Chapter Twenty-Three

Niall climbed out of Tarbendale’s newly opened mine shaft to an outburst of raucous cheers, and nearly fell backward at the unexpected noise and commotion. He saw his laborers smiling and laughing, and felt hands clapping onto his back and shoulders, the dust from the tunnels puffing up into the air. And finally, Niall snapped out of it.

The vein.

His workers were cheering about the discovery, made just the day before, of a gigantic deposit of topaz in the tunnels. As if the veins they’d just found hadn’t been reward enough, now it looked as if this deposit would be enough to keep the mines in business for a decade to come.

The men and women had reason for their joy.

And though Niall smiled back and accepted the acknowledgment that he’d led them to this discovery, he couldn’t muster the energy to feel anything more than mild excitement. He wanted his mines to be productive, and his laborers to have work, and thus for Tarbendale and Maclaren to reap the benefits. But joy? As Niall made his way through the crowd, out of the tower house, he couldn’t feel an ounce of it landing anywhere inside of him to stick.

As he had for weeks now, Niall felt a hollow sensation within him. Not the pain of an aching loss, as he’d felt in the days after Aisla’s departure. Or the anger, that had come after. No, now it was more of an emptiness. A restless kind of existence. He worked. He slept. He ate. He worked again. And so on and so forth.

It would pass, he knew. In time, he’d feel…something. He hoped.

“Ye dunnae look like ye’ve just found the largest lode of cairngorm Scotland’s ever seen,” a pleasant voice said, drawing his eyes up from where he’d had them hitched to the ground as he walked.

Makenna sat atop her horse, smiling at him with an amused and knowing expression.

“I didnae find it,” Niall replied as he glanced back toward the tower house. “They did. I dunnae ken why they’re cheering for me.”

“Because ye’re their laird, and they wouldnae have found it at all if it werenae for ye, opening this mine up and digging new tunnels,” his sister answered. “Ye’re just as responsible for this windfall as they are.”

Niall exhaled, wishing she’d cease her praise. “’Tis work. Plain and simple.”

It wasn’t like before, when Niall had been breaking himself at the mines to prove that he could make a success of it. A success of himself. He had nothing to prove to anyone now. Aisla had come home to Tarbendale, she’d seen his improvements and successes with her own eyes, and now she was gone again. And his life was strangely empty.

“If that’s how ye feel,” Makenna started to say, still looking down at him from her horse.

“’Tis.”

She let out a long sigh, and when she said nothing more, Niall finished washing up and turned to her. “Is there some reason ye’ve come to see me?”

His sister sat a bit taller in her saddle, peering down her nose at him like an unimpressed queen. “Aye. Mother would like ye to come to sup tonight. Father’s feeling better.”

Niall felt the weight of her relief settle inside of him. He’d ridden to Maclaren at least once a week to sit with his father. The duke’s health was on the mend for now, and the old warrior had yet to give up. However, soon, the time would come. Niall wasn’t prepared for it in the least.

“I’ll come,” he told Makenna with a decisive nod.

“Good,” she said, holding her horse steady as the mount grew restless. She didn’t leave, though.

“Is there something else?” Niall asked.

“I received a letter,” she answered, uncharacteristically quiet. “From Newcastle in England.”

He paused in rolling down his sleeves, covered in dust and silt, and felt the reply of his heart, thudding in his chest. “Aisla?”

“She’s staying for a time with Lord Leclerc’s grandfather. A marquess,” she answered. “She sounds…content.”

Niall went to his own horse and rubbed its blaze, avoiding Makenna’s stare. “Good. She deserves to be happy.”

He swung up into the saddle.

“I did no’ say she was happy. I said she sounded content.”

“What the difference?” Niall asked, becoming annoyed. Not with Makenna, but with the topic at hand.

“’Tis the difference between water and wine, ye ken.”

He peered at her, propping a brow. “I prefer water.”

“Ye’re a bloody dunderheid!”

“For preferring water?”

Makenna groaned and looked skyward, as if for guidance from the heavens. “For lying to yerself! Ye’re miserable, and ye ken it. Everyone does.”

Niall spurred his horse into a walk, ready to return to Tarben Castle and bathe before sup. Normally, he would have spent some time in his studio. But he hadn’t been through the door in weeks. On his desk, he presumed, was the unfinished topaz ring he’d been in the middle of smithing before Aisla had left with Leclerc.

“What does it matter?” he asked Makenna, as she followed him. “I got over it before. I’ll do so again. In time.”

The words felt weightless and meaningless, and his sister must have sensed it as well.

“Ye never got over her before. Ye still love her.”

