Sweet Home Highlander by Amalie Howard

Author:Amalie Howard
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Entangled, Amara, historical, historical romance, scot, scottish, scotland, highland, highlander, kilt, Bet, Dare, Wager, Blackmail, Enemies to Lovers, Reunited Lovers, Revenge, Second Chance Love
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Published: 2018-05-01T21:04:03+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Niall could not recall the last time he’d been so spitting mad. He endured the raucous calls on the way back to the castle, weaving in between groups of celebrating Scotsmen and taking care not to jostle the screeching baggage over his shoulder. He didn’t want a back full of vomit for his efforts. He could feel her fists pounding on the small of his back above his kilt, hear her shrieking protests, but he knew that if he stopped he’d be hard pressed not to erupt in full view of everyone. He was holding on by a thin thread as it was.

“Put me down, ye amadan,” she cried. “I’m going to be sick, do ye hear me?”

Now, her brogue was back, fresh on a bellyful of ale and whisky. And calling him an idiot to boot.

He’d missed the musical sound of it on her tongue, and the truth was he hated her clipped aristocratic accents. Though his own mother was English and insisted his older sister Sorcha have English-speaking tutors, hearing the lilting brogue now reminded him a bit of the girl Aisla used to be. Too bad it only resurfaced with anger, and apparently, copious amounts of liquor.

She reeked of sweat and spirits, though the latter was likely because she’d jostled half of a glass of whisky over the two of them there at the end. He wrinkled his nose and wondered whether he used to smell as bad when he came to her bed after a night of heavy drinking. Worse, he imagined. He’d watched her, though, as she’d danced and flirted with Dougal Buchanan, drinking pint after pint and growing more animated by the second.

A part of him had wanted to feast his eyes on her—she’d been so beautiful and uninhibited during the reel, her face wreathed in delight—but another part of him lamented that it wasn’t him that had brought that passion to her in the first place. Once more, it’d been Dougal Buchanan.

He hadn’t missed Fenella’s pointed comment: some things never change, aye? Though he’d kept a tight rein on his emotions, her words had been like bringing a flame to tinder. Bitterness had exploded inside of him in an uncontrollable rush, making him nearly double over from the force of it. But he’d stood there and watched her make a fool of herself with a blasted smile on his face as if her antics meant nothing.

As if he felt nothing.

A sob burst from the flailing woman over his shoulder. “Please, Niall. I feel ill.”

Heaving a grunt, he changed direction, heading toward the remote gardens on the western edge of the keep, situated near a stream that ran between Maclaren and Tarbendale. With any luck, it was well enough away from the revelry to be deserted. He dumped her unceremoniously to the ground, watching as she stumbled to a hedge and cast up every wretched one of her accounts. Sighing, she then leaned back against the trunk of a silver birch sapling, eyes closed.

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