Marriage 03: The Marriage Contract

by Cathy Maxwell

  “Tiebauld, you should come eat.” Hugh pulled his chair out at the table. “It’s fantastic! There’s a feast here fit for a king.” He lifted a slice of meat, the juice dripping from it, and plopped it in his mouth.

  Since he’d had no breakfast, Aidan quickly joined him. It was an amazing meal. He couldn’t remember the last time his table had been set correctly. Under the dish covers were slices of tender mutton, peas, and boiled potatoes. But what had really excited Hugh was the fresh bread.

  He bit into it and pretended to faint. “’Tis better than my mother’s.”

  “You had better not let her hear you say that,” Deacon responded. He’d been hanging back, a victim of his own suspicious nature, but now he wandered closer. He lifted the covers on his own plate—and sat down.

  The three men made a good meal. But there wasn’t any sign of Anne.

  Norval crept in when they were about finished. “May I remove the dishes, my lord?” At Aidan’s assent, he docilely went around the table, clearing dishes. His hair was even combed.

  Aidan stared, dumbfounded.

  “How did she do it?” Hugh asked the question Aidan wanted answered.

  “She’s new,” Deacon replied impatiently, his mouth full. “He wants to please a new mistress. Servants behave in that manner.”

  “But a clean Norval is something I’d never thought to see before I died,” Hugh countered.

  “I think I will find out the truth,” Aidan answered, rising from his chair.

  “Are you going to go ask Norval?” Deacon said.

  “No, I’m going to go find Anne.”

  Deacon muttered something unintelligible, but Aidan didn’t care to listen. Anne’s success had piqued his curiosity. Since when did London debutantes know the intricacies of house cleaning?

  He bounded up the stairs taking them two at a time. A torch lit the hallway. He went to the guest room. She wasn’t there, but he did notice the bed had been made with clean sheets. Cobwebs, dust, and grime had disappeared as if they had never existed.

  Not bothering with the other rooms, Aidan walked straight to his. He opened the door.

  His room had never been kept as poorly as the rest of the house, but there were obvious signs of cleaning here too. Dust had been swept away and wood polished with oil.

  Two candles gave the room a soft light and there was the smell of cloves in the air. His bath waited, warming in front of the fire in the hearth. His soap was dry and his towel hung exactly where he liked it. But there was no sign of Anne.

  Until he turned to the bed.

  She lay there, fully dressed and fast asleep, her braid a silky band across the sable spread. Dark circles marred the tender skin beneath her eyes. Her hands were roughened red from hard work.

  Guilt pricked his conscience. He walked over to her. “Anne?”

  She didn’t move.

  He understood how hard she slept. There had been days at Kelwin when he’d dragged himself up the stairs and fallen on his bed, unable to have taken another step even to undress himself.

  Funny, but he’d never noticed the graceful line of her neck before…and the faint birthmark located right under the curve of her jaw. He’d found her attractive from the beginning. Her stormy eyes were her most spectacular feature and she did have long legs…but now he saw other things, refinements, the details one perceived only after having lived with another for a while.

  He removed her shoes from her feet. She’d ruined the heel of her stockings. There was a huge hole there. He wondered what she’d done. He was also going to have to get her sturdier shoes. Kid slippers were fine for tapping toes to a musical beat at some ball or spending a day in idle shopping, but not suitable for highland life.

  Stunned by the direction of his thoughts, Aidan dropped the shoes. They landed on the floor, one

  thud followed by another. He backed away. He was not going to buy shoes for Anne. Buying good sturdy shoes for a woman was a more personal act than purchasing perfume or jewelry or even a closet of silky small clothes.

  When you bought practical shoes for a woman, she was your wife!

  He headed for the door, needing to put distance between himself and Anne. Good food and cleanliness had sparked these thoughts, he assured himself. He would never have had them otherwise. Besides, every bachelor had weak moments when his belly was full.

  Deacon met him in the hall. “I discovered what happened, Tiebauld,” he announced pompously. “The English lass didn’t do this all herself. She hired Mrs. MacEwan and her daughter Fenella to cook. The village women came in to clean. Norval said there was an army of them.”

