Marriage 03: The Marriage Contract

by Cathy Maxwell

  It was more arousing than anything she’d done yet.

  Aidan took charge, fearing he really would go mad if this continued. He grabbed her by the knees, tossed her over his shoulder, and started out of the room.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” she said.

  “Taking you to your room. In answer to any questions you may have, the answer is no. No, we are not consummating the marriage. No, you are not staying. No, I’m not putting up with any more nonsense from you or anyone else.” He kicked open the door to her room and dropped her on the bed.

  “Goodnight, Anne.”

  But as he turned away, she grabbed his fox skin. “No, please, you can’t leave.”

  It was not a good move. He’d been all too aware she’d worn nothing beneath her night dress, and while his mind said no, other parts of him had not been so submissive. And he hesitated to parade in all his glory before her. If she knew her impact on him, he’d be clay in her hands.

  He grabbed the fur. “Let go, Anne.”

  “Please, you can’t send me back.” She tugged.

  He pulled. “I promise you will be handsomely compensated.”

  She released the fur. “You don’t understand! I can’t go back. There’s nothing to go back to! Nothing!” Tears welled in her eyes—and he was undone.

  Aidan hated to see a woman cry. It tore into him. He never knew what to do when one cried. “Here now, Anne, don’t go all upset.”

  “I’m not!” she denied. A lone tear escaped and ran down her cheek. She took an angry swipe at it. “I don’t cry. I don’t.” But three more tears in quick succession branded her a liar.

  She turned away from him to face the back wall.

  Aidan should have walked out the door. He should have ignored her. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He sat on the edge of the bed and offered a corner of the sheet to her. “Here.”

  She shook her head, refusing his help.

  “Anne…It’s not so bad. In England, you’ll find someone who will make you happy. With the money I’m going to give you, your parents will be pleased—”

  “My parents are dead.”

  Her words lingered in the air. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes dry now. “I’m an orphan,” she said almost defiantly. “I lived with my aunt and uncle. They don’t want me back.”

  Aidan felt terrible and it must have shown on his face because she said, “Don’t pity me. I’ve spent a good portion of my life being ‘Poor little Anne.’ The last thing I want from you is more pity.” She swiveled around to face him. “Aidan, I will be a good wife to you. Maybe I’m not your choice, but you aren’t mine, either.”

  “What’s wrong with me?” he asked, his pride piqued.

  “Nothing…except, well, you are a bit of a character. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as eccentric.” She paused. “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing…except I don’t want a wife. Especially one who ramrods her way into my life and turns the world upside down.”

  “I didn’t want to,” she conceded. “If I was someone beautiful or came from a well-connected family, I wouldn’t be here. I’ve had two Seasons. No one offered for me. No dowry, no connections. Nice personality, well bred, but most men can do better. If I didn’t marry you, my uncle was going to hire me out as a companion. I couldn’t live at the whims of some old woman. It would be better to be buried alive.”

  “Anne…” He didn’t know what to say. Platitudes died in his throat.

  She looked up at him. “I want a husband and children and a home. Tonight, when you said we were going home, I felt such longing it frightened me. Then we came to Kelwin and I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyplace so lovely.”

  “That’s not what you said in the great hall.”

  His flat statement surprised a laugh out of her. “Well, it is a mess.”

  “It is,” he agreed, and couldn’t help but smile with her.

  Her smile died. “Don’t make me go back. Even with your money, I would be considered a failure by my relatives. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll even sleep in the bed with the lice. I have nothing to return to. You can’t imagine what that is like.”

  Aidan stared into her beseeching eyes and wanted to tell her, he did know. Growing up in England, he’d always felt an intruder. It wasn’t until he’d come to Kelwin that he’d realized he’d been searching for this place all his life.

  He came to his feet. She rose with him. “Are you going to send me back?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. Deacon had been right: he couldn’t have an Englishwoman lingering around as he smuggled Danish gunpowder to fuel an insurrection.

  Nor did he have the heart any longer to pack her off to Alpina.

