The coach came to an abrupt halt. It started to back up and shake. Todd shouted. Anne lifted the canvas covering the window. On one side of the road, they hovered on a cliff, high above the rocky coastline of the powerful North Sea. To their other side were rough terrain, grouse, and ravines. This didn’t seem to be a safe place to fuss with the horses.
At that moment, she heard what sounded like a woman’s shriek, and yet it wasn’t. She didn’t have
time to consider the problem before the horses reared, screaming. Todd called them “bastards.” He struggled to control them. Anne stuffed her marriage papers back into the purse and leaned against the velvet seats, clutching the miniature in one hand. If Todd didn’t get a handle on the horses, they could plunge the coach over the edge of the cliffs.
Todd swore long and colorfully. Anne could imagine him practically standing in the box, pulling on the reins. The coach tilted, almost rolling over. She threw her weight to the other side. She didn’t want to die. Not this way.
There was a bump and she knew one of the wheels had gone over the edge of the road. Dear God!
“Yah!” Todd shouted just as the hair-raising shriek cut through the air again. What was it?
The coach heaved and she felt all four wheels bounce back on the road. She gulped for breath, but then the horses bolted, dragging the coach across the hilly country on the other side of the road.
It all happened in the wink of an eye. One second, they were at a standstill; the next, Anne could imagine herself flying. Up, down, the coach rocked this way and that. She was thrown from the seat, her legs tangled in her skirts, her arms doing everything they could to protect her from injury, which was silly, be-cause she and Todd were going to die; she knew it. These were her last moments on earth.
And she’d never gotten to meet her husband.
Perhaps it was wise she hadn’t bothered preparing an introduction.
Todd cursed, unable to bring the horses under control. He yelled, “I’m cutting them loose. Hold on! Hold on!” Before she could grab a handhold of anything, a great cracking and splintering reverberated through the coach. The horses thundered off in one direction. The coach went rolling over and over itself in another before coming to a shattering halt.
Anne opened her eyes. It took several minutes before she could place her surroundings. She lay in a jumbled heap on the coach floor. No, it wasn’t the floor. The heavy coach lay on its side and one door had been ripped off. That was why she could see the sky.
She was still alive…although she sensed she’d been unconscious.
Gingerly, she took an inventory of her person. Other than a few bumps and scrapes, she seemed to be all right.
But why was the world so silent?
“Todd?”
Nothing.
She made herself sit up. Every bone in her body had been rattled from its sockets. Her hair was a tangled mess and the sleeve of her blue cambric was torn. Carefully, she came to her feet. The coach rocked a bit. She took a moment to shake her skirts down and then stuck her head up through the open door. “Todd?”
Still no answer.
The coach had landed in a gully surrounded by shrubs and a few spiny junipers and gorse. The wheels were split and broken. Her trunk, which had been tied to the top of the coach, had vanished, but her scarves, dresses, and other possessions were strewn all over the hillside. Her lacy formal petticoat, caught on the black gorse, flapped like a pennant in the breeze at the top of the hill. If she didn’t hurry it would soon be gone.
Todd was nowhere to be seen. The eeriness of such quiet sent a chill up her spine and she warned her fanciful imagination to remain practical.
Perhaps Todd had left to search for help. Yes, that was it. He wouldn’t leave her alone for any other reason.
She levered herself up and out of the coach, pausing a moment to sit and pull the lopsided ribbon from her thick, heavy hair. It fell to her waist and she absently braided it with her fingers and tied it off. Then she decided to collect her clothes and wait for Todd.
Anne jumped to the ground, wincing as pain shot up her ankle, but she wasn’t going to stop and rest. Her goal was to rescue her petticoat. It was a way of establishing normalcy in a world turned upside down. She hoped Todd would not be gone long.
The ground was rough. She stumbled as she climbed to reach that bit of white muslin and lace. With her luck, it was probably torn. She was a few feet from the petticoat when she almost stepped on Todd. The ground dipped to a hollow place and
there he was, his head tilted at an odd angle, his eyes staring at the sky without seeing.
