Page 9 of Sweet Home Highlander
Because Lord knew Aisla Maclaren didn’t.
Ronan cuffed him in the shoulder to capture his waning attention. “How about one of Hamish’s sisters? The MacLeods are like family anyway. Ye need to have some bairns.”
Niall shot his older brother a sour look. “I’m no’ the one inheriting the title of the Duke of Dunrannoch and having to concern himself with miniature future dukes.”
“But yearelaird of Tarbendale,” Ronan shot back. “And yer people want ye to be happy. Isnae it time to move on?”
“My current wife might have someaught to say about it,” he said, scrubbing his right hand through the tangled snarls of his hair. “Wherever she is.”
“Ye ken where she is,” Ronan said drily. “And even if ye didnae, a letter came for ye at the Maclaren keep.”
His gaze slammed into his brother who had removed a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. “A letter?”
“Aye, from Paris, dated seven weeks ago.”
“What does it say?” he said dispassionately, ignoring the sudden slow throb of his treacherous,stupidheart. And his sudden desire to snatch for the paper. What did he care what the damned letter said?
“Do ye no’ want to read it?”
Niall growled his displeasure. “Ronan.”
“Fine.” Ronan laughed and unfolded it. “It says yer wife wants to talk in person.”
His surprise was immediate. “About what?”
“She doesnae say, only that she asks for a modicum of yer time at yer convenience. At Maclaren or in Paris.”
Niall frowned. What on earth would his wife want to talk about now? The only possibility that occurred to him was reconciliation, and he would never take her back. Not even if she got down on her knees and begged. His breath snagged.
The picture of his wife on her knees before him—golden blond hair falling in glossy curls over bare shoulders, her deep copper-colored eyes peering up at him, desire burning in them—struck him like a caber to the head. His knees almost snapped at the hot surge of lust that swept through him.
He swore a foul oath and turned to face his brother. “Care for a turn in the ring?”
“With ye?” His brother shot him a knowing grin.
Niall bared his teeth. “Aye.”
“I hope ye ken what ye’re asking for, littlebràthair.”
Ronan would give him the bracing round he needed to thrash the useless memories swimming around inside of him. “I do.”
Once they were in the fighting ring and armed with claymores, Niall shoved unwanted images of Aisla to the back of his mind and focused on the fight with his brother. In one-on-one combat, he’d only ever beaten Ronan twice. His brother’s skill was legendary. At first, he’d only fought Niall with his left hand, but after Niall’s own finesse became evident, Ronan had had to fight with all his own considerable expertise and without holding back.
Niall fended off a few bone-jarring hits, countering his brother’s bearlike strength with several sleek turns of his own sword, as steel met steel in a shower of sparks. After several punishing turns, Niall shifted backward out of reach. He was panting with exertion. Ronan wasn’t holding back now. His blows were exacting. And Niall was distracted. Too distracted with thoughts of that sodding letter.
Should he respond? It’d been nearly two months since she’d written it. Didsheexpect it? He had no desire to see her, here or in Paris. Nor was he amenable to whatever it was she wanted. A larger allowance? More pin money? He’d seen to it that she had more than enough to live in the lap of luxury, even while they’d been apart.
What the bloody hell does she want?
Ronan’s claymore slammed into his breastplate with the force of a stampeding elk, and Niall felt his feet go out from underneath him. His back met the dirt in the paddock, driving the breath straight out of his lungs. He lay on the ground, stunned, for only a second before he rolled to the side and leaped to his feet. Raucous guffaws reached him. Hamish, who had joined the small crowd watching the match, stood nearby with Fenella, doubled over in laughter.
“How the hell did ye no’ see that one coming?” Hamish crowed, the surrounding men and women who’d been watching the match joining in his friend’s amusement. Niall’s skin flushed, the desire to crack Hamish in his meaty jaw stronger than his earlier urge to be pummeled by Ronan.
“Go chug yerself, Hamish,” Niall said, knowing the fight was over. He was lucky he hadn’t lost his remaining good hand to Ronan’s blade with his grievous lack of focus. Niall tore off his soaked shirt and wiped his face with the soft fabric. Perhaps a swim in the ice-cold loch would be less fratricidal.
“I dunnae ken why ye’re laughing, Hamish,” Fenella said loyally, coming to stand at Niall’s side. “’Tis no’ as though ye could have fought Ronan and remained standing.”
Ronan grinned at her praise. He had claimed victory this time. Niall flexed his fingers, re-gripping the handle of his own sword, while the leather-covered stump of his left hand hung at his side. It tingled, and he could almost feel his missing fingers. It wasn’t the first time it felt as if his hand was still there…but invisible. He handed his claymore to Fenella and rubbed along the length of his forearm.
