The Marriage Contract

by Cathy Maxwell

  People were more involved with themselves than the antics of a stranger. The crowd was beginning to disperse. The hunters had returned victorious and there was no longer a reason to linger, save for one last tankard of ale. The people shifted and moved around her, making their goodnights to one another or plans for the morrow.

  With the expediency of the young, the stable lad had walked off with the horse leaving Anne still standing on the mounting block. She felt very alone and out of place. Again she looked to Aidan and what she saw made her eyes pop open.

  He was no longer drinking with Fang. Instead, he was now surrounded by the same women who had welcomed Hugh. The Whiskey Girls. They’d abandoned Hugh without a backward glance.

  One of the Whiskey Girls laughingly messed Aidan’s hair with a bold familiarity that made Anne’s blood sizzle. They were definitely sisters with the same coal black hair and ample, jiggling bosoms which they thrust up at her husband in a decidedly provocative manner.

  Then, the hussy who’d pulled Aidan’s hair took his hand holding the tankard and rubbed it, tankard and all, back and forth across her overflowing breasts, the nipples already tight and hard against the tight material of her skimpy bodice.

  And Aidan let her.

  Reason fled; shyness evaporated, as did her promises made earlier during her pretty speech about allowing him his “distractions.”

  Anne would be damned to be so publicly humiliated. And she didn’t care about his “needs.” Something possessive rose inside her. In a voice as sharp as a governess’s, she said, “Take your hands off my husband.”

  Her words cut through the air. Everyone froze in surprise, including the erring Whiskey Girl and Aidan.

  “Husband?” the Whiskey Girl repeated dumbly.

  “Husband?” the good women of the clan echoed.

  Chapter 4

  In the ensuing dead silence, Anne reflected that perhaps her announcement had been a bit brash.

  There was naught she could do now. She met Aidan’s gaze with her head high. This was not how she’d wanted to be first presented to his people. But if she didn’t stake her claim, he would send her away without anyone being the wiser.

  She wasn’t being replaced by a tart. And she wasn’t leaving her castle—even if the look her husband sent her way could sear meat.

  Reading her mind, he insolently put his arm around the shoulder of youngest and prettiest Whiskey Girl, who to Anne’s surprise stepped back. “I’ll not be going with a married man, even if he is a laird. My mother didn’t raise me that way.”

  “Don’t worry,” Aidan assured her. “My wife will not be with us long.” He raised his voice to reach every corner of the courtyard. “This is Miss Anne—” He paused. “What is your last name?”

  “Black,” she said defiantly, giving his surname.

  “It is not Black.”

  “It is.” Anne hated arguing this point in front of everyone but she had no choice. “I have my marriage papers to prove it.” She held up Hugh’s hunting sack where she’d stuffed the documents in with her clothing.

  Aidan pleaded his case to his clan. “It’s a proxy marriage,” he explained. “I’ve never set eyes on this woman before in my life until today. Hugh and Deacon can tell you it’s true.”

  “It’s true,” Deacon agreed readily, helping himself to the keg of ale.

  Anne frowned. Deacon had been set against her from the beginning. But if Aidan could present his story to the people, so could she. She turned in the direction of the woman who had complained earlier about the Whiskey Girls. “Lord Tiebauld’s sister Lady Waldo chose me. He has a responsibility to his title. She felt it was time your laird took a wife.”

  “Especially one who looks like she’s been rolled around in a dustbin,” Deacon said slyly.

  The mean-spirited comment stunned Anne, but to her surprise, her husband championed her. “I’ve warned you once, Deacon. Leave the lass alone.” He then said to her, “But don’t think I’ve changed my mind. You leave tomorrow.”

  Not if I consummate the marriage tonight, her wily inner voice said. Fatigue vanished, to be replaced with a sense of purpose. “My documents are legal. I could present them to your clergyman and he would support me.”

  “There are no clergy at Kelwin,” Aidan told her. “I am the laird. I am the law. Give it up, Anne. Your claim won’t stand.”

