Page 45 of Sweet Home Highlander
“In the wager,” she said in an aloof tone that belied her wet, bruised lips and slumberous eyes.
It took all his effort not to shove her away from him. Releasing her, Niall staggered back, scraping his hand through his hair. Good Lord, but she was as cold as stone. No one could have responded as hotly as she had, all to win a bloody wager. And yet, shehad. His wife had become a better sybarite than he ever could have fathomed. He strode to the door, cursing his body’s stiff response, and looked over his shoulder.
She stood there, like the proud, unreachable goddess she was.
He’d been a fool to think she could ever be mortal.
“Do you agree to release me now that the wager has been won?” she said, chin and color high.
“Nae,” he said, his voice hoarse. “The agreement between us still stands. Dunnae insult my intelligence, or yers, by claiming it was fairly won. Ye succumbed to what happened between us as much as I did.”
After an interminable moment, his wife inclined her head in acknowledgment. It was a small victory, but at least she had not denied her participation in their kiss. Despite that cold shell of armor that surrounded her, she was too honest not to. They both knew her passionate arousal had matched his in force and fury.
“You taste of whisky,” she said softly. “Imbibing again?”
He swallowed, tasting the bite of it on his tongue. “I didnae drink it, though Lord kens I should have.”
Her lips whitened. “You might have everyone else convinced that you’ve changed, but you can’t fool me. You forget I know you, Niall. I’velivedyou. Grant me a divorce, and let me go.”
“Nae.”
“Why?”
He had no answer worth giving. Not unless he wanted to reveal how much was at stake. His debt to Ronan accounted to fifty thousand pounds. A fortune, and one he had no intention of losing. As Niall took his leave, his head was unclouded, but other parts of him remained confused. It was a long time before his erection subsided, but by the time it did, he was clear on two things.
One, his wife was a formidable opponent.
And two, underestimating her would be his downfall.
Chapter Twelve
“Aisla, are ye well?”
The sharp whisper came from her right. Aisla glanced up from her plate into the concerned gaze of her sister-in-law. This was the third time she’d been caught lost in her thoughts…and they weren’t ordinary thoughts, either. They were lewd and lustful, and thoroughly wicked. Though Aisla kept her face composed, her fingers were knotted tightly in her lap.
She nodded with a smile, feeling the other eyes of the dinner table’s occupants fall upon her. Gracious, she hadn’t beenthatcaught up, had she?
“Yes, forgive me,” she murmured, turning to the woman at her side.
Worry clouded Makenna’s blue eyes. “Ye seem distracted. Are ye certain ye’re not ill? Did ye overexert yerself today?”
Aisla’s gaze swept the crowded hall, filled with men and women from several neighboring clans. She had completely forgotten about the Maclaren summer festival until Makenna had reminded her the day before. Lost in her intrigues at Tarbendale and studiously hiding from her husband, she hadn’t seen or been part of the preparations at Maclaren, which meant the festival had come as a complete shock.
“Yes,chérie, are youcertain?” Across the table, Julien’s lips were curled into his usual half smirk, but he arched one eyebrow infinitesimally, making heat crawl up her neck. The scoundrel seemed to be able to read her mind at the worst of times. She flattened her lips and glared. He would know—he was the most notorious sexual dilettante on the Continent. And he’d caught her spending the better part of the day ogling a kilted laird in particular, despite Niall’s continued deceptions and refusal to concede.
She resisted the urge to kick Julien under the table, recalling their awkward conversation about boundaries earlier that morning. At first, Aisla had been adamant in refusing Niall’s demands to not see Julien, but using Julien was a two-edged sword. She would not win the wager and cut short this farce if Fenella succeeded in driving Niall to the mines with more lies, which was where he’d been. Aisla hadn’t seen him in days. Or nights, for that matter.
“Niall wishes for me to curtail our visits,” she’d said to Julien.
“Niall, is it?” His smirk had been infuriating, following her stare to where the object of her disaffection sparred with a claymore against another clansman. She’d been unable to tear her eyes away from the mesmerizing masculine display of strength, particularly since those same sinewy arms had held her so tenderly. “And since when do you let anyone tell you what to do?”
She’d ignored his jab. “I can’t flaunt another man in front of his clan.”
“You weren’t overly concerned with that when we arrived. What has changed?” he asked.
Aisla hated that he was right. She hadn’t cared. “It’s unseemly,” she replied, unwilling to admit anything had changed. It hadn’t. Itcouldn’t.
“It’sunseemlythat he’s putting you through this rigmarole.”
