Judith E French (10 page)

Anne frowned as she remembered the days it had taken to transform the kitchen into an acceptable place in which to prepare food. The pots and pans had been caked with grease; mice ran freely over the pewter and wooden trenchers. She had used the same broom she’d chased the dogs with to whack the cook around the ears when he’d been insolent.

The castle kitchen had boasted a well, an unfailing source of pure water for drinking and cooking, but generations of cooks had used that well as a place to throw broken bottles and pottery. It had required Ross’s physical presence to get the cook’s helper, Ian, to go down on a rope and clean out the well; a wheelbarrow had been needed to haul away the trash.

The week after that, she had set herself to ridding the inner bailey of livestock and poultry and having the garbage taken away from the kitchen door. Now, with the dairy in decent shape, she could begin to think of setting the rest of the castle in order.

Instead of following Mavis inside, Anne walked across the neatly swept stone path of the inner bailey. A young girl rocking a baby smiled at her, and she smiled back. Gradually, the people of the castle were beginning to accept and even like her, despite the fact that she was an Englishwoman who wanted to change the lazy customs of Strathmar. She paused for a moment and scanned the courtyard, making certain no chickens or pigs had found their way back in through the newly repaired gate, and then continued past two clansmen, who doffed their bonnets respectfully, to the outer bailey and finally outside the walls.

Humming an old Scottish nursery rhyme to herself, Anne made her way to a sheltered spot among the rocks where she could sit out of the wind and watch the sunset over the water. The past weeks had seen great changes in Strathmar Castle, but even greater changes in the mistress.

Outwardly, nothing was different between her and Ross Campbell. He behaved gently to her in public and came to her bed each night. Once in her bed, he turned his back on her and went to sleep, ignoring her as completely as if she were part of the carved wooden headboard. When she woke in the morning, he was dressed and gone from the bedchamber.

He didn’t interfere with her instructions to the servants—in fact, he made certain that her wishes were carried out. Neither did he offer her any unasked-for help. He spent his days in hunting and fishing, riding out with the clansmen to view the herds of cattle and sheep, and practicing archery. Evenings, he drank and took part in arm wrestling contests with Rob and whatever men happened to be in the hall.

Ross had not kissed her again.

At first, she’d been relieved. Now, she wondered why he hadn’t. After all, he did believe they were married.

She picked up a stone and tossed it into the water. Blue-green waves lapped against the rocks at her feet. Overhead, seagulls squawked and wheeled in great circles. Anne threw another stone.

They were married.

She sighed. Truth to tell, it mattered little whether a woman wanted to wed or not. Few women went willingly to the altar. She was as married to Ross Campbell as she would have been to Fitzhugh Murrane if Ross hadn’t broken up the ceremony in the Church of Saint Mary-le-Wood. And Ross Campbell had wanted her for the same reason the other two men had valued her—because she was an heiress.

No matter how much she protested, she was the legal wife of this half-savage, colonial barbarian. And even though she knew he cared only for her wealth, she wasn’t certain she wanted to be free of the marriage.

Anne pitched another stone. She’d been married once to an old man; she’d nearly been married to another, not as old, but ugly and brutal. Now she found herself tied to a young, virile devil with the face of a fallen angel.

Ross Campbell was a reckless fool, but he was more courageous than any man she had ever known. He had a fiery temper, but he wasn’t vicious. He had the strength of will to control that temper. He held her captive, yet he’d not used his position to shame her in any way. Ross Campbell had wooed her with soft words and a softer touch.

If a woman had to be governed by a husband, why not a man who caused her heart to quicken and her palms to grow moist? No, Anne decided wistfully as she threw another stone, the duties of the marriage bed would never be formidable with such a husband to serve. A woman would have to be stupid to want to be rid of him, wouldn’t she?

She drew her knees up and hugged them against her chest. Marriage was an arrangement that had little or nothing to do with love. She’d been a child with her head full of dreams to believe that she could ever have more than a satisfactory agreement with a husband.

She’d believed once that she was in love with Robert Wescott, Viscount Brandon, but he’d married someone else. She’d almost made the same mistake again, almost offered her heart to Ross Campbell. Thank God he’d reminded her that it was her money he wanted, not her.