  She glanced at the faces of those who watched their exchange with avid interest and realized he was right. However, she would not leave, not without a fight. She changed the subject. “I am tired. I wish to go to bed.”

  The interpreted meaning of her words didn’t sink in until several people raised eyebrows and more than a few whispered and guffawed.

  “Hush, now, she’s an innocent,” Aidan announced, clearly irritated by their speculation. In a curt tone, he told Anne, “Come along.” He started for the castle’s front door but stopped to look at the Whiskey Girl who he had flung his arm around. “I’ll be seeing you later, Cora.”

  A chorus of “oooo’s” went up around Anne. It took all her courage to follow her disgraceful husband into the castle. If he thought she was going to ignore such a slight, he was wrong. Of course, right now, she had no choice but to trail in his wake, along with what seemed to be an army of dogs in many different sizes and varied dubious heritage. The smallest one almost tripped her when it crossed her path. She had barely noticed it in the shadows.

  Fortunately, she didn’t fall. She couldn’t have stood the humiliation. Not right now, when everything was so raw.

  The main door was tall and narrow. She’d remodel to widen it if she had her preference, especially since she had to wait for the pack of dogs to trot happily after their master. It led though a narrow alcove designed to keep cold air out of the main room, although it smelled of wet dog.

  Deacon held the door open for her. “Countess,” he murmured as she passed. She snubbed him.

  Hugh followed at a safer distance.

  Again, Anne waited for doggie feet to precede hers before she entered the main room. But once she did, she was wonderfully surprised.

  It was a true medieval great hall with an arched ceiling supported by oak trusses blackened by age. Torches in wall sconces lit the room with flickering golden light. A fire burned in a fireplace of carved stone, the opening almost as tall as a man.

  But what captured her attention were the windows lining the back wall. They were shaped like those in cathedrals, their curved shape mimicking the line of the ceiling. Stone scrolls decorated each window pane. One would have expected stained glass. Instead, their panes were clear, and the view of the moonlight on the North Sea was a scene more breathtaking than anything devised by man.

  “You like them, don’t you?” Aidan’s words were more of a statement than a question. Apparently he’d set aside the gauntlet to indulge his obvious pride.

  “They are incredible,” she answered, before surveying the rest of the room. Her pleasure turned to open-mouthed shock.

  The place was filthy—and colorless. Everything was gray or brown. There wasn’t even a hint of color in the utilitarian furnishings.

  The dogs deserted Aidan to settle themselves in front of the fire. She knew it was their usual place because of the litter of bones scattered all over the floor. A keg of ale with a dripping tap resided proudly beside the hearth. Someone had set a bowl on the floor to catch the drips which a dog used as a water bowl.

  In front of the bank of windows was a raised dais with a long table and several chairs turned out as if whoever had been sitting there had just gotten up and left. Stacked pewter plates, tankards, and a platter of what looked like a half-eaten leg of lamb waited to be cleaned up. Anne wondered if anyone had cleared dishes in days.

  Hugh wandered over to sit on the table, pushing over tableware to make space. The little dog that had almost tripped Anne jumped up in his lap.

  Worst of all, the room smelled. The scent of wet dog extended beyond the alcove. It permeated the air. Anne
wrinkled her nose. The smell came from the floor, which was covered by a drab mat of dried stems and grasses. Huge stains and oil spots marred the surface. It was almost too vile to stand on—even with shoes.

  She gagged. “What is on the floor?”

  To her surprise, her husband said in a scholarly tone, “They are called rushes. It is a medieval practice. A layer of dried grasses, reeds, flower petals, and some sweet-scented herbs are mixed and then spread across the floor.”

  “Whatever for?” And if there were sweet-smelling herbs in this matty mess, she’d walk back to London!

  “To insulate,” he said matter-of-factly. He added with a touch of pride, “I’m a medievalist. It was my line of studies at University. I followed a technique completely realistic to what was done six hundred years ago.”

  “What is the matter with rugs?” Anne asked.

  Hugh winced and Deacon guffawed, both already anticipating her husband’s reaction.

