The Marriage Contract (10 page)

“No men. I’ve had enough of them to last a lifetime.”

“You’ll bring the girl, Marie, to live here, too?”

Cora drew in a sharp breath. “It is my fondest wish, but it may not be wise, my lady.”

“Why not?”

“Because people will talk.” She made a helpless gesture with her hand. “If I bring Marie to live under your roof, people will think she is the laird’s child. She has black curly hair and blue eyes. I had thought to board her with one of the shepherd’s families.”

Anne had never thought of Aidan having children. She took a thoughtful step before asking, “Is she his?”

“No! And I know it for a fact. Yes, the laird has a reputation with the ladies, but he is more—?”

“Circumspect?” Anne supplied hopefully.

“What does that mean?”

“Careful of the consequences.”

“Aye, he was always careful…and gentle.” Cora glanced away. “I shouldn’t have said the last, but not all men care how they treat you.”

Anne shook her head. “It is all right.” There was a
beat of silence between them, and then Anne said with authority, “Go fetch your things while I finish these stalls. And you can bring Marie with you.”

“I’ll do the stalls,” Cora volunteered eagerly. “You shouldn’t be doing this. You’re not used to this sort of work.”

The offer was tempting. But her pride insisted she show Aidan she could do whatever task he set before her. Of course, that didn’t mean she didn’t want help. “We’ll do them together.”

“And have them done in no time,” Cora assured her. The two women set to work.

On the other side of the wall, Aidan had listened to the entire conversation.

Anne’s generosity at giving Cora a position humbled him. No other woman in the kirk would have done it. And there was something haunting about the words Anne had used when she’d admitted she’d known what it was like to be an outcast.

He did, too.

Had he not left London because he didn’t fit the mold? Society was no place for a romantic medievalist with a traitorous ancestry.

He listened as Anne and Cora set to work cleaning the stalls. While they mucked and raked, Anne outlined to Cora what she expected of her. Aidan was impressed. Anne did know how to run a household.

He didn’t worry about having Cora in his employ. The girl had been a momentary distraction and, if
the truth be known, he’d crossed paths with too many former lovers to have a care about meeting one more again.

But he was concerned about what he would say to Anne. He eased out the side door and leaned against the limestone wall.

He shouldn’t have eavesdropped. It had opened her up to him and exposed her vulnerability. She would not be happy if she learned of it.

Hugh found him deep in thought.

“Are you afraid it will fall down?” he teased.

“What will fall down?” Aidan asked.

“The wall. You act as if you are holding it up.” Seeing Aidan wasn’t in the mood for joking, he stated his business. “The Reverend Oliphant is here from Thurso. He had the chance to come early and is ready to hold the funeral so he can take himself home again.”

Aidan nodded. “Is the grave dug?”

“Thomas and I finished it an hour ago,” he answered.

“Then let us gather in the chapel.”

“I’ll tell the others.”

Aidan stopped Hugh before he walked away. “Tell my wife, too, will you? She’s in the barn.”

If Hugh thought it strange Aidan didn’t want to inform Anne himself when he stood mere feet away from her, he didn’t comment. Instead, he did as bidden.

Aidan waited, listening to Anne’s response. She
told Hugh she had one stall to finish and then she and Cora would come.

Thoughtfully, Aidan trudged his way to the chapel. Deacon fell into step beside him. “It’s a stroke of brilliance!” he practically crowed.

“What are you talking about?” Aidan asked, irritated.

“Having the English lass clean the stables. You are a genius, Tiebauld. A strategic genius. With you in our rebellion, the English will never be able to outfox us.”

“Deacon?”

“Hmmm?”

“Sod off.” Aidan went into the chapel. It held less than twenty-five people. The inside had a pulpit, several rows of chairs, and not much more. The coachman was laid out in a hastily built casket in front of the pulpit. Several members of his clan drifted in.

A few minutes later, Anne arrived. He sensed her presence before he saw her. The very air seemed to vibrate and churn with her unique energy. Turning toward the door, he smiled. She’d taken a moment to tidy her hair.

Ever the proper Englishwoman, he thought with a touch of admiration.

And being such, she walked the short distance up the aisle to where he stood. She slipped into the chair beside his, but she was careful not to touch him in any way.

The Reverend Oliphant began the service. Aidan wasn’t listening to the words of comfort and a promise of a hereafter. Instead, he thought about hair pins. Anne had said in the stall she wished for some. It was such a small thing, but the sort of item women liked and men never thought of.

It wouldn’t take him a bit of time to ride to Wick and buy her a few. Might cheer her a bit.

