Marriage 03: The Marriage Contract

by Cathy Maxwell

  Behind him, he heard Hugh ask, “What did Tiebauld mean by that, Deacon?”

  Deacon didn’t answer.

  Upstairs, Aidan headed straight for his room. Anne could truly be ill and if so, he wanted to know. If not, he wanted an explanation for her behavior tonight.

  But she wasn’t in his room. In fact, her things had been moved out.

  Puzzled, he went to the guest room. Carefully, he opened the door. The room was dark. He almost

  thought no one was there until he widened the door to let in light from the torch burning in the hallway.

  Anne lay in the bed, sleeping soundly. The hall light fell on the curve of her hip as she slept on her side, her back to the door.

  So, she had been ill. Aidan felt relieved. He didn’t know why she had moved from his room…but it was for the best. He started to close the door when something on the floor reflected the hall light.

  Curious, he opened the door wide enough to see it was one of the silver pins. They were scattered across the wash basin and onto the floor, almost as if she’d thrown them at the mirror.

  Aidan eased back. He didn’t know why she would do such a thing. But the image of those shining, lovely pins kept him awake long past midnight.

  In the end, he decided the best action would be to take none. He’d let her come to him when she was ready.

  The intricacies of the female mind were too complicated for his ken. His feelings for Anne were something he didn’t know if he wanted to explore too closely.

  With that disturbing thought, he fell asleep.

  Deacon was in a disgruntled mood. The hour was late as he sat in front of the hearth smoking his pipe. He stretched his legs toward the fire, an empty ale glass in his hand. Smoke curled around his head.

  Was he the only one left with sense? Couldn’t

  Tiebauld and Hugh see what the women were doing to them? Hugh was acting like a stud in heat every time Fenella MacEwan crossed his path.

  He didn’t want to think about what was happening to Tiebauld—although he had his suspicions.

  A step sounded behind him. He turned. Cora McKay came into the room. She carried a lighted taper. Seeing him, she skidded to a halt. “I’m sorry. I heard a sound and came to check and didn’t realize you were still up.” She started to leave.

  But he called her back, feeling a perverse sense of desire. He knew Cora, although he’d never lain with her. She was the youngest and shyest of the distiller’s daughters.

  She was also the loveliest.

  “Did you want something?” she asked in her low, musical voice.

  Deacon brought in his legs and patted his lap. “I want you to sit. Right here.”

  The color drained from her face. It pricked his conscience, or at least, what was left of his conscience after so much ale. He told himself he was imagining things. She was a Whiskey Girl and used to men talking rudely—and he had a strong desire to be “rude” with her right now.

  When she didn’t move, he prodded, “Come along.”

  She glanced into the darkness behind her. “We’re alone,” he said impatiently. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Tiebauld or that English bitch.”

  A frown line formed across her forehead. He didn’t know why; he didn’t care. He had anger inside, frustration needing to be released in any form…and this was as good as any. Better, in fact.

  She started walking toward him. He drew a long breath. Maybe if he had her, he wouldn’t feel so dissatisfied.

  Cora stopped beside him. Her lips were pressed tightly together like some prudish maiden aunt’s. He knew how to loosen them up. “Unbutton my breeches,” he said crudely.

  But instead of giving him what he wanted, she turned the taper sideways. Hot wax fell on his crotch.

  Deacon came up with a roar. He hadn’t been burned, but he understood her intention. Nor did she wait to offer an apology but took off running in the direction of the servants’ quarters.

  He gave pursuit.

  Her candle went out but they both knew the way—or at least he did, until they reached the servants’ hallway. She’d run into one of the rooms. He’d find her, and when he did—

  In brutal anger, he threw open a door. The room was dark. No Cora there. He tried another and another. He paused, thinking…and then noticed a light un-der the door at the far end of the hall.

  On silent feet, he approached the light. With one shoulder, he threw the door open.

  Cora was there, but she was not alone. A child came awake at the noise of the door hitting the wall. She jerked up in bed, screaming. The little girl had doeshaped eyes and long dark hair much like Cora’s.

