Page 31 of Sweet Home Highlander
A few measly weeks for a lifetime of freedom.
Less, if she could seduce her dratted husband. A prospect that was becoming more daunting by the day.
Aisla shook her head and continued her exploration. She’d taken the opportunity to investigate Tarben Castle in Niall’s absence. Fenella’s, too. The housekeeper had made herself scarce as if she couldn’t quite work out the new Aisla, who didn’t cower or cry, or go running at the slightest provocation. It wouldn’t have surprised Aisla if Fenella hadn’t gone to Edinburgh with her master. The sharp dig of jealousy took her by surprise.
Damnation, shewasn’tjealous, but the thought ofthatwoman in Niall’s bed made her want to claw something. Aisla’s awareness of him was purely physical. After all, he was the only man she’d ever been with. He had always been handsome and charismatic, but now he exuded a potent masculinity that hadn’t been there before. Aisla had to admit that such sensual confidence was intensely appealing.
Despite being a drunk, Niall had never lacked for talent in the bedroom, though later on he’d become a bit artless in his inebriated haste. And even then, most times, she’d been well and truly satisfied. In the beginning, they’d been hardly able to keep their hands from one another, but shortly after their return to Maclaren, passion had given way to enmity.
Aisla slid her hand over her flat stomach, feeling the usual dull reminder of loss. There wasn’t a day that went by she didn’t think of the child they would have had if she had not miscarried. If the babe had lived, she would have been all of five, with rosy cheeks and happy smiles. Would things have been different? Or worse? Would she have left? Would Niall have changed with fatherhood?
Enough, Aisla.
This was no time forwhat ifs. Niall hadn’t changed for her, and a child would have made little difference. Shaking off her maudlin thoughts, Aisla opened two heavy, gilded doors into a massive gallery. She’d never been in this wing of the keep. Like the rest of the castle, the space was covered in cobwebs and needed a good dusting, but the walls were intricately carved and painted with old murals. Cracked paintings of previous lords garnished one end, while the other opened to a handful of French doors leading out to a balcony.
It could have been a ballroom at one point, Aisla thought as she hummed a tune under her breath and spun to the middle of the dusty floor. She did miss the excitement of all the balls and the parties in Paris. While she’d never cuckolded her husband, she had allowed herself the enjoyment of social activity. It had been the only thing that could fill the gaping hole inside of her, and fill it she had with balls, soirees, musicales. It was, Aisla supposed, how she got such a reputation as a social butterfly in the first place.
At first, she hadn’t planned to disabuse anyone of the notion that she was married, but one person had assumed she was unmarried and then another had assumed she was a widow. Aisla simply hadn’t bothered to correct either assumption. As the years passed, she decided she was well on her way to spinsterhood, and she had been driven to enjoy life without the encumbrance of a husband who had not wanted her.
Lifting her hands toward the painted ceiling, she spun again, imagining the sounds of an orchestra behind her, and laughed.
“I agree,” an amused voice said. “’Twould be wonderful with music.”
Aisla almost tripped over her own feet as she stumbled to an abrupt halt. A statuesque, flame-haired woman she had never seen before stood just inside the gallery doors. The prideful way she held herself suggested she wasn’t a servant, though she was dressed simply in a brown dress with a red and black plaid draped over her shoulders. She looked flushed, as if she’d just finished a brisk walk or ride.
“Oh, I didn’t know anyone had arrived,” Aisla said. “I’m…” She trailed off, at a loss to introduce herself as the lady of the house, which she was most decidedly not.
“I ken who ye are,” the woman said, ambling closer. “I’ve always thought this room could be put to better use.”
Aisla frowned, certain they’d never met as the woman stopped an arm’s length away. “Forgive me, but I don’t think we are acquainted, and if we are, I do beg your forgiveness. I havenae been back to Scotland in some time.”
The woman smiled. It was then Aisla noticed her striking blue eyes. Maclaren eyes. Niall’s eyes. “We havenae met. I’m Makenna, Niall’s older sister.”
“You’re married to the Brodie laird,” Aisla said, belatedly recognizing the red and black tartan as Brodie clan colors.
A shadow of something crossed the woman’s face before it was quickly hidden as she nodded. “Aye.” She surveyed Aisla with open curiosity. Aisla cringed, but endured the scrutiny and returned it with one of her own. Lady Makenna was a few years older than she, though the lady wasn’t by any means old. Eight and twenty at the most. And she was striking, as Aisla had noted before, with that fiery hair and uncommon height.
“The accounts of yer beauty are true, Lady Maclaren.” She paused, her gaze speculative. “Though in truth, I am surprised to find ye here and no’ in Paris.”
Aisla loosed a breath. “As am I, Lady Brodie.”
“Please, call me Makenna,” she said instantly, that same pained shadow shifting across her eyes.
“You’ve just arrived at Tarbendale, then? To see Niall?” Aisla asked while thinking of just how far Brodie lands were to the north. It would be a journey of several days, at the least.
Makenna nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation, replied, “Aye, though I’m staying up at Maclaren.”
“And your husband, he’s not with you?”
“Nae.”
She didn’t offer anything more of an explanation, and a heavy, guarded silence fell between them. It didn’t linger long, however. Makenna shook her head as if to clear it, and looped her arm through hers with a suddenly bright, wide grin.
“And ye must tell me why ye’re here at long last, before that scoundrel of a brother of mine returns. Where is he anyway?”
Aisla smiled, but she gently disengaged herself with the pretense of moving toward the balcony doors. “I’m only here for a few weeks, and he’s in Edinburgh,” she said, blind to the plethora of wild Scottish roses sprouting as far as the eye could see. “Seeing about procuring a divorce.”
Makenna’s gasp was loud. “A divorce?”