He was dead.
Anne gave a small cry and stumbled back, losing her footing, and almost tumbling down on her rump. At that moment, a shriek rent the air, the same one that had spooked the horses.
She scrambled toward the petticoat, her thought being that whatever it was wanted the coach. Not her. It didn’t want her—and for good measure, she told herself so twice.
Almost convinced, she reached the top of the hill, put her hand on the petticoat, and found herself eye-ball-to-eyeball with a wildcat.
Anne didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so ferociously dangerous in her life. The creature had the general form of a yellow tabby, but was three times the size, with teeth that looked as if they could tear open a bull. The cat’s yellow eyes took her measure and then it licked its chops.
She knew she was about to be dinner. She cowered just as the cat’s gaze shifted to a point past her shoulder. It hissed and crouched with an angry growl.
From behind her, a voice as deep as Mephistopheles’ said, “Don’t move.”
Anne’s heart stopped. She’d thought herself alone…
So: who stood behind?
She turned and found herself looking—not at Todd’s ghost, but at something more startling. Less than an arm’s length behind her stood a mythic Celtic warrior, over six feet tall and with shoulders so broad they blocked the sun.
He wore a kilt of forest green cloth, rough suede boots, and nothing else. Muscles banded his chest. His legs appeared carved of solid oak. Bits of leaves and twigs clung to his dark shaggy hair, which hung down to his shoulders. But most frightening of all was the vivid blue paint covering his face and the sharp, wicked knife in his hand.
Anne screamed at the same moment the cat attacked.
“Bloody hell,” the warrior said, and unceremoniously pushed Anne’s head to the ground.
The wildcat leaped past her and sank its claws into the Celt’s shoulder. Real blood appeared. She could smell it. He was no ghost but flesh and bone.
For a second, man and animal struggled over her head and then his hand holding the knife lifted and he buried it in the animal’s back. The wildcat jerked spasmodically, but continued to fight. They fell to the ground, mere feet from her, and battled to the death.
Terrified, she watched, not knowing which she wanted to win. The scene reminded her of a picture she’d once seen of the mighty Hercules fighting a lion. The very earth seemed to shake from their struggle.
Again the knife blade appeared and the warrior stabbed the writhing cat over and over until at last the animal went still.
Anne released the breath she’d been holding. She was crying. Silly. She never cried. And yet she’d been doing it without realizing it. She swiped at her eyes.
The warrior moved. He turned his head and looked right at her. In the evening light, his eyes burned brightly. They assessed her critically, and Anne had one clear thought: now might be a good time to leave.
Carefully, awkwardly, she got to her feet. He rose with her, his movements easy, almost graceful for such a large man. He lifted the knife.
Anne froze, expecting him to plunge it into her heart. Instead, he bent to wipe the blood off his blade against the cat’s fur.
Her gaze on his bowed back, Anne edged one step away and then the other. He turned to her and she stopped, her feet suddenly glued to the ground.
“Are you al
l right?”
She took a full minute to comprehend that he’d spoken to her, and she couldn’t reply. Her mouth refused to form words. Even if he was human, such a man could be capable of anything. She took another step in the direction of the coach.
“I’ve been hunting this animal for hours,” he explained as if she’d asked the question. “A sheep killer. A cat like this is too dangerous to leave free.”
He spoke the King’s English with a trace of a brogue but she wasn’t going to chitchat with him about it. Instead, she hiked her skirts and took off running for the shelter and safety of the coach.
“Wait!” he shouted.
From the shadows surrounding the overturned vehicle stepped two men dressed in the same half-na-ked, blue-faced fashion of the warrior. They weren’t as huge or powerful, but they appeared just as disreputable.
She skidded to a halt. Were they men? Or devils?
Anne didn’t think; she reacted, swerving away from them. Her foot almost tripped over a hefty piece of wood broken off from the coach’s crash. She scooped it up, hefting its weight in her hand.
