunks into his home would cost her more than she was prepared to pay.
Tarben Castle was neutral ground. It did not have the memories that the keep at Maclaren did. And while she understood that this was no more than a game, Aisla did not want to be upended by the past. But this washisspace. Filled with his allies. One in particular.
Though she’d put Fenella out of her mind, it’d been a shock to see her in the role of Niall’s housekeeper. The venomous look the woman had given her hadn’t changed, nor had her attitude.
“’Tis ye,” she’d said with a sneer upon seeing Aisla on the doorstep.
Aisla had smiled graciously. “Aye, it’s me. You look well, Fenella,” she’d said. “Though I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Why?”
“I would have thought you’d be married with a family of your own by now. You know, moved on from being the cuckoo in her master’s nest.”
Fenella’s scowl had darkened. “Ye’re still a bitch.”
“And you’re still a foul-mouthed parasite,” Aisla replied, all delivered with a smile.
The woman’s mouth had opened and shut like a fish. Aisla had learned more than a thing or two in France when dealing with particularly vicious young debutantes. Bullies didn’t much like it when their victims stood up to them.
“Niall willnae like that ye’re here,” Fenella said, changing tactics when she’d seen Aisla’s portmanteau and trunk. “We’ve nae rooms prepared.”
“I’m certain my husband won’t mind if I share his chambers.” She waved an idle arm. “This was his idea, after all.”
Technically, Aisla’s presence at Tarben Castlewasn’this idea, but Fenella wouldn’t have known that. Aisla had taken great pleasure in sweeping past the gaping woman and having the groom from Maclaren ferry her things up to his chamber. It hadn’t been hard to figure out which was his, given that Fenella was of no assistance, but thankfully, it’d been the only furnished one.
She had spent the morning redecorating the masculine and spartan space, and making sure her wifely presence was glaringly obvious. Her longtime Parisian maid, Pauline, had not been pleased with the reassignment, though she’d borne the change with her usual grace, even helping with the redesign. And when Niall had returned, Aisla could not have hoped for a more gratifying response.
Delightful satisfaction aside, now that she was alone and evening was upon her, she couldn’t help but realize that there was only one bed. Two armchairs stood in front of the fireplace. Perhaps Niall could sleep there. Or on a pallet. Pauline had taken the tiny antechamber next door. Perhaps, if push came to shove, Aisla could make do there.
Where did Fenella sleep? She was his housekeeper, but she wasn’t exactly a servant. And if she was more…
Aisla glanced at the huge bed and immediately resented the direction of her thoughts, and the host of unwelcome images that followed. She didnotcare who slept in that bed or whether he housed a harem of women there. It was certainly large enough. Then again, her husband had matured into quite a large man—surely honed by hours of hard, outdoor labor—as she’d discerned when he’d shed his damp shirt. His chest had been chiseled, his skin bronzed by the sun.
When he’d stood there earlier, dwarfing the entire room, Aisla had been hard pressed not to notice just how well built he was. Clad in nothing but a damp tartan, all that was missing was a claymore for him to resemble a Highlander of old. He’d always been tall, but his youthful leanness had given way to an astonishingly broad physique with thick, muscled arms that would wield a broadsword as if it were a toothpick.
The sound of footsteps drew her out of her reveries. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” a young, wide-eyed maid said with a bob. “The rest o’ yer things have arrived. And ye have a caller.”
Aisla’s curiosity was piqued as she went down the stairs. No one apart from Lady Dunrannoch knew she’d removed herself to Tarben Castle. At the bottom of the staircase, her eyes narrowed at the sight of Fenella simpering and giving Julien an inspection worthy of a farmer looking over new steer. The woman was shameless. Then again, itwasJulien. He’d always had that effect on women. At least three debutantes each Season went into a dead faint in his presence. It was a wonder that she wasn’t attracted to him, but then again, her tastes seemed to run to hard-eyed and equally hard-hearted, ruthless Scotsmen.
“Lord Leclerc, what a charming surprise,” she said, standing on the last step. “I see you’ve already met Fenella, the laird’s housekeeper, and clearly the latest casualty of your charms.”
Fenella glared daggers in her direction and bustled back to the kitchens, where Aisla hoped she was overseeing an evening meal that preferably did not include poison.
“Chérie,” Julien said, coming forward to kiss her on both cheeks. “I had to see how you were faring.” His pale eyes took in the stone walls and the bare hall that was partially furnished with long eating tables and benches. A few armchairs stood in one corner near a giant hearth. Apart from the occasional maid running in and out, the great hall was deserted. “It is quite provincial, is it not? Charming in its own way, I suppose. Are you well?”
She smiled and drew him toward the chairs. “As well as can be expected. Shall I see if I can get us some tea?” Aisla frowned in the direction of the kitchen. “Though we’re more likely to be served tea made with water from a horse trough.”
“Your nemesis, I take it?” he said with a grin.
Aisla grimaced. “Fenella’s welcome to Niall. If he’d only agree to the divorce, she could have him, free and in the clear. I’d walk them to the altar myself.” She sat and put her head in her hands. “Oh God, Jules, thank the heavens you’re only a short ride away. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can survive six weeks here alone with him. It’s positively…”
