Bride by Contract

by Margaret Rome

  'Please, Granny,' Morva appealed, raising a hand to her hot cheeks, 'you make me sound like a piece of merchandise to be made the most of in the marriage market!'

  As swiftly as she had done many times in the past, her grandmother squashed this hint of rebellion.

  'Might I suggest, my dear,' the look she speared was far from genial, 'that instead of indulging your taste for romantic poetry, you dip into the family archives for a dose of historical truth! Chronicles penned long before the invention of the printing press will soon convince you that the days of so-called chivalry were greatly overrated, that marriage making was a regular trade amongst the highest ranks, and that even reigning monarchs had no scruples whatsoever about making huge profits by encouraging knight to bid against knight for a licence to marry well.'

  Morva's hold on her prayer book tightened as she stood with head bowed, feeling shrivelled by the contempt her bridegroom was making no attempt to conceal. But then humiliation was replaced by shocked surprise when his steadying grip descended upon her waist, pulling her close against a frame that felt powerful as a bulwark, as comforting as his relaxed, teasing drawl.

  'If that's the case, then I guess I've found myself a bargain!' The pressure of his fingers made a heavy contrast to his lightly tossed words. 'My country cannot lay claim to centuries of honourable tradition, nevertheless, it has become customary among business tycoons to celebrate the closing of a deal with a good meal. So I guess work will have to wait a little while longer,' Morva's heart lurched when he hooked her hand within the crook of his elbow and treated her to a wide grin. 'Let me take you to lunch, bargain bride, so that we may drink a toast to the signing of a contract which I hope will turn out to be mutually beneficial.'

  A buffet lunch for estate workers had been set out in a barn especially decorated for the occasion, but a separate and beautifully appointed table had been laid for four in Granny's small sitting room. Yet in spite of hours of effort by the servants, in spite of her grandmother's determined cheerfulness and the light-hearted banter that had obviously been rehearsed by Percy for the special occasion, she sensed the luncheon falling flat while as course followed course, her bridegroom's earlier promise of conviviality failed to materialise.

  When finally he threw down his napkin and rose to his feet she felt his polite request to be excused as a personal slight, an indication that the prospect of spending hours in the company of his new bride could in no way compete with the more stimulating demands of business.

  'Knowing how much you look forward to a daily gallop with Clio, I guess you won't be too upset if I spend the next few hours attempting to restore order out of the chaos of correspondence littering my desk,' he addressed her without a hint of apology.

  'Just one minute, Belvoir!' Percy intervened just as his host was about to take his leave. 'As I have a longstanding engagement to attend a "thrash" this evening, I intend leaving for London almost immediately!'

  The enquiring lift of the Earl's eyebrows, his deliberately maintained silence, had the effect of turning Percy's rather pale complexion brick red.

  '… It's just that, no reference has yet been made to the position I am to be offered on the board of one of your companies, so naturally, I've been wondering…'

  Morva raised her eyes from the plate she had been studying to direct an indignant glare, daring her husband to prolong his victim's misery. She caught a flash of amusement in his returned stare—the sort of look a bear might bestow upon a belligerent rabbit— then hurriedly resumed her interest in her ornately patterned plate when he responded to her dumb entreaty.

  'Never in my life have I reneged on a promise, Eden. Nor am I ever likely to forget about the job you demanded in exchange for your sister!' Morva sensed that his eyes were still upon her, so he could not have missed her mortified wince. Nevertheless, he proceeded to escalate her lukewarm dislike into a passion very near to hatred. 'However, as there is no directorship vacant at present, the only upwardly mobile spot I am able to offer is that of personal assistant to the chairman of the newly formed Howgill Holidays Inc, based permanently in Cumbria, and carrying a salary which, though initially modest, will be reviewed after a probationary period and adjusted according to merit!'

  For the following hours, from noon to early nightfall, Morva rode Clio across moorland and fells, blind to shadow-cast dips and hollows, to hoof-panicked sheep, decapitated wild flowers, the indignant flight of game birds from roosts among the heather, and to gaping grey sores gouged by mechanical monsters in softly rounded hills nurturing hearts of granite.