“What is the matter with you, lass?” the shorter of the two warriors asked. His was the strong lilting brogue she’d come to expect from the highlanders.
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned, holding her stick like a club.
“And who are you, lass, to be threatening us?” the older one demanded belligerently. The carrot-red of his hair and sparse beard were a comical contrast to the blue paint. His clean-shaven, blue-faced companion was much younger, with brown curling hair covering not only his head but his chest and back. It was all very unnerving.
Before Anne could answer, she heard a step behind her. The warrior. He’d moved with such stealth she hadn’t been aware of his approach.
“Here now.” He reached for her makeshift weapon.
Anne whirled to defend herself, swinging her club with all her might and whacked him hard right across the midsection.
Unfortunately, he moved at the same time and she hit him a bit lower than she’d planned.
His response was immediate. The air left his body with a “whoosh.” He doubled over, falling to his knees right in front of her.
Anne took a step back. She hadn’t known she was so strong.
The brown-haired man winced in sympathy. “Och, right in the bloody bollocks. Did you see that, Deacon? The lass neutered Tiebauld.”
Neutered? Tiebauld?
Anne dropped the club, her mind numb with horror. “You are Lord Tiebauld?”
The warrior couldn’t speak. He wheezed something which the man called Deacon interpreted: “He says he is.” Deacon’s voice was laced with lazy humor.
“He may never be the same,” his companion predicted.
“Aye,” Deacon agreed. “’Tis a pity. The lasses will have to turn to us for comfort, Hugh.”
“We’ll be forced to work twice as hard to please them,” Hugh answered.
Anne didn’t care about their problems. She had to make amends with her husband…before she could tell him he was her husband. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, reaching to help him rise.
He pulled back, his arm staving her off. “It will be fine. Shortly.” His voice was hoarse from pain.
“Please, I—” She fell silent, seeing what she should have seen from the very beginning. Sharp
blue eyes identical to Lady Waldo’s. The eyes in the miniature…although the rest of him was now a far cry from Anne’s image of an idealistic scholar. Lord Tiebauld had filled out as a man. More than filled out—he seemed to have doubled in size. The effect was intimidating, even when he was on his knees.
And then he stood up.
It hadn’t been her imagination—he was tall. And strong. Anne wiped her nervous palms against her skirts and stepped back. For the second time since she’d been in his company, words stuck in her throat.
A strand of hair had come loose from her braid. It blew across her face. He surprised her by pushing it back, a gentle gesture, a thoughtful one. Certainly not a threatening one from a man called the Madman of Scotland—
“Is the man on the hill your husband?”
Anne blinked, disoriented by the word husband. Then she understood he wasn’t speaking about himself. “Todd? No, he was my coachman.”
Now was the time to tell him.
She hesitated. Then, “How did you know I was married?”
Straight, even teeth flashed in the blue paint of his face. “That is a wedding ring on your finger, isn’t it?”
Anne had an unreasonable desire to hide her hand in the folds of her skirts. She clenched her fist. She wasn’t ready for the confession, not ready at all.
He misinterpreted her fears, his gaze softened.
“Your husband will be happy to know you are safe after such a bad accident.”
“I hope he will,” she managed to say. Tell him, her inner voice urged. Now.
But Deacon had joined them. “Our faces probably frightened the wits out of her, Tiebauld.”
Her husband looked down at the way he was dressed and laughed in agreement. He had a melodic, carefree laugh, for such a large man. Anne knew he would have a fine singing voice, too. And he didn’t sound maniacal at all.
“It’s a ritual Hugh, Deacon, and I have,” he explained, with a touch of sheepishness over his peculiar dress. “Based on Celt customs. Well, actually, they are customs of our own. They make the sport more enjoyable. Adds to the game of the chase.”
“Game?”
“Aye, a little danger is a healthy thing.” He shrugged with a rueful grin, like an overgrown boy who couldn’t help himself from pulling a prank.
