Marriage 03: The Marriage Contract

by Cathy Maxwell

  He was serious.

  “Well, then I will sleep here.”

  “Good. Sleep well.” He stomped out of the room. Deacon followed, laughing.

  Hugh lingered to put the torch in the wall sconce by the door. “You will want the light.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured but then he, too, hurried to catch up with her husband.

  Anne stood alone a moment. She could barely look at the unmade bed. There could be lice in the sheets or all manner of untold beasties. Suddenly, in a fit of temper, she crossed the room and slammed the door.

  “He’s rude, coarse, obnoxious—!” She doubled her fists and silently screamed out her frustration. No wonder people thought he was mad. Who walked around with a knife in his boot? “It’s probably some medieval thing,” she said to her reflection in the grimy mirror. “No wonder people question his sanity.”

  He was the hermit in the castle, free to parade around in kilts and wield knives and pretend he lived in another time.

  Well, not completely. “He still bathes,” she reminded herself…and right now, she’d give her soul for a hot bath. She didn’t doubt Norval had completely forgotten her. He only took care of the laird—

  Anne cut off her ranting.

  There was a bath waiting a few steps down the hall…in her husband’s room…where she was supposed to be. And suddenly she realized what she had to do.

  This was her wedding night and she was wise enough to know she couldn’t consummate her marriage in a separate bed.

  She’d also wager he had fresh sheets.

  Anne turned to her reflection in the mirror. “It’s a war of wills,” she reminded herself. “One that I’m going to win, just to prove to him I can.” Money no longer mattered. She was going to make this marriage work, or be damned trying.

  So, he didn’t want to be married to her. Well, he wouldn’t have been her first choice either, although he was somewhat handsome. “When his face isn’t blue,” she reminded herself.

  After picking up her sack of clothing, she relit the candle off the torch, and left the room. No one lingered in the hallway and his door was unlocked.

  Anne turned the handle and pushed the door open, almost afraid of what she’d find.

  To her delight, her husband’s room was beautiful. It had arched windows, smaller versions of the ones in the great hall and with the same view of the powerful moonlit sea. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, warding off the chill of early spring.

  Extra light came from two wall torches on either side of the largest bed Anne had ever seen. It was massive, with a carved mahogany headboard that almost reached the high ceiling.

  The sheets hadn’t been turned down, but one didn’t notice immediately because of the layer after luxurious layer of beautiful furs spread out across the bed. She recognized some, like the fox pelts and the sable, but there were many she’d never seen before.

  A medieval diary was open and turned upside as if Aidan had been reading it in bed and wanted to save his place. She picked it up and carefully closed it. Such treatment was bad for the book’s spine. There were also books on the floor beside the bed, books under the bed, and books by the tub in front of the fire.

  She approached the tub. It was huge, but then, it had to be for a man Aidan’s size. She tested the water. It was still hot. Lazy Norval probably boiled it so that it would still be warm whenever Aidan decided to use it.

  Attached to the edge of the tub was a small tray holding a bar of soap. She sniffed it experimentally. The scent was pleasing. Sandalwood and oil of orange. Two of her favorite fragrances.

  Anne began undressing.

  Chapter 5

  Aidan marched downstairs, followed by Deacon, straight for the ale keg. His blood still churned from the alarm her scream had sparked.

  Women! They were ridiculous creatures. Imagine anyone being afraid of Roy.

  But as he filled his mug, he glanced around the room and had to admit she was right. It was a pig sty. His stables were cleaner than his great hall.

  He was surprised. He spent his days rebuilding the estate and coming in at night so tired he could barely stand. The maintenance of his household had been Norval and Roy’s responsibility, but obviously they hadn’t been doing a good job.

  “When did it get this bad?” he asked the room in general.

  One of the dogs sat up to scratch viciously at his ear. Fleas. Aidan scratched his collar bone in sympathy.

  “When did what get this bad?” Deacon asked. He was cleaning his nails with a table knife.

