Judith E French (8 page)

“What was I supposed to think?” she protested. “A wife is a man’s property to do with as he pleases. If Murrane had wed me, he’d have wasted no time in claiming his marital rights.”

Ross’s eyes narrowed. “And ye think me no better than him.”

The unfairness of his accusations burned like fire. “You stole me,” she reminded him. “You robbed me of my jewelry and dragged me across the whole of England on the back of a horse. You locked me in this tower and forced me to take part in a wedding ceremony conducted by a cretin, and now you blame me for not trusting you?”

“Aye, it’s the earbobs and the rings, isn’t it?” he said, and she knew he was deliberately refusing to answer her accusations. “Always we come back to your shiny baubles. If you be the great lady you claim—the great heiress—you can buy yourself more trinkets, can’t ye?”

“Not now I can’t,” she threw back at him. “If we are truly wed, my money is yours to dole out to me as you please.”

He pulled on his moccasins and yanked the laces tight. “Let me cause you no more apprehension,” he said between clenched teeth. “Once the warrant for my arrest has been canceled, I’ll demand of you enough silver to see me and my horse safely back to the Colonies. After that, you can seek an annulment in the courts, or you can keep our marriage in name only—I care not what you do. I’ll trouble ye no more.” He stood and walked over to the bed. “Until then, we must play out this pretense of a marriage. I will share this chamber and your bed for the sake of the servants. But ye need have no fear for your body. I’ll not offend your tender sensibilities further by my lowly touch.”

“You expect me to live in this pigsty until you leave for America?” Her own rising anger made her brave. He had frightened her half to death by cutting off her clothes and stripping himself naked in front of her. How dare he condemn her for thinking what any normal woman would think?

He arched a heavy brow. “Pigsty? I suppose it is by your standards. Live in it or set the servants to clean it. I’ll not be here long enough to bother.”

“You think they’d obey me?” she asked in amazement. The numbness in her mind was beginning to recede. He was angry with her, but it was clear he wasn’t going to strike her with his fists, or subject her to a shameful rape. She swallowed, a lump in her throat. “You give me leave to try?”

“Why not? You are mistress of the castle, aren’t ye? You’re the lady born. You should be good at giving orders to those below ye.”

Anne stiffened. “I had the care of my husband’s household. I have been taught the duties of my station.”

“Well and well enough.” He turned toward the door. “I think we’ve spent enough time together so that I can join the wedding celebration without losing face. I bid you good day and good night, madame. Don’t wait up for me.”

A hot retort rose to her lips, but she held it back, contenting herself with glaring at his broad back as it vanished through the doorway. He slammed the door behind him, and she turned over and buried her face in the pillow in frustration.

“Damn him,” she cried. “Damn him to holy hell!” Through none of her fault, she was a prisoner once again. Would she never know a normal life? Never know what it was like to live in peace with a husband for whom she felt love and affection?

She rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Cobwebs stretched from corner to corner and hung in dusty shreds. “Castle Strathmar!” she uttered in disgust. But with a man like Ross Campbell, what could she expect?

A man like Ross Campbell . . . Anne felt the familiar heat in her cheeks as she remembered the glimpse of him she’d had earlier. She’d seen naked men and boys before, of course—just none so breme and brawny. A curious flutter began in the pit of her stomach and traveled down to make her squirm on the linen sheets. She sighed. The man was well-equipped, there was no doubt of that.

Her mouth turned up in a mischievous smile. Ross Campbell had legs like tree trunks and a chest that . . . A giggle escaped her lips. His legs and chest were made as sweetly as God ever created a man, and his shoulders were too wide by half. That other part—she giggled again—that was enough to cause a maid to sigh.

My husband, she mused.

“No!” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. She was mad to even think such a thing. Ross Campbell was a hopeless barbarian—a savage. He was a common thief, hardly worth calling a man. He’d made it plain that it was only her money that he was after. He was no better than any of the other men who had held her captive—her stepfather, her first husband, her betrothed. No one cared for her, only for her fortune.

Absently, she rubbed the golden amulet on the chain around her neck. Cameron Stewart, the Earl of Dunnkell—her real father—had claimed to love her. He’d never asked anything of her, only that she forgive him for not being able to give her his name.

“Is this what you meant when you said the necklace carried a curse?” she whispered into the empty room. But he’d told her that the amulet carried a blessing as well. The thought lifted her spirits, and she went to the window, taking care not to step on any of the broken glass. “I wish you were here, Father,” she murmured. “I could use some good advice.”