  Cora threw protective arms around the girl and faced Deacon. “All right. I’ll do what you want but not here. Not in front of the child. And I’ll not let you touch her, do you understand?”

  He pulled back, sickened Cora would think him capable of such a thing. “I wouldn’t hurt her,” he said. Then, “Is she yours?”

  “No, but I’ll not let harm come to her. I’ll die first.”

  The child started at her words. She wrapped her arms around Cora’s neck and held tight. “I won’t let him touch you either, Auntie. I won’t let him hurt you.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt either one of you,” Deacon protested thickly, sober now. What had come over him? He’d never forced himself on a woman before. It embarrassed him when he realized he’d been about to do so now.

  Deacon stepped back. At one time he’d been a favored son in the proud clan Gunn. Now, he was chasing maids and scaring children.

  It almost took all his courage to face the two of them. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry. Very sorry.” He backed out of the room and closed the door.

  In the great hall, surrounded by silence, he sat in his chair and stared into the fire. He wondered when he’d changed…and if he could ever return to the man he’d once been.

  If Aidan had thought Anne would immediately notice his quietness, he was wrong. Over the next several days, they were polite strangers. The only time she sought him out was to discuss improvements she wished to make. Otherwise, she left him to his own devices.

  In keeping with his idea of what a truce between them should be, he pretended to ignore her…although he found himself lingering around the castle, waiting for her to notice him.

  She didn’t.

  Instead, she was busy turning Kelwin into a home.

  Over the years, he had worked to turn the lands into a thriving, profitable estate, but he had ignored the house. Now an herb garden was planted right outside the kitchen step. A chicken coop appeared almost overnight, stocked with hens and a crowing rooster. Mrs. MacEwan promised him a cake baked of the first eggs. His dogs were becoming better mannered and often ran right past him to greet Anne.

  If anyone in his small community sensed things weren’t right between him and his wife, they gave no indication. In truth, everyone gladly accepted

  Anne. Even Deacon had given up hounding Aidan about her.

  Actually, his friend had become very sober of late. He kept Aidan apprised of the watch for the Danish ship and his brother Robbie’s rebel activities. Otherwise, he didn’t seem to have much to say about any-thing—not even on the subject of Anne.

  And Hugh was gone. He talked and walked and looked like the same old happy bachelor he’d always been—but everyone knew he was in love with Fenella MacEwan. He could barely think of anything else. Fang advised Aidan to push Hugh into a June wedding, “So he can get his wits back and act normal again.”

  Aidan didn’t know if he should talk to anyone on matters of love. He’d discovered the one woman impervious to his charm and she was supposedly his own wife.

  Granted, a marriage shouldn’t be consummated if he was going to dissolve it, but a niggling thought wormed its way into his mind that sleeping with Anne might not be a bad idea. After all, she worked as hard as he did. And then maybe he’d be able to concentrate on something besides the swing of his wife’s hips as she walked or th
e way her eyes crinkled at the corners when someone said something tickling her sense of the absurd.

  If they consummated the marriage, he could find out what it was like to kiss her. Then perhaps he

  would stop fantasizing about her to the point at which he’d lost interest in other women.

  At the very least, he could complain when she ignored him.

  It was a sunny Thursday, one of those days when the sky is clear blue and the ever present wind is finally promising summer, when Aidan discovered his favorite mare was in foal. He was pleased. He’d bred her on one of Argyll’s prized studs. The bloodlines were impeccable. Davey Mowat and his friends were happy with the news, but Aidan wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to share it with someone who mattered.

  In the past he would have searched for Deacon or Hugh. This time, he found himself walking toward the house to tell Anne.

  She wasn’t there. He called to Norval, who answered from the upstairs hall he had not seen “my lady.”

  Aidan charged out to the kitchen. “Mrs. MacEwan, have you seen my wife?”

  “She’s on the beach,” Mrs. MacEwan said.