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  “The hall.” Aidan walked to the center of the room. His rushes idea was completely accurate to the time period…but the ancients changed their rushes several times a year. He couldn’t remember when he and Norval had laid a fresh layer down.

  Hugh came downstairs. “I think I’ll go to my moth-er’s for the night.” He cast a guilty glance at Aidan. “We have gotten a bit out of hand, haven’t we?” He left.

  But Aidan called him back. “Take the dogs with you. Put them in the stables.” He’d seen another one scratch ferociously.

  Hugh raised a surprised eyebrow but did as he asked. Not all of the dogs went willingly. York, the smallest, tried to hide, but Hugh picked him up and carried him out.

  Deacon surveyed the room as the dogs crowded out. “So, things need to be picked up around here.” He shrugged. “Have Norval do it in the morning.”

  Aidan didn’t answer. Anne’s reaction to Kelwin had unsettled him. The place did look like a hunting lodge after a raucous night of bachelor carousing. If he wasn’t careful, he would turn into an old roué.

  For the first time in his life, he sensed time was passing.

  “What are you thinking, Tiebauld?”

  Aidan shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “She must be gone before the Danes deliver the gunpowder,” Deacon said quietly. “Which could be

  any day.”

  “Who?” Aidan looked up.

  “Don’t pretend ignorance with me.” Deacon stepped down from the dais. “I know you are thinking about the Englishwoman.”

  “She’ll be gone in the morning.”

  “If she doesn’t manage a way around you.”

  Aidan tossed the untouched contents of his glass into the huge fire, where it hissed in retaliation. He faced his friend. “Either way, it is not your concern.”

  Deacon pulled back. “Is it not? Tiebauld, I had thought you’d have joined us by now, and yet you hesitate to commit fully to our cause.”

  “I’m smuggling in the gunpowder. What more do you want?”

  “We want you to lead us.”

  Aidan turned away from the argument, but Deacon followed. He lowered his voice. “I’ve heard word from Robbie.” He referred to his brother, Fiery Robbie Gunn.

  The Gunns had been a poor clan, loyal to their Jacobite heritage, and victims of a practice termed the “Clearances.” Wealthy landlords with strong political ties to England were allowed to turn tenants, farmers, and weavers out of their homes, burning the cottages if need be, to clear the land for the more profitable endeavor of sheep grazing. The Gunns wanted to strike back, not only for their land, but

  for their birthright as proud Scotsmen. They wanted to throw the English out of Scotland for good and would settle for nothing less.

  “We need you, Tiebauld. All the clans would join the uprising if you were with us.”

  “I have no fight. My clan is safe, my relationship good with the neighboring landlords.”

  “But mine was destroyed. Robbie and I lost everything. Mark my words, the English will not stop until no highlander is left! They’ll come after your land rights. Especially that dog Lambert. His entire life is spent to see you forfeit your title. He’ll do it, too. See if he won’t.”

  Aidan lost his temper. “Save your rhetoric for the pamphlets. What is between Lambert and me is personal. Nor is war the answer. Have you and your brother thought about what will happen if you start a war a
nd do win?”

  “We’ll stop the Clearances. We will return people to their rightful homes.”

  “But what of the future? Are you ready to put a government in place? To deal with the loss of industry and markets severing our ties with England will mean? And what if you lose—which you will? The English will crush you, just as they did my grandfather under Charles Stuart. He lost his life. I lost my country, my identity. However, this time the English will be even more brutal than before. Let us say you do escape and find a safe haven in Denmark or Hol

  land. Can you live with the deaths and destruction of those you’ve left behind on your conscience? I can’t.”

  Deacon clenched his hand into a fist. “I burn with righteous anger, Tiebauld. Robbie and I won’t rest until we’re avenged. And there are many who follow us. Many more, if you will help.”

  “I can’t.”

  Deacon knocked over a chair. “I know it is not be-cause you are a coward,” he said bitterly.