  Struck by a metaphorical comparison with the man who wore relaxed informality as a casing for a knife-sharp brain, she pulled on the reins, drawing Clio to a halt in order to dwell without distraction upon the deceitful Canadian who had ambled into their lives like an amiable bear, then immediately turned grizzly upon learning that he would be required to work if he wished to add to his already ample store of honey.

  I never renege on a promise! he had reminded Percy.

  The very last thing she sought was a share in his worldly goods, yet just a few hours previously she had felt so comforted, so foolishly deceived by his promise. to love and cherish… Obviously the man lacked integrity. Obviously he had only once spoken the truth—when he had enlisted her sympathy by confessing ignorance of the rules of the ancient, honourable club to which chance had admitted him as a member. 'I have need of a helpmate, a guide…'

  Without doubt, he needed someone to demonstrate the ideal of fighting weakness in order to preserve honour!

  Clio jerked into motion, made suddenly conscious of the existence of spurs attached to the boots of her rider.

  'Giddup, Clio!' She heard the strangely sharp command. 'There's a grizzly bear in urgent need of training!'

  There was no one in sight when Morva entered the castle, no one to comment upon her absence from dinner, or to delay her race up many flights of stairs to the attic where her wedding dress had been stored. For frantic moments she rummaged inside cedarwood chests before pouncing upon the article she had been seeking, then without a backward glance at debris littering the floor she hurried back downstairs carrying a bundle under her arm, then forced herself to walk along the tapestry-hung gallery giving access to the suite of rooms traditionally reserved for the Earl and Countess of Howgill.

  Her heart sank, as it usually did whenever she stepped inside the imposing suite. Familiarity had not managed to breed indifference to the magnificence of a centre bedroom covered from dado to cornice with dark red Chinese silk that had been transported, together with the rest of the furnishings, by way of caravans of camels and yaks, for thousands of miles through deserts and across mountains towards a Mediterranean port from which the cargo had been shipped by an earlier Earl with the intention of transforming his Cumberland Castle into an Oriental palace.

  Paying mental tribute to whichever destiny had decided that the Earl's fortunes should wane long before his enthusiasm, she scurried into the bathroom, averting her eyes from sets of bronze chung-bells; ornaments of jade said to be vested with mystical meaning; animal claws, horns, tails and gaping jaws carved upon the surface of ancient wine vessels; paintings done on silk depicting Oriental maidens reclining amid falling cherry blossoms, and exotic cats coiled into serpentine poses casting glares of pure red garnet upon dragons and leopards, hawks and tigers crouched around the edges of a canopy drawing a passion-red screen of silk—billowing noiseless as a breath—around what custom had decreed should be the nuptial bed of every Earl and Countess of Howgill.

  After leaving the bathroom she laid shivering for what seemed hours between scented sheets—a dutiful bride covered from neck to toe in a nightdress of finest lawn, with a pintucked bodice and frills of lace around collar, wristbands and hem, and with a matching mobcap perched upon hair parted primly in the middle of her forehead then left to fall around her shoulders in a burnished, beech-brown cloud.

  Every nerve in her body responded with a jerk to the soun
d of a door opening and closing with a dull thud. Through the closed film of curtain she glimpsed a man's outline; heard the creak of a chair when he sat down, followed by a couple of thumps as he discarded his shoes.

  It was only when he moved out of earshot towards the bathroom that she realised that for the past tense minutes she had barely drawn breath. She sank back against the pillows, white faced and trembling, just dimly beginning to realise how mentally ill-equipped, how physically immature, she must appear to her free-thinking, free-spirited, madly progressive bridegroom.

  She had just begun sidling from between the sheets, her mind too intent upon escape to register the padding of approaching footsteps, when the bed curtain was impatiently ripped aside and she was suddenly confronted by her startled, stark-naked husband.

  'What the hell…!'

