Bride by Contract

by Margaret Rome

  Holding her candle to light her way she drifted downstairs to the sitting room where the others were waiting and hesitated on the threshold, fighting a shy impulse to turn tail and run back the way she had come. But the impulse was stifled by Troy's startled exclamation.

  'Good Lord, is it really Morva…!'

  He put down his glass and paced slowly through the gloom until his startled eyes leapt with the flame of candlelight then darkened to a dangerous smoulder. 'Whatever happened to the cloistered virgin?' he murmured so low that only she could hear. 'Such an insinuating appearance could never be associated with modesty. Dare I hope that at last you are feeling an urge to try your wings, to escape from your cage of Edwardian prudery?'

  Then her mother's and Alan's praises intruded into the magic moment, giving her no time to sift what she felt could have been a very important message from his oblique remarks. All through dinner served in a candlelit dining room she pondered over words that appeared to indicate his complete agreement with her mother's earlier and very confident assertion that bridegrooms were as much in need of encouragement, as much a prey to doubt and uncertainties, as their young brides. She barely tasted what should have been a memorable meal of rich game soup and Scotch salmon soused in a creamy prawn sauce laced with brandy. Even the taste of plump, pink raspberries flambéed in Kirsch and served under a cloud of clotted cream failed to register on her tongue as she ate mechanically, wrestling with problems that increased the shadows cast by candlelight across the hollows and planes of her pale features.

  It was a relief to agree when, shortly after dinner, as they were sitting around the fire listening to the sound of hail battering behind closed curtains and watching the spluttering of logs splashed by occasional drops of rain finding a route down ancient chimneypots, her mother broke the spell of contented silence by confessing with a barely concealed yawn.

  'The excitement of today has left me feeling quite exhausted, does anyone else feel like an early night? How about you, Morva, dear…?'

  'Yes, please.' She rose to her feet, conscious of Troy's eyes—smoky and potent as the peaty malt whisky gleaming in the glass that had been absorbing his thoughtful attention—following her movements.

  She tried not to tremble as she accompanied her mother towards the door, but stumbled in her haste to cross the threshold when she heard her teasing reminder, 'Please, Alan, dear, don't keep Troy talking for hours, these two young lovers are still on honeymoon, remember!'

  Her hands were still shaking when she slid the saucer-shaped holder containing the candle that had lighted her way upstairs on to a bedside table. A thrill of terrified anticipation lanced through her body as she stared down at the nest of peach-coloured sheets and lace-frilled pillows basking in the seductive glow of a flame flickering as frantically as the pulse in her throat, a signal of panic that had erupted the moment she began contemplating being drawn into shadowy, unknown depths of seduction, captivated by a desire— a hunger, almost—to satisfy the strange cravings and impulses that had been stirred into aggravated life by kisses dropped like crumbs to entice her step by cautious step in search of more.

  Am I in love? she wondered, then realised in the second it took for her unzippered dress to fall to the floor that her entire existence had become dependent upon a body as tall and straight as fir trees that maintained a sturdy foothold on Canadian rocky mountains; upon a black fleece of hair shorn short to discourage a riot of ram-tight curls, and eyes so blue they astounded the senses, altering in shade according to moods ranging in temperament from the ice-cool glimmer of mountain glaciers to the brilliant warmth of cloudless, azure skies.

  She sank slowly on to the bed, aghast by the discovery of a clause that had not been included in their contract, wondering whether a man who regarded his wife from a purely commercial point of view might accept love as an added bonus, or would decline what could quite fairly be judged emotional cheating. From a teeming confusion of thoughts one certainty emerged—she had arrived at a very important crossroads in her life, was being forced now to decide whether to remain on the straight, narrow route denned by her grandmother as female decorum, or to give in to a temptation to stray into unfamiliar territory, along a path strewn with pitfalls of doubt and fear yet one which her brave, unhappy mother had not hesitated to tread in her search for marital bliss.