  He waved toward the door. “Here, sleep in my bed. I don’t want you itching like one of the hounds.”

  “Then I’m going to stay?” she asked hopefully.

  He wouldn’t make that commitment. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  She spontaneously reached up and kissed him on the cheek. It was probably the most unloverlike one he’d ever had from a woman within ten years of his age on either side. But her eyes had grown shiny again and both he and she were embarrassed.

  “Don’t cry,” he warned her. “I don’t like women who cry.”

  “I never cry,” she promised, and meekly followed him out the door. He led her into the bedroom, where he picked up the sable throw.

  She held back shyly. “Did you hunt for all of those furs?”

  He shook his head. “Some are gifts from the Danes and other traders. Some homage. I only hunt for food.”

  “I thought you said you hunted for sport earlier.”

  “There is sport in it.”

  “The sport is painting your face?” she teased softly. Then, “Are you really going to let me stay if I wish?”

  “We’ll discuss it.” He moved toward the door. “For tonight, the room is yours.”

  Her shyness evaporated. “Yes, goodnight,” she answered happily.

  Her obvious relief to be out of his presence irked his male vanity. Minutes ago, she’d been begging him, and now she seemed cheerful to have the bed to herself.

  “The room is all yours for tonight, Anne,” he rephrased pointedly.

  She smiled serenely. “Goodnight, Aidan.”

  At the doorway, he paused for one last look. She waited by his bed, sweet, uncompromised, vastly relieved to escape his clutches. Women!

  He threw the sable blanket over his shoulders and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Downstairs, Deacon was enjoying a pipe in front of the fire. He’d stretched out in two chairs to sleep, as was his custom.

  Deacon eyed Aidan’s fox fur loincloth and said, “Tiebauld, I’ve gone along with your medieval schemes in the past, but whatever it is you are planning, this is one outfit you’re going to have wear alone.”

  Aidan lay down by the fire and rolled himself in the sable. “It isn’t a costume. She’s in my bed.”

  “Hmmmm, I had imagined that was her intent all along.” Deacon tapped his pipe. The ashes fell on the floor, close to Aidan’s head. He thought about complaining, but didn’t.

  “So, she is leaving in the morning,” Deacon reiterated, as if fearful something had happened to change Aidan’s plans.

  And something had. “We’ll see.”

  Deacon sat up. “Tiebauld—”

  “It’s not for discussion, Deacon. I said we’ll see and so we shall.”

  His friend wanted to say more but Aidan rolled toward the fire and shut him out. His rushes smelled doggie. It was cold on the floor, too. Rugs

  would be better. But he didn’t need a managing female to help him come to those conclusions.

  Aidan closed his eyes, certain he’d sleep well. Anne had practically run him to the ground.

  Suddenly, he was hit with an idea. He might not be made of the sort of stuff to force Anne to leave, but what if she chose to leave? What if she found highland
life was so arduous and so difficult, she couldn’t wait to return to London?

  Taking a sniff of his rush mat, he had an idea of how to make that happen.

  He went to sleep with a smile on his face.

  Anne snuggled down in the rich, warm furs, happily dreaming of riding a flying horse.

  So it was a complete surprise when suddenly, her horse overturned her—

  —And she found herself landing on her bum in a cascade of bedclothes and furs.

  Dazed, she looked around and realized she wasn’t dreaming. Someone had tossed her out of bed.

  “Good morning, wife.” Her husband grinned at her from over the edge of the cotton stuffed mattress. He let the mattress fall back in place.

  “Why did you wake me?” she murmured.

  “I can’t have you sleeping until noon, can I?” he asked pleasantly. He walked around the bed to help her up. “You can’t run a household from bed.”

  “What do you want me to do?” She had trouble keeping her eyes open and was conscious he was completely dressed and not in a kilt. He wore thighhugging breeches and a white cotton shirt, but without a stock. He’d also shaved already and pulled his hair back in a neat queue.

  He looked handsome. Devilishly handsome, as her cousins would have said.

