Judith E French (7 page)

“Since the first earl, no doubt,” she replied. She unpried her stiff fingers from the horse’s mane and began to breathe normally again.

“Fie on the cursed lot o’ ye,” Hurley muttered to the dogs as he swung his staff one last time. He planted it solidly on the causeway and leaned against it. “Sheriff’s been here twice lookin’ for ye, sir. Thought maybe it might be him again.”

“So you set the dogs on him?” Anne questioned.

Hurley puckered his lips and sucked his toothless mouth inward.

“This is Lady Anne,” Ross said. “My bride-to-be.” He lifted her down from the horse’s back and set her on the bridge. “Have Greer fetch her water for bathing and find her something suitable to wear for the wedding. Is the dominie about?”

“Near enough,” Hurley answered. “Mavis dropped another bastard, and he’s come to make a Christian of it.”

“We’ve no need of a clergyman,” Anne insisted. “I’m the Marchioness of Scarbrough, and this man is a kidnapper. If you’ll inform the authorities of my whereabouts, you’d be suitably rewarded. If you don’t, you may find yourself hanging from the same gibbet as your master.”

The old man gazed up at her with his bleary eyes and shrugged. “Save your breath, m’lady. I dinna ken your flothery English speech. Master Ross be the laird o’ Strathmar. Do he bring a kye in a kirtle to this castle and say he will make her his bride, then Hurley Campbell will fetch the Good Book and the dominie. For three hundred years my family has served the Earls of Strathmar, and I’ll nay be the one to break that trust.”

“A cow in skirts would be a more fitting bride for such a pompous rogue!” she flung back. She continued to protest as they entered the gate to the castle and slogged through the mud of the outer bailey, threading their way among a flock of sheep and goats. The dogs trailed after them, barking and nipping at the animals and chasing several bedraggled roosters.

“Master of Strathmar,” Anne intoned mockingly as they pushed aside a sway-backed pony and stepped around a large white sow. The pig sniffed at the stallion’s tail, and the horse gave her a swift kick. Squealing, the pig dashed off through the middle of the sheep. They divided like the Red Sea and just as quickly closed ranks in the sow’s wake.

A slovenly woman carrying a basket of wash turned away from the rough-looking clansmen she was arguing with and stared after the three. One of the men nodded to Ross; the others only watched with expressionless faces.

The gates to the inner bailey were missing altogether. A cart with one wheel blocked the wooden path that ran toward the crumbling stone keep. Chickens scratched in the great heap of manure and kitchen scraps, and a large white goose hissed at Anne as she walked by. Children stopped their games to gape, and a stout wench with a ragged shawl over her shoulders hurried out to meet them.

“Master,” she called. She dropped the switch she’d been carrying in her right hand and wiped her palms on her greasy skirt. “Did we ken ye were coming, we’d have meat for dinner. Porridge’ll have to fill yer belly now.”

A tall, broad red-haired man with a brace of pistols thrust through his belt came around the corner carrying a keg on one shoulder. “Good day to ye, Cousin Ross,” he boomed in thickly accented English “We were just about to breach this last keg of ale. In honor of Mavis’s babe.”

The woman snorted. “The bairn’s yours, Rob Campbell, and well ye know it. His hair’s as red as yer own.”

“Bite your tongue, Greer. Red hair never named no man his kin in these parts,” the giant replied good-naturedly. “Half the clan is rust-topped.”

“Half the clan ain’t got a strawberry birthmark on their arse,” Greer retorted. “The bairn’s his, right enough, Master Ross. He don’t want to own it, ’cause the dominie would haunt him and Mavis to the kirk.”

Ross grinned, accepting the easy manner of these low folk without question. “Breach the keg, Cousin Rob. We’ll toast the bairn and my bride together. Greer, see m’lady up to the solar and find her something fitting to wear for her wedding.”

Anne drew herself up to her full height. “I said I—”

“Go with her and let her tend you proper.” Ross turned his heathen gaze on Anne and threatened in soft tones. “Do ye cause trouble for this good woman, hinney, I vow I’ll come up and bathe ye myself.”

The stout Greer took a tight grip on Anne’s arm and hustled her into the keep.

The great hall was in no better condition than the bailey. The stone floor was covered with moldy rushes, and a great pile of hay was heaped at one end. More hounds lay around the room. Three benches were overturned and laid end to end to form an enclosure to hold a sheep in front of the fireplace.

The rushes crackled and sank beneath Anne’s feet. She shuddered, imagining what vermin might make their home in the disgusting mess.

“This way, m’lady,” Greer said, not unkindly.