  The image that flashed into her mind of her mother's serenely happy features seemed to supply the answer she was seeking. She jumped to her feet and ran across the room to search the floor for the nightdress that had earlier been discarded, and found it shimmering in the shadows, a pool of satin and gossamer lace that caused her to gasp when she tipped it over her head to experience the shocking sensation of a fevered young body suddenly plunged into a depth of cool, clinging cream.

  She was lying awake, her flame-flecked hair spread sultry as a web across a candlelit pillow when Troy walked into the bedroom. She saw the jerk of surprise that jolted him to a standstill and wriggled upright against her pillows, experiencing for the very first time the heady feminine satisfaction of seeing a self-assured male completely disconcerted.

  'I lingered downstairs for as long as I could without arousing Alan's suspicions. Why aren't you asleep?' he accused, sounding acutely aggravated.

  'I forced myself to stay awake because I wanted to speak to you in private,' she soothed, hoping to erase the scowl that seemed fair indication that he was in no mood to be reasonable. 'I see Alan has lent you a dressing gown,' she nodded towards the dark silk robe being mangled in a tightly bunched fist. 'I'll wait until you've changed, then we can talk in comfort.'

  She slid down between the sheets to hide a smile of satisfaction when he stalked towards the bathroom, then flinched from the ferocity of his muttered curse when his head collided with a dangling lampshade fashioned from peach-coloured chintz into the likeness of an old lady's frilly mobcap.

  The sound of a running shower seemed to go on and on for hours, giving her ample time to doubt the wisdom of her planned course of action, to regain lost confidence, then to doubt once again her ability to flirt with her husband, to convey without actually putting into words her readiness to enter into a much deeper relationship.

  A mixture of fear, excitement and wonder at her own daring had driven fire into her cheeks by the time her much cooler, much calmer and vastly more self-possessed husband sauntered out of the bathroom. This time it was she who looked away from a damp brown body confined, but only just, within a rakish robe which six inches less of heavy black silk would have rendered positively indecent. She cringed, regretting the advantage he had gained from time, very conscious of a revealing depth of cleavage, a lace-edged plunge of cool cream satin down which his blue eyes slid and remained riveted…

  'Well, Morva,' he increased her inner turmoil by easing his rugged frame on to the side of the bed and placing a large flat palm flat down either side of her pillow, 'what is the subject you consider too important for its discussion to be delayed until tomorrow?'

  All details of her carefully planned strategy became sunk without trace, confined to the depths of a mind completely seduced by the fascinating appeal of black, damply curling hair, blazing blue eyes and a whimsical mouth inching gradually closer.

  'I was wondering…'

  'Not again!' he groaned with mock dismay, then shrugged. 'Ah, well, at least to wonder is to begin to understand.'

  She swallowed hard, convinced that she would never understand his complex nature—or the influence he exerted over her bewitched senses.

  '… why didn't you prepare me for the reunion with my mother?'

  She conquered an almost irresistible urge to clutch detaining fingers into silk stretched taut as a pelt across a broad width of shoulder when with a sudden frown he straightened and turned aside.

  'Because you would not have agreed to a proposed meeting,' he charged truthfully. 'You are a robot, Morva, programmed to obey, to react only in accordance with the information fed into you. Perhaps now that
you've sampled the self-confidence that can be derived from knowing you are loved without reservations you will never again be made to feel lonely or unwanted. If things should go wrong, if ever you should need an escape route, you'll have the security of knowing that there is love and comfort waiting for you here in your mother's home.'

  If things should go wrong! What things could he have in mind? Had he arranged the reunion with her mother simply because he felt in need of an escape route—was this his way of easing her out of his life?

  Loneliness and a sense of rejection had been her lifelong companions, yet fear of losing him cast a terrifying shadow over a future looming bleak as a tomb, a long, narrow void of dank hopes and stagnant promises. Desperation engulfed her shy timidity, spurring her towards a second courageous effort to put into practice sketchy, self-taught knowledge of feminine guile. Keeping her mother's confident assertions about the behaviour expected of modern-day brides firmly in the forefront of her mind, she swayed towards him until her cheek brushed against one silk-clad shoulder. Then she lifted fractionally away, hovering, indecisive as the moth fluttering around the flame of the candle that was casting seductive shadows over curves gleaming pale and creamy as the froth of lace and slender satin shoulder straps of a nightdress designed to entice a man's interest, to encourage him to discover by touch the tantalising secret of where cool, gleaming satin gave way to warm silken skin.

