Page 84 of Sweet Home Highlander
She wiped her tears away, crumpling the note in her fist and closing the file Niall had left. None of it mattered anyway. She would be gone soon, her connection to Maclaren well and truly severed. Perhaps he was right that the bungled-up marriage papers were a blessing in disguise.
Their sad tale of woe was at its bitter end.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A rotten stench woke Niall, and the second he was conscious again, he recalled the familiar, greasy sensation of having slept with a whole bottle of whisky in his body. Only he hadn’t, thank God. Though the temptation had been like a siren to his dejected state, he’d only consumed one glass when he’d returned to Tarbendale. Nothing would have been able to lift his mood, and in fact he’d known for certainty that whisky would only leave him feeling worse.
He sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the sour odor, and recognized that none of it came fromhisperson. It came from the two men still sleeping off the effects of a ridiculous drinking game that had taken them into the wee hours of the dawn. The alcohol permeated their every pore, every hair, every inch of their bodies.Bloody hell, they stank to high heaven. He sat up from where he’d been slumped over on the study sofa, and the rest of the room came into focus. Everything ached, but it was not because of alcohol. It was because of…her.
Hamish sat up with a grunt, staring around, his eyes glassy and a tuft of bright red hair sticking up to one side. “Watsat?”
Ronan jumped to his feet, looking more worse for wear than Niall had ever seen him. He wanted to smile. His brother had needed some loosening up. Being born as the heir and bred to be a duke had given him a stick up his arse for most of his life. It was gratifying to see his perfect brother looking less than perfect for once.
Ronan rubbed a huge hand through his hair and yawned. “Ye have some catching up to do, brother, if ye plan on drinking the way ye used to.”
Hamish grimaced at the booming voice. Ronan sat back down at Niall’s desk, propping his booted feet on the slew of papers there, acting and sounding as though he hadn’t consumed more than a bottle of whisky. Niall laughed—Ronan would never let something as middling as half a cask of whisky affect him.
“Nae,” Niall said. “I dunnae plan to. But I plan to watch the two of ye try to drink each other under the table more often.”
“Not even one bottle in and Hamish was snoring like a wee bairn, thumb in his mouth and all,” Ronan said.
“Speak for yerself, old man,” Hamish groaned, trying to stand and reeling as if the floor tipped under his feet. “I’ll take ye on any time, any place.”
“Ye could have fooled me.”
Hamish glowered at Ronan. “What are ye even doing here? Dunnae ye have some duking to do or some such?”
His brother had been with him the night before, when Hamish had arrived with several bottles of whisky. The news had traveled fast, it seemed. This time, Ronan had left the bottle alone, letting Niall decide for himself whether it was the answer he needed. He’d had one glass, savoring the taste of the whisky and nursing it for several hours while his brother and Hamish had decided to try to out drink each other. It had been amusing to watch and had taken his mind off the hollowness in his gut. At least for a little while.
It had been barely a day since the revelation that he and Aisla had never been married in the first place, and Niall had returned to Tarben Castle. He’d worked tirelessly the last six years to perhaps, one day, prove to Aisla that she had made a massive mistake leaving him. And for what? Not only was she leaving again, but he’d never needed to work so hard to begin with. If he really thought about it, everything from the mines to sobriety to Tarben Castle and his own disciplined strength, had been forher. He dragged himself out of his maudlin state of mind with a sharp shrug. She might have been the catalyst, but he’d done those things for himself, too.
He glanced at his brother. “Whyareye here?”
“I’m here because I didnae want ye waking up in any sort of comfort, brother,” Ronan answered, taking that moment to slam his feet down onto the floor, and strike the top of the desk with his massive hands. The sounds were like cannon fire and Hamish moaned behind him, clutching his head between his hands.
“Quit yer moaning,” Ronan said with a laugh and then turned to Niall. “’Tis practically noon, ye ken, and I’m sure yer men are wondering where the devil ye are.”
“I’ll get there soon,” Niall said. They’d get on without him—they were well trained and loyal. It was one of the things he was proudest of, that he’d taken on people no one else would hire, that he’d given them a second chance. He’d lost his hand, but he’d never lost his spirit. No, it’d only taken a false marriage and being in love with a woman who didn’t love him in return to do that. He crossed the room, toward the windows, the bright sunlight daggering his eyes. A storm threatened on the horizon, the gray clouds rolling in swiftly.
“They’re lucky to have ye,” Ronan said. He turned to meet his brother’s gaze, blue eyes so similar to his, and he read the sincerity in them. It was a compliment of the highest persuasion, especially coming from someone as exacting in his standards as his eldest brother. “I’m proud of ye, ye ken.”
Niall’s throat felt tight with emotion. “I had a good advisor.”
He looked through the paned glass. He had a view of the courtyard below, and his blood, though not sluggish thanks to any whisky, slowed instantly. There was a coach and four waiting below, a pile of luggage strapped to the back racks. He recognized the trunks and valises.
“Laird?” came a timid voice at the door to the study.
“What is it?” Niall answered, his eyes still following the people below as they readied the carriage and horses. The top of one head was instantly familiar. Leclerc. He stood by the carriage’s open door, his arms crossed as if waiting for something. Or someone.
“Lady Aisla to see ye, laird.”
Of course. And it was Lady Aisla, not Lady Maclaren.As it should be, he thought as he finally turned around. Aisla entered the study, and the sight of her leaning some of her weight on an elegantly carved walking cane made his heart catch in his chest. She still appeared rather weak, though her facial bruises had yellowed some, the cuts and scrapes having healed well. But even with the remnants of her accident, she was beautiful. Her hair had been pulled atop her head with golden ringlets framing her face, and her gown, though modestly cut, still hugged her curves, accentuating her hips and breasts, and even the slim width of her shoulders. He drank her in, every inch of her, and the sight was enough to negate all the numbing work his brain had done the night before.
“Aisla,” Ronan said in greeting, and then with a warning glare toward Hamish, dragged the bigger man with him, and left the study.
She gave Ronan a warm smile, touching his arm lightly as he passed her at the entrance. She wrinkled her nose slightly and arched an eyebrow, as if she, too, were stunned at Ronan’s uncharacteristic state. And then she looked back at Niall, who suddenly felt like a vagrant in desperate need of a bath. He scrubbed his bristly jaw and cheek. And a shave, too.
“Ye look better,” he said, expecting some sarcastic remark from her regarding his own appearance, as though she would assume the worst…that he had attempted to drown himself in a bottle as well. But she remained prim and collected.
