Chapter Twenty-Four

Preparations at Maclaren for Ronan’s birthday had been ongoing for a solid week and showed no signs of stopping. Lady Dunrannoch was throwing a ball in his honor that evening and everything had to be just right. Though Ronan avoided aristocratic social events like the plague, Niall knew he would not dare to disappoint their mother, especially not with their father being so ill, coupled with Aisla’s departure and the curtain of despair that hung over the clan. Lady Dunrannoch simply wanted to cheer everyone up with a grand celebration.

The kitchens had been busy since dawn, and even Niall’s own cook was up at Maclaren, helping to prepare the enormous amount of food for such an undertaking. The ballroom had been opened and aired, the floors and chandeliers polished to a mirror shine. Invitations had been sent out far and wide. Musicians had been hired, large bouquets of hothouse flowers tendered. Lady Dunrannoch was sparing no expense.

Ronan, of course, had been hiding at Tarben Castle for days. Now, they sat in Niall’s study, dressed for the evening’s entertainment in formal jackets, waistcoats, cravats, and dress kilts. Ronan’s cravat was already unknotted, his hair standing on end. His valet would no doubt be peeved that his excellent handiwork had been so shabbily treated.

“I dunnae want the focus on me,” he groaned.

Niall chuckled. “Why? ’Tis about time ye fell from yer glorified pedestal, brother.”

“Ye do ken what Mother harps on at my every birthday?” he said, staring into a half-full glass of whisky. His third or fourth, Niall guessed. Though his brother seemed to have an incredible tolerance for spirits, Niall moved the bottle away. It would not be in his favor if their mother noticed that he smelled like a distillery. “Marriage and heirs.” Ronan hung his head into his hands. “I’m no’ ready for a wife.”

“Ye’re the Dunrannoch heir,” Niall said. “Ye have to marry sometime.”

“Tonight is nothing more than a meat market, ye ken that?”

“Aye.” Niall grinned. “And dunnae let Mother hear ye say that about her fancy ball or she’ll carve the hide from ye.”

Ronan went on, clearly uncaring of being overheard. “Every eligible maiden will be in attendance and foisted upon me like cakes on a platter.”

“Including the Campbell lasses. Gregor hasnae given up hope for a match.”

“Care to trade places?” he asked, looking up.

Niall guffawed loudly. “No’ a chance, brother, no’ even for the promise of a coronet. I’m done with women.” He meant what he said. He couldn’t even imagine taking a wife now. Marrying for alliance had never settled well in him, and giving his heart to another was out of the question. It was already gone, anyhow. He straightened his jacket and called for his own valet, Dunkirk, to fix the mess of Ronan’s cravat. “Now, buck up. We dunnae want to miss yer lassie buffet.”

“’Tis no’ funny,” Ronan growled, standing and coming around the desk, his fists raised.

Niall deflected a friendly punch and darted out of the way. “’Tis a little. And as much as I want to bloody ye up good, I’m afraid of Mother’s ire more. Move yer arse. We’re late enough as it is.”

Once Dunkirk was finished making the necessary repairs, they rode back to Maclaren together. Niall’s jaw couldn’t help falling open as they approached. Every inch of the castle was lit with warm lamplight, adding to the magical ambiance. The duchess had indeed gone over and beyond in her efforts. He’d never recalled Maclaren looking so magnificent. Lights lit the manicured gardens and the half dozen balcony doors leading to the ballroom were open to let in the balmy night air. The strains of a vibrant country dance reached them, and beautifully dressed people were already clustered on the terrace. After handing their horses to a groom, they approached the stairs to the terrace.

“Ready?” Niall asked his brother.

Ronan muttered an inaudible oath under his breath as they greeted a few people they knew and entered through the balcony doors. It would irritate their mother that they had not been properly announced or had not arrived early enough to be part of the family receiving line. They both hoped to avoid that confrontation and headed straight for the refreshments room. Hamish was already there, a whisky in one hand, and an ale in the other, his face ruddy from the heat in the room.

“Getting a head start, mate?” Niall asked, clapping his oldest friend on a brawny shoulder.