  She sensed his startled immobility, the tense reaction of a virile body sensitive to inflammatory pressure, and dared to raise her head, offering warm, inviting lips to be kissed.

  An aeon of uncertainty seemed to pass before he moved. Hesitantly, as if impelled against his better judgment, he drew her trembling body into a leashed embrace and began lowering hungry lips to claim her sweet, generous offering. A sob of relief and happiness clogged her throat as she savoured the precious moment, confident that overwhelming love would supply all the guidance needed by a novice eager to be taught lessons of love by a husband whose concern could move her to tears, whose strength and virility had carved a niche in her heart and stamped upon her mind an image of a tough, assertive, yet gentle giant.

  'I can't thank you enough for all you've done for me, Troy,' she whispered when his purposeful lips were a mere breath away. 'I'm so very grateful…!'

  Immediately, as if shocked by the cold clarity of wintry mountain air, his hands froze to her shoulders and brilliant eyes darkened to the leaden hue of skies overcast by clouds gathering to unleash a growling tempest. Abruptly he released her, then, as if feeling a need for violent muscular action, he strode to grab a couple of spare pillows which he flung down upon the floor with bewildering savagery.

  'What… what are you doing,' she demanded faintly, 'you're surely not intending to sleep down there?'

  'Why not, I've slept in rougher places,' he clamped, spreading a peach-coloured blanket over a stretch of carpeted floor, 'and without the close proximity of a grateful young wife to raise my temperature!'

  The sight of a doll dressed in satin bows and innumerable flounces propped up against her pillow seemed to incense him further.

  'Please don't think that your attempt to carry out your social duties has gone unappreciated, Morva. A child should never tell lies, speak only when spoken to, behave mannerly at the table, bestow a suitable reward for all favours!' he mimicked wrathfully, 'it's just that I've always held the belief that gratitude makes a cold bedfellow!'

  Darkness hid her shame when, without any visible wince, he pinched the candle's flaming wick between angry fingers.

  'Goodnight, Morva,' he spurned coldly. 'If you should feel in need of a comforter, I suggest you cuddle your doll. Personally, I prefer to wait for passion to curl my toes!'

  CHAPTER NINE

  Morva listened with relief to the bubbling call of a curlew gliding over its territory that seemed to be welcoming her back to wild, uninhabited, but blessedly familiar countryside. She drank in the sight of rounded fells ribboned with narrow silver streams, moors carpeted with purple heather whose new succulent growth had been carefully encouraged by frequent burning of old growth to enable new shoots and blown seeds to create ideal conditions for the pampered red grouse. Sheep dotted the fellside and grazed around a tarn whipped into waves by a gusting wind, and lower down the slopes,, nestling at the foot of the hill, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the grey slate roofs of a house and outhouses belonging to one of the many tenanted farms that formed part of the Ravenscrag Estate.

  As if the absence of traffic on deserted moorland roads had encouraged his attention to wander, Troy confided moodily, 'According to gamekeepers' reports, grouse shooting is likely to be patchy when the season begins. Apparently, an exceptionally wet spring held up the heather burning which encourages the growth of young shoots upon which the birds depend.'

  'Gamekeepers are a notoriously pessimistic breed,' she told him diffidently, depressed by a certainty that she was very much out of favour with her morose companion. 'Just a few weeks ago they were bemoaning the fact that cold weather was preventing insect eggs from hatching, yet when the sun eventually began to shine the moors quickly came alive with the sort of insects fed to newly born chicks—especially daddy-long-legs which are considered to be a baby grouse's favourite titbit.'