  Aidan stared at him, barely comprehending his words, and when meaning did sink in, he frowned. “Of course she didn’t do this all herself.”

  “You knew it?”

  “She couldn’t have. Think, Deacon, my stables were cleaner than this house. She couldn’t have done it all in one day.”

  His brows came together. “You aren’t angry to find out she cheated?”

  Aidan silently begged for patience. “It wasn’t a game, Deacon. There was no cheating.”

  “I thought you were hoping she’d grow so frustrated with the task, she’d leave.”

  “I was.”

  “But?”

  Aidan sliced the air with his hand. “But nothing. I set up the task. She performed it.”

  “She hired a cook! Did she ask you? What sort of wife hires servants without permission from her husband?”

  “A sensible one,” he snapped, and then growled in frustration at his defense of Anne. “I don’t consider her my wife,” he said more for himself than Deacon. He drew a deep breath. “I am not displeased she hired Mrs. MacEwan to cook. I’ve been meaning to do something about Roy for ages. Anne has taken a load off my mind—”

  “But the Danes—”

  “I know,” he said, cutting Deacon off. He shot a warning glance toward his bedroom door. They must be careful of every word. Deacon, like his brother Robbie, often let his temper overrule his good sense.

  Deacon lowered his voice. “Their signal could come at any time.” Shepherds and village men kept watch nightly in Kelwin’s left tower for the Danes’ signal, a green and red light raised and lowered at the same time.

  Aidan didn’t know Anne well enough to trust her. “I will have to be harder on her tomorrow,” he said. “She’ll leave…eventually.”

  “What if the Danes come tonight?”

  “If they send the signal tonight, she’ll not know a thing. She’s so tired she might as well be dead.”

  “Now that could be a solution.”

  “Deacon!”

  “I was joking,” his friend said.

  Aidan wasn’t so certain. “I’ll have no harm coming to her. If it does, you answer to me.”

  “A joke, a wee joke,” Deacon reiterated.

  “Yes, like your talk of a rebellion. That’s the way it started, you and Robbie playing ‘what if.’ Now Fang’s sons are among those involved.”

  “And all your neighbors.”

  “Not all. I can’t imagine Argyll and Sutherland anxious for such a thing.”

  “They are some of those we are revolting against.” But he understood Aidan’s point and changed the subject. “So what are you going to have her do tomorrow? Build chicken coops? Patch the cracks in the walls? The keep itself is immaculate right now.”

  Aidan smiled thinly. “Coops aren’t a bad idea, but I’m ready for my bed.”

  “Your bed? Where she is?” Deacon asked cynically.

  “Relax. I’m sleeping in the guest room. She will leave. A plan will come to me before morning. By the way, when you go back downstairs, tell Norval to put the dogs back in the stables.”

  Deacon shifted uncomfortably before admitting, “You said they’d cleaned all the rooms up here. I

  thought perhaps I’d claim one for myself.”

  “It’s nice to have clean sheets, hmmm?”

  Deacon shrugged, then confided, “Norv
al says they smell of fresh air.”

  “You are welcome to a room, Deacon. Pleasant dreams.” He went to the guest room.

  Tomorrow, a plan to scare her off would come to him before tomorrow…but his last thought before drifting to sleep was that the sheets did smell of the sweet highland air they’d dried in.

  Anne sat up and stretched. Every muscle in her body ached. Outside, the sun was just rising over the North Sea. For a moment, the beauty of the brightening sky captured her attention and then she glanced around the room. The tub and towel were where she’d had Norval place them last night.

  Had Aidan not come home?

  She’d assumed he would wake her. For no other reason than to tell her to get out of his bed, she mused. But she had wanted to see the expression on his face when he first walked into the great hall.

  She put her legs over the edge of the bed and frowned at the wrinkles in her dress. Why did she fall asleep in it?

  She had plans for this day, finishing touches she wanted to add. There was no time for pressing a dress. She knew better than to ask Norval to do it.