  Scarlet with confusion she jerked aside, turning her back upon a bronzed muscular body which even her inexperienced eyes had labelled magnificent.

  'Why are you here, Morva?' The sharp question razed past her fiery earlobe. 'And why are you dressed like a sacrificial kid awaiting slaughter?'

  She forced her limbs to move, willed her eyelids to lift, and was relieved to see him tying the belt of a towelled robe.

  'We made a bargain,' she swallowed hard. 'I was not speaking lightly when I promised to keep my word.'

  'Ah, now I get the picture! The virgin wife is willing to endure the ultimate sacrifice in order to set an example of integrity to a husband without conscience!'

  Looking intolerably goaded, he thrust clenched fists into the pockets of his robe and swung on his heel as if unable to endure the sight of a profile etched ghostly pale against an exotic red background.

  'Thank you, but no thank you, Morva,' he declined hatefully. 'You are welcome to my bed but not to my company. I'll sleep next door in the dressing room.'

  'Why…?' she gasped through a throat aching with mortified tears.

  'Because I shall decide when my wife is to be bedded—and that will not happen until I've judged her to be good and ready, when I feel certain that she has revised her quaint notion that it is acceptable for a girl to be bred solely to provide a pay cheque for layabout members of her family! I can't even hazard a guess how long it will take to drag you out of the nineteenth century,' he swung round to glare condemnation of her deliberately chosen night attire. 'But one thing I swear—you will remain a virgin wife until the day you cast off your hair shirt and voluntarily concede that the past is a bucket of ashes!'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For several weeks convoys of builder's lorries had been transporting men and materials across bleak moorland roads, invading the privacy of the furred and feathered inhabitants of the no-man's land of peace and tranquillity which the hustling, decisive, deaf-to-all excuses Earl was determined to see entered as a 'must' in all top-market tourist brochures;

  Morva frowned at heaps of builder's rubble strewn around the courtyard, sympathising with her Granny's resentment of the upset that had forced her to retreat, vowing never to set foot outside her personal suite of rooms until the last nail had been hammered, the last power drill silenced. She sighed, disliking the contrast made by modern pipework running adjacent to ancient lead gutters and downspouts blending harmoniously into weathered stone.

  'Tourists are a race of contradictory creatures,' a voice mocked from behind her shoulder, 'entranced by the idea of water having to be drawn from wells, yet insisting that an unlimited amount of showers and hot baths is essential to their comfort.'

  Slowly she turned to face the man whose proven ability to read her thoughts was uncanny, having to remind herself yet again that the Earl dressed in cowboy garb of brightly checked shirt and coarse blue denims really was her husband.

  'As are modern-day Croesus,' she completed the analogy, 'who are able to spend freely, unhampered by the dread of a mounting overdraft, yet who obviously enjoy the rush and hassle of big business. In common with most people of average means, I used to envy the wealthy their freedom to buy whatever they fancy without even bothering to ask the price. But lately, I've been wondering…' she hesitated, seeking words that would not sound censorious or disapproving.

  'Go on,' he prompted, eyeing her keenly, 'you have been wondering what?'

  'Whether I should like to become permanently chained to a treadmill,' she finished simply 'whether unlimited wealth really can compensate for having to work so hard at staying rich.'

  'Some see a man's work as a self-portrait.' His grin seemed tinged with wry humour. 'In which case, you would no doubt picture me as a King Midas, a fool who attracted pity rather than envy when even his food turned to gold the moment he touched it.' Negligently, he reached out to clasp a hand around her waist, drawing her stiffly unresponsive body into his arms.

