The Marriage Contract

by Cathy Maxwell

  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 hadn’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.

  She took a seat down the table from him.

  He didn’t seem to notice where she sat. He and Deacon were discussing the sheep they had purchased the day before. Much of their talk was of little interest to her. She spent her time almost slavishly, but covertly, staring dreamy-eyed at her husband.

  Mrs. MacEwan served breakfast while Fenella followed with the additional plates. Mrs. MacEwan made a great show of placing a board of piping hot bread in the center of the table. Then she set a plate of sausages in front of Anne. She served Deacon next.

  Aidan smiled. “Sausages are my favorite breakfast.” His eyes almost twinkled with expectancy.

  Mrs. MacEwan slid his plate in front of him and Aidan’s smile fell. His sausages were blacker than two pieces of coal. He looked to Deacon’s plate, then Anne’s, and finally raised his gaze to Mrs. MacEwan.

  “Aren’t my sausages a bit overdone?”

  “Burned to a crisp,” Mrs. MacEwan said proudly. “Which is what I’ll do to you if you ever harm our precious countess again.”

  Embarrassed, Fenella tried to divert her mother and pull her back to the kitchen, but Mrs. MacEwan was on a mission.

  “Your wife,” she said, “is a fine, fine lady.”

  “She’s English,” Deacon said, his mouth full of sausage.

  Mrs. MacEwan whirled on him. “She’s the laird’s wife and one of us now. You should have seen her yesterday. She worked harder than anyone!”

  Deacon shot Aidan a glance that said clearly, I told you so.

  But Aidan ignored him. Instead, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. MacEwan.”

  She made a hasty curtsey. “I dinna mean any disrespect, Laird.”

  “I understand, Mrs. MacEwan.”

  “Enjoy your breakfast, Laird.”

  “I will.”

  She turned and left the room, her expression satisfied. Fenella hurried behind, her expression mortified.

  Anne was almost afraid to look at her husband. When she did, she found he was eating the burned sausages.

  He met her gaze. “My clansmen are an independent lot,” he said, explaining Mrs. MacEwan’s behavior to her unspoken question.

  Deacon burst out laughing. “They’re Scottish!” Aidan started laughing with him. The two were laughing so hard, they had trouble finishing their breakfasts and even Anne was caught up in their mood.

  But if she thought Aidan was done with her, she was wrong. No sooner had they finished their meal than he said, “Come with me, Anne.” He started out the front door. She had to skip to catch up.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  She followed quietly a moment and then, “Have you, Deacon, and Hugh always been friends?”

  “We’re actually cousins. All related in distant ways, the way many of we highlanders are. They came to me when I first arrived and told me I wasn’t fit to be laird until I could best them.”

  “So did you?”

  “Not on the first go round.”

  “Go round? What did you do?”

  “I wrestled them.”

  Her nose scrunched in distaste at such an activity. “You wrestled? Isn’t that considered common?”

  “Yes, it is a very common sport, and we had a bloody good time at it, too.” He continued across the courtyard and up a path to the stables, which was a stone barn not quite as old as the main house. A gull flying on the currents overhead called mockingly to her.

  “Why are we here?” she asked.

  “You’ll know in a moment.” He walked in.

  One of Fang’s youngest sons and his friend were waiting for him. “We turned them out, Laird.”

  “Good job, Davey,” Aidan said to the Mowat boy.

  Anne looked around, impressed. There were thirty boxes. “Do you have this many animals?” A fat yellow-orange tabby who appeared to be an outstanding mouser greeted her by rubbing against her skirt.

  “I have seven, including Beaumains. It’s enough for my needs.”

  “Indubitably,” Anne murmured.

  He shot her a glance as if he wasn’t certain she didn’t tease him. Remembering her conversation with Norval the first night, she asked, “Do you breed horses?”

  “I’m thinking about it, but sheep have always been king here. You should see the sheep sheds. They are four times this size.”

  “Where are they?”

  “About a half mile toward Wick and further inland. The earls of Tiebauld learned long ago it wasn’t wise to keep livestock too near the coast, where raiders could easily steal them.” He lifted a manure fork. “Davey, you and your friend run along now.”

  “Don’t you want us to muck out the boxes?” Davey asked.

  “No,” Aidan said.

  “Aye, but they be needing it, Laird. If we don’t do it, who will?”

  Aidan smiled. “My wife.”

  Chapter 8

  Anne stood in her yellow Kashmir shawl and fine periwinkle morning dress and couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re joking.”

  Aidan shook his head, as the two boys ran off. Holding the manure fork high, he asked, “Have you been around
horses, Anne?”