  The man should be pensioned off and given a cottage of his own. He was too old to work so hard, and yet yesterday he had gamely kept up with the women. She’d talk to Aidan about the issue later.

  But first, she had to dress. She chose a periwinkle sprigged muslin that made her feel like spring had arrived. It was her best dress of those left from the wreck. Wisely, she threw on a yellow Kashmir shawl because the air was damp, especially this time of year.

  Her hair was another problem. She grew tired of the braid and so tied it with a scarf. She was too old for such a style, but without pins there was nothing she could do.

  Slipping on her shoes, she left the room.

  In the hallway, she noticed the door to the guest room she’d been using was slightly ajar. Curiosity urged her to tiptoe quietly and take a peek to see if Aidan was home.

  He was. The misty dawn light through the narrow window highlighted his body; he lay sprawled out on his back. His large frame took up the whole bed.

  He was naked—or at least, she thought he was. His chest was bare and his long legs hung out beneath sheets that covered him enough across the middle to keep him decent.

  She couldn’t help but admire him. Her husband was a handsome man, but it was the strength and grace in his hands and feet that captured her attention. She’d always been attracted to men with

  strong hands…but the feet. A shiver went through her. Bare feet were intimate. No one save your lover saw your feet.

  The word “lover” sent a wave of heat down to the pit of her stomach.

  Anne hoped they would consummate the marriage soon. What she had once considered with grave reservations, she now daydreamed about with a combined sense of curiosity and anticipation.

  She was about to close the door and let him sleep when some imp of mischief caught hold of her mind. The idea was so vivid, she couldn’t shake it, even knowing there would be repercussions.

  But he deserved it.

  Anne eased into the room. Aidan didn’t even move.

  On silent cat feet, she walked to the bed, grabbed hold of the mattress, and yanked it up with the intention of toppling him over onto the floor as he’d done to her the day before.

  But her plan didn’t work as she’d expected. For one reason, he was heavy and her muscles were sore. She could barely get the mattress to budge.

  For the second, once roused, he could move with lightning speed. His hand grabbed her by the bodice of her dress and threw her down on the bed. He pinned her in place with his body, his forearm pressing her chest, his hands around her throat.

  Anne couldn’t breathe. She stared up at her husband, fearing the madman he’d become.

  Slowly, he focused on who she was. “Anne?”

  She nodded, unable to speak. Frowning, he lifted his arm. “What are you doing here?”

  Her lungs filled with fresh air. She went to rise, but his hand came down on the other side of her, barring an escape.

  “You were going to dump me out of the bed,” he accused, answering his own question.

  “What if I was? I owe you a dump,” she said sulkily, all too aware of his legs alongside hers and the warmth of his body heat. The man was a furnace. A woman would never be chilled sleeping by his side.

  He chuckled at the thought of a dump on the floor, before pronouncing her a “little minx.” She started to retort, but he was climbing out of bed, and giving her a very good view of a well-formed male bum. She’d been right: he had been sleeping naked.

  Words died in Anne’s throat.

  He reached for his breeches and with an economy of movement pulled them on before facing her. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked, fastening the buttons. “You should know better than to sneak up on a man in his sleep.”

  She rubbed her throat, sitting up. “Don’t you think you are carrying your medieval fascination a bit too far?”

  He laughed. “It isn’t my medievalism that made me respond. Man is a natural protector. Any man would have reacted as I did.”

  “No, not any man. Most would be sleeping soundly.”

  “And end up dumped on the floor.” He squatted in front of her. “Here, let me have a look at you.”

  His hair was sleep mussed. An overnight growth of beard shadowed his jaw. The effect on her senses was a bit overwhelming…especially when he tilted her chin so he could see better. He ran his fingers lightly ran over the pulse point of her throat.

  She wondered if he noticed how rapidly her heart was beating.

  “You are going to have a bruise. It’s red right now, but the redness will fade.” He dropped his hands and sat back. “What will they think in London when they see it?”

  She didn’t say anything. What could she say—that she was not returning to London? She tired of repeating herself. That she wondered why he wasn’t as affected by her nearness as she was by his? She didn’t know if she wanted to hear the answer.