The maid’s words, like those of Hurley and Cousin Rob, were heavily burred and difficult for Anne to understand. “M’lady” came out sounding as though it rhymed with “batty.” She thought of appealing to Greer for aid as she had to Hurley, but it seemed useless. She followed the serving woman up a flight of twisting open stairs to a leather-hung chamber.

To Anne’s surprise, this room, although hopelessly old-fashioned, was at least clean. A wide bed, a straight-backed chair, and several benches were scattered around the chamber. Sheepskin rugs lay in front of the cold fireplace and beside the bed. The single window was shut and covered with another sheepskin, but she could see that it did contain glass panes. Beside the fireplace stood a battered copper caldron large enough to bathe a sheep in.

“I’ll send a lad to build ye a fire,” Greer said. She eyed Anne’s tattered gypsy clothing. “There be ladies’ things to fit ye. The late earl’s granny was near yer size. Like her, ye look as though ye need a muckle bowl of gruel to fill out yer bones.”

The woman left her alone. Weary, Anne curled up on the bed. The chamber was damp and chilly, so she pulled the thick sheepskins up over her. Without meaning to, she slept. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, but when she opened her eyes, there was a fire crackling on the hearth and a skinny youth was pouring a bucket of hot water into the brimming tub.

The boy bobbed his head respectfully when he saw Anne watching him. “Greer says tell ye to eat yer gruel afore it freezes,” he mumbled.

Anne slid from the bed. Beside the fire was a low stool with a bowl of porridge, a mug of foamy milk, and a pile of butter-covered oatcakes. Hesitantly, she nibbled the bread. Finding it delicious, she banished all thoughts of what Strathmar’s kitchen must look like and devoured every bite of the plain, country food.

When she had finished the last swallow of milk, she undressed and stepped into the tub. The water was warm and deep enough to wash her hair in. Quickly, using a cake of yellow lye soap she found on the hearth, she scrubbed her body and her hair, rinsing off as best she could. Just as she was stepping out of the tub, Greer returned with an armful of clothing.

“These be auld things as I said afore,” the maid told her. “But they will do better for your wedding than these.” She scooped up Anne’s ragged skirt and shift. “Here be a comb. Ye’ll have to do yer own hair. I’m no lady’s maid, but I can lace yer gown well enough. The master says be quick—the dominie’s waiting below.”

Anne stood like a statue while Greer dropped a soft, age-yellowed linen shift over her head. She tried not to weep as the serving woman helped her into the stiff, square-necked, rose velvet gown with full slashed sleeves and tight bodice.

“There be a cap with this, but like as not ye’ll wish to go bareheaded.” When Anne made no move to dress her own hair, Greer sighed loudly and took up the comb. “We’ll do it plain,” she said. “Men like the lassie’s hair loose, and yers be as fair as summer wheat, all gold and brown together.” She brought a lock of Anne’s hair to her lips to feel the silkiness of it. “Yer hair’s yer glory, m’lady, a crown as perty as any jeweled one.”

Anne was numb inside and out. When she was small, she’d once seen a rook that had flown into her mother’s orangery through an open window. The frightened bird had banged against the windows and ceiling in desperation until at last, exhausted, it had fallen to the floor and retreated into a corner. Ignoring Anne’s pleas for the bird’s rescue, Barbara had ordered one of the servants to bring a cat. The rook’s eyes had been full of terror as it crouched, waiting to be eaten alive. Anne felt now as she’d imagined that bird had felt so many years ago. She was trapped. No matter what she did or said, Ross Campbell was determined to force her to go through with a marriage ceremony.

“Thank you,” she said when Greer finished dressing her hair. “You may go.” When she was alone, Anne went to the window and pushed aside the sheepskin. The rolling countryside spread out before her, cold and bright in the afternoon sun. For a long time she simply stared, not really seeing the sheep moving across the bare winter fields. “Damn it,” she whispered. “I’m not a bird. I’m a woman. I can’t be forced to wed my kidnapper.”

“Hinney?”

Weak-kneed, she turned toward the deep male voice. She clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling. “Go to hell in a handbasket,” she told him. “I’ll not be your bride. I’d sooner jump from this window.”

He laughed and strode toward her, his arms out to catch her, his black devil eyes daring her to try.

A
nne whirled and grabbed the first solid object she touched. Anger seared her breast as she hurled the porridge bowl at Ross. “No!” she screamed. “You can’t make me marry you!” He ducked, and the bowl smashed against the fireplace.

“Hinney! No need to fash yourself. I told you, you’re safe wi’ me. I’d not hurt ye.”