Anne had always been practical, and she’d been shrewd enough to know that she was not so pretty or graceful as to be desired for herself. Hadn’t her mother told her that many times? “If you were a farmer’s daughter, you’d be a spinster to your dying day,” Barbara had shouted. “No man wants a skinny armful of bones with big eyes and a stuttering tongue.”

Eventually she’d lost her coltish look and gained enough weight in the right places to claim a woman’s shape. Her face had grown to match her eyes, and her speech had gained confidence, but Anne would never deceive herself that she was a beautiful woman. It was enough to have intelligence and the patience to accept what life offered.

Would she be a fool to let a man like Ross go because of foolish pride? Still, she mused, he would be difficult to shape into a proper husband.

If there were so many things right with Ross, there were just as many things wrong. First and foremost, she could never agree to live in the Colonies. Scotland was bad enough! If there was any chance of them staying together as man and wife, Ross must come to London, or at least to her estates in Kent or Sussex. Second, he must shed his uncivilized manners and learn to behave as a gentleman. No English courtier ever arm wrestled with the castle blacksmith, and he certainly never stripped off his clothing to ride a wild bull in public. He would have to learn to eat with a fork and to cover his legs with fashionable breeches and hose. He must wear a shirt and coat instead of a plaid, and get rid of that terrible Campbell bonnet with the eagle feathers in it.

She was a lady, gently bred. She expected to spend her evenings at plays, or balls, or listening to fine music. She wanted silk hangings on her bed and delicacies on her table. She liked to read poetry and discuss politics. She enjoyed wearing the latest fashions and expensive jewelry. Ross would have to learn to buy her exquisite gems as gifts instead of stealing what she had.

In return for those sacrifices, she could give him all the money he needed. She was rich enough to buy anything he wanted—horses, land, titles. If he would—

Her thoughts were interrupted by the baying of the hounds. She jumped up and ran toward the causeway. On the far side she saw several figures on horseback. She shaded her eyes with her hand and made out Ross’s black stallion. There was no mistaking horse or rider. The big wolfhound had already reached them; it had stopped bellowing and was circling the horses, giving a friendly bark.

Ross and the hunting party! If he’d returned this early, he must have gotten lucky and brought down a deer. Anne started to run down the causeway to greet him, then stopped short and looked down at her dirty clothing. Not only was she a complete mess, but she was wearing an old skirt and bodice of Greer’s.

“Halloo!” Mavis leaned from the wall and waved to the men.

Anne looked up at her. Mavis’s cap was off and her long black hair was blowing in the wind. Her sleeves were pushed back and her shift open to expose the tops of her full breasts. Anne sniffed. Mavis always looked as though someone had put her in a sack and shaken her, but it didn’t seem to matter—the men flocked around her just the same.

Greer ran past her down the causeway, followed by Jeanne and another girl. The horsemen had seen them and were shouting something.

Anne was certain the hunters must have gotten a deer. To hell with how she looked, she thought boldly. Ripping off her headscarf, she hurried after them, eager to share in the excitement. Her scarf was as filthy as her skirt and shoes, but what did it matter? Ross would be all sweaty and smelling of horse. If she could tolerate him, he should be able to put up with her.

Ross spotted her and put his heels into the stallion’s sides. He trotted down the causeway toward her and called her name. “Anne! Anne!” he shouted.

“Did you get a—” She broke off as he leaped down from the saddle and caught her in his arms and gave her a hearty kiss.

“Good news, hinney,” he exclaimed, motioning back toward the others. “We have guests.”

Anne turned to look. To her horror, she saw that there were more riders on the way, and behind them came a two-wheeled cart drawn by white horses. No, not horses—mules. “Guests?” she repeated. “But who would be—” She looked down at her stained skirt and shoes, and her hands flew to her disheveled hair. “Guests coming here?”

“Aye, sweet,” he said with a grin. “Come especially to see you.”

Anne watched speechless as a flaxen-haired woman was assisted from the cart. No, she thought, no. It can’t possibly be.

“Will ye just stand there like a stone?” Ross demanded. “Or will ye go down and bid welcome to your lady mother?”

L
ady Langstone wrinkled her nose in disgust as she surveyed the muddy causeway and lifted her wide hoop skirts, revealing the tips of jeweled, high-heeled slippers. One shapely ankle flashed as she tapped her right toe impatiently. “Roger, Roger,” she fumed, “this simply won’t do. My slippers will be ruined if I have to walk.”