Hamish swore, nearly spilling his ale all over his clothing. “Och, ye bastard. Ye did that a purpose.” He scowled. “Where have the two of ye been? Yer mother is on the warpath. Christ, she’s spotted ye. Here she comes! Run, lads, if ye mean to escape.”

It was almost amusing to watch his oldest brother try to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Hard to do when one was the size of a small mountain, but he gave it a valiant effort nonetheless as the duchess approached. Lady Dunrannoch looked beautiful, and quite regal, in a gorgeous emerald-colored gown, trimmed in silver braid with a Maclaren sash at her waist. Niall kissed his mother on the cheek and told her so. She blushed, her anger forgotten for a moment, until she caught sight of her first-born cowering like a wee baby lamb.

She sighed, tilting her chin for a kiss. “Now, Ronan, it’s a ball in your honor. At least pretend to enjoy it for my sake.”

“Aye, Mother,” he said and bent to embrace her.

He hadn’t even completed his bow before she was introducing him to a young woman she’d practically hidden behind her skirts. Niall took the opportunity to slip away, ignoring the glare Ronan shot him. He accepted a glass of whisky from a footman and sipped, letting the smoky taste of it curl over his tongue. He’d made the decision that avoiding spirits altogether wasn’t completely necessary. He knew he was capable of restraint now, as he probably had been for some time. It had been fear of falling down that old spiral of drunkenness, of disappointing those he loved, that had kept him from touching a drink for so long. But now, he trusted himself more. He would never over imbibe, but he did like savoring the flavors of an excellent batch of Dunrannoch whisky. And theirs was the best this side of Hadrian’s Wall.

Makenna spun past him on the ballroom floor, dancing with a young buck wearing a black and yellow tartan, her eyes sparkling. Her partner was from the Mackenzie clan up north, and he looked smitten. Niall didn’t blame him. Makenna had outdone herself—she wore a pale silver gown that set off the darker auburn tones in her bright hair. He’d never seen her look lovelier. She looked entirely too pretty to be let loose on the unsuspecting puppy she was dancing with. His eyes narrowed, recalling how well she’d evaded the talk of her husband. When the ball was over, he’d get to the bottom of it.

He almost laughed when he saw Ronan leading a lass out to the floor for the next set, a reel. One would think he was heading to the gallows from the dark, embittered expression on his face. Niall didn’t know why the man was so dead set against marriage. He was a titled laird, heir to a dukedom, filthy rich, and by all accounts, didn’t have a face that would send a maiden scurrying for cover. Yet, his brother had avoided matrimony at all cost. In addition to denying the Campbell lass, he’d refused to marry the daughter of the Sinclair laird years before, which would have been a valuable—and profitable—alliance. Lady Mairi would have been an extremely biddable wife, though with feathers for brains, she likely would have been terrified of her husband.

“Ye’re no’ dancing?” a red-faced Hamish asked, joining him where he stood near the open balcony doors. It was cooler and afforded a quick escape route, Niall had told himself. But in truth, he was having too much fun watching Ronan get tortured. And since many people didn’t yet know about Niall’s second separation from his wife, or perhaps they did know and felt pity for him, they did not approach.

“Nae,” he said.

“Ye’ll dance with me,” Makenna announced in a breathless rush, arriving in a swirl of satin skirts. He tried to decline, but she was already pulling him with considerable enthusiasm to the floor for the next set. Hurriedly, he handed a footman his empty glass. “Ye know the steps, dunnae ye? ’Tis an English country dance.”

“I learned the same as ye, lass.”

It was not a dance conducive to conversation, so Niall concentrated on the steps, smiling as they came together and then twirled apart, changed partners, and repeated the sequence. It was entertaining, particularly to watch Hamish, who’d also been pulled into the dance, bumbling the steps beside them, and Niall was enjoying himself. On one of the quarter turns, suddenly, something prickled against the back of his neck. An instinctive awareness that filled him from head to toe—one reminiscent of danger, or what felt like danger, at least. His eyes flicked to the entrance and his breath deserted him at the woman who had just entered the ballroom.

Aisla.