She leaned her cheek against the cold windowpane and sighed. As much as she wished him to be here, he wasn’t. He was far away in America.

“I’ll have to work this problem out for myself,” she said, “as I always have.” From the hall below, she heard laughter and bagpipes, but here in the solar the only sounds were her own brave words echoing in her ears.

L
ate morning sun cast a rainbow of soft colors across Anne’s bedcover. She opened her eyes, shut them, and snuggled down into the feather-stuffed mattress. “Mmm,” she murmured. Then realization hit home, and she sat bolt upright with a gasp. “Oh!” She yanked the blanket up to her chin as her gaze darted around the still chamber.

The only sound was the rustle of a mouse nibbling at the crumbs of Anne’s oatcakes left from the day before. “Get out of here! Shoo!” The mouse dove down a hole beside the hearth.

Emboldened by her rout of the tiny rodent, Anne threw back the blanket and slid onto the icy floor in her bare feet. Memories of all that had happened yesterday flooded over her, and she sat back down on the bed with a jolt.

“Married,” she said softly. “Married to Ross Campbell.” She pursed her lips and let out her breath slowly. What was she to do? She glanced around the room, and her gaze lit on an old-fashioned powder-blue gown and undergarments lying across a hide-bound chest. Practically, she decided that any action on her part was best taken decently clothed.

Dressing herself, especially in the style of a hundred years earlier, was more difficult than she’d imagined, but eventually she managed. There were stiff shoes made of the same fabric as the dress, only a little too wide for her slender feet, and heavy silk stockings with black silk garters that tied above her knees. She couldn’t tighten the bone stays properly because they fastened in the back, and the ties of the overgown gaped where she couldn’t reach them, but at least she was covered. She found the comb and brush Greer had used on her hair the day before and made herself presentable.

Quieting her confused emotions was harder than smoothing the snarls in her long tresses. True, Ross had kept his word. He’d not forced her to yield her maidenhood to him in the night. In fact, he’d not even returned to the bedchamber, or if he had, she’d been sleeping too soundly to hear.

She blushed as images of their official bedding rose again before her. All those common people crowding into the room! It wasn’t the first time she’d been subjugated to such embarrassment. Naturally, she had experienced the same thing with her wedding to her first husband, although the guests had been anything but common. The witnessing of the consummation was a vital part of the ceremony between a man and woman of high status—it prevented one or the other from declaring the marriage invalid at a later date.

Anne had little patience with her own timidity. She could excuse herself the first time—she’d been a frightened child of fifteen. Now she was a woman grown, and she should have been over her foolishness. Still, she had been horrified by the lewd jokes and innuendos.

The fact that Ross’s bedding of her had been witnessed made her plight worse. Every living soul in the castle believed that she was his lawful wife. The question was, did she believe it? Could it be true? The thought that she might indeed be married to him, despite the irregularity of the ceremony, was hard to dispel.

“Am I?” she wondered aloud. “And if I am, how can I get out of it?” She folded her arms over her chest and hugged herself, letting her most daring thoughts slip off her tongue. “Do I want to get out of it?”

She nibbled at her lower lip and toyed with a yellowed rose on the wrinkled skirt of the taffeta overgown. Ross Campbell had assured her that all he wanted was to return to his wilderness in America. If he did . . . She sighed loudly. If she remained married to Ross, and he returned to the Colonies, she would be free to enjoy the gracious life she’d had since she’d become a widow. She could tend her flowers and read her books. She could come and go as she pleased without hindrance.

Truth to tell, she had enjoyed her widowhood. It had offered her peace and quiet—at least until her family had taken it into their minds to force her into another marriage.

Being the wife of a man thousands of miles away would have its advantages, she admitted to herself, but there would be disadvantages too. It would mean never knowing the joys of motherhood, of living a normal life with a husband. Would the freedom to come and go as she pleased be worth the price?

For an instant the image of a stark-naked Ross made her breath catch in her throat. Anne’s stomach knotted as she remembered that brief glimpse of hard, bulging loins; that flat, muscular stomach; the dark mat of hair above his virile male organ. Her mouth went dry. He had been huge—larger by far than any male she had ever seen. And his rod had not even been swollen with lust.

