Page 5 of Sweet Home Highlander
He vaulted a golden eyebrow. “What can possibly be worse than a scandalous erotic past?”
Aisla took a breath to tell him what she had kept secret since she fled Scotland: “The thing is…I already have a husband.”
Chapter Two
Aisla strolled with Julien in the lovely gardens at Parc Monceau in Paris trying to ignore the boldly curious glances he was sending her way. She hadn’t seen him since her shocking announcement that she was a married woman. He had prodded her for more information, but declaring a secret that had been zealously guarded for the better part of six years had left her more skittish than a horse surrounded by snakes. She’d departed the ball soon after, citing a megrim.
But Julien was not one to be deterred and had relentlessly called upon her for three days until she’d finally agreed to accompany him on a walk. Though only under duress. She’d heard Julien in the foyer, announcing loudly to her hapless aunt that he intended to see for himself if Aisla was unwell, and she decided to avoid a scandalous scene of an unmarried gentleman storming into her bedchamber. She had worse scandals to worry about, like her married status and the existence of a husband she’d left behind in Scotland.
“Chérie, you cannot make such a confession and not expect questions,” Julien said after they’d been strolling for some time and stopped at a bench overlooking a small ornamental pond.
“I know,” she said. “I suppose I was hoping you wouldn’t ask them.”
He shot her a jaunty grin. “Not a chance. You’re right. This is much more risqué than a dark erotic past—not by much, mind you—but you have piqued my jaded interest. Who is this husband of yours and where have you stashed him?”
“Scotland.”
He whistled. “A Scot, no less.”
“I’mScottish, ye dolt.”
“And there’s that charming brogue. So the wee Scottish lass married the strapping Scottish lad, and then what happened?”
Aisla pursed her lips. “Are we truly going to do this?”
“It’s like a dislocated shoulder,chérie. The quickest way forward is to snap it back into place.”
“Niall was the furthest thing from a dislocated shoulder,” she muttered. “More like a festering open wound.”
“Sounds dire.”
“It was.”
Aisla swallowed. She knew there was no way around explaining what had happened. She had done what had been necessary to survive. She’d done everything possible to forget the man who had broken and discarded her heart. The man she’d left behind out of sheer self-preservation. And here she was about to unlock memories that had been buried for good reason. But perhaps it was time for a new start.
Aisla clasped her hands together in her lap and stared out at the ducks splashing at the edge of the small pond. “I met him when we were fifteen,” she began. “You recall when I told you of my half brother returning to claim his rightful place as the Duke of Glenross?”
Julien squinted, his brow creasing. “Brandt Pierce, the stable-master from Essex turned duke, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, well, my sister-in-law, Sorcha, invited her family to Montgomery after my brother’s claim was reinstated. That was when I met Niall. I’d been sheltered most of my life, you see. My father had planned for me to marry into the Buchanan clan, and so I was not expected to entertain any suitors besides my intended, Dougal Buchanan. Niall was the first boy outside of my own brothers and clansmen who showed any interest in me.”
“And you? Did you fancy him?”
Aisla paused, sorting through the rush of memories as they came one after the other. Niall’s brilliant blue eyes. His easy smile. The whispered words of devotion. She’d fallen in love almost instantly.
“I admired him,” she said softly. “We eloped. At eighteen, we went to Inverness and married.”
“Eloped?”
She blushed. “I became pregnant.”
“Naughty Aisla,” he said with a smile, and Aisla knew he was only attempting to defuse the situation with his usual lighthearted humor. “Couldn’t wait for the marriage vows?”
“I was in love, and Niall was very persuasive,” she said, heated memories swarming like bees.
Her first time had been seared into her brain. She had given herself to Niall willingly, and she had not regretted it once. It’d been magical. Perfect. She’d desired him so desperately, and he her. On his last visit to Montgomery, they’d hastened away to an empty crofter’s cottage whereupon he’d made his intentions clear.
“I want to be with ye, Aisla,” he’d whispered, kissing her temples and her nape, and making her mad with desire. “I want ye as my wife. I love ye.”