The sight of her nearly knocked him to his knees. As it was, he went stock still. The other dancers nearly twirled into him, while others took extra steps to avoid a collision. He was blind to all but her. She stood at the top of the staircase like a vision in sapphire satin, her shoulders poised and her face as exquisitely beautiful as he remembered. A rope of diamonds twisted into her lustrous golden hair, a blush riding high on those proud cheekbones. She looked stunning and fierce. His Venus.

Why was she here and not in England? Or was he conjuring her as he had a thousand times since the day she’d left?

“Good God, man,” Hamish said into his ear, breaking the trance that had snared him. “Isnae that yer lady wife…I mean, yer woman…er, yer mistress.”

He shot the man a glare. “Shut up, MacLeod.”

Makenna turned to see what had caught his attention and also stumbled to a halt. Other dancers collided when the music came to an ungraceful pause.

“Oh, my,” she whispered.

But Niall didn’t hear her. The music restarted as he moved slowly toward the staircase, his eyes fastened on Aisla, as though if he blinked, she might disappear. Was she some mirage conjured up by his desperate imagination? He closed his eyes for a painful second and reopened them. She was still standing there, only now she was looking at him. He could feel the heat in that coppery gaze as it met his full on, without regret and without shame…without artifice and with complete ownership, echoing the chant his heart had taken up.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

A smile lit her lips as she leaned over to the majordomo. He cleared his throat, his face tinting with color, though he wore a wide smile that matched hers. “Lady Aisla Montgomery,” he intoned. “But soon to be Maclaren again, if she has anything to say about it.”

He could hear the gasps behind him, along with the spreading whispers. One, he was sure, had been his mother’s. But Niall didn’t care. She had come.

She had come back for him.

Aisla held his gaze with every step she descended until she stood at the bottom of the marble staircase, one riser above him, putting them on eye level. He couldn’t breathe.

“Apparently, I lost a wager, and I’m here to pay my debts,” she said with a tremulous smile.

Niall was aware of all the attention. People still plowed into each other on the ballroom floor, craning their necks to get a better look, and those close by, stared unabashedly. But he only had eyes for her. Every instinct in him wanted to reach out and gather her into his arms. To hold her and never let go. But he waited, his heart in his throat, the rest of the world falling away until it was only them.

Her smile rose to her eyes, making the amber flecks in them glow with an inner light. “I’ve thought about what I would say when I saw you, and it always comes down to this: I love you, Niall Maclaren, I always have. We might have made a mess of it the first time, and we might not have been married on paper, but in my heart, I’m your wife. And I belong here, with you.”

It felt like he was floating on air. His hand lifted to touch her cheek and she leaned into the caress, uncaring of anyone but him. “Are ye proposing, Lady Aisla?”

“That depends, my love,” she whispered. “Are you accepting?”

“Aye, I think so.”

“In that case…” Then she stunned him by stepping down and sinking into a deep, elegant curtsy worthy of royalty. “Niall Stuart Maclaren, will you be my husband?”

If the world had exploded around him right at that moment, he would not have noticed. Every bit of his being was focused on the woman kneeling before him and asking for his hand. He laughed and joined her on bended knee, cupping his hand around her slender neck. “Only if ye do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

He snatched the answer from her lips with his mouth, only dimly aware of the thunderous sound of cheering and raucous catcalls in the ballroom. A delicious blush covered his bride-to-be as they rose arm in arm to face a half-scandalized assembly. He met Ronan’s approving eyes, and his mother’s teary ones. Makenna, too, was dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

“She said yes,” he announced, hauling her against him with a wicked grin. “Again.”

“For the last time!” Hamish bellowed. “For the love of God.”

Everyone laughed, but Niall agreed wholeheartedly. This time, he had no intention of ever letting her go.

…

Later that evening, an exhausted but euphoric Aisla was undressing for bed at Tarbendale. She couldn’t curb her happiness. She’d been terrified that Niall would reject her, but all of that had gone away the minute his eyes had met hers. After her solemn proposal, the rest of the evening had passed in a magical haze, full of dancing and laughter and so much love it’d felt like her heart would not be able to contain it all.