She threw the mug and it glanced off his head, drawing blood. “Oh!” she cried as her anger dissolved into fear. “I didn’t mean—”

“Devil take ye,” he muttered between clenched teeth. He fingered the cut and looked at his wet fingers. The amusement drained from his eyes. “I didna wish it to be this way between us.” His words were low and precise. “Will ye walk or be carried?”

She shook her head. Her throat constricted as terror gripped her. She steeled herself for the blows of his massive fists. “No . . . I . . . I . . .”

“So be it, woman.”

She gave a strangled cry as he strode toward her. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry that she hadn’t meant to hit him with the cup, only to frighten him. Her breath caught in her throat as his hands closed around her. She clenched her eyes shut and waited for the full force of his fury. Instead, he tossed her over one shoulder and started for the door. Her eyes snapped open in surprise, and a flood of relief washed over her.

“I take ye to your wedding, nay your funeral,” he growled.

Anne shut her eyes again as Ross took the steep, winding stone steps of the tower so fast it made her dizzy. She could hear voices below. They grew louder, interspersed with rough laughter. She didn’t open her eyes until he set her lightly on her feet.

“Cousin Malcolm,” Ross said loudly, “this is my bride, Anne.”

She stared wide-eyed at the stern man before her. The dominie was short and moon-faced, with fiery red hair streaked with gray. His clergyman’s robe was open down the front, revealing a full belted Campbell plaid beneath. The man’s eyes were pale blue and glowed with the fervor of a religious martyr. His mouth was hard and thin, his lips colorless.

“Are ye maid or widow?” the dominie demanded.

“
I . . . I
am betrothed to another,” she stammered. “You cannot—”

“Maid or widow?” he repeated harshly.

She blinked. Did this sour little man believe that she could be forced to go through with a marriage ceremony against her will? It was impossible—it couldn’t be happening.

Anne tried to speak, but her mouth was dry; her tongue felt as though it had swelled to twice its size. Her stomach was filled with butterflies. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would burst from her chest; she couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. She swallowed and took a step backward, certain that she would shame herself by being sick down the front of her dress.

Frantically, she gazed around the great hall, seeking some means of escape. Dozens of wild-looking clansmen and women stood staring back at her. She couldn’t imagine where they had all come from when the countryside had seemed so empty. But they were here, and they were real enough. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she caught the heavy scent of damp wool, sheep, and unwashed human bodies. Unconsciously, she clasped her hand to her throat, and her fingers brushed the familiar, cool surface of her golden amulet.

A voice cried in her head,
Have courage. Would you have these barbarians scorn you for a coward?

Heat rose in Anne’s cheeks as her back stiffened and her chin rose a notch. She was English, after all. How dare these Scottish cattle thieves think they could terrorize her. “I am the Marchioness of Scarbrough,” she said imperiously. “I have been brought here against my will, and I refuse to take part in this farce.”

Ross chuckled, and she turned a frosty gaze on him. The swaggering bully! How dare he stand there with that self-satisfied grin!

Anne’s eyes met his, and she felt her face grow even hotter. His sinewy arms were folded across his broad chest, his wide shoulders were thrown back, his head was held high, boasting that ridiculous Scots bonnet with those two eagle feathers. His thick, blue-black hair was long and flowing, hanging around those shoulders like some heathen god’s. Golden rings flashed in his ears.

She ground her teeth together in frustration. The nerve of him! Even the bastard’s widespread stance was insolent. From the toes of those high, soft leather moccasins up his muscular bare legs to the blue and green Campbell kilt cinched tightly around his narrow waist, he was the image of cocksure arrogance.

He winked at her.

Anne let out a burst of contained breath and balled her fists into tight balls in suppressed fury. I wish I’d killed him with that cup instead of just putting a dent in his thick head, she thought passionately.

“Maid or widow?” Malcolm Campbell barked.

“Widow, but—”

Ignoring her, the dominie turned to the bridegroom. “Do ye, Ross Campbell, take this woman to wife in holy wedlock, according t’ the laws o’ man and God?”

“He does,” a male voice burred.

Anne glanced furtively to her left and saw the man Rob who’d been carrying the ale keg on his shoulder when she’d first entered the castle. Beside him, wearing a clean white apron, was Greer. “This isn’t right,” Anne protested hotly. “It’s not legal.”

“I do,” Ross thundered. His booming voice reached to the far corners of the great hall and echoed back at them.

The clergyman turned his cold gaze on Anne. “Do ye, Anne, God-fearing widow, take Ross Campbell as your lawful husband, promising to obey and cherish him until hell freezes over?”