  “This is yours, isn’t it?” He picked up her yellow Kashmir shawl and offered it to her.

  Anne took it, so disappointed in his insistence she leave, she couldn’t look at him. She rose from the bed. He stood with her, but took a step back. “I didn’t really hurt you, did I?” he asked, misinterpreting her silence.

  Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, she said, “I’m fine.”

  Her words came out sharper than she’d intended. He drew back, then reached for his shirt draped over the footboard, giving her his back. In a casual but studied tone, he said, “You have impressed me, Anne. What you have done to Kelwin is beyond belief.”

  You have impressed me, Anne. So stiff, so impersonal. But then, what had she expected?

  Something more, her imagination whispered.

  “Thank you,” she replied, her voice as carefully neutral as his. “I’d best check on the kitchen.” She would have run out of the room but then remembered a detail she’d better tell him before he found out from Deacon. “I hired Mrs. MacEwan as a cook.”

  “Fine. Do whatever you need to do.” Polite, distant, proper.

  “Yes, thank you.” She escaped and didn’t draw a full, easy breath until she was down the stairs and into the great hall.

  For a second, she leaned against the stone wall.

  Anne was not so naïve she didn’t realize what was happening to her. She’d been attracted to many, but none had ever made the impact on her senses as Aidan had. Her heart still raced from being on the mattress beneath him…and she was light-headed—giddy, even…and furiously angry at his stubbornness, his coldness. She was not a stranger. She was his wife.

  And, she was falling in love.

  Love. It was not what she’d imagined it. No bells sounded. No birds sang. The heavens didn’t open.

  Instead, love slipped quietly past one’s defenses. It stole your heart before you even realized it was in danger.

  She stared at the wedding band on her finger. She had
n’t removed it since the bishop had placed it there. She would never take it off.

  In this single moment of insight, her life changed in a way she’d not expected…in a way she could not yet fathom. Dazed, she made her way to the kitchen.

  Mrs. MacEwan and her daughter were busy cooking. The smell of fresh bread permeated the air. Sausages sizzled in a pan over the fire.

  “Good morning, my lady,” Mrs. MacEwan greeted her happily. “Would you like a cup of tea before breakfast? I’ve been brewing a pot.”

  “Yes, please,” Anne said, pleased with the atmosphere of the busy kitchen and surprised to see Hugh was there. He’d stepped back into the shadows of the pantry but now came forward.

  “Good morning, my lady,” he said almost sheepishly.

  “Good morning,” she returned with uncertainty until she noticed a blush on Fenella’s cheeks. So that was the way the wind blew.

  She hid her smile while accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. MacEwan. There was a small pitcher of milk on the table. She was reaching for it when Mrs. MacEwan exclaimed, “What happened to your neck? It’s all red.”

  Anne had almost forgotten about the bruises. She rubbed her neck lightly. “It’s nothing. I barely notice it.”

  “Nothing?” Mrs. MacEwan said. Her eyes flashed. “There are finger marks. Who did that to you?”

  “I woke my husband—”

  She didn’t get a chance to say another word. “The laird did such a thing? Heaven’s mercy!”

  “Tiebauld would never hurt a woman,” Hugh said loyally.

  “He’s right,” Anne stressed. “It was an accident.”

  “You mean he really choked you?” Hugh demanded.

  “Not on purpose. I woke him. He was surprised.” Anne could see her words of explanation fell on deaf ears. She decided to retreat. “Is breakfast almost ready to be served?”

  “In a moment,” Mrs. MacEwan replied briskly, obviously upset.

  Anne went into the great hall. Aidan already sat at the table, talking in earnest with Deacon, who frowned when she entered the room…but was it her imagination, or did he seem less set against her than he had previously?

  She hoped it was so.

  Stepping up on the dais, she could have taken a seat next to her husband, but she suddenly turned shy. It was almost hard to look at him. Like yesterday, he wore leather breeches, well-worn boots, and a white shirt. He’d slicked his wet hair back from his face, and she could smell the scent of his shaving soap. It had become a heady fragrance for her.