  “What the deuce is she doing there?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He charged out of the kitchen.

  Outside the door was one of many paths leading down to the rocky coast and a pebble and sand beach. At the rise of the cliff, Aidan looked down and saw Anne along with Cora and a group of chil

  dren, Marie among them. They appeared to be dancing. Anne wore her ivory muslin, one of the two dresses she usually saved for dinner meals, and her hair fell loose and unbound almost to her waist. The others were also dressed in shades of white.

  Curious, he started down the cliff path. He hadn’t gone far when he came upon Deacon sitting amongst the rocks. “What are you doing here?”

  Deacon pulled his gaze away from where the women played. He shrugged. “Passing time.”

  Aidan frowned. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You don’t seem yourself.”

  For a moment, Deacon appeared ready to confide something, but then held the words back. “I’m fine.” He stood and pushed by Aidan, taking the path up to the house.

  Aidan glanced down at the beach. Cora had noticed Deacon. Her gaze followed him up the path. Then, seeing Aidan, she quickly looked away and said something to Anne.

  By the time he reached the beach, everyone knew he was coming. Marie happily ran up to him on bare feet. He noticed she wasn’t the only one. They all had bare feet, even Anne, and wore necklaces fashioned out of seaweed.

  “We’re dancing,” Marie told Aidan joyfully, and made a pirouette in the sand. “We’re at a sea ball.”

  He had to laugh. The child’s presence in the castle had added a delightful new dimension to life at Kelwin. “With seaweed around your necks and in your hair, you all look like the Danish tale of a mermaid who grew legs.”

  Anne blushed and he was enchanted. “It’s just such a glorious day,” she said. “We decided to be a little silly.” Marie’s two friends skipped up to him to show off the necklaces “my lady” had made them.

  But although Aidan pretended to admire the sea jewelry, he wasn’t really paying attention. Instead, something about seeing these precious children laughing and vying to be close to Anne created one clear thought in his head—he wanted children. He’d always intended to have them—it was his duty, his obligation—but he had not felt the urge until this moment, when he was with Anne surrounded by prancing, laughing little girls.

  “Can you dance, Laird?” Marie asked boldly.

  Cora chastened her. “Marie, you don’t talk in such a way to the laird.”

  “It is all right,” Aidan answered. He knelt so he was on Marie’s level. Her two friends, whom he now recognized as Ellen and Molly Keith, Hugh’s twin nieces, crowded up beside her. “I don’t dance,” he confessed. “I’m clumsy. I trip over my own feet. They are very large, you know.”

  They laughed. “Lady Tiebauld will teach you,” Ellen said. “She taught us.”

  Lady Tiebauld. No one had dared to use Anne’s title in front of him. They referred to her as “my lady” but never by the title. He just realized the omission.

  Cora had noticed the mistake. Anne, too. She watched him, waiting for his response. With her bare feet and seaweed necklace, she appeared as innocent as one of the little girls. Then the ocean breeze blew the hem of her muslin skirts and he couldn’t help but admire the shape of her long legs, the womanly curve of her hips.

  Aidan rose. “Perhaps Lady Tiebauld will teach me to dance.” There, he’d used her title, too.

  Her reaction was everything he could wish for. She wasn’t ignoring him now. And she couldn’t refuse his request without disappointing her young companions. He held out his hand. “My lady?”

  The girls clapped their hands with delight.

  Anne didn’t move.

  “We can’t fail them,” he prompted.

  She sent a hesitant glance at the path leading up the cliffs as if ready to bolt. He eased over, blocking her path of escape. She actually edged back from him.

  Had he really been such a great boor?

  Realizing he must make the first move, he bowed with all the élan of a London ballroom. Anne’s lips parted in surprise at his formal show of manners. The little girls giggled.

  Anne considered him a moment, and then she curtsied in response, a deep, graceful movement. This time when he held out his hand, she placed hers in it.

  If this had been a ballroom, she would have worn gloves and he wouldn’t have known the warmth of her skin. Nor would he have been able to devise his own dance, one suitable to his purpose.