  “You know everyone wears his hair short in London nowadays,” she said inanely.

  “I am aware that I am not a tulip of fashion. But I’m also hungry. You’d best get down to the kitchen and give Roy direction.”

  “Doesn’t he know what to do?”

  Aidan feigned surprise. “But you are the lady of the castle. He needs your guidance. And then afterward, you can see about cleaning up the mess you complained about last night. I’ve got laundry. It backs up and Norval doesn’t always deliver it to the wash woman in a timely fashion. There are a few rips I’d like you to mend and some darning. You’ll understand what to do when you see it.”

  “You want me to darn?” she repeated, still sleepy.

  “You do know how to use a needle and thread, don’t you?”

  Anne nodded.

  “Then yes, I do.” He walked toward the door. He stopped. “Oh yes, I invited Fang Mowat to go with me to the other side of Wick to look at some sheep. He’s bringing his sons and they’ll all be here for breakfast in”—he shrugged—“say ten minutes.”

  With that, he was out the door. “Ten minutes?” Anne squeaked. Aidan popped his head back in. “Fang has nine sons.

  They’ll all be here. They like their mutton well done.” He left again.

  Anne thought she would swoon. “Thirteen for breakfast?” She started searching for her clothes sack in the mess of sheets, covers, and furs.

  Chapter 6

  Anne searched for what few hair pins she’d owned but they had been lost in the coach accident. It was disappointing. She would have liked to pin her hair high on her head and sweep regally down the stairs like a countess.

  She compensated by tying her hair up with the blue ribbon, throwing a dress of sea foam green muslin trimmed in lace over her head, and hurrying downstairs to the kitchen, where she discovered Aidan hadn’t been jesting. The room was full of men. Hungry men. They milled about in the way men do when it is time to be fed and they are waiting.

  She recognized Fang Mowat. The gray-haired man stood out in the midst of what seemed an army of tall, strapping, handsome young men. His sons ranged in ages from the early twenties down to eleven, and each had a head of red hair of varying shades.

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  The dogs were there, too, weaving in and out of people’s legs, looking for a scrap of food or a friendly pat. The smallest charged up to Anne, wagging his tail so hard it shook his whole body.

  Aidan shouted for their attention. “Everyone, this is Anne, my countess. She will see to breakfast. Won’t you, darling?”

  Darling? Anne looked at his handsome, smiling countenance and knew he was up to something; she just didn’t know what. “I’ll check with the cook.”

  “Good, because Fang and his boys are starving.”

  Fang himself stepped forward. “Good morning, Lady Tiebauld,” he said respectfully, his hat in his hand. “I thank you for inviting me and my boys for breakfast, especially on such short notice. Gives my Bonnie a bit of a break. Takes her a good long time to feed this horde, meal after meal.”

  Anne smiled her response. She was on to Aidan’s trick. Did he think she would swoon or throw a fit? Or demand to return to London?

  She’d show him. She’d serve the best breakfast Fang Mowat had ever had in his life. But first, “Aidan?” She motioned him closer to whisper in his ear. “Where is the kitchen?”

  Oh, he loved that. His eyes danced with anticipation. “Let me show you.” He took her arm and guided her across the room to a side hallway. They went out a door onto a small landing leading to a cook house.

  Aidan banged on the door once and pushed his way in. “Roy, look lively, now. The mistress has arrived.”

  Anne gagged at the condition of the kitchen. If she’d thought the great hall was bad, the state of the kitchen exceeded it a hundred times over.

  The air smelled of cooking onions along with a dozen other different odors, some pleasant, some decidedly not. She covered her nose and looked around in horror. Dirty dishes were piled everywhere. A haunch of venison had been leaned against the table like a walking stick set aside. The meat dripped into a pool around it on the floor.

  But the cook appeared the worst of all. Roy wore a dirty shirt over the breeches from the night before. In the daylight, stains of dried blood and whatever else could be seen clearly. His feet were still bare, but his hair was greasier, if such a thing were possible. He glared from his place behind a chopping block table.