A fluttery feeling in her stomach made goose bumps rise on her arms and neck. What would he look like aroused? How could any normal woman accept such a—

Anne’s reverie was broken by the loud click of the door latch. Startled, she looked up as Greer’s plain face appeared in the doorway. The maid’s hair was untidy, and her apron had a wet stain on it. Greer smelled of stale beer and cheese.

“Morning, m’lady.” Greer’s hands fell to her ample hips as she surveyed Anne from top to bottom. “I came to help ye dress, and I can see ye need me.”

Through the open door, Anne could hear singing and laughter. “They’re still at it,” she said stiffly.

“M’lady? Oh, below. Aye.” Greer unlaced the back of Anne’s gown to get at the ties of the stays. “This needs redoing. Suck in.” She yanked the strings tight and tied them. “Ye should have called me. I looked in earlier, but ye were sleeping.” She began to redo the lacing on the gown. “Once the Campbells find reason to celebrate they’re nay so anxious to go back to work. Like as not they’ll drink and eat until the castle is as empty as a drum.” She knelt by the front of Anne’s gown and pulled the underskirt into place. “Will ye come down to break yer fast, or would ye rather I bring something up? There’s more drunk than sober, I warn ye.”

“And Ross Campbell’s the drunkest of all, I suppose?”

Greer broke into a grin. “He’s downed his share.” She raised one eyebrow shrewdly. “If ye’d rather—”

“No,” Anne said firmly. “I’ll come down. Send someone to clean this room and change the sheets. I want all that glass swept up before I cut myself.”

She had reached the top of the staircase when she heard the roar of male laughter, the sound of women screaming, and the unmistakable bellow of an enraged bull. Keeping one hand on the stone wall for support, she rushed halfway down the steps to see what was happening.

The great hall was in chaos. Tables were overturned, food was strewn across the rushes, and people were running in all directions. One half-grown boy was scrambling up the fireplace wall, and another clung to a bell cord six feet above the floor. Two women raced up the steps toward Anne, dragging a girl-child behind them.

At the far end of the hall, surrounded by barking dogs, was an enormous red bull with huge outspread horns. The wild-eyed beast lowered his shaggy head and pawed the floor. One ivory horn was stained scarlet, and at the bull’s feet lay the still body of a spotted hound. By the hearth sprawled a second dog, his belly split open like a hog for butchering.

A dozen armed men circled the bull. They shouted and waved their weapon as one blue and green kilted clansman cracked a whip over the animal’s head. To the left, closer to the foot of the stairs, Anne saw a woman bending over an injured man. Dark red blood ran from a gash in his arm. The woman was wailing loudly.

“How did this happen?” Anne demanded of the nearest wench. “Who let a bull into the hall?”

A slovenly black-haired woman grinned up at her. “Rob did it. Red Willy dared him to fetch Beelzebub into the hall and he did it.” Her eyes flashed with excitement. “Beelzebub killed two of the dogs and horned Red Willy.”

“He’s a muckle breme bull, that one,” added the second woman. “Too valuable to kill, and too mean to handle.”

Suddenly, an Irish wolfhound lunged from the pack at the bull. Snarling, the dog sunk his teeth into the bull’s right hindquarter. The bull twisted free, turned, and charged the wolfhound, catching him along the side with one horn and raking a bloody furrow in his side. The wolfhound let out a cry of pain and scrambled away out of the bull’s reach.

The men surged forward to be stopped short when the bull wheeled to face them and began to paw the rushes angrily. A man raised a musket, but a second knocked it aside.

“Nay!” someone shouted.

“That bull’s worth more than the dogs!” cried another.

A gray-haired woman pushed into the circle of men. “Shoot him, I say! He gored my Willy. Shoot him!”

Anne gripped the rough stone as her eyes scanned the hall. Where was Ross? There! She couldn’t deny a rush of relief when she saw him safe beyond an overturned table.

A fierce brown dog ran at the bull, and the beast hooked the animal with his left horn and tossed it aside as easily as if it were a lady’s lapdog.

The dog’s dying yelp brought tears to Anne’s eyes. She opened her mouth to demand that Ross order the bull’s death when she saw her husband leap out from behind the table. To her horror, she saw that he was unarmed—not only weaponless, but stripped naked as well. Even his feet were bare. Certain that he’d gone as mad as the bull, Anne clamped her hand over her mouth and stifled the scream rising in her throat.