  “I had a pony as a child.” She still didn’t want to believe.

  “Good. Then I won’t have to explain it all to you. I like new bedding laid daily. It is better for their hooves.”

  “Mucking a stall is simple enough.” She frowned. “But you can’t expect me to do it dressed like this?”

  He acted as if he’d just noticed her fine clothes. “Do you have anything else to wear?”

  “Hardly. You know I lost most of my clothes when the trunk broke. They were blown every which way. You were going to send someone to see about fetching what had to be left behind. Did you?”

  He snapped his fingers. “I forgot. I’m sorry, Anne. I’ll send someone to do it now. Also, I had word this morning from the Reverend Oliphant in Thurso. He will arrive this afternoon to bury your coachman.”

  Anne nodded, suddenly solemn. It was a relief to know Todd would be given a decent ceremony. “I need to write your sister and tell her. I was so busy yesterday…” Her voice trailed off. She was usually very good about details. She rarely put off even unpleasant tasks, but Todd had died and she’d yet to inform anyone. Worse, she hadn’t given him a moment’s thought the day before. “Poor man.”

  “Yes,” Aidan agreed soberly, then brightened. “All right. As I said, not all the boxes are in use. Muck the ones that need it and see fresh hay is laid.”

  “You really are going to make me do it?” Anne felt her temper begin to sizzle.

  He was all innocence. “Anne, I thought you wanted to be my countess.”

  Incoherent words of anger twisted her tongue. She swallowed them back, tasting bitter bile. To think she’d almost imagined herself in love with this, this, this—she searched her mind for the worst word she could think of—bounder!

  In a voice shaking with her effort for control, she said, “I’ll do what you want because I won’t give you the satisfaction of making me run. I won’t return to London.”

  She grabbed the manure fork out of his hands. Her cheerful yellow shawl fell down over one shoulder. She shook it off and shoved it right into his stomach. “Here, take this to the house.” In spite of his abdomen being hard as the stone walls around them, she caught him off guard. His grunt of pain gave her great pleasure.

  Anne marched into the first stall and picked her way gingerly through the straw to a pile of manure. Her hair flopped forward into her face. With an irritated shake of her head, she rested the fork handle against her chest and quickly braided it. “I wish I had pins,” she muttered.

  “What did you say?” Aidan asked.

  “Nothing to you,” she snapped. “Why are you lingering around here? Or don’t you think I can muck without supervision?”

  He laughed at her display of temper. “I rolled the wheelbarrow out for the muck. When you’re done, take it out back and there is a place to dump it. You’ll know where immediately.”

  “I’m sure I will,” she echoed, images of overturning the load on his boots making the situation more palatable.

  “Well,” he hedged with a sly, wicked, ungrateful smile—how had she ever thought his smile charming?—“I’ve other matters to attend to. Enjoy.”

  She grimaced through clenched teeth. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of defeat. Picking up the fork, she scooped manure and carried it to the wheelbarrow.

  This was not a task one did in a skirt one wanted to keep unsoiled.

  Anne efficiently cleaned the stall and moved on to the next, planning to lay fresh straw in all the stalls when she’d finished. Already she itched from the chaff stirred up into the air. A blister started to form on her right hand which had been tender from the work the day before.

  The whole situation was deeply humiliating!

  Halfway through cleaning the second stall, she’d almost convinced herself to find Aidan and tell him she wanted to leave for London this very day. He could go to the devil. She’d take the life of a lady’s companion over being his wife and personal drudge. She doubted any woman would wish to marry such an egotistical, self-satisfied, irritating—

  The sound of a footstep by the wheelbarrow broke off her thoughts in mid-tirade. She looked up over the box wall, hoping it was Aidan. If it was, she wouldn’t hold back. She would give him a good piece of her mind.

  But it wasn’t her husband.

  It was one of the Whiskey Girls—the young dark-haired one whom Aidan had asked to bed the night Anne had arrived. She stood by the wheelbarrow, her doelike eyes apprehensive.

  Anne lifted her chin in disdain. For a long moment, the two women took each other’s measure. The Whiskey Girl dropped her gaze first.

  “May I help you?” Anne asked, her tone imperious. She hated being caught performing such a debasing job as mucking out stalls by the likes of a Whiskey Girl.

  The girl rubbed her palms on her skirt. Her voice shook slightly when she said in a soft, lilting accent, “Please, my lady. I’ve come to ask for a job.”

  Anne was incredulous. “You want a position in my employ?”

  The girl’s eyes appeared ready to swallow her face. Her feet took one step back from Anne but she answered, “Yes, my lady.”

