The Marriage Contract

by Cathy Maxwell

  “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 didn’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?”

  “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.

  “Then I will fetch them,” his unwanted bride snapped, obviously irritated by his lack of so-called gallantry.

  Aidan watched her walk toward the coach. Her back was ramrod straight in the fashion of all good finishing schools. He wondered if her pride would be lowered to realize her huffiness added a delightfully indignant, but decidedly feminine, sway to her hips. Her braid bounced with her rhythm.

  Anne. Her straightforward name suited her.

  “What do you think this is about?” Deacon asked.

  “No more than what it appears,” Aidan answered.

  “It could be an English trick.”

  He pulled his gaze away from where Anne contemplated the best way to climb back into the coach while preserving her dignity. Her first small jump had been woefully unsuccessful, especially since she’d kept one hand on her skirts to hold them down. “You wouldn’t think so if you knew my sister,” he told Deacon and added with a reassuring smile, “Don’t worry. All will be fine. This bit of a muslin is not some English spy.”

  “And Delilah wasn’t a barber, either,” Hugh interjected.

  His jab hit home. Hugh might be a clown but his keen eyes saw everything. He’d caught Aidan admiring the lass. “She’s not for me,” Aidan said.

  Hugh’s smile turned skeptical while Deacon snorted his opinion.

  Aidan’s temper rose. He tucked the miniature in the waist of his kilt. “The two of you fetch the horses. We need to take the coachman’s body back with us to Kelwin and see to a decent burial.”

  “What of her?” Deacon asked.

  Anne had managed to pull herself up onto the coach, exposing quite a bit of leg in the process. She had trim, lovely ankles. And long legs. Aidan liked long legs. He forced his gaze away from the sight. “What do you mean?”

  “Do we take her with us?” Deacon asked.

  “Of course. We can’t leave her here.”

  “Yes we could,” Deacon replied. “If we were wise, we would. Your sister has built a trap and baited it well. She knows your weakness.”

  “Which is women?”

  “An English woman, Tiebauld. She reminds you of your English past, of where your sister believes you belong. Where it is safe.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Your sister has powerful connections. You don’t think she suspects…?” He let his voice trail off.

  “There is nothing to suspect,” Aidan said calmly, but he knew what Deacon meant. He trod a fine line, one complicated not only by the British military commander Lambert’s undisguised hate for him but also Deacon’s firebrand brother Robbie, who was the zealot leader of a brewing rebellion amongst the highlanders.

  “I’ve agreed to help Robbie smuggle in the Danish gunpowder, but I’ll do no more, Deacon.”

  “Not yet,” Deacon assured him. He glanced at Hugh, who dropped his gaze, not wanting to be a part of a deadly decision, before saying, “Be careful, Tiebauld. The time is coming when all men must choose sides. You will have to decide if your loyalty lies with England or with Scotland.”

  Aidan replied tightly, “My decision will rest on what is best for my clan.”

  Deacon smiled. “Then you’ve made your choice. ’Tis a king of our own and self-rule that will make Scotland strong.”

  “And if we are caught with the gunpowder, we will all be hanged.”

  At that moment, Anne tumbled through the coach door. She let out a shout as she fell, followed by a thump Aidan could hear from where he stood.

  Dismissing the men with a wave of his hand, he jogged toward the coach. “Miss Anne?” he called, as he drew closer.

  She groaned.

  With a bound, he leaped up onto the coach side, stretched out on his belly, and looked down through the door. She sat in a heap of skirts, rubbing a spot on her head. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She frowned. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  Aidan laughed. He couldn’t help it. She appeared comical…and it was a sign of her temperament that she didn’t lash out at him as any number of people would. Instead, she held up a sheaf of folded papers she’d removed from the brown silk bag in her lap.

  He took them. “Do you need help up?”

  “Help would be nice,” she admitted dryly.

  Reaching down, he grabbed her offered hand by the wrist and easily lifted her to sit beside him. She was a mite of a thing. Average height, slender build, but with nice breasts. He’d noticed those almost immediately, although he hadn’t wanted to admit it, since it fell in line with Deacon’s suspicions.

  Deacon was overreacting. Aidan admired all women’s breasts…of course, he’d also noticed Anne’s fine gray eyes framed by long black lashes. Hones
t eyes. Intelligent ones. She was so refined, so sophisticated—so bloody English.