“Did it go as you expected, my lady?” Pauline asked as she unhooked and unlaced Aisla’s dress and corset.

“Better,” she said dreamily. “Oh, Pauline, he said yes.”

“Mais oui,” she said. “He would have to be blind to not succumb to your beauty.”

He’d been beautiful, too. Niall had looked so bloody handsome and desirable in his dress kilt that she’d wanted to drag him to the floor of that ballroom and have her wanton way with him. What had happened, however, was a close second. The kiss itself had been scandalous, but it was soon forgotten after Hamish got into a drunken argument with Julien about what Scotsmen wore—or didn’t wear—under their dress kilts. And then had come the proof, led of course by Niall’s unruly brothers, Finlay and Evan. Lady Dunrannoch’s ball would forever be cursed, or blessed, depending on who one spoke to, by the unveiling of three sets of bare arses.

Aisla fought back a giggle, wondering whether Niall had forgone undergarments like his best friend and brothers. Heat pushed into her cheeks at the ribald thought. They’d danced the waltz at one point, and she’d felt his swelling erection through her skirts. Her gasp had been audible. He’d shot her a racy grin, his eyes falling to her plump décolletage. It appeared that Pauline’s predictions about her figure had been true.

“What do ye expect looking the way ye do, lass? I’m only a man after all.” His voice had gone low and husky. “Dunnae fash, we’ll be doing a different kind of dancing later.”

Aisla had nearly stumbled over her own two feet, as her body had instantly responded to his provocative words. Her blood had felt as if it were on fire, pounding through her veins like liquid flame. She’d become so hot that she was worried she was going to swoon, and only the firm grip of his arm about her waist kept her upright. The warm clasp of his body against hers had upended her in other indecent ways, however.

And hours later, she tingled still with anticipation.

Pauline pursed her lips as she lifted a gossamer night rail over Aisla’s head and then handed her a robe. “I am happy to see you smiling again.”

“So am I.”

With expert hands, Pauling took down her intricate coiffure, brushing the waist-length locks. “Did you tell him?”

“No, I…”

“Tell me what?” a voice said from the doorway.

Niall stood there, his arms folded casually across his chest. He still wore his kilt, though his jacket was gone as was his cravat. His shirt was open at the throat, the small section of bronzed skin making Aisla inexplicably breathless. With a blush, the maid handed her the brush and bobbed a curtsy with a meaningful look in her direction, and then took her leave.

“What was that about?” he asked coming into the room.

“Pauline is just being Pauline,” she said as he took the brush from her and began combing her hair. “You don’t have to do that.”

But she forgot her words as he sifted his fingers through the glossy strands and lifted a handful of her hair to his cheek. “Like the softest gold-spun silk,” he murmured and inhaled deeply. “I love yer scent. Honey blossoms and ye.”

Placing the brush on the dresser and watching her in the looking glass, he lifted the hair off of her right shoulder and kissed her exposed nape. Aisla’s entire body trembled as gooseflesh sprung under his softly roving lips. His eyes wouldn’t release hers and she felt the burn of desire in them as clearly as she felt his hot mouth branding her skin.

Good God, she was going to incinerate from the inside out.

Aisla reached for the edge of the dresser to steady herself as his kisses climbed the column of her neck and then back down across the back of her nape to the other side. She could feel his arousal prodding against her back, and it made her weak kneed, reminding her of the carnal dance he’d alluded to. Her breasts ached, every part of her grew hot, and a wicked pulse started to throb between her legs.

Niall let her hair fall, and cupped her jaw, tilting her chin back toward him and then his mouth took hers. It was nothing like the kiss in the ballroom. This kiss was explosive and possessive and raw. It took, it claimed. It scorched. Even with the awkward side angle, Aisla felt the kiss clear to her toes. And all the while, he pressed himself against her, grinding his lean hips into her buttocks in blatant imitation of the act she was beginning to crave with desperate need.