  “Why’d you bring her here, laird?” Roy asked rudely.

  “Roy, she is my wife,” Aidan said patiently. “She is here to direct you.”

  “I don’t need no directing,” he said, his burr rolling r’s.

  “But she is the lady of the manor. The kitchen is her responsibility.”

  “I’ve been running this kitchen, laird, since before the days you came. I’ve never needed direction before.”

  “I realize that,” Aidan said soothingly. “But now we have a fine lady with us. From London. She will want to make improvements.”

  Roy lifted the heavy knife in his hand and brought it down with a resounding whack on the hare he’d been dressing. He cut the leg off clean. “We don’t need no English opinions.”

  “Oh, it is not opinions she’ll be giving, Roy,” her husband hurried to assure him, “but guidance.”

  The cook’s eyes narrowed. “Guidance on what?”

  Aidan turned to Anne as if soliciting her opinion, but answered for both of them. “Whatever she desires,” he replied easily. “Enjoy your morning, wifey. But don’t dally. Fang’s sons are hungry.” He was out the door before she could respond.

  Roy slid his beady eyes in her direction. “I’ve been running my own kitchen since I was tall enough to stand at this chopping block.” He whacked off another rabbit leg for emphasis. “There’s naught you can teach me.”

  Anne tried to appease the angry cook. “I don’t want to teach you.” She did want the kitchen clean, but thought it best not to broach that subject at this moment. “You continue what you are doing and I will watch.”

  “Why?”

  She stumbled for words and then quickly gasped, “I hope to learn something.”

  He didn’t believe her but with a grunt let her know she could do as she pleased, provided she

  didn’t interfere with him. He proceeded to chop the rabbit meat into pieces, which he tossed into the bubbling stew pot.

  Anne grew anxious. They were going to need help serving to so many guests. “Is Norval available?”

  Roy had laid down his butcher knife and now wielded a wooden spoon like a scepter. He used it to point to a corner.

  Anne followed his direction and discovered Norval asl
eep on some meal sacks. The old man was passed out cold. She tried to wake him with a hard shake, but to no avail. She slapped his cheeks. No response. She even pulled open an eyelid. He didn’t wake.

  “Is he dead?” she asked Roy.

  In answer, Roy picked up a bowl containing water and tossed it on Norval, splashing some onto Anne at the same time.

  “What? What? What?” the old servant sputtered.

  Deciding to turn the other cheek and handle Roy’s insolence with tolerance, she said quietly but firmly to Norval, “We have guests, and you are needed to serve them.”

  The old man had to crawl to a stool for help rising. His knees cracked loudly, and Anne worried for him. “What do you need done?” he asked, his eyes still half closed. He was obviously under the weather from overimbibing the night before.

  “We need to wash bowls and spoons,” she said. “You must fetch water.”

  “You don’t need to wash those,” Roy countermanded her, nodding to the stack of dirty dishes. “There’s a sand box over there. The food on them is dry. Rub a little sand on the plates and they’ll be clean enough.”

  Anne had never heard of such a thing, but Norval had. This was obviously the standard practice. He shuffled over and began preparing bowls for stew. She decided she didn’t think much of Roy’s method as she watched Norval clean bowl after bowl with the same sand.

  Her appetite for breakfast vanished, especially as Roy used his spoon to take a slurping taste of the soup.

  She directed her attention away from Roy and poked around a bit. She knew what a kitchen needed. Before her Uncle Robert and Aunt Maeve, she’d lived with a distant cousin who had considered her little more than a servant. What little cooking skills her mother had taught her were refined in Cousin Gen’s kitchen. She knew how to bake bread and that the loaves should be started in the morning…although she didn’t see any.

  “Are you baking bread today?” she asked Roy.

  He ignored her. Norval began setting bowls out on a huge wooden tray.

  Roy’s insolence miffed Anne. She also knew she couldn’t continue to let it go unchallenged, especially in front of another servant. She walked over to the chopping block where he was cutting off turnip heads.