Page 50 of Sweet Home Highlander
She bit back another reply and instead, swallowed. This drink, however, didn’t have the cooling and relaxing effect on her. She tasted the sharp kick of the liquor, and the moment it was down her throat, her stomach was revolting.
“You look a bit green around the gills,” Julien remarked.
“Hush,” she replied, feeling a burst of relief when the pipers sat down again and began to play. “Let’s just dance.”
She grabbed for his hand, but Julien went rigid as a block of ice. “I don’t think that would be wise. The ground is uneven here, and your sense of balance is likely skewed.”
Aisla felt a spurt of fury and insult. “Stop coddling me. Now, I’d like to dance. If you won’t accommodate me, I’ll simply find Dougal again.”
“Nae, ye willnae.”
The whisper of a snarl cracked through her and she spun to see Niall standing not one arm’s length away. Aisla took far too long puzzling over how he’d reached her side so quickly. Hadn’t it only been a few seconds since she spied him across the courtyard?
“As much as I hate to say it, Leclerc’s right,” he growled. “Ye need to rest a bit.”
This time, it was more than fury and insult she felt at being chastised. It was embarrassment, too. Trailing closely behind Niall was Fenella, and even with her mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smirk, she still managed to look comely. Then again, at the games, Fenella wasn’t in her usual role as his housekeeper. Now, she wore an indecently tight dress and had abandoned any attempt toward deference with respect to their stations. Triumph and malice glinted in her eyes.
Niall reached for Aisla’s palm—the one that held the snifter of whisky. “I think ye’ve had enough, lass.”
She jerked it back, causing the contents to splash over the brim and onto her hand and wrist. “I am not drunk, and I don’t appreciate being spoken to as if I were a child.”
Her cheeks went hot when she realized her tongue had tripped over the word “appreciate.” Fenella snorted laughter, and though Niall turned his ear, clearly hearing her, he said nothing. Something inside of Aisla broke then. A glowing hot poker felt as if it were branding the inside of her chest and stomach, and all Aisla wanted to do was scream at the pain.
“I’m no’ treating ye like a child—”
“No, you’re being a hypocritical boor,” she shot back, her tongue coming unhinged, loosened by ale, whisky, and a half-decade of stifled hurts. “Am I not allowed to dance? Am I not allowed totryto have fun in this place that has never given me anything other than heartache? I don’t know what I was thinking! I don’t even know why I bothered to come here at all. I shouldn’t have subjected myself to the torture of this place or its people or ofyou.”
“Aisla—” Julien stepped in, the warning clear on his tone.
But she was too far gone to stop—her fury had been six years in the making.
“I left Maclaren for a reason, and I don’t regret it. I haven’t, not for one moment. At least in Paris, I didn’t see the same faces everywhere I turned. You’ve closed yourselves off up here in your little corner of the world, where everyone knows everyone and every newcomer is treated like a three-headed interloper simply because they aren’t the inbred cousin of a cousin of a cousin!” She swayed. “I am a Montgomery to the end.”
Niall stepped forward and seized her arm, his voice low. “That’s enough. Ye’re insulting my clan, Aisla.”
“You made it my clan, too, or have you forgotten that? I’ll say what I want about it. Arrogant, pretentious Maclarens. Too good for alliances. Too good for anything.”
Makenna pushed through the throng of onlookers, and Aisla realized the pipe music had ceased. Everyone had stopped to look on.
“Aisla?” Makenna said gently. “Why dunnae ye come with me for some air?”
She met the eyes of several men and women, all looking at her the same way she’d just described—like she had three heads. They’d looked at her like that when she’d first arrived, too. Young, lonely, and pregnant. A pitiable outsider.
“I don’t need your help!” she cried bitterly, suddenly feeling a wave of dizziness. She pressed a hand to her temple. “You escaped this place once. I don’t know what’s happened in your own marriage to make you come crawling back here, but I’m not like you. This prison is not my home.”
Makenna’s eyes widened and she took a step backward, as if she’d been shoved. Aisla felt instant guilt and shame. She clammed up, sealing her lips tight. She tried to jerk her arm out of Niall’s grasp, but he only gripped her tighter.
“Enough, Aisla,” he ground out, his breath hot against her ear. “That’s enough.”
Aisla blinked and twisted around, looking for Julien, but when she met his eyes, knew she’d made a mistake. His constant smirk was gone, his brows pinched together. Evenhe, the Dionysus of Paris himself, looked shamed by her appalling conduct. He wouldn’t hold her stare. Instead, he made to follow Makenna, who had turned and walked away. Fenella moved aside to allow Makenna to pass, her usual sneer even more potent now. Aisla felt nothing but misery.
The world tilted and spun gracelessly. Or perhaps it was she.
“Niall, I’m—”
“No’ another word,” he cut in, and then started walking, fast. Aisla’s feet tripped into motion, stumbling behind him. He stopped, tossed her like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder, and bore her toward the keep.
Chapter Thirteen