Anne came to a halt a few yards from her mother and sank into a graceful curtsy. “Lady Langstone,” she murmured. Her mouth was dry, her heart beating irregularly. The last thing in the world she’d expected when she’d sent the message was for Barbara to come herself!

“Good God!” Anne’s mother pushed back the ermine-lined hood of her velvet cape and covered her delicately painted lips with a beringed hand. “By the sacred wounds of Christ! I vow, Roger! Come and see! This ragged slut is the mirror image of our little Anne.”

Anne gritted her teeth as the beginnings of a throbbing headache gripped her temple in an unrelenting vise. Any suppressed hope she’d had of mercy had vanished when her mother opened her mouth. Nothing had changed between them—Barbara intended to be as cruel as ever. “Barbara . . . Roger, it’s me.” She rose and extended her dirty hand. “Forgive my disgraceful appearance, and welcome to Castle Strathmar.”

She forced herself to raise her head proudly. She’d spent a lifetime trembling before this woman—she’d not give her the satisfaction of doing so today.

Barbara avoided meeting Anne’s direct gaze and turned to motion her escort, Roger Martin, closer. “Come, dear,” she called, “and greet my errant child.”

Anne’s fingers tightened on her skirts. She clung desperately to the rough wool, afraid that if she lessened her grip, Barbara would see her trepidation. She’d provide no show for her mother’s latest lackey. Roger was the do-nothing third son of Lord Montclaire, and a good ten years her mother’s junior.

She’s as beautiful as ever,
Anne’s castigating inner voice cried.
Beautiful, as you will never be
. Anne raised her fingers to clasp her amulet and blocked out the voice. The smooth surface of the golden charm felt warm to her touch and gave her strength. She smiled woodenly and stiffened her spine. If it was war Barbara wanted, this time Anne would defend herself.

Lady Langstone tucked her arm through the bewigged gentleman’s and whispered in his ear. Roger laughed, and she slapped him playfully. “You naughty boy,” she teased.

My esteemed lady mother, Anne seethed. Trust her to come dressed in her finest. Barbara’s fashionable French gown was a deep mulberry satin with a square décolletage; her underskirt was pearl velvet shot with gold thread and hemmed with seed pearls. Both of her hands were weighed down with rings, and glowing tear-shaped pearls the size of olives dangled from her ears. Barbara’s golden hair was pulled away from her oval face to fall forward in one flawless curl over her shoulder. Fingerless mitts covered her hands, allowing her perfectly manicured and shapely fingers to be seen.

Barbara’s thick lashes fluttered as she made a pretense of noticing her daughter once more. She bestowed a dazzling smile. “Anne, darling, I can’t believe my eyes. I mistook you for a serving wench in that dreadful costume.”

The pain in Anne’s head intensified until it seemed as though her mother’s face was hidden by a red mist. “Lady Langstone,” she said precisely, “may I present my husband, the Master of Strathmar. Sir, may I make known to you my mother, Lady Langstone.”

Barbara extended her hand to be kissed. “No need for such formality, you silly chit,” she cooed. “This marvelous gentleman and I have already met on the castle road.”

Anne felt Ross’s strong arm go around her waist, and tears of gratitude clouded her vision. Ross wasn’t intimidated by her mother—he wouldn’t add to her own shame by letting Barbara know that their marriage was a farce. Unconsciously, Anne molded her hip and shoulder to lean against Ross’s solid frame.

Barbara cleared her throat and glanced down at her waiting hand. His bronzed features immobile, Ross stood as still as a statue. A hint of color tinted Barbara’s cheekbones as she withdrew her hand, unkissed.

Anne clutched Ross’s fingers gratefully. His clasp tightened around hers, and she blinked to keep her tears from falling. He really is a good man, she thought—rascal, bandit, or savage, he really is.

“Hmmm, yes, of course,” Barbara murmured. Her sweet demeanor vanished as her eyes flicked to her daughter. Barbara’s scorching blue gaze began at Anne’s scuffed toes and traveled up over her borrowed gown and stained bodice to her bright red cheeks. “How dreadful you look, child—but then you always had the most awful complexion.” The tip of her tongue showed between tiny, perfectly shaped teeth. “Where did you get those . . . those rags—from a goose girl?” She made a delicate moue. “Your hair looks as though something has been”—she cut her eyes at Roger and giggled—“nesting in it.”