Through the ceremony and the subsequent burial, he was aware of her genuine grief. She’d liked the coachman. He hovered close, in case she became emotional. But Anne didn’t break down. She had too much pride. Her strength pleased him—until the ceremony was over and she turned on her heel and walked away, out the opposite side of the small row of chairs, without so much as a glance in his direction. Marching up to the Reverend Oliphant, she asked him to join them for lunch, an invitation heartily accepted, and then she left the chapel, heading for the kitchen.

Aidan hurried to catch up. “Anne?”

She stopped, her shoulders stiff. “Yes?”

He slowed. He had nothing else to say. He groped for words. “Are you all right?”

She softened then. “I’ll be fine. Todd was a nice man. It was a sad passing. So sudden.”

“A funeral is always sobering.”

Her head nodded agreement. “It reminds us of how fragile life is.”

Now it was his turn to nod.

“Well, I’d best talk to Mary about lunch,” she murmured.

He let her leave. Usually glib around women, he hadn’t been able to think of a single sensible word to detain her longer. Her eyes were what tied his tongue. Their gaze was so honest, so direct and forthright, they made him feel like a royal bastard. Why did he choose today, knowing the Reverend Oliphant could arrive, to prove his point and order her to clean the stables?

During lunch, Aidan felt left out of the conversation. The Reverend Oliphant liked Anne. The two of them actually had much to discuss. Of course, the topic was mainly religion. Aidan had nothing to add. The last time he’d set foot in a church for a Sunday service had been in London.

“I pray to see you in chapel, my lady,” the Reverend Oliphant said.

“Of course, I will be there,” she answered.

The Reverend Oliphant’s smile was cunning as he said, “And perhaps you can get your obstinate husband to come say a few words to the Lord.”

Anne didn’t even look at Aidan as she answered, “I may try.”

“I wish you success,” the Reverend Oliphant answered.

Aidan hated being discussed as if he wasn’t present. Still, that afternoon, he rode to Wick for hair pins.

Anne spent the
afternoon detailing to Cora what would be expected of her and seeing the young woman and her niece settled in the servants’ quarters, a wing of rooms off the great hall and close to the kitchen. If anyone was surprised at the Whiskey Girl’s change of status, they didn’t comment.

She even liked Cora’s niece, Marie, a silent child who at the age of seven was old enough to know what traffic her mother and aunts dealt in. Cora had been right to move her.

Norval took to the child immediately. “I’ve not had family of my own,” he explained. “It’s been rather lonely here.”

Anne nodded. She understood loneliness, and if Cora and Marie’s presence did a little something toward keeping him sober in the evening, then that would be a good thing, too.

Of course, moving the ale kegs from the courtyard and great hall and putting them in the kitchen
where they belonged would also be a first step in the right direction. However, considering Aidan’s fondness for ale, she didn’t dare attempt such a thing—yet.

Later, Anne hurried to Aidan’s bedroom to dress for dinner. She hung the periwinkle dress in the wardrobe to air and put on a simple ivory muslin trimmed in green ribbons. The ivory wasn’t as richly detailed as the periwinkle dress, but she thought she looked rather fine after she finished her toilette.

It would be nice to pin her hair up, but a bright red ribbon gathering it at the nape served the purpose as well. Especially since she wasn’t planning to muck out stalls that evening. She was almost to the point where she could laugh about the whole experience—
almost.

Grabbing her Kashmir shawl, she left the room and stopped. Deacon waited for her in the hallway.

She was tempted to walk right past him but he must have read her mind. He pushed away from the wall where he had been lounging and placed himself in her path.

“I hear you hired one of the Whiskey Girls as a household servant.”

“I did.”

He sneered. “What do you hope to prove by hiring one of the village whores as a maid?”

“I don’t have to prove anything,” she replied
calmly, although inside she was shaking. Deacon would love to discredit her.

“I suppose not,” he answered. “However, I think it is an accommodating wife who places her husband’s dolly close by for his convenience. A Scottish wife wouldn’t do such a thing.”

For a moment, Anne couldn’t speak. His barb struck the heart of her insecurities. But she’d never let Deacon see that.

“Well, I’m not Scottish,” she said tightly, “as you so often remind me. I am one of the dreaded English, those creatures who strike fear in you.”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Is that true? Then why does my simple womanly presence bother you so much? If Aidan wishes to send me away, he can.”

“He’s been trying to, lass, you’re too stubborn to recognize it.”

Anne took a step back, suddenly unable to breathe.

Deacon pressed on. “They are all laughing at you, every one of them. Even the women like Bonnie Mowat and Kathleen Keith. Go home, Englishwoman. Go back to where you belong.” He turned and walked away.

Anne leaned back against the wall, her palms flat on the stone surface. She feared if she took a step in any direction the floor would disappear beneath her feet.