  Leaning the fork against the wall, Anne walked out of the stall and took a good hard look at the doxy. She was a lovely thing, younger than Anne herself. But it almost seemed as if youth itself had passed her by. The difference was in her eyes. They had seen too much to be innocent.

  The Whiskey Girl shifted her weight from one foot to another, ill-at-ease under such scrutiny.

  Anne frowned. The girl’s request was preposterous. It was an affront to Anne that she’d even made the appeal.

  Crossing her arms against her chest, Anne said, “What is your name?” Aidan had used it the other night, but Anne had forgotten.

  “Cora, my lady.”

  Yes, Cora. She forced herself to look at the girl as she asked the question burning in her mind. “Are you my husband’s mistress?”

  Aidan’s conscience had started to bothered him.

  He’d left to go to the sheep shed, but couldn’t rid himself of the image of his strong, stubborn Anne swallowing her self-respect and mucking out the barn. He understood that kind of pride. Her dignity touched him.

  He turned around and headed back. He’d tell her she didn’t have to do the chore and round up Davey to finish it. He didn’t know how he was going to convince her to leave, but he couldn’t do it this way.

  He’d been about to enter the barn from a side door when he realized Anne wasn’t alone. She was talking to Cora. What the devil was distiller Nachton McKay’s youngest daughter doing here?

  Then Anne rocked him backward by asking, “Are you my husband’s mistress?”

  He immediately ducked back into the shadows, holding his breath, waiting for Cora’s answer.

  The color drained from the Whiskey Girl’s face…and Anne thought she knew the answer. Part of her, the practical side, wondered inanely why she had asked the question—but her woman’s sensibility understood she could not live at Kelwin and have everyone know what she didn’t.

  “Not his mistress, my lady,” Cora whispered.

  “Then what?” Anne asked, still fearing the answer.

  “I’ve slept in his bed a time or two.” She swallowed. “But not since I was told he was married. Neither my sisters or me will lie with a married man.”

  Her honest confession went straight to Anne’s heart. Of course, Aidan would choose this girl as bed partner and not herself. Cora was lovely and round and soft—and sensual. She knew the mysteries of what happened between men and women. Anne did not.

  Worse, in the presence of this sensual younger woman, Anne felt like a child. “I’m sorry,” she heard herself say, as if from a great distance. “We have no position open.” She backed toward the door and then turned, ready to run, not knowing where she was going or why.

  Cora stopped her. “Please, my lady. I overheard them talking amongst themselves in the village that you were going to hire he
lp. Please let me have a chance. I can work hard.”

  The catch in the girl’s voice caught Anne’s attention. She hesitated, and then forced herself to face her rival. She drew a steadying breath. “Why should I give you a chance? I need a maid to help in the house where you would be close to my husband at all times.”

  There, she’d admitted it. She was jealous and feared she could not compete.

  “I have no designs on the laird,” Cora said. “He’s your husband.”

  Anne couldn’t speak. She would not acknowledge Aidan didn’t want her, not to a woman he did want.

  “Please, my lady, I know I’m not a good choice for a maid. I don’t even know how to be one,” Cora confessed. “But I’m willing to learn. Everyone says I’m bright—”

  “Then why don’t you ask them for a position?”

  Cora swallowed and lifted her chin defensively. “Because no one will hire me.” Her hands clenched into fists. The lines of her face deepened and Anne realized she was struggling with pride and shame. “You wouldn’t understand, my lady. You don’t know what it is like.”

  The girl’s proud posture struck a chord of recognition in Anne. “Tell me. Tell me what it is like to be you.”

  The Whiskey Girl smirked. “If you were my kind, you’d have to become accustomed to people always whispering and talking about you whenever you pass them on the path. They might smile and say hello to your face, but you know they’ll be gossiping about you later.”

  Anne understood all too well what she meant. “What else?”

  “People think you are stupid…or maybe they are deliberately trying to hurt your feelings.”

  “Maybe they don’t believe you have feelings at all,” Anne agreed softly.

  “That is true. The women don’t want to spend time knowing you to find out any different, and the men only want you on your back.”

  “How will being my maid change that?”

  “It will be a chance, you ken?” Realizing Anne didn’t understand the Scottish word, she corrected herself, “You understand? I want to be something else. A want to be one of them. My oldest sister, Meg, is twenty-eight, but she looks fifty. She has a child, my lady, a lovely little girl named Marie who will grow up and be like the lot of us. Pa doesn’t mind. We’re good for his whiskey business. But when I look at Marie and see how precious she is and know someday she will be like me—”