  “Rugs don’t fit the character of Kelwin,” her husband said definitively.

  And I suppose dirt and flies do? Anne almost flashed back, but caught herself in time. She was growing too tired and too overwhelmed. “Do you have servants?” she asked to change the subject. She assumed from the condition of the room the answer was no.

  “There’s Norval and the cook,” Aidan said. “They are enough to meet my needs. Besides, we don’t stand on ceremony here. I left London to remove myself from the claptrap of so-called refined society. Here I’m free to pursue my interests without answering to anyone.”

  As he spoke, the dog left Hugh’s lap. Its toenails scratched the table as it crossed to the lamb leg and started to gnaw.

  Anne thought she would swoon. In two shakes, she was up on the dais, shooing the dog off the table. Her actions didn’t bother him. He just crawled under the table and hopped back up again. And Hugh let him!

  She could hold her tongue no longer. “This place is little better than some, some hunting lodge!”

  “What is wrong with hunting?” Hugh asked, honestly perplexed.

  “Yes,” Deacon agreed easily. “We like hunting.”

  “Enough to paint yourselves blue and dress in skirts,” Anne snapped. “It’s almost like a child’s game.”

  From behind her, Aidan’s deep voice said, “These are not skirts.”

  She turned, recognizing her error. “I meant no offense—”

  “You thought we were silly,” he corrected. “We wore hunting kilts completely authentic to the times of this castle. I agree the blue paint may have been a…silly touch, but it’s a ritual Deacon, Hugh, and I have. Rituals are important to medieval societies.” He could have been lecturing at Oxford.

  Deacon enjoyed her discomfort and obviously felt the urge to twist the knife further. “Besides, since the Crown has allowed it, many proud Scotsmen wear kilts. If you are going to stay here, lass, you must become used to a man’s legs.”

  “She is not staying,” Aidan said firmly.

  For a moment, Anne almost declared herself ready to leave immediately—but then she reminded herself of the emotions she’d had when she’d first laid eyes on Kelwin.

  She reined in her temper. “I have much to learn. Perhaps it is best if we discuss the matter in the morning.”

  “There is nothing to discuss, Anne.”

  “There’s always something to discuss,” she averred, using a tactic her Aunt Maeve often used on Uncle Robert.

  But it didn’t work on Aidan. He exploded. “After four hours of marriage to you, I would never, never agree to continue this charade!”

  Anne didn’t know how to respond. She was all too aware of Deacon’s grinning countenance and Hugh’s empathetic presence. “Actually, we’ve been married a little more than a week and a half.”

  “Pardon?” Aidan said, his tone almost dangerous.

  She cleared her throat. “I pointed out we have been married over a week…counting from the day of the ceremony.”

  “I don’t want to be married.” He raised his eyes heavenward. “God, what have I done to deserve this?”

  Anne backed up. She’d never had anyone pray to God about her before. “I really would like to go to my room.”

  “By all means,” Aidan practically growled. He walked over to a staircase and started shouting for Norval.

  An old man shuffled in from a side room. “Yes, laird?”

  “Show Princess Anne to her room. The guest room,” he emphasized.

  Anne could have protested but didn’t. Now was the time to practice discretion—something she should have done when she’d first walked into the room.

  Her best course was to be docile. Years of being the poor relation had taught her to be cannier than she’d just been with Aidan. Now she would have to make up for lost ground.

  At the foot of the stairs, Norval picked up a candle from the bits and pieces lying on a rude table and lit it off a wall torch. She slid a glance at her husband. Aidan stared into the fire, frowning. “Goodnight,” she said softly.

  He stiffened but didn’t answer.

  Following Norval up the stairs, Anne learned why the great hall had not been cleaned. The man was too old to be doing any chores.

  “Are there maids that can be hired for service around here?” she asked.

  “Hmmm?” Norval stopped on the stairs and made a full turn to face her. “I beg pardon, lass? Did you say something?” He cupped his ear, his accent so thick she could barely understand it.