And here she had started to congratulate herself that all was going well.

She struggled for composure. She couldn’t give Deacon the satisfaction of seeing how crippling his words had been. She stood up straight, twisted her neck to loosen the tightening in her shoulders, and with head high, went down for dinner.

Downstairs, Aidan and Hugh looked up as she entered the room. They stood by the fire drinking from polished tankards. Deacon had already taken his seat at the table.

“I was thinking, Anne,” Aidan said without preamble, “the floors are cold without my mat of rushes.”

She didn’t pause, but walked straight to her seat at the table, which was on the opposite end from Deacon’s. “Are you going to lay down fresh rushes?”

Her husband frowned. “No, I was thinking of one of those Indian carpets, something with a design in gold and blue.”

She tensely smiled her assent. But the décor of the room was no longer of interest. She started to sit when she noticed a small package beside her plate. She glanced around the table. No one else had such a package. “What is this?” she asked, picking it up.

Deacon frowned, not even deigning to answer. Aidan and Hugh acted as if they hadn’t seen it before.

Anne opened the paper wrapping. Inside were
twenty silver hair pins. A dozen thoughts hit her mind all at once. She looked up and caught her husband watching her closely.

Aidan didn’t approve of the way she’d been wearing her hair.
She knew he’d given her pins.

“What’s in the package?” Hugh asked.

“Nothing important,” Anne answered, closing her fist around the pins. She took her seat.

What was his game now? To embarrass her into returning to London? She tossed her hair defiantly and immediately wished she could crawl under the table and hide.

Aidan and Hugh took their places at the table just as Norval and Fenella started to serve. Fenella wasn’t expected to serve, but even in her uneasy state, Anne noticed she favored Hugh by moving to him first.

Bitterly she wished the girl well. She herself had enough of love. Cupid’s dart stung.

“Anne, are you feeling well?” her husband asked in a low voice.

She glanced up at him sitting beside her, their elbows inches from each other. He seemed genuinely concerned for her health, while uncaring for her feelings. The pain of his rejection was so sharp, it hurt to look at him. She lowered her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re so quiet. And you haven’t touched anything on your plate.”

Anne picked up her fork. The dinner was peas and stuffed grouse. She made a pretense of eating.

She thought it would be enough, that he would leave her alone. He didn’t.

“I haven’t done something to offend you, have I?”

“No, nothing at all,” she answered. “You’ve treated me like a crown princess.”

Aidan leaned back, stung by her scorn. “What have I done to made you angry?”

“Nothing,” she replied, stabbing a pea so viciously with her fork, it split the poor thing in half.

He checked on Deacon and Hugh to ensure they hadn’t overheard anything. Hugh was too preoccupied watching the sway of Fenella’s hips as she carried the serving bowl out of the room to have noticed a herd of elephants if they’d marched into the room.

But Deacon had overheard their exchange. He met Aidan’s gaze with a level one of his own in commiseration and then went back to his meal.

Aidan knew he should leave the matter alone, but he couldn’t. He covered his mouth with his hand so Deacon couldn’t hear and whispered, “You don’t like the pins?”

Her fingers tightened around her fork. “They are…lovely.”

If she thought they were lovely, why hadn’t she said so? And why did he have the distinct impression they were anything
but
fine?

“I couldn’t get you gold ones. The shop didn’t have any.”

She swerved in her seat to confront him. “I expect nothing from you.” Her voice was hard, tight as if she were held back stronger emotions.

“Anne—?”

“Excuse me.” She cut him off. She lay her fork down and looked to Hugh. “I’m not feeling well. I fear I must go to my room.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, but pushed back her chair and dashed for the stairs. Aidan barely had a chance to rise.

He sat back down. She had taken the pins. She’d had them in her free hand all through dinner. So, she must like them—?

“Did you understand any of that?” he asked the room in general.

“Any of what?” Hugh answered, stuffing another slice of bread in his mouth.

“None of it,” Deacon responded.

Aidan seized upon his answer. “So, you agree with me Anne was definitely out of sorts?”

“She said she didn’t feel well,” Hugh said.

Deacon drained his ale mug and set it aside before answering. “I take it you gave her a gift?”

“Oh, was the package from you?” Hugh asked, as if fitting together pieces of a puzzle.

Aidan didn’t answer. He felt a bit silly, especially since the pins hadn’t pleased her at all…and he was surprised at how much he had anticipated her pleasure in his gift.

“Tiebauld, forget it,” Deacon advised. He sat back
in his chair and put one booted heel on the table. “Women are silly creatures. You can’t credit anything they say.”

“I thought you didn’t like her because she was English. I didn’t realize you felt this way toward
all
women.”