“I do. But she chose to leave. Again, I might add.”

“And ye simply let her go.” Her lips took on a sardonic turn. “And I might add that ye told her to go six years ago. Ye probably dunnae remember because ye were three sheets to the wind.”

He twisted in his saddle to face her. “It just so happens that ye cannae force someone to stay someplace they dunnae want to stay. Ye, Makenna, should ken a thing or two about that.”

He pressed his lips thin as soon as it was out. His sister sat back in her saddle, as if slapped. “What do ye mean by that?” she asked.

He sighed, knowing he’d avoided talking to her about it for too long as it was. “The Brodie. Yer husband. Ye say ye’re here to visit, but ye’ve made nae mention of when ye’re going back home. And ye’ve been here for weeks.”

“This is my home, isnae it?”

“Ye ken what I mean.” Niall took a breath as their horses descended the ridge, into the valley below. “Makenna, tell me what’s wrong.”

She rode in silence for a minute, concentrating, it appeared, on the horse’s descent down the ridge. When she finally answered, it was with the same guarded reluctance she’d shown every time someone mentioned the Brodie.

“Why must something be the matter? I’m here for Father. He was deathly ill, Niall.”

“And yer husband didnae wish to make the journey as well?”

The Brodie laird and the duke had been on affable terms for a long while, ever since Makenna’s wedding nine years before.

“He’s busy,” she replied.

Their horses slowed to a trot as they rode toward Tarben Castle. Indeed, as laird, her husband would have been busy. But it had been over two months since Makenna had arrived at Maclaren.

“Have ye heard from him at least?” he asked.

“’Twas never like that with us,” she said, her voice barely audible over the sounds of their horses.

“Then what is it like?” Niall asked, suddenly suspicious. Had Makenna come home to Maclaren for a reason beyond their father’s ill health? Had the Brodie done something to drive her away?

“A marriage. An alliance,” she answered. “One that will never be blessed with an heir.”

Niall increased his speed, to keep up with his sister, who had slapped the reins and shot off. The rest of the ride to the castle was kept at a speed that made conversation impossible. Niall mulled over his sister’s comment about not being blessed with an heir. When a handful of years had passed and no news of a Brodie heir came to Maclaren, Niall had heard whispers. It was an uncomfortable subject, but as they arrived at Niall’s stables, he figured it would be best to clear the air and get it over with.

“Ye cannae bear children,” he said, once the mounts had been led away.

Makenna shook her head, refusing to look at him. It wasn’t like her, this timid version of his sister. “Nor do I wish to.”

“And the Brodie?”

Surely the man would want an heir. Someone to pass the title of laird to. Niall fleetingly considered the fact that he himself would have no heir to pass on Tarbendale. A chasm opened inside of him, unexpectedly, threatening to swallow him. He forced it closed. No matter. Evan and Finley had bairns aplenty, and Niall could leave the holding to one of his nephews.

Makenna slipped her arm in his as they walked toward the castle entrance. “I ken what ye’re doing. Ye’re trying to turn the conversation away from ye and Aisla.”

“Stop, Makenna,” he said, and he prayed it was firm enough to persuade her. “No’ everything can be cured by love alone. Or by wishes or what ifs. It seems as if we both ken that.”

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 her twice. 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.

…

Rain lashed the windows of one of Bramble Park’s many luxurious parlors, and Aisla, seated on a chaise, watched as the rivulets of water coursed down the glass. She couldn’t help recalling Niall’s face on that last day. The yearning in his eyes. It would have taken only one word from him for her to fling herself into her arms.

But he hadn’t.

And she’d left.

England wasn’t the same as Scotland, but this far north, it could still very well be. Until she crossed the Channel, she was certain she would feel a desperate, soul-shattering longing for what she’d left behind. Which was nothing…simply a past chapter of her life, now closed. That didn’t mean her heart was immune to the loss. She missed him. Each day felt worse than the last, not better. Time, the repairer of all wounds, wasn’t keeping its end of the bargain. Nor had distance, and now even nature had conspired against her.

It had rained every day since they’d left Scotland. Before they had left Maclaren, Julien had received the strongly worded summons from his ailing grandfather, the Marquess of Riverley in Newcastle. His estate, Bramble Park, was a short distance away from the Scottish border. In his own haste to get back to Paris and his mother, Julien hadn’t wanted to linger, but the messenger had been adamant that his lordship was on his deathbed. Since the marquess was Julien’s mother’s father, albeit estranged, he’d acquiesced for his mother’s sake. Though, Aisla noted, it was without his usual grace.