  Aidan sometimes wondered. How did a man know if he was brave? He’d been testing himself these past seven years, and still didn’t have an answer.

  For a moment, the two men studied each other and then their friendship, a bond almost as strong as brothers, rose between them. Deacon apologized, “I know you are braver than most.” He set the chair upright. “My temper gets the best of me.” He paused. “And so far you have managed to see your clan prosper. But Tiebauld, you cannot serve two masters. The time will come when you must choose sides.”

  “When the time comes, I will,” Aidan said soberly. And it was coming soon. He sensed it. Deacon was right. He’d restored his family’s estate, but it could be destroyed again with one wrong decision.

  Suddenly, the weight of it all was too much for him. He started toward the stairs. “I’m to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” He didn’t wait for an an

  swer. Deacon would sleep in the great hall, as was his preference. He lived in fear the English would come hunting for him because of his and his brother’s rebel activities and wanted to be ready to run. He’d confided once his greatest fear was being trapped by the English in his bed. He’d considered it humiliating.

  If Aidan wasn’t careful, he’d be living with the same fears, although there had been a time when he’d been full of fire, like Deacon. He’d proved his mettle though building, hunting, and wenching.

  Now, although he still enjoyed the three activities, he often found more solace in his bath with a good book. He was changing, he realized, climbing the stairs. The anxious young buck was fading and in his place was a more mature man questioning the meaning of life and his own place in the world.

  Thoughtfully, he proceeded down the hall, slowing his step outside the guest room door. Anne was probably fast asleep.

  For a moment, he shook his head. He loved his sister, but she’d attempted to bully him too many times. Granted, this trick was the most outrageous one yet. He’d ensure Anne didn’t suffer for it with a nice financial nest egg, one large enough to assuage his conscience.

  He couldn’t help admiring Alpina’s choice of debutantes, though. Anne had spirit. She’d make a man a good wife—as long as he wasn’t the man.

  On that thought, he went to his room. Opening the door, he found his bath waiting for him in front of a cozy fire. The water would be tepid by now, but it didn’t bother Aidan.

  He undressed quickly and climbed in. He had sacrificed a good part of his fortune on repairs to Kelwin and rejuvenating the livelihood of his clan…but baths and French-milled soap were guilty pleasures from his London days he could not give up. He loved the sensual feeling of rich lather against his skin. No matter how hard he tried to economize, the homemade soaps were not the same.

  He was puzzled to find his soap already soppy wet. He hoarded it carefully and didn’t like the idea he might be sharing it with Norval. It would be another item to discuss with the servant in the morning.

  He washed the blue paint completely from his person and reached for the linen towel always kept on the chair beside the tub. It was gone.

  Aidan swore softly. What had come over Norval? He never forgot the details of Aidan’s bath. No matter how drunk he was.

  Rising from the tub, Aidan snatched up the shirt he’d discarded and dried himself off. He hung it on the chair to dry.

  He’d hang Norval by his thumbs in the morning. Right now, he wanted sleep. In two steps, he fell face down on the rumpled furs. Ready to drift off to

  sleep, the thought crossed his mind he’d like his sheets changed more often and the bed made up every day, too.

  He reached for the bed covers to pull around him—and discovered he was not alone. Someone was in bed with him.

  For one paralyzing moment, he feared it was Roy.

  He rolled over and found himself staring into a pair of sea gray eyes. “Anne?”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  Aidan jumped out of the bed, pulling a red fox skin off to wrap around his waist for modesty. “What the bloody hell?”

  Anne scrambled to sit up. Dressed from neck to toe in a heavy white cotton nightgown, she was the very image of how he’d imagine a young gentlewoman, no virgin, would dress for bed. Her soft, straight hair had been brushed until it shone and then pulled back into a neat braid. Her eyes were so wide with apprehension, they tugged at his heart. The impact of her presence was more erotic than if she’d been naked.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” she said, her voice slightly breathless.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, tucking the end of the fur in around his waist and hoping she didn’t notice his obvious arousal.

