Page 89 of Sweet Home Highlander
She rested her head against his shoulder, and nodded. And nothing more was said on the matter, thank God.
Niall had a quick wash while Makenna waited, though he didn’t know why she felt the need to hover, and within the hour, they rode for sup at Maclaren.
“Yer new housekeeper is quite nice.”
“Mrs. Barlow, yes. She’s better suited to work at the castle than she was at the mines,” he replied. “Mrs. Wingate is happy to be back in the kitchens.”
He’d hired the widow at the mines originally, her role primarily to cook and feed the workers each day. But, in her late fifties now, making her way up to the mines every day had started to take its toll. When the position of housekeeper had needed filling at Tarben Castle, Niall had asked her if she’d be interested. Mrs. Barlow had nearly wept with joy.
They reached the keep, and though he’d been successful in turning the tide of conversation from Aisla with his sister, the moment he took his place at the table in the Maclaren great hall, the room teeming with clansmen and women and warriors, the tide rushed back and pulled him under. His brothers Evan and Finlay didn’t help matters by jumping to the heart of it for a bit of sibling sport as they were both wont to do.
“Ye need a wench,” Evan said, jabbing Niall with a beefy elbow. “Roll her around a bit and ye’ll forget yer wife.”
Evan’s wife smacked him on the shoulder, but Finlay only goaded him on.
“’Twasn’t his wife to begin with,amadan. He’s got nothing to forget,” he said, and lowering his voice, added, “Lucky bastard.”
Finlay’s wife heard the muttered oath and glared at him, though she remained silent. Niall had the feeling she’d have plenty to say later, once they returned home. He could easily ignore Evan and Finlay, but when Niall caught Ronan eyeing him from his chair at the head of the table, he felt the close inspection to his very bones.
“What is it?” he finally asked, setting down his fork.
Ronan tapped his fingers against his goblet, his expression inscrutable. “Ye look like hell.”
The voices up and down the table softened. Niall shook his head. “Thank ye. I appreciate the compliment.”
“What are ye doing here still?” Ronan went on, as if he hadn’t heard Niall’s reply.
“Ye invited me to sup. Or have ye forgotten?”
“Aye, ye’re here. Ye’re eating and drinking and talking, but ye’re not truly here. Ye look bloody half asleep. Wake the hell up,bràthair.”
Anger sparked through Niall, and he felt hot under his skin. Down the table, everyone watched cautiously, listening. Had their mother been present, she might have said something. But she was with their father, in his chambers.
“What are ye trying to say?” he asked. “Spit it out already.”
“She’s in England,” Ronan answered.
Damn it.The bloody letter Makenna had received had made its way into Ronan’s hand as well? “I ken where she is.”
“Then why are ye still here?” he asked again.
“Do ye no’ recall the last time I went after her? What I found in Paris?”
The memories were still vivid, though they didn’t hurt as much now.
“Ye wouldnae find the same lass in London as ye did in Paris. She’s changed,” Ronan replied.
“I ken that,” Niall said, getting angry again. Why couldn’t they just leave it bloody well alone? He’d bungled everything up twice now. He’d lost hertwice. And if he went after her now, again, hell, he’d likely ruin that effort, too. He’d hurt her again, and God, he didn’t want to do that. He couldn’t stand the idea of holding her back or being the whetstone around her neck.
“I want her to be happy,” he said, uncaring to who was listening. “And if she’s happiest without me, then so be it.”
He’d endure it. For Aisla, he’d endure anything.
No longer hungry, Niall stood and pushed back his chair. He bid them a good night, and left the great hall, feeling every last eye on his back as he went. Let them think what they would. Let them be disappointed.
They’d get over it.
He just wasn’t completely certain he ever would.