“Do you dislike him?” she’d asked when he’d curtly relayed the change in plans at Maclaren and asked if she would mind the short detour. In all the years she’d known Julien, he’d never spoken of any relations beyond his mother and seven-years-deceased father. “Your grandfather?”

He didn’t have to answer the question. Cold hatred had rolled over his features, his lips going thin and his eyes glinting with a hardness that made her recoil. It was a side of Julien she had never seen.

“He disowned my mother when she married a Frenchman who was below their glorified standards,” he’d said after several minutes. “It didn’t matter that he loved her dearly or that she loved him. They punished her for it, forcing her to choose between her family and her lover. She chose love, of course,” he added dispassionately.

Aisla knew that Julien’s father had died from a fever some years before. “Did they never reconcile after your father passed?”

He shook his head. “No. Why welcome such common blood into the illustrious fold?”

“You’re not common, Jules.”

“My father was the penniless third son of a viscount who made his living as an artist, Aisla.” He’d laughed. “Their love wasn’t enough to live on, it didn’t put food in our bellies, or keep either of them from getting sick. She survived, he didn’t.” His voice had deepened with emotion. “The man you see before you now is someone I built to keep my mother and myself safe after my father died and left us destitute. I took work as a footman and then a valet, and I listened when my employer made investments. I wouldn’t take a penny of the marquess’s money if you forced me to the gallows.”

Aisla had gaped at the confession that he’d once been part of the working class. He’d been born into the aristocracy, and yet he’d had none of the wealth or opportunity that usually accompanied such a blessing. Julien had never told her any of this before.

“Then why agree to go now?”

“Because I want to tell the old man that face to face,” he’d snarled. “That he and his bloody title can go straight to hell.”

They’d been at Bramble Park for a week now. Seven more days than Julien had intended to stay. And not because of his grandfather’s health. Aisla, in fact, had become too ill to travel. She’d convinced Julien that it was some kind of food poisoning. He’d been suspicious when no one else had become ill, and even went so far as to ask if she was only trying to draw out their stay so he that would reconcile with his grandfather. She’d denied it, and Julien had grudgingly agreed to the marquess’s offer of accommodation until Aisla felt well enough to leave.

Of course, she’d known the true reason for her debilitating nausea. Julien had been right—it wasn’t food poisoning. However, it didn’t have anything to do with him, either. She’d started to feel ill almost as soon as she realized she had missed her courses. It had been the same with the first, so many years ago.

She was pregnant.

There was no question as to the timing. She’d been with Niall just once—that final night at Tarben Castle. It was a miracle she hadn’t miscarried the next morning when she’d fallen at the mines, or in the days after, when she’d been slipping in and out of consciousness and fighting for her life. But human bodies were stronger than they looked. Or maybe this baby was different.

Pauline had known instantly, and not only because of Aisla being hunched over the chamber pot in agony most mornings, though that was a certain giveaway. No, she claimed it was because of her mistress’s bosom. Personally, Aisla could not see any increase in that particular area, but she supposed if one was constantly tightening corsets and adjusting bodices, such a change would be noticeable.

But bodily changes aside, the thought of a baby brought with it other concerns. Aisla was unmarried, and the baby had been conceived out of wedlock. If anyone found out, she would be well and truly ruined. She was of noble birth and carrying a bastard child. However, she still had one other option open to her, and given the circumstances, it was the only thing that made any sense.

“You wanted to see me,” Julien said, striding into the salon. His face was drawn and pale, his normally twinkling eyes dim. If a place could suck the life from a person, then this was it. Even his thick blond hair looked listless. Aisla stood, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Did you come from visiting him?”

He gave a brusque nod. “He’s no better. Insists on naming me as his heir presumptive. Apparently, all my cousins who could have inherited the title have all died, and I am the only one left of the old bastard’s line.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, cutting her off and walking to the mantel where he poured himself two generous fingers of brandy. “I didn’t know any of my cousins to begin with, and I don’t care what happens to this heap now. He can rot before I claim any kinship with him.”

“Wouldn’t it make your mother happy?” she blurted out. “For reconciliation? It’s your birthright, after all.”

He didn’t answer, but his grinding jaw indicated that he’d heard her. “No.”

Aisla cleared her throat. She didn’t want to broach the subject with him in such a foul mood, but his answer would determine whether she went on to Paris or back to her parent’s estate in Scotland. “You said that you would still want to marry me…if I wanted it.”

A pair of pale eyes found hers. “Yes, of course.” Though he hadn’t hesitated to respond in the affirmative, she sensed a reticence. “Is that what you wish? I seem to recall you saying something else quite recently.” He forced a jaunty smile. “Surely, it’s not only because you hope to become a marchioness?”