Relief teetered inside her. Her husband didn’t sound raving mad—just unconventional. He had a reason for being blue. Of course, she didn’t know what to make of a man who considered it a game to fight a wildcat with his bare hands, a man who enjoyed danger—but then, this was Scotland.
And as long as he wasn’t howling at the moon, her marriage might work.
The notion made her feel wifely. She should nurse the scratches left by the cat’s claws. Simultaneously, she was relieved his chest didn’t have as much hair as his companions. Also, his chest could have been two of theirs.
The directions of her thoughts must have shown on her face because he crossed his arms, making his muscles flex and tighten.
Heat rose in her own cheeks. She attempted to make her interest a purely medical one. “Perhaps someone should put a salve on those scratches.”
“They can wait.” He changed the subject. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
Here it was, the perfect opportunity to introduce herself as “wife.” She had to tell him before courage deserted her. She opened her mouth just as Hugh cried out, “You are not going to believe what I’ve found!”
They all turned to where his head poked out of the coach door. He had wandered off to explore and now waved the silver framed miniature in his hand.
“Is it money or a woman?” Deacon asked baldly.
“Neither.”
“Then it can’t be of value,” Deacon replied dismissively.
Equally dismissive, her husband prodded her for an introduction, “I’m sorry. You were saying?”
“It’s a picture of Tiebauld,” Hugh announced grandly, “when he was nothing more than a beardless youth. Remember when he first came here, Deacon, what a sad, sorry sight he was?”
Now he had her husband’s full attention. “A picture of me?”
Hugh climbed out of the coach and jumped to the ground. Her husband’s long legs ate up the distance between them. He grabbed the miniature from his friend.
“I know that picture. My sister had it.” He looked at Anne with new eyes. “Did you come from Alpina? Have you seen her?” A pause. “Is she well?”
His voice held genuine concern. She answered honestly, “She is not.”
“Tell me.” He walked back to her. No, he stomped back. A man of his size did
n’t move quietly when angered.
“I don’t know much about her illness.” Anne lifted her chin, pretending a courage she didn’t feel. “She sent me to you.”
“For what purpose?”
Here it was. Anne could avoid the confrontation no longer. She held out her ring finger. Even in the fading light, the family heraldic badge could be seen etched in the gold. She was surprised he hadn’t noticed it before. “She chose me for you. My name is Anne. I am your wife.”
Chapter 2
Hugh and Deacon gathered around for a look. Hugh
made a low whistle. Deacon scowled.
Aidan’s response was more direct. “You lie.”
Pride flashed in the Englishwoman-named-Anne’s eyes. “I never lie.”
“And I’ve never married,” Aidan shot back.
She didn’t like his answer. “We were married by proxy. Your sister arranged it.”
“Ah, the things you can do in England,” Hugh observed drolly. “A man can be shackled to a bride sight unseen.” He grinned with the sly knowledge of an inside joke. “And they call us barbaric.”
“It isn’t,” Deacon answered sourly. “It’s the way of the moneyed classes.”
Aidan shook his head. He was in no mood for Hugh’s humor or Deacon’s democratic cant. “I suppose you have documents to prove your claim?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered crisply. “They are in my reticule in the coach. Perhaps your friend will fetch them for us?”
27
“Hugh isn’t a lackey,” he replied, more to be perverse than for any other reason. The trouble was, now that he’d had a moment to digest the woman’s claim, he realized it wasn’t beyond Alpina to arrange a marriage.
He should have anticipated such an outrageous action. His sister had been nagging him since his university days to breed an heir for the title. In her last letter, she’d warned him he was growing long of tooth and if he wasn’t careful, his seed wouldn’t be potent.
Aidan hadn’t responded. The thought of discussing his “seed” with his sister made his stomach curdle. However, Alpina did mention in the letter that her health was not what she’d expected it to be and she wanted to see the matter of an heir settled. Aidan should have been forewarned. Alpina had proven in the past she would do anything to gain her way. She could easily justify marrying him off to a chit sight unseen—and she had the political influence to accomplish it.
Marriage 03: The Marriage Contract Page 2
