Page 8 of Sweet Home Highlander
Niall turned to see Ronan stalking down the hillside toward him. The corner of his mouth tilted up into a grin. “About yer marriage,bràthair. Or lack of it.” He proceeded to summarize what had happened with the mine and William’s suspicion that the collapse hadn’t been an accident. “They’re growing bolder. Trying to antagonize us, so that we either go to war or give them the wedding and alliance they’ve been seeking.”
“They have nothing of value to offer us,” Ronan said, crossing his large arms over his chest. “And I dunnae wish to marry.” His blue eyes centered on Niall, one brow hitching. “Speaking of marriage, it’s about time that ye consider the same.”
Niall’s humor vanished at his brother’s words. First Hamish, now Ronan. The pair of them had to be in league. Though the thought of his erstwhile wife was never far from his mind, no one ever had the ballocks to speak to him about her. No one but Hamish or Ronan, clearly. His hand curled into a fist at his side as he resisted the urge to lay his brother flat on his presumptuous arse.
“Careful,bràthair.”
“It’s been six years, Niall,” Ronan said, and every inch of him bristled at the ugly reminder. “She’s no’ coming back. Perhaps ye should marry one of the Campbell’s daughters and save me the trouble.”
“As far as I know, bigamy is still a crime,” Niall mumbled.
By law and by God, Lady Aisla Maclaren was still his wife.
The love of his life, too, if he was being honest, until he’d taken her home to Maclaren and she’d turned as icy as a loch in the dead of winter. His family and clan had been upset over the elopement, but he and Aisla had known to expect as much. Hell, he’d have wagered good coin and a barrel of whisky that he’d suffered more than she had when they’d first arrived. Ronan had given him a walloping that had left his head ringing for a day and his teeth loose for a week. Yet she brooded, day in and day out, barely speaking two words whenever they were together.
He’d imagined she might be homesick, but her turnabout had been something else. A complete change of heart. Desire had never been lacking between them, but something had shifted, the remote look in her eyes growing more distant by the day. Niall suspected she regretted it all. Regretted the fact that she was with child. Regretted marryinghim.
Old feelings resurfaced to swamp him as he stood there, and Niall swallowed the bitter emotions. It was over…all in the past, and yet the memory of it still twisted him up in knots. No wonder he’d gone straight for the bottle.
He glared at his brother. “I married once. I dunnae intend to make that mistake again.”
“It willnae be a mistake, no’ if ye do it right this time. Ye should look to a clanswoman, one of yer own people. I’m sure Fenella would be more than open to the possibility.”
Aye, Fenella would. The lass had been angling for marriage since before he’d even met Aisla. Niall felt a twinge of discomfort. It was no secret that Aisla had mistrusted Fenella, and the feeling had been mutual. But Fenella had been his friend longer than his short marriage to Aisla. She’d been there after the Marquess of Malvern had ordered his hand removed, helping her mother, a healer, to care for the gruesome stump, and making sure it didn’t turn septic. Never once had Fenella flinched at the sight of it while changing his bandages, and she’d always slip him extra sips from a whisky flask that she hid in her skirt pocket. She hadn’t pitied him, like some of the other women and men tended to do, and when, years later, he’d been at a complete loss at how to make his wife happy, Fenella had been there for him once again, as ballast.
Aisla had even accused him of encouraging Fenella, which was absurd. Fenella was a striking lass, but he hadn’t desired her, or any other, since the day he’d met Aisla. He’d wanted his bloody wife. And he’d wantedherto want him again, the way she used to. But wanting something didn’t make it happen.
After the loss of the bairn, Aisla had taken to sleeping in the adjoining antechamber. At first, Niall had thought she needed the space, which he had as well. The loss of the babe had devastated him, and the only way he could cope had been to drown the feelings before they suffocated him. He’d turned to drink so he wouldn’t have to think. Or feel.
In the end, he had driven her away. Acid built in his throat. Niall remembered the day like it was yesterday, even though he’d been nearly three sheets to the wind. Dougal Buchanan had returned with his wife atop his horse from a local fair, claiming that her mare had turned up lame. Stung by jealousy and jug-bitten, Niall had speared his wife with a look of contempt after Dougal had taken his leave.
“Ye speak with a forked tongue, lass,” he’d accused in a hard voice. “Accusing me of wanting Fenella when it’s clear ye still have feelings for yer first love.”
“Are ye foxed?” she said.
Niall had bared his teeth in a smile, refusing to back down. “No’ enough to miss the way he looked at ye.”
“Well, at least someone does!” she’d snapped back.
“Do ye want him?” he’d asked, his own anger rising. Why wouldn’t she have desired the Buchanan? He was strong. He was the eldest son of a wealthy chieftain. And most of all, he was whole and in possession of all his limbs. His words had been heedless, meant to hurt. “Did ye spread yer legs for him, Aisla?”
Her eyes had sparked with tears and defiance. “Ye’re a useless drunk.”
“Better a drunk than a tart. Did ye?”
Even now, years later, Niall knew he would never forget the expression in his wife’s eyes at that moment; the hardness that had descended over the look of excruciating anguish. Her chin had wobbled and hitched, her voice as clear as a bell.
“What if I did? Would it make any difference to ye?”
Nor could he forget the pain that had burned through his ale-muddled mind, and his subsequent reply, “Then ye should go back to Montgomery.”
“Ye want me to leave?”
“Aye.”
And proud as she was, she had. She’d left him.
In hindsight, Niall knew his drinking had been out of hand. Perhaps things would have been different if he’d been the man then that he was now. He sighed. It was no use dwelling on what could have been. He drew in a heavy breath. Maybe Ronan was right. Maybe it was time to move on, to marry someone who actually cared about Scotland or Clan Maclaren. Orhim.
