Page 55 of Sweet Home Highlander
“You must or you will feel worse.”
Dragging herself up and over to the chair, Aisla balked at the sight of food, but she made herself eat the dry toast and sip the strong tea. The strength of the brew made her eyes water. Though her belly remained queasy, she nibbled obediently on one piece of toast, and stared out the window to the manicured gardens below.
She’d never indulged that much, not ever. After seeing what it had done to Niall, Aisla had only ever consumed champagne or wine on rare occasion, and ratafia or sherry in smaller doses at special dinner parties and balls. She had never drunk whisky.Thathad been her downfall, she knew. That and the bloody Maclaren ale that could fell an ox.
Aisla cringed, recalling her words. But she felt more vulnerable about what she’d said in the garden alone with her husband. She’d cried about her miscarriage, about the baby they had lost. She’d wept, and talked about pains and circumstances that should have been left buried and forgotten.
“Are you well, my lady?” Pauline said, rushing over.
“Yes,” she choked, blinded by tears. “I must have sipped too quickly.”
The sudden ache was too raw, too fresh. Oh,whyhad she reopened old injuries? It had to have been the garden. It guarded too many painful memories…the tree, the rosebush, what was left of her heart. And the drink had undermined all of her hard-won self-possession and fortitude.
Niall had seemed quiet and different, though. They’d forgiven each other for past misunderstandings. It seemed inconceivable that they could ever be in such accord. Then again, she’d been the drunk one, while he’d been sober. Aisla couldn’t quite count on her dubious recollection of events, no matter how much she wanted to believe it.
A second knock on the door announced the arrival of the footmen, bearing hot water to the bathing chamber. Aisla sighed. Perhaps she would drown and then she would be spared an eternity of ignominy. Though she imagined that drowning in a hip bath would be quite a feat even for the most determined of ladies.
“Will you take your bath now, my lady?” Pauline asked, once she forced down her tea and most of the toast.
Aisla nodded and stood, gripping the side of the table. She couldn’t hide forever. “Yes, that may be best.”
After a good wash—all the while refusing to acknowledge the fact that Niall had done an efficient job the night before—Aisla felt marginally better. Enough to leave her chamber at least. Pauline combed and braided her damp clean hair, and she dressed in a simple muslin gown, before gingerly making her way downstairs. Her heart raced with every step. With luck, no one would be there. She did not want to see Makenna, or Julien, or Niall, or anyone for that matter.
“Courage,” she told herself, and entered the breakfast room.
To her relief, she did not see the broad, unmistakable form of her husband. However, her gaze was met by the other two persons in attendance. Julien rose, his face inscrutable, and her heart fell at the absence of his customary smirk. Things must indeed be dire if he hadn’t yet forgiven her. She’d already felt ill, but now another spurt of guilt and humiliation threatened to sink her.
“Good morning, Lady Maclaren,” he said with a short bow.
“Please, Lord Leclerc, don’t get up on my account,” she said, unconsciously mirroring his scrupulous, polite tones. “Good morning, Makenna.”
“How are ye feeling?” Makenna asked.
She collapsed into a nearby chair, watching with no small amount of nausea as Julien signaled to a footman to refill his heaping plate. She suspected he was doing it to torment her. The cad. “Like I’ve been dragged behind wild horses, stampeded by wild elephants, and left to rot in a field surrounded by feral hogs.”
Makenna laughed, and Aisla winced at the sound. “That bad?”
“Worse than you can possibly imagine.”
“You deserve it and more,” Julien said, shoving a forkful of runny eggs into his mouth. Aisla closed her eyes.
“Hush, Julien,” Makenna chided softly. “Ye can see that she’s miserable. I suppose such an affliction is punishment enough.”
Aisla’s eyes flicked open, taking in Makenna’s gentle smile, and she drew a deep breath. The fact that she’d called him by his given name didn’t escape her notice, but it wasn’t worth fussing over. She owed the lady an apology. “I am sorry for what I said, Makenna. It was unforgivable in the extreme. I did not mean to imply that you were here because your marriage was inadequate in any way or that Maclaren was a hellish place…”
Makenna lifted a palm. “Say nae more, Aisla, truly. ’Tis forgotten.”
“And I love Maclaren,” she blurted out. “And the clansmen, most of the time. If you had been here before, I’m certain it would have been different. But I was so lonely, and Niall had his friends, and I had no one…” She trailed off helplessly. “I was angry.”
“I understand, but ye dunnae need to explain yerself to me.” Makenna paused, a heavy look crossing her face. “Or to anyone.”
“I do,” Aisla whispered. “I said hurtful things.”
“Perhaps, but the people ken yer character. They will ken that ye didnae mean it.”
“Will they?” she asked in a small voice. She didn’t understand how they could know her character when she’d been gone for so long. When she’d chosen not just to abandon her husband, but them, too. How could they possibly think well of her? And when had she started to care?
“Aye, ye will see. Ye think my brother didnae have a loose tongue when he was a tosspot? Even before yer marriage, he had a foul mouth.” Makenna shook her head, smiling. “And if ye’re worried ye were the only one to cause some excitement yesterday, ye should ken there was a good brawl after ye quit the festivities. I suspect Maclaren will be blathering more over that than the outburst of one tipsy lady.”