  Sitting cross-legged, he opened the documents. The first was a letter from Alpina. “Dear brother,” he read aloud, but then stopped and scanned his sister’s words silently. She was ill, she wanted his affairs in order before she died, she had chosen a young woman who was everything he could hope for in a countess…“Fondly, Alpina.”

  He glanced through the marriage contract. A proxy marriage. Who would have thought such things existed in this day and age? He would have assumed both parties would be required to approve or at least know of the alliance before the marriage could take place, but since the contract was signed by both the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Archbishop of York—with the High Lord Chamberlain’s official seal for additional measure—he inferred his opinion had not mattered.

  He had to admire Alpina. She was thorough.

  Rolling the documents into a tube, he announced to the proud woman waiting anxiously beside him, “This is absolute nonsense.”

  “Your sister is very sincere.”

  “My sister is always sincere. It doesn’t mean she is right.”

  He expected her to fire back justification of some sort, but instead she asked, “Is it really true you were a scholar at All Souls College?”

  The change of subject caught him off guard. Then, he understood. “You have trouble believing it?” Grinning, he rubbed the blue paint on his face to emphasize the point.

  She lifted a critical brow. “Your scholar status would be more believable if you wore a touch more clothing.”

  Aidan enjoyed her discomfort. “You sound like a wife already.”

  His barb brought the blood rushing to her face. “That was not my intent. I was merely…curious.” She averted her eyes, suddenly interested in a piece of splintered wood beside her. “However, I believe I should tell you now that in spite of the unusual circumstances of our marriage—”

  “Marriage?” Aidan laughed. “Anne, my darling lass, you must forgive me if I don’t feel wed.”

  She stiffened, her gaze still intent on the splinter. “The clergy performing the rite in London suggested we have another ceremony here in Scotland after our marriage has been, well, you know,” she finished, suddenly shy.

  He leaned toward her shell-shaped ear. “No, I don’t know. Explain.”

  Her head snapped round. Her nose almost touched his, her fine gray eyes opened in surprise. Then they narrowed in suspicion. “You know exactly what I am trying to tell you.”

  “Do I?” Aidan stretched out on the coach, propping himself up on one elbow and smiled at her. “I’m not certain. You aren’t being exactly clear. Do you care to enlighten me?”

  Her lips twitched as she bit back a sharp retort. She knew he was toying with her. A lesser woman would have pouted or thrown a tantrum, but Anne apparently had determination and spirit. Two qualities he admired. It was almost a shame he would be sending her back to London on the morrow.

  Bravely, in spite of blushing furiously, she said, “I am talking about the consummation of our union. I have agreed to be a wife to you in every way. I will do whatever you ask of me—” She paused, as if abruptly realizing her own boldness. “Whatever you ask,” she forced herself to repeat, lowering her head, the gesture feminine and submissive.

  Suddenly, Aidan wasn’t so cocky. In fact, he was intrigued. Sexually intrigued.

  Dear Lord, she was obviously a virgin. Alpina wouldn’t have sent him anything else, and Aidan had to sit upright lest Anne noticed he was fully aroused.

  Darkness was close. Twilight shadows stretched around them. He didn’t know where Hugh and Deacon had gone off to, and he didn’t care. For a moment, he could imagine the two of them alone in the world.

  Aidan Black and a London debutante—and not even one who was cream of the crop. Aidan had spent his time in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of the ton. He knew someone like Anne must have been desperate for a husband, else she wouldn’t have accepted such a bargain as Alpina had offered. There had to be something wrong with her, although he’d be hard pressed to see what it was.

  Still, it pricked his male pride.

  Years ago, he’d been a tongue-tied, awkward scholar pushed into Society by Alpina to search for a bride. Fresh from school and a life lost in books, he’d no idea of how to go about wooing a woman, especially the lovely young debutantes paraded before him, dewy and fresh, and well aware of their own self-worth.

  They’d made fun of his awkwardness. He’d overheard a group of them mocking him at a garden party when he’d become lost in a maze.

  He’d actually been searching for Louise Tarleton, one of the group. He’d been infatuated with her almost to the point of madness. Hearing her disdain over what a love-sick fool he was had been one of the most humiliating experiences of his life. Worse, he’d been expected to dance with her that very evening. He’d tripped over his own feet. Made a complete ass of himself.

