Page 46 of Sweet Home Highlander
“It’s a means to an end, Jules.” She sighed. “You know he can’t get the divorce unless the records are found.”
“Is that still what you want?” he’d asked softly.
“It’s what I promised you.”
The question had irked her as had her imperceptible hesitation before answering. She wouldn’t even be in Scotland, pandering to her madman husband’s demands, if she didn’t. But a kernel of doubt had wriggled its way into her mind. She knew what had caused it, just as she’d known why she couldn’t stop gawking at the man. One unexpected, scorchingly hot kiss that had taken her completely by surprise…not to mention her galling response and his utterly seductive words.
Are ye wet for me, lass?
Hell and damnation. He’d been so close to seducing her, even though truly, it had been she who’d risen from the bathwater. Good Lord, how were they even to tell who had seduced whom?
Aisla screwed her eyes shut and pressed her clammy fingers together in her lap, smiling ferociously at her sister-in-law. “Yes, I’m well, though I confess to having a touch of a megrim this afternoon.”
Makenna’s eyes widened at her exuberance. “Good, then. Hopefully, ye’ll be in better spirits for the dancing later tonight. And the rest of the games tomorrow. ’Tis the archery competition.”
“Aye, ye must compete,” Evan, her brother-in-law, chimed in from his spot at the other side of the table where he sat between his wife and Julien.
“Ye remember, dunnae ye, Aisla?” Evan asked. “Ye took both the lasses’ archery contest and the dagger throw. Sorcha would be proud.”
Sorcha had been the one to teach her how to throw a dagger and how to nock an arrow when she’d first come to Montgomery with Aisla’s half brother, Brandt. Aisla swallowed past the sudden knot in her throat, the memories an onslaught. The Scottish girl buried inside felt pride, but that girl was long gone. Another had taken her place, one skilled in survival instead of silly frivolous games.
Finlay laughed. “Ye still hold the record for longest mark.”
“She does?” Julien asked, impressed. He, for his part, had behaved for most of the day, staying away from Niall and not antagonizing the laird.
“Aye,” Finlay said, lifting his ale with a grin. “She even trounced Niall with the dagger, and his skill is renowned.”
Aisla’s eyes slid for a fraction of a second to the man sitting beside her, but his attention remained firmly focused on Finlay who sat to his left. Niall had greeted her upon arrival for breakfast at Maclaren, but politely so with unfailing, cool courtesy. She supposed he had the right after their interlude several days before. Today was the first time she’d seen him since then, and even so, most of it had been at a distance.
Now at dinner, however, she remained profoundly aware of him…of every movement, every breath, every word that fell from his lips. God, she would have given anything to have been seated elsewhere, but her place was at her husband’s side. Even if everyone here knew how much of a parody it was.
“Can ye still throw?” Evan asked.
She opened her mouth to answer, but Niall beat her to it. “I can attest that her aim has not faltered.”
He wasn’t at all speaking about her skill with a dagger. She felt her cheeks color. “I haven’t practiced in forever,” she said with a scowl.
Inweeks, she corrected silently. Not since she’d come to Scotland anyway. But she’d practiced daily in the attic of her aunt’s townhouse in Paris. Something about the methodical throwing of the blades had been soothing. Calming. But it’d been her secret. Not even Julien had known about her eclectic hobby.
“Afraid?” Niall turned to her, then, meeting her with glittering eyes. A bold challenge swam in them, and something heated rose in response inside of her.
She arched a supercilious eyebrow. “Of you?”
“Aye.”
“No.”
A sly smiled curved his full mouth. “Prove it.”
Evan stood up on wobbly feet with a laugh, which was half brought on by the pints of ale he’d consumed over the course of the day. “Shall we have a wee contest, then?”
Aisla balked, shaking her head in immediate dissent. But Evan’s suggestion was met with a whoop from Finlay, and a chorus of approval from the other clansmen further down the table, until it was taken up by the whole gregarious hall.
“Evan, nae,” Makenna protested.
“’Tis no’ the time,” Ronan boomed from the head of the table, his own countenance wreathed in a scowl. “We’re in the middle of sup.”
“Dunnae be a spoilsport, Ronan, and everyone’s done eating anyway,” Evan shouted and stared down the table to the men who remained in the hall. “Who wants to see the wee lass challenge the brave Tarbendale laird?”