“God, I’ve missed ye,” he said, releasing her mouth but trailing wet kisses up her cheek to her temple even as his hand wandered down her chest to undo the ties to her robe. It puddled to the floor in a pile of cream silk. His eyes greedily devoured her in the mirror, seeing her rose-pink nipples rising proudly through the thin lawn and the hint of shadow further down at the tops of her legs. One hand shaped the curve of her right breast, his eyes rising back to hold hers as he rolled her nipple lightly between his fingers. He gave the second nipple the same attention, until they were both taut and aching. Bolts of delicious heat shot from her breasts to her thighs. Aisla couldn’t help her moan of pleasure, her lips parting in helpless surrender.

Finally, he turned her to face him. His eyes were like blue fire, blatant arousal burning in them. His lips were thick and wet from her mouth, and suddenly she needed to taste them again. Aisla wound her arms about his neck, and took what she wanted. She bit and nibbled at his mouth, loving the hot velvety feel of him, slipping her tongue inside to find and tease his. He growled in response and clutched her to him, deepening the kiss.

“I’ve wanted this since that last time in your chamber,” she said with a blush.

“It’s all I’ve thought of for weeks as well.”

Emboldened by his admission, Aisla dragged him toward her, feeling his body harden with passion as she palmed his firm buttocks. “I forgot to tell you I want lots of children.”

“Then we better get started,” he said with a lusty grin.

“I have something else to tell you.”

He nibbled at her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth and making her moan. “Can it no’ wait?”

“No,” she gasped, pulling back slightly out of reach of that persuasive tongue. “That thing that Pauline mentioned earlier before she left,” she said, unable to string two coherent thoughts together while his mouth was on her. “Well, you’re going to be a father, my laird.”

At her blurted revelation, Niall froze, his eyes going wide with delight, and then he kissed her so sweetly, so tenderly, that she couldn’t think. So she was taken completely by surprise when he lifted her and spun her around until she was quite giddy. Then he held her against him and sank to his knees, his head resting against her flat stomach.

“I love ye, Aisla,” he said looking up at her and then grazing a kiss on her belly. Her legs trembled beneath her night rail.

He glanced up at her, his brow creasing slightly. “How do ye feel? Are ye well?”

“I’m perfectly fine. As is the babe.”

“Perhaps we should wait to…ye ken…”

Aisla laughed and tugged on his shoulders. “Niall Maclaren, if ye leave me in such an unfulfilled state, I will never forgive ye.”

“Yer brogue is back.”

“Aye.” She grinned. “Now pay heed, leannan.”

With a teasing smile, he rose to take her lips again, his tongue luring her to madness as she lost her senses in a sea of pleasure. Every part of her was alive and yearning for him, and when he lifted her into his strong arms and bore her to the bed, she laughed in delight. He set her down and then stepped back, watching her. God, he was so handsome. So big and masculine, and she wanted him with a force she couldn’t quantify. He drew a shuddering breath, an odd look coming into his eyes. For a moment, Aisla frowned. Was he going to stop? She fought back the sudden knot in the pit of her stomach.

“Might I remind you, sir, that you’ve already said yes.”

“Aye. I am yers. I just wanted to take a moment to make sure ye were real. That I wasnae dreaming.”

“Do you dream of me often?”

His laugh was a half groan. “Ye’ve tormented me for weeks, lass. Every time I close my eyes, ye’re there, lush and beautiful. A figment of my fevered imagination.”

She rose to her knees on the bed, her heart kicking against her rib cage. “Did your dream Aisla do this?”

Slowly, she pulled on the ties to her night rail, letting the bodice drop to the tops of her nipples. She heard his indrawn breath, and let her eyes wander down his brawny body, lingering at the telltale tent in the folds of his kilt, before pulling the nightgown up and over her shoulders so that she was completely nude. She let him look his fill.

“Christ, lass,” he breathed. “Ye’re a goddess.”

“I’m yours.” She licked her lips and sat back on her folded legs. “Now undress for me.”

He complied, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and shedding it. His fingers fumbled on his shirt buttons as a popping sound ensued in his frustration, and he whisked it over his head, leaving him bare above the waist. Aisla held her breath at the magnificent expanse of his chest. She couldn’t get enough of him…not of his tight muscles, the light mat of red gold hair, or the densely compacted build of him that tapered to the waistband of his kilt. A tiny gasp escaped her lips as she clenched her thighs together. Good Lord, but he made her body feel utterly frenzied. She was on the verge of coming apart just from watching him disrobe.