“I’ve been supervising the cleaning of the dairy,” Anne replied flatly. “What would you have me wear—court dress?”

“I expect you to remember your station.” Barbara’s features hardened to rose marble. “You’ve caused us all a great deal of concern, not to mention financial hardship.”

Anne didn’t give an inch. “Did you bring the money I requested? It is mine. I am of age, and I am legally married.”

Barbara flushed. “This is hardly the place to discuss private matters. Am I to be invited in, or am I to remain here all night?”

Ross stepped to the center of the causeway and stood there arrogantly, fists on his hips, moccasined feet spread wide. His heathen dark eyes sparkled with humor as his gaze flicked from Anne’s mother to the powdered gentleman beside her.

Anne tried to keep from laughing as she imagined how a man like Roger Martin must appear to Ross Campbell. Roger’s lavender, pleated-velvet coat and flowered, satin waistcoat might cause envy at a royal ball, but here at this wild Scottish castle, Roger’s curled periwig, his jeweled buttons, his wide lace garters, and his high-heeled red shoes with purple satin roses on the toes looked ridiculous.

“Ye must come in, of course, Lady Langstone,” Ross said in his deepest Scottish brogue. “You’re coming was a shock to Anne. Be ye welcome at Castle Strathmar, both ye and the laddie.”

“Lady Barbara,” Barbara corrected coyly as she favored Ross with one of her most endearing smiles.

She sees past the rough kilt to the man beneath, Anne thought shrewdly. If I’m not careful, she’ll have Ross in her bed before dawn.

“When people call me Lady Langstone, I always think of my husband’s late mother,” Barbara continued. “She was old and shriveled, and I hope I do not favor her yet.”

“Lady Barbara then,” Ross agreed. He motioned toward the castle. “Come. We’ve fresh venison for supper, and it’s best we get the two of ye safe inside before the dogs take Master Roger for a pheasant and drag him off into the heather to eat.”

 

Later that evening, Anne sat at the high table between Roger and Ross and pushed her slice of roast venison around her plate with an ivory fork. She couldn’t have eaten a bite of the juicy meat if her life depended on it.

Ross’s table manners were somewhat less than elegant. Ignoring the knife and fork at his place, he ate with his fingers—using a huge knife he’d pulled from his belt to stab anything he wished from the serving platters. His appetite was unbelievable. It was all she could do to keep her eyes off his plate as he devoured enough meat and bread and vegetables to feed four ordinary men.

Not that Ross’s fingers weren’t clean. Between bites, he dipped them in his wine goblet and dried them daintily on the table cover. Roger’s eyes were as wide as shoe buttons, and he emitted a small sound every time Ross reached for another helping of food. Barbara seemed to be the only person at the table who was indifferent to Ross’s eating habits.

A piper entered the hall and took up a position before the high table. Anne forced herself to listen to the music and tried to ignore her mother’s laughter and whispered innuendos.

It was impossible for Anne not to be miserable. Too late, she’d bathed and changed into one of the old-fashioned gowns Greer had provided from a seemingly unending source. But the damage was already done—Barbara had seen her at her worst, and she’d never let her forget it. Her mother had assured her that she’d brought some of Anne’s own clothes with her, but Anne had received none of them yet.

Barbara was quartered in the only decent chamber, the solar, while Anne was crammed into Greer’s small room. God only knew where Ross had ordered Roger housed—Anne hoped it wasn’t the pigsty. The gentleman’s sour face had left small doubt that he was unhappy with his accommodations, and Anne knew that Roger would delight in spreading tales of her poor marriage throughout the court.

Her mother simpered and leaned close to Ross. Her neckline was shockingly low, giving him a clear view of her ample bosom down to her rouged nipples. “You’re outrageous,” she teased. “How my daughter’s managed to keep you hidden from us all this time is a mystery.” She batted her lashes up at him. “We never guessed Anne had a secret lover.”