Deacon frowned. “I like women well enough in their proper place.” He grinned and added, “In the bedroom.”

Hugh guffawed at the joke but Aidan didn’t laugh. “You know, Deacon, you’re a snob. I just never recognized it before.”

“I’m no snob.”

“Yes, you are,” Aidan said. “Either that or you’re mad at the world and want everyone to join you.”

Deacon’s chin lifted pugnaciously. “I admit to strong views.”

“No, dogged views. There is a difference.” Aidan stood. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” He left the room.

Behind him, he heard Hugh ask, “What did Tiebauld mean by that, Deacon?”

Deacon didn’t answer.

Upstairs, Aidan headed straight for his room. Anne could truly be ill and if so, he wanted to know. If not, he wanted an explanation for her behavior tonight.

But she wasn’t in his room. In fact, her things had been moved out.

Puzzled, he went to the guest room. Carefully, he opened the door. The room was dark. He almost
thought no one was there until he widened the door to let in light from the torch burning in the hallway.

Anne lay in the bed, sleeping soundly. The hall light fell on the curve of her hip as she slept on her side, her back to the door.

So, she had been ill. Aidan felt relieved. He didn’t know why she had moved from his room…but it was for the best. He started to close the door when something on the floor reflected the hall light.

Curious, he opened the door wide enough to see it was one of the silver pins. They were scattered across the wash basin and onto the floor, almost as if she’d thrown them at the mirror.

Aidan eased back. He didn’t know why she would do such a thing. But the image of those shining, lovely pins kept him awake long past midnight.

In the end, he decided the best action would be to take none. He’d let her come to him when she was ready.

The intricacies of the female mind were too complicated for his ken. His feelings for Anne were something he didn’t know if he wanted to explore too closely.

With that disturbing thought, he fell asleep.

Deacon was in a disgruntled mood. The hour was late as he sat in front of the hearth smoking his pipe. He stretched his legs toward the fire, an empty ale glass in his hand. Smoke curled around his head.

Was he the only one left with sense? Couldn’t
Tiebauld and Hugh see what the women were doing to them? Hugh was acting like a stud in heat every time Fenella MacEwan crossed his path.

He didn’t want to think about what was happening to Tiebauld—although he had his suspicions.

A step sounded behind him. He turned. Cora McKay came into the room. She carried a lighted taper. Seeing him, she skidded to a halt. “I’m sorry. I heard a sound and came to check and didn’t realize you were still up.” She started to leave.

But he called her back, feeling a perverse sense of desire. He knew Cora, although he’d never lain with her. She was the youngest and shyest of the distiller’s daughters.

She was also the loveliest.

“Did you want something?” she asked in her low, musical voice.

Deacon brought in his legs and patted his lap. “I want you to sit. Right here.”

The color drained from her face. It pricked his conscience, or at least, what was left of his conscience after so much ale. He told himself he was imagining things. She was a Whiskey Girl and used to men talking rudely—and he had a strong desire to be “rude” with her right now.

When she didn’t move, he prodded, “Come along.”

She glanced into the darkness behind her. “We’re alone,” he said impatiently. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Tiebauld or that English bitch.”

A frown line formed across her forehead. He didn’t know why; he didn’t care. He had anger inside, frustration needing to be released in any form…and this was as good as any. Better, in fact.

She started walking toward him. He drew a long breath. Maybe if he had her, he wouldn’t feel so dissatisfied.

Cora stopped beside him. Her lips were pressed tightly together like some prudish maiden aunt’s. He knew how to loosen them up. “Unbutton my breeches,” he said crudely.

But instead of giving him what he wanted, she turned the taper sideways. Hot wax fell on his crotch.

Deacon came up with a roar. He hadn’t been burned, but he understood her intention. Nor did she wait to offer an apology but took off running in the direction of the servants’ quarters.

He gave pursuit.

Her candle went out but they both knew the way—or at least he did, until they reached the servants’ hallway. She’d run into one of the rooms. He’d find her, and when he did—

In brutal anger, he threw open a door. The room was dark. No Cora there. He tried another and another. He paused, thinking…and then noticed a light under the door at the far end of the hall.

On silent feet, he approached the light. With one shoulder, he threw the door open.

Cora was there, but she was not alone. A child
came awake at the noise of the door hitting the wall. She jerked up in bed, screaming. The little girl had doe-shaped eyes and long dark hair much like Cora’s.

Cora threw protective arms around the girl and faced Deacon. “All right. I’ll do what you want but not here. Not in front of the child. And I’ll not let you touch her, do you understand?”

He pulled back, sickened Cora would think him capable of such a thing. “I wouldn’t hurt her,” he said. Then, “Is she yours?”