  She raised her voice. “Maids! Are there maids who could work here?”

  “Mates? Do you mean breeding?”

  While she tried to decipher what he’d said, he answered, “We breed sheep and horses. The laird has a fine hand at breeding.” Or so she thought that was what he’d said.

  Nor was she ready to discuss Aidan’s breeding capabilities.

  Fortunately, they had come to the top of the stairs where a long, narrow hall led off of the main building. There were a number of doors on either side. Following him, Anne overheard him mutter, “Guest room…guest room,” as if he wasn’t sure which one it was.

  In fact, he almost walked by the room before recognizing it. “Och, this be the guest room…I believe?” Confused, he looked to her for confirmation.

  Anne nodded. What else could she do? But she also seized opportunity and asked, “Which room is the laird’s?”

  Norval knew which room it was. “The one at the end of the hall. It’s the biggest in the whole castle and a fine room it is,” he confided, as he reached for the door handle. Unfortunately, he missed and almost toppled to the ground.

  She caught him and received a good whiff of his breath for her trouble. He was drunk.

  But of course.

  He fit the ambiance of Kelwin to perfection.

  She shook her head. Aidan needed a wife for no other reason than to organize his household. “Have you been in the laird’s service long?”

  “All my life,” Norval allowed. “I was born in the castle and have never been anywhere else.” She had to turn her head, unable to stand his breath this close.

  She reached for the handle. “I’ll open the door.”

  “Thank you, Princess Anne.”

  She frowned at his use of Aidan’s sarcastic title. He stared at her, the picture of innocence. She took the candle stub from his hand before he burned himself as well. It was made of tallow and not of good quality. Her father had been a country doctor, a satisfying but not monetarily rewarding life. She remembered a happy childhood that included hours helping her mother make candles and soap. It appeared as if she would be doing quite a bit of both at Kelwin.

  The room was dark. The slits of windows barely let in enough moonlight to matter. Anne held the candle high, Hugh’s sack tucked under her arm. The thin light highlighted the foot rail of a bed and reflected in the dusty mirror hanging over a wash basin on the opposite wall. She set her bag down beside the basin.

  “Norval, please set a fire in the hearth,” she shouted,
to ensure he heard correctly.

  “Och, the night is too mild for a fire.”

  “But you have one downstairs.”

  “I don’t need to scratch my ears.”

  Anne stood nose-to-nose with him. Her patience was at an end. She didn’t even bother to shout, but spoke slowly through clenched teeth so the words would permeate his ale-soaked brain. “You hear better than you pretend. I know what tricks servants play.”

  He suddenly heard very well. “The hour is too late to go fetch peat, my lady, and I’m an old man who needs his sleep,” he wheedled.

  “Or to sleep it off,” she countered. “Do you treat Lord Tiebauld this way?”

  The servant almost lost his teeth over the audacity of such a question. “I serve the laird well.”

  “Does he have a fire in his grate?”

  “Every night. There’s a bath waiting, too.” He lowered his voice, “The laird’s a bit queer that way. He likes to bathe every day, even on the coldest.”

  Anne made a face to give the impression she shared Norval’s concerns, but inside, she was deeply reassured about her husband.

  Games aside, she said calmly, “I want a fire and hot water. Please see to it.”

  Norval made some sort of ducking bow. “I will return, my lady.” He shuffled out of the room.

  She thought about adding a request for more candles, since this one was sputtering, but decided not to press her luck. A fire would do much to cheer the room. Then maybe she could think. She dearly needed to pause and reflect.

  A snore sounded from the direction of the bed.

  Anne froze.

  The circle of candlelight did not extend beyond the footboard—but someone was in the bed. Or something, her active imagination warned her. What human sounded like a bear being baited?

  Then “it” snored again.

  Anne’s already frayed nerves overreacted. She screamed, dropping the candle to the floor. It extinguished immediately and she was trapped in the dark with “it.” She ran straight for the door, found the handle, and charged into the hall, where she couldn’t see where she was going or feel her way in unfamiliar surroundings.