Anne stiffened. No wonder her mother had accepted Ross so easily—she believed that the abduction was arranged beforehand. She hoped Ross would go along with the misunderstanding. Being kidnapped by a lover was much more acceptable in Barbara’s world than being stolen by a mercenary Scottish reiver. If the worst happened—if Ross took Anne’s money and left her—she could always convince her mother that she’d tired of him.

Barbara speared a chunk of venison and popped it coquettishly into her red-painted mouth. “You look a lusty man,” she said to Ross. “Too much man for my shy little Anne.”

“We suit each other well enough,” Ross murmured, glancing affectionately at his bride. Deliberately, he covered her trembling hand with his rock-hard one. “Anne has a side to her a mother would nay be expected to know.”

Anne bit her quivering lower lip and flashed him a look of gratitude. Suddenly, her mood lightened. What did it matter if mice ran over her mother when she slept, or if she soiled her velvet slippers with goose droppings? Hadn’t she sold her only child to the highest bidder without considering her feelings? When had Barbara ever thought of anyone or anything but herself?

You’ve never been a real mother to me, Anne thought vehemently. I’ve had neither mother nor father because of you. When will I learn to stop trying to earn your approval? She sighed and took a sip of the sweet Dutch wine Barbara had brought with them. If you’re not too comfortable, Mother, and the food is unappetizing, you won’t stay long, and I can get back to convincing Ross that it would be advantageous to him to remain married to me.

Roger mumbled something inane, and Anne replied in kind. She drained her goblet and held it up for Greer to pour another cupful. Her head felt a little fuzzy, but Anne didn’t care. She would need wine to get through this unending meal.

Barbara had told her earlier that she had sent a messenger to Baron Murrane telling of the marriage. “Langstone was furious at your deception,” she’d said, “and I doubt that Fitzhugh will be any happier.”

Damn Murrane and her stepfather, Anne thought as she finished her third goblet of wine. She cared not a whit for either of them. She would have Ross Campbell, or she’d let him return to America without her. So long as she remained legally married to him, no one—not even King George himself—could force her to wed anyone else.

Barbara leaned against Ross’s shoulder and whispered to him again. She stroked his arm with her scarlet-tipped fingernails.

Anne couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she could guess. Either Barbara was ridiculing her awkward daughter or inviting her son-in-law to come to her bed that night. Anne felt as though an iron band were tightening around her chest. How dare Barbara be so brazen? She had her own plaything with her. Ross belonged to—

Anne’s bottom tooth clinked on her empty wine goblet. She gripped the pewter tightly, wanting to bounce it off her mother’s head. He’s mine! she wanted to shout. Take your hands off him! But the years of learning to keep silent had left their mark. Anne’s throat constricted and her stomach churned, but she sat mute, unable to lash out, unable to voice her anguish.

Barbara moistened her full lower lip with a wet tongue and cooed. “Is there nothing”—her lacquered fingertips dropped from Ross’s arm to his naked thigh and began inching upward beneath the heavy wool of his kilt in slow, sensuous circles—“about me,” she continued lustily, “that you find particularly—” Barbara’s seductive whisper turned to a sudden shriek of outrage as Ross sprang to his feet, seized a huge crockery pitcher of ale from Greer’s hands, and dumped it over Barbara’s head.

Roger leaped up in protest. Anne sat frozen in her seat, unable to believe her eyes.

Barbara screeched as her hair fell over her face and one ale-soaked, yellow false curl came loose and dropped into her bowl of soup. Her eye makeup ran in black streaks down her cheeks. “How dare you?” she screamed. “How . . . how . . .” The piper blew a sour note, and Greer snickered. Barbara dropped back into her chair and began to wail.

Ross turned to Anne and made a show of offering his arm. “Hinney?” She rose imperiously and took his arm.

“Why did you do it?” Anne asked when they were halfway up the curving stairs and out of sight of those in the hall. She was unsteady on her feet and clung to him.

Ross grinned. “No disrespect to your lady mother,” he answered, “but she was in desperate need of cooling off.”

Anne giggled. “It’s the most wonderfulous thing anybody ever did for me.” Happiness bubbled up inside her so that she was all warm and mellow. “The most wonder-ful-ous,” she repeated.

He took her by both arms and turned her so that he could see her face. “Anne? Be ye all right?”

She blinked and gave him a slow, lopsided smile. “I’m the best.”

“You’re tipsy, lass.”