Divesting himself of his kilt, stockings, and shoes, he joined her on the bed, his long, lean body covering hers. Aisla wrapped herself around him, feeling the hair on his chest brushing her sensitive nipples and arching backward. She tangled her legs in between his, the hard length of his arousal finding glorious purchase in the notch between her thighs. Niall kissed her again, wrapping his arms about her until no space remained between them. She loved the feel of his skin plastering hers and the intense heat from his body leaching into her. God, she wanted him.

“Now, Niall, please.”

He lifted his hips and positioned himself between hers, but he didn’t enter her. Instead, he moved back and forth, rubbing himself into her slick channel. All the while, his mouth plundered hers, his tongue mimicking his shallow, teasing strokes. Aisla moaned her frustration, her hips driving toward his. He was going to make her crazy! Her legs hooked around his calves and with a firm buck of her hips, she had turned them to the side in a rolling motion, and then she straddled him.

He watched her, his mouth wet and swollen, eyes dancing. “What are ye doing, my lady?”

“Taking charge,” she said and aligned herself above him.

“Is that so?” he teased, his eyes narrowing as she circled her hips in a slow spiral. “Do ye plan to do that often?”

“As long as I am mistress here, aye.”

He filled his wandering hand with her breast, squeezing gently. “My mistress, my wife, my everything.”

At his tender words, Aisla lowered herself onto his shaft, gasping as she took him to the hilt. She rolled her hips, the spectacular friction making her body tighten and convulse with pleasure. Niall held her waist, his fingers gripping hard and kneading her skin as she pulsed above him, losing herself in the rhythmic sensation of their bodies joining, parting, and then hurtling together again. He drew her down to him for a wild, passionate kiss, even as he thrust up into her. Her body started to shudder, and she could feel him tensing beneath her, too, attempting to restrain his pace so that he might extend her pleasure and find his. Aisla cried out as he pushed them both onto the cusp of bliss, and then tumbled over. She collapsed against him, her head on his chest, his frantic heartbeat matching hers as it slowed.

“I love ye,” he whispered against her damp hair. “Ye ken that?”

“Aye, but it cannot possibly be as much as I love you.”

Aisla shifted, feeling him slide from her body. He tucked her into the side of him, and she left one leg draped over his hair-roughened thighs. She felt satiated and content.

“I’m sorry I didnae fight for ye before, Aisla,” he said after a while, breaking their comfortable silence. “In Paris. I should have told ye I was there.”

“It’s not important.”

“But it is,” he said. “I spent six years reinventing myself, and becoming a better man for ye. I should have fought harder. All of this would be for nothing without ye. I realized that the day ye left to go back to Paris.”

“I’ve changed, too,” she said. “I’ve gotten stronger in who I am, both the girl from Montgomery and the woman from Maclaren. I was lost when I came here, trying to find my place. And with the drinking, it was…”

He placed a finger on her lips. “As far as the drink, I was a fool. I’m no’ the same.”

“I know,” she said, rising to her elbows to look down at his beloved face. She kissed him softly. Gently. “And I love you more for it. I regret that we were apart, but without it, I don’t think we would have become the people we are today. You would not be this amazing, incredible, talented, resourceful laird, and I would not be…who I am.”

He smiled. “A strong, smart, beautiful, powerful woman.”

Aisla blushed, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, but she didn’t want to hide her feelings from him. He deserved to know everything she was feeling, even her emotions made her vulnerable. “I fell in love with you from the start, Niall, but I didn’t know what love truly meant then. I do now. Falling in love is easy. Loving someone with all their faults together with all your own faults, and fighting for what you have is the hard part. It’s easy to leave and to give up. Sometimes, love takes work, but it’s worth it. It’s worth the reward in the end.” She traced his cheek with her finger. “And now I know—this is where I belong.”

“At Tarbendale?”

Aisla tapped his heart and spread her palm wide over his skin, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath it.

“Here with you.” Her lips found his. “Wherever you are, I’m home.”