“I’m with child, Jules.” He was at her side before she could blink, but now that the admission was out, she felt somewhat faint. Her knees wobbled. “It seems I must take you up on your offer, after all.” Her temper rose as she recalled his last statement. She punched him in the shoulder. “And no, how could you possibly think I’d care about a bloody title?”

He hadn’t been serious with the barb, of course, but Aisla had also heard a bitterness that wasn’t usually part of his usual humor.

Julien led her back to the sofa, his face horrified. “Forgive me, Aisla. That was rather beyond the pale, wasn’t it?”

Mollified, she accepted his apology with a laugh. “About as much as it was to ask you to be a father to another man’s child, I suppose.”

“I do not wish for children of my own, so yours will do quite well,” he said with a grin, a hint of the old Julien returning. “And I do not wish to marry for love or ever be the victim of such horror. My feelings have not changed.” He paused, sitting beside her to hold her freezing hands in his. “Are you sure this is what you want? Honestly, deep down, I suspect it may not be.”

She swallowed, looking at the man who’d been her best friend for as long as she could remember. No other would be as generous as he to accept another man’s baby as his own. They could be happy, she knew. Content. But Aisla didn’t want contentment. She wanted rapture and passion, and brilliant joy, and everything that made love so ungovernable.

Sadly, she shook her head. “Oh, Jules, you know me far too well.”

“What do you want, Aisla?” he asked gently. “If you could have anything without any consequences whatsoever, what would you choose?”

The answer was all too easy, all too clear. And yet it was still such a mess.

“Him.”

“Then make it so.”

She sucked in a breath, holding back a flood of tears that threatened to erupt. “It’s not that simple. He let me go. I can’t waltz back in there and—”

“Why not?” Julien interrupted. “He came to find you in Paris, didn’t he? Perhaps it’s your turn now. Grand gestures are not just the domain of the men, you know.”

Happiness leaped in her heart like a flame and spread through the rest of her limbs, centering at the place where their child grew. But she shook her head, her palms resting on her flat stomach. “But what if he doesn’t want me?”

Julien laughed, his old warmth coming back into his eyes for an instant.

“Are you blind?” he asked. “Trust me when I say that that man has wanted you from the day you set foot back in Scotland, and I’d wager long before that as well.” He smiled, taking her hand. “Sometimes, chérie, you have to fight for what it is you want even if it frightens the hell out of you.”

Aisla narrowed her eyes at him. He seemed entirely comfortable and resolute on shirking the title his grandfather wished to bestow upon him. “And what is it that you want, Jules? What would you fight for?”

“We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you, and the father of the child you carry. I do happen to know, however, that I would make an excellent uncle.” He took her cheeks in his palms and kissed them both. “You love him, Aisla. You know you do.”

She laughed through her tears. “You say you don’t believe in love, but look at you, such a hopeless romantic.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe in love. I said it’s not for me.”

“One day, Lord Leclerc, you will not be as immune as you are at this moment, and I will laugh myself silly at your expense.” Aisla stood, still feeling unsteady with nerves. “But until then, if he does take me back, will you stand up with me at the wedding?”

“I would not miss it for the world.”

Julien was right. She had to fight, just as she’d fought to live in the abandoned mine, and in the days that followed. She loved her baby’s father to distraction, and it would be up to her to win him back—for the both of them.

She sent a footman to fetch Pauline and to gather all her belongings. Julien stopped at the bottom of the staircase, looking up to the east wing where his grandfather was being tended. His face was unreadable, but his fists opened and clenched at his side.

“Will you ever forgive him?” Aisla asked quietly.

A breath hissed from his lips. “It will be a cold day in hell before I ever need anything from that man, so no, it’s unlikely.”

He signaled to the silent butler, who for a moment, wore a pained expression Aisla would have missed had she not been looking right at him at that moment. “Yes, my lord?”

“Have my coach brought around, Higgins,” Julien said. “And inform the marquess of my departure.”

“Of course, my lord,” the older man said, then hesitated. “And might I say what an honor it has been to see you at Bramble Park, my lord.” He paused, his voice dropping softly as if he couldn’t help himself. “Forgive my impertinence, my lord, but you remind me so much of her. Of Lady Eleanor.”

A spasm of agony crossed Julien’s face, but it was gone in the next instant. Eleanor was his mother’s name, Aisla knew. He inclined his head with a smile for the longtime servant. “I will be sure to pass on your regards, Higgins.”

Then Julien turned back to her, a sudden, unexpected anticipation lighting his eyes that made her wonder at its source. “Now, let’s hie back to Scotland and find you a bonny Scot to marry.”