“Ha!” Ross shouted defiantly to the bull.

The circle of clansmen widened. One man let out a cheer. Another gave a burst of laughter, but it turned to a groan as the massive bull turned his bloodshot eyes toward the Master of Castle Strathmar.

“Holy Mary,” the black-haired wench cried.

Foam spewed from the bull’s nose and mouth. His chest rumbled as he let out a deep, earthshaking bellow of rage. He lowered his head until his long tongue scraped the rushes. Muscles rippled beneath the shaggy red hide, and a burst of yellow liquid gushed down the bull’s hind legs.

Anne gripped the precious fabric of her gown with clenched fingers as she caught the strong stench of sour urine. “Ross, don’t,” she whispered.

“Ha!” He taunted the bull, crouching in front of him, staring straight into the beast’s eyes.

The bull charged.

Anne watched helplessly as the animal bore down upon her husband. Time seemed to crawl until the bull’s thundering hooves carried him toward the raven-haired man as slowly as if she were seeing it all in a dream. A cry escaped her lips as the ivory horns dipped to pierce Ross’s bare chest, but suddenly, inexplicably, Ross was no longer there.

Anne blinked, unable to believe her eyes. Ross wasn’t crushed beneath the bull’s feet, or ravaged on the tips of those terrible horns—he was firmly astride the bull’s back, hands wound in the beast’s long hair, powerful legs wrapped around the animal’s sides.

Men and dogs scattered as the bull charged this way and that, tossing his head, twisting and bellowing in rage. Wooden tables snapped like twigs beneath his weight. Dogs howled and women screamed. Barrels and kegs flew into the air as the bull ripped through them. His hind legs slipped out from under him as he trod in the turmoil of spilled food, but he staggered up and attacked the fireplace wall. Still, the man clung to his back like a burr.

Anne heard Ross’s whoop of laughter as the bull snapped the tip of one horn off against the stone wall of the hearth. Blood sprayed from the broken horn, streaking Ross’s face with gore. Again, the dogs rushed forward, and the bull turned to challenge them. They broke rank as he ran the length of the hall and back again, coming to a stop in the center of the great hall.

If she hadn’t been so frightened for Ross, Anne would have found pity for the bull. His breath was coming in great, shuddering gasps. Yellow foam streamed from his nose. His tongue lolled from his mouth, and his eyes were wide and terror-stricken.

Urged on by the men, the dogs closed in around the bull once more. Suddenly, Ross leaped from the animal’s back and seized a horn in each hand. The bull struggled to throw him off. For long agonizing seconds they were evenly matched. Corded muscles strained along Ross’s back as he threw every ounce of his strength against the tired beast. Veins bulged out on Ross’s forehead as he braced his legs and attempted to wrench the bull’s head to one side.

Heedless of her own safety, Anne pushed past the two women and ran down the steps toward him. He saw her and shouted a warning. Then, with a final surge of tenacity, he forced the broken horn up and back, and wrestled the bull to the floor.

Rob dashed forward with an open iron ring, thrust it through the bull’s nostrils, and clamped it shut with an iron tool. A second man snapped a chain to the ring, and Ross let go of the bull and jumped back out of reach of the bloodstained horns.

The bull scrambled to his feet and stood trembling. His heavy panting was the only sound in the great hall. Even the dogs were silent. Then a woman began to cheer. In seconds, everyone was shouting. Rob led the subdued bull out of the hall as the clansmen surrounded Ross and raised him on their shoulders in triumph.

Someone found an intact keg and handed Ross a mug of foaming ale. He lifted it, drank, and poured the rest over his head. The clansmen and women roared their approval.

Anne turned and retraced her path up the steps. Halfway up, she turned and looked back. Ross was watching her.

He lifted his mug in salute. “To the bonny bride!” he shouted.

She ran the rest of the way up the stairs to her chamber.

 

He came to her bed that night.

She had known he would.

All day she had paced the floor of her chamber, too nervous to take more than a few swallows of milk and a mouthful of bread. Now she lay trembling on the far side of the mattress, her eyes shut tightly, her knees drawn up beneath her linen shift.

It was dark when he pushed open the chamber door. The single candle Greer had left had long since burned to a stub. Peat glowed on the hearth, filling the room with an earthy scent that permeated the damp corners and overpowered the musty smells of a place left too long unlived in. Humming to himself, Ross slid the bolt and began to sing loudly.