  But then she was an innocent, innocent, innocent, he reminded himself. Naïve, even.

  Seductive.

  And it was getting damned painful to be around her.

  “It’s our wedding night,” she said in her throaty, sweet voice.

  The sudden surge of hot blood her words conjured within Aidan almost sent him howling. He struggled with the urge to take her down on the bed and not let her up from under him until Sunday next.

  “You don’t have any idea what you are doing,” he ground out arrogantly. It was a stupid thing to say. His body would love to demonstrate, but he had willpower, damn it all!

  She came up on her knees, the very image of a supplicant. “I’ve been told to do whatever you wish of me.”

  Such a harem statement almost shattered his selfcontrol.

  What was it about Anne that attracted him so?

  He’d known women lovelier and certainly more experienced. If he bedded her, she’d be a noose around his neck for the rest of his life. And he hadn’t been deliberately teasing her when he’d said he hoped to fall in love some day. He hadn’t been touched by such an emotion yet, but it appealed to his romantic nature.

  Besides, he was his own man. He didn’t need his sister procuring a wife! Especially such a contrary and argumentative one, with eyes that melted all

  his resistance. In spite of her obstinacy, there was something fragile about Anne. It brought out the protector in him.

  His best defense was retreat and Aidan retreated all the way back to the tub. If the bathwater had been colder, he might have jumped in. As it was, when the back of his leg hit the tub edge, his precious soap plopped into the water.

  Aidan welcomed the distraction. But as he reached in the water to retrieve it, he thought, “Soap.” He straightened, his temper soaring and obliterating desire. “You used my soap!”

  She skewed her face as if she’d pictured many vivid possibilities when she’d committed the brazen act of placing herself in his bed. But being accused of using his soap hadn’t been one of them.

  “I used it to bathe,” she admitted. “I didn’t think you would mind.”

  “You used my bathwater? And my towel? You are the one who took my towel?”

  “Well, yes, I did. I mean, you couldn’t expect me to walk around wet.”

  The image her words evoked almost b
rought Aidan to his knees. He sat down in the chair, clasping his hands. Did she think he was a eunuch?

  Or was she wiser and more experienced than he had first imagined?

  “I laid the towel in front of the hearth to dry,” she was saying. “Otherwise it would have been too wet for when you bathed.”

  He whipped his head around to look and sure enough there was his towel within arm’s reach of the tub. He just hadn’t noticed it.

  “And I didn’t peek while you were bathing,” she assured him. Her face grew beet red and he knew she was chaste. No female wiles could fake such a glowing blush other than modesty. He hated the word.

  Aidan released his breath on a defeated sigh. “Anne, I have known many a rattle-pated person in my time, but you are a prize. You could wear me down—if I let you. Which I will not,” he added decisively. He rose to his feet, his body back under some semblance of control.

  “I want to consummate the marriage,” she insisted. “I want to honor our agreement.”

  “Your agreement is with Alpina. Consummate the marriage with her.”

  She frowned. “I can’t do that.” But before he could shoot back some biting bit of sarcasm, she stretched out on the bed, lying on her back, her gown covering her to her ankles, her bare toes pointing upward. “I’ll close my eyes. I won’t make a sound. Please, do it quickly.”

  The sight of her limp and waiting with closed eyes on the furs restored Aidan’s equilibrium. He walked over to her side. She didn’t open her eyes but her body tensed, waiting for him to pounce.

  For a moment, Aidan stood in silence. Then, he couldn’t resist. He leaned over and tickled her feet.

  It wasn’t what she’d expected. And she was very ticklish. She practically stood up in the bed.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Counting your toes,” he answered. “You know, ‘how many little pigs go to market?’”

  “Are you mad?”

  “There’s a rumor to that effect,” he answered, and started laughing. She did too, and it was almost his undoing. Anne had a tinkling, merry laugh.