  'I can think of no greater penance to impose upon a man than the frustration of feeling his bride turning cold at his touch, sensing her frigid absence of warmth, facing the daunting prospect of trying to make love to a petrified madonna offering an unyielding body and cold lips to her husband. A man could soon become discouraged by such a passionless paragon, Morva…'

  As his dark head lowered she felt his warm breath brushing across her softly parted lips, then in a sudden burst of frustration he pulled her close, crushing her mouth beneath his with a surging, demanding, irresistible force that caught her unprepared, caused her to clutch at arms holding her steady as a rock while she was swept, buffeted, then finally submerged to the point of drowning in a torrent of racing emotions. Desperately she clung to the one solid object remaining in a world turned topsy turvy, sliding her palms along taut biceps, across a breadth of powerful shoulders, then entwining frantic fingers behind a neck that felt immovable as a tree trunk that could be bent but never broken.

  Expertly, he probed the tender curve of her mouth, his lips creating chaos wherever they touched, sparking nerves into vibrant life, tearing aside the veil of innocence that had hidden terrifying yearnings and wicked impulses she had not known she possessed, causing her to forget that ever since their disastrous wedding night he had barely acknowledged her existence, that he had left her to sleep alone in his bed with tortured thoughts and tormented dreams dominated by one swift glimpse of a tanned, magnificently proportioned body and by the intolerable hurt and sense of rejection she had suffered since the moment he had walked away…

  'Oh, there you are, Belvoir!'

  Without a word of apology for his untimely intrusion, Percy strode into the courtyard. Morva jerked back to reality, her cheeks scarlet with embarrassment as she tried to pull out of the shocking embrace. But Troy held her captive, locking both hands around her waist, reminding her with a look that they were man and wife and that the true state of their marital affairs was to be kept secret even from members of her family. 'Well, now that you've found me, state your business and get back to work!' Troy growled, without bothering to turn his head.

  The curt dismissal drove a tinge of colour into Percy's cheeks. Foolishly, he allowed antagonism to creep into his tone.

  'Your decision to advertise Ravenscrag as a centre for conferences, product launches, and business dinners appears to be bearing fruit. I've just had to turn down a booking proposed on behalf of a company in search of accommodation, opportunity for a few hours' relaxation, and a reception and dinner for one hundred of their overseas representatives.'

  'You've done what!'

  Percy blanched when twin spears of cobalt blue were aimed towards him.

  'I've turned the booking down,' he defied valiantly, 'we're not due to open for another month and the company concerned requires accommodation in two weeks' time.'

  'No hotel can afford to turn down a booking that size, especially when its main aim is to build up a reputation for first-class service and close attention to the needs of its clientele!'

  'You're being very unreasonable, Troy!' With an angry jerk Morva escaped his clutches and retreated a couple of feet away. 'You are perfectly well aware that there aren
't enough rooms ready yet! And even if there were, considering the small number of staff at present employed we could not possibly cope with one hundred guests for dinner.'

  'Oh, yes we can, and what's more we will!' He snapped a directive to Percy. 'Get right back on to the company concerned and tell them that we will be pleased to accommodate members of their staff during the period quoted. Explain the circumstances existing at present, and apologise in advance for any slight inconveniences that may arise, while at the same time stressing that these will be kept to an absolute minimum.'

  'Meanwhile,' the eyes he turned upon Morva were as impersonal as the computer he referred to constantly in his search for answers to rapidly punched problems, 'you come with me. Once we've made a tour of the castle and decided which rooms can most quickly be made ready for occupation, you can get cracking with the next most important job of employing extra staff.'

  'Cook will be furious when an order demanding dinner for one hundred guests is dropped into her lap,' she hedged uncertainly, then was galvanised into action by his brusque ultimatum.

  'If she has any doubts about her ability to cope she will have to go! Cooking one hundred dinners is not such a big deal, for years my aunt catered for the same number of hungry cowboys, providing two hefty meals a day with less than half a dozen helpers in the cook house!'

  'Our cook, Mrs Mackay, is no hash slinger,' Percy patronised with a smile that set Morva's teeth on edge. 'On the contrary, she is extremely proud of the Grand Diploma she gained from Le Cordon Bleu de Paris which she has often assured me can be classed as a passport into the finest kitchens of the world. It's a mystery why she has remained with us for so long. One probable reason,' he sniffed, 'could be that she regards herself as one of the family.'