  'So you don't consider it likely that the shooting season will have to be postponed for a month, as has been suggested?' he queried, looking a little more cheerful.

  Unwilling to dampen his hopes, to see the furrows deepening across his brow, she encouraged cautiously, 'I would hesitate to dispute the opinions of experts, nevertheless, each year for as long as I can remember I've seen gamekeepers shaking their heads and muttering into their beards about the scarcity of birds due to inclement spring weather, yet with unfailing regularity guns have been out as usual on the Glorious Twelfth.'

  He acknowledged her sound reasoning with a grunt of satisfaction.

  'There'll always be game wherever there's some wilderness left to breed, I guess. There was a time when the West's most magnificent beasts were hunted almost to the edge of extinction. The grizzly, the mountain lion, the elk and the bighorn sheep are now protected by law, so can roam freely around the wildest regions of the Great Divide country.'

  'Sheep are regarded as big game?' Her note of surprise and the look she swept around fells dotted with the placidly grazing animals caused his lips to curl upward with amusement.

  'The bighorn sheep is known to Red Indian hunters as the Lord of High Places because his natural habitat is high above the timberlands where its ability to bound over rocks and jump from ledge to narrow ledge has earned him the right to be counted among the world's most challenging and nimble-footed quarry. The rams are born bachelors who wander in carefree freedom until the December rutting season when they compete for a female's favours by fighting thunderous horn-to-horn battles, the victor claiming his choice of mate. Lately,' Morva became tensely attentive to his deliberately provocative drawl, 'I've begun wondering whether man has become over-civilised, too restricted and bound by rules of polite behaviour towards the opposite sex to enjoy the excitement of the chase, the thrill of combat, then the pleasure of mating which must be infinitely increased by the wild, sweet thrill of conquest!

  'What sort of men do women really prefer, Morva?' Though his voice remained casual, when she looked up her startled brown eyes collided with a gaze that appeared intently interested. 'What choice would you make between a man who prefers to conquer and rule, and one who errs towards caution, deciding it is wiser to serve, even though he might lose…?'

  Fed up with being tormented by unpredictable moods ranging from assertive to an uncertainty that! was completely alien to the nature of a born manipulator, she told him tartly, 'I doubt whether metal in the process of being forged makes any distinction between pressure exerted by the anvil and blows administered by the hammer!'

  When he continued driving in grim silence, offering no further comment, she tried to relax. But the moment she spotte
d the turrets of Ravenscrag poking above the skyline she became restless, nervously pleating the skirt of her dress as she prepared to face her grandmother, wondering how to explain her absence, how to combat the scandalised reaction, the recriminations and appeals to family loyalty, that were bound to follow any admission that she had spent the previous night under her mother's roof.

  She remained unaware of Troy's quizzical glances, but could not fail to recognise exasperation in his tone when once again he displayed an uncanny ability to read her thoughts.

  'Haven't you yet realised that you no longer have any cause to fear your grandmother's domination? That marriage has freed you from the tyranny of having to explain your actions, of having to beg permission to follow your natural inclinations? However reluctant your grandmother may be to relinquish her crown, she must be forced to abdicate in order to make way for the reigning Countess of Howgill. Power of authority is a responsibility that cannot be ignored and must always be exercised!' he stressed with an irritated snap that caused her cheeks to burn with humiliated colour.

  But the crisis she had been dreading was postponed when, as Troy braked the car to a standstill at the end of the castle drive, Lynda ran bright-eyed with excitement down the steps to greet them.

  'Troy, darling, I'm so glad you're home!' She stood on tiptoe to deliver a kiss of welcome which, to Morva's jealous eyes, appeared passionate enough to curl up the toes of even a bad-tempered grizzly. 'I've had a marvellous time in London,' she enthused, her lovely face glowing beneath his keen scrutiny, 'I can't wait to tell you all about it.'

  'Hell, little sister!' Looking less complacent than she had expected, Percy strolled into view. 'Where the devil have you been—a simple phone call would have saved us a lot of unnecessary worry.'