  It was the last Society function he’d ever attended. A week later, he’d kicked the dust of London from his heels and left for the Highlands to discover his heritage and to become a man.

  No one laughed at him now. Hard work and age had filled him out. He’d never looked back or even had a desire to…until this moment.

  Deacon had been right. Alpina had known what she was doing. This innocent young debutante was more of a threat to Aidan’s senses than the whole English army.

  “I’m not ready to marry,” he said bluntly.

  She blinked. “But you must. You are. It is your responsibility. You owe it to your title.”

  Aidan frowned. “How cold you are. And here I thought women were the ones given to the finer emotions.”

  She shook her head in confusion. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Love, Anne.” He said her name deliberately. It felt good on his tongue. Too good. “You’ve heard of love, haven’t you? The singing of birds, the cry of angels, the lament of poets.”

  “I understand what love is,” she informed him tartly. “I’ve just never heard a man speak of it.”

  “Well, we are poets at heart here in the Highlands.” He paused before adding, “And lovers.”

  She did not mistake his meaning. Her face glowed, it turned so bright red, but she did not back down. “I repeat. I have agreed to the terms of the marriage.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, and you will be dutiful. Well, I don’t need a dutiful wife—especially in bed. I am a passionate man,” he said almost brutally. “I have plenty of lovers who please me well enough.”

  That set her back. She groped for words and then blurted out, “You can still have them. I understand men must have their distractions.”

  “Distractions?” He couldn’t imagine Bonnie Mowat or Kathleen Keith or any number of the happily married wives in his clan telling their husbands they could keep “distractions.” But he could see them angrily chasing their spouses with butcher knives.

  Her acceptance of such a sham marriage made him angry. Unreasonably so. He embraced the anger as a barrier between himself and the disturbing memories her presence evoked.

  Deacon and Hugh had returned with the horses and were busy at the top of the hill preparing the cat’s carcass and the coachman’s body for the return to Kelwin.

  Aidan jumped to the ground. “It’s time to leave, Anne. Come.” He held up his hands to assist her.

  She didn’t move. “You’re angry.”

  Was there a woman in the world more obstinate than this slight Englishwoman?

  “When I marry,” he announced proudly, “I will not keep ‘distractions,’ as you so tactfully put it.”

  “Because you will marry for love?” Her brows rose in surprise.

  “Yes,” he declared—although he’d not really considered the matter before. The devil with it. She might have charmed him momentarily, but she could just as easily prove annoying. “Now, are you ready to leave, your highness, or do you wish to spend the night here? Of course,
I can’t guarantee there won’t be another wildcat in the area.”

  Her nose went up in the air. “Has anyone informed you sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?”

  “My sister, but I never listen to her either. Good night, Miss Anne.” He turned and started up the hill.

  “No, wait!”

  Aidan stopped. “Yes?”

  She balanced on top of the coach, holding her precious documents to her chest. The braid in her hair had fallen completely out and she appeared very young and very defenseless. She compounded the impression by admitting, “I need help getting down.”

  He allowed himself one smirk and then returned to the coach. Placing his hands around her waist, he lowered her to the ground. She weighed less than goose down, although underneath her high-waisted dress were some intriguing curves.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Come along.” He started walking again, but stopped when he realized she didn’t follow. “What now?”

  “I need to gather my things,” she explained.

  “What things?”

  “My clothes.” Her gesture took in the surrounding area. “My dresses and things that fell out of my trunk when it crashed.”

  Aidan really hadn’t paid much attention to the bits of material littering the hillside. He didn’t waste time thinking about trivial matters. “I’ll send someone for them tomorrow.”

  “By tomorrow the wind may have blown everything away.”

  Women. They were stubborn, although he had a suspicion Anne might be more stubborn than most. Another excellent reason to ship her back to Alpina.

  “Well, do it, but be quick,” he said with little grace. He reached for an article of clothing caught in the gorse and discovered he was holding a silky undergarment. For a second, he could only stare at it. After countless days of cotton and homespun, he’d forgotten the cool smoothness of silk.

  “We have the horses loaded, Tiebauld,” Deacon called. “Are we ready to go?”

  Aidan shifted his gaze to the top of the hill, where the two men waited with stamping horses. They’d already removed the paint from their faces. He’d forgotten about it on his, and the idea struck him she probably thought he appeared ridiculous. Well, to the devil with her!