  A step in, a step out, then circle the partner, a hand resting on her waist. It brought them very close. It forced them to move as one.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t dance,” she said, her voice slightly breathless.

  Could it be her pulse raced as fast as his? He shrugged. “I’m clumsy.”

  “I find you anything but,” she said, as he took her hands and raising them over her head turned her in a classic tour de main.

  The children loved the step and practiced it themselves. Cora watched thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps I’ve grown out of it,” he said.

  She smiled. He moved near enough to smell the scent in her hair. Her breasts lightly brushed his chest. He longed to touch them, to feel their shape and taste them. His hand returned to the curve of her waist.

  Their circle of steps came to a halt.

  For a moment, neither moved. It seemed as if neither breathed.

  Aidan lost all sense of time and place in the depths of beautiful sea-gray eyes.

  The clapping of the children broke the spell. Anne pulled away. “I think they have the idea,” she said

  to excuse herself, but she couldn’t fool him. Something had passed between them. Something unfathomable. Something rare and vital.

  Aidan turned to the girls and aped another bow, not at all displeased with his dance.

  “We should go in,” Anne said. “I’m sure Mrs. MacEwan has cold water or hot tea for us to drink.”

  “Oh, yes, and toast, too,” Cora added. “Come, let me have your hands.” She took the twins, who claimed to be “beyond hungry,” and started up the path.

  Aidan said, “Go along on with your friends, Marie. Lady Tiebauld and I will be along in a moment.”

  The poppet looked from one to the other, her bright eyes speculative, and then she raced up the hill after her friends as fast as her bare feet could travel.

  Alone, Anne sidled away like a skittish foal. She moved toward a rock large enough to be a chair. Her silk stockings and those silly kid slippers were half buried in the sand beside it.

  For a second, he hoped she’d put her stockings in front of him. He might even offer to help. But she didn’t. She merely slipped her feet in her shoes.

  “You need sturdier shoes,” he said.


  She made a noncommittal sound.

  “Send a note to the cobbler in Wick,” Aidan said. “He’ll make a pair of shoes for you. You might need a new pair of dress shoes, too.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and rose to her feet. She still hadn’t looked at him, not once. She started for the path.

  Her studied nonchalance irked him. Thank you? That was all she had to say?

  He reached for her arm as she passed him and brought her around. “Anne—” he started, and then stopped.

  He didn’t know what he wanted to say. And she wasn’t going to make it easy. She frowned, waiting.

  “You don’t wear the pins I bought you.” His statement sounded silly, but he did wonder.

  Her gaze hardened and shifted from him to look out over the sea. Overhead, gulls rode the current of the wind, their harsh calls mocking. Before his eyes, the warm woman who had danced in his arms slipped away to an unreachable place, a place where he wasn’t welcome.

  Almost desperate, he ran his hand lightly up her arm. It was only a touch, and yet it made him yearn for more. “If you don’t like the pins, I don’t mean to press you. It wasn’t what I came down here to say anyway.”

  “Why did you come?”

  To see you.

  Those words refused to pass his lips. If he said them, he’d be lost to something he wasn’t certain he wished to explore.

  “To tell you my mare Doublelet is in foal.” It had been his true reason.

  A beat of silence. “That’s good news.” Did she appear mildly disappointed? Had she wished for him to

  say something else?

  “Yes, I have big plans for the foal.”

  He sounded like a country oaf! She’d be wise to walk away—but she didn’t. Instead, she hesitated, her expression thoughtful, as if she could devine his thinking. She bit her bottom lip, debating.

  Aidan leaned closer, wanting to hear whatever she said. Even if all she did was ask what plans he had for the horse, it would be an opening—one they could both accept. From there, they would talk about horses in general or about the castle, or maybe even other things that had nothing to do with the running of the estate.

  But it was not to be. Before she could speak, Davey Mowat shouted for him from the top of the cliff, his tone desperate. “Laird! Laird!”