A wave of dizziness made her light-headed. She opened her mouth to utter a resounding
no
when Ross caught her around the middle and gave her a bearhug. “Ohhh,” she gasped.

“She does,” Ross said.

“By the power vested in me by God and Scotland, I declare that ye be man and wife.” He closed his worn Bible with a snap and shrugged off his black robe. Greer caught it as it fell. A red-cheeked maid rushed forth to hand Malcolm a cup of ale. He downed it in one long gulp and wiped the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Good luck to ye,” Rob Campbell said, slapping Ross on the back.

“Good beddin’!” called another red-haired man from the floor. “May she give ye a dozen stout lads.”

Laughter and good-natured shouts from the assembled witnesses drowned out what Greer was whispering to the dominie. Two men rolled an ale keg from the kitchen while others carried in long crude tables. A woman’s shrill laughter rang out. A grizzled piper began to play, and the swirling strains of the bagpipe echoed above the din.

Rob Campbell leaped into a circle of men, threw his hands over his head, and began to dance a wild Highland fling.

Anne stared dumbly at Ross. Surely he couldn’t think this travesty would make her his wife. The cheers of the clansmen stung her like the lash of a whip.

“Kiss her!” a woman cried.

“A kiss! A kiss for the bride!” Clansmen and women alike began to clap in unison. “Aye, Cousin Ross! Give us a kiss!” they demanded.

The bridegroom grinned and pulled Anne into his arms. “Don’t you da—” she began, but her protests were silenced by a sound and lengthy kiss. The onlookers screamed their approval.

Ross whispered in her ear. “Play the part, hinney. I’ll nay do ye harm, I promise.”

Before she realized what he was going to do, he swept her up in his arms. “First the wedding,” he said loudly for the benefit of the witnesses, “and then the bedding.”

“No,” Anne gasped.

He kissed her again. “Trust me.”

“Damn you,” she hissed. “I’d sooner trust the devil.”

“The bonny bride,” he shouted, lifting her high, displaying her like a trophy to the crowd. Raucous cheers signaled their approval as he turned toward the stairs.

“No,” she whispered frantically. “I’m not your wife.”

Ignoring her protests, he carried her up the steep stone steps to the solar. “There are three score good men and women below who would disagree with ye on that, hinney,” he said, slamming the door behind him and dropping her onto the center of the bed. “Take off your clothes. Be quick! We’ll have witnesses here any minute.”

“No,” she whimpered. “No.” She couldn’t believe this was happening—she wouldn’t let herself believe it. It had all been too fast. Maybe the awful clergyman wasn’t a dominie at all. It was impossible that she could be wed to this colonial savage. Not really. She shook her head. “No.” Spots danced before her eyes. She wasn’t certain if she was going to faint or be sick. “I can’t,” she said, scooting to the far corner of the huge bed.

“You can leave the shift on, but the dress has to come off,” he insisted. He swept off his bonnet and tossed it onto the floor, then began to unfasten his belt.

She bit her lip and shook her head again. Despite the heat of the roaring fire, she was trembling like an aspen leaf in a spring storm.

“The dress,” he reminded her. He dropped onto a stool and pulled off one high, beaded moccasin.

Anne couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. His coppery skin glowed golden in the firelight; his ebony brows were like slashes of midnight over those dark, slanted, heathen eyes. His wide nose and high cheekbones cast flickering shadows across the planes of his wickedly handsome face. He bent his head to tug at his other leather moccasin, and a mane of rippling crow-black hair fell forward over his high forehead, brushing the corners of his full, sensual mouth.

She drew in a deep ragged breath, and her nostrils flared as she caught the man-scent of him.

“Ye leave me no choice.” He knelt and drew a hunting knife from the belt on the floor. Scowling, he stood up and shrugged off his plaid. Stark naked, he strode toward the bed, firelight glittering off the steel blade of his weapon.

Anne opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. For a heartbeat, Ross towered over her, then he lunged across the bed and caught her arm. Lifting her easily, he sliced through the lacings of her rose velvet gown. The dress parted, and he stuck the knife between his teeth and stripped the gown off her and tossed it to the floor. Ross gave a sharp tug on the ties that held her petticoats, making short work of them and her shoes, leaving her wearing only her shift and stockings. “Get between the sheets,” he ordered gruffly.

Too frightened to protest, she did as she was told. He slid in beside her. She flinched as his bare thigh brushed her leg. Ross encircled her with an arm and yanked her against him as the chamber door burst open and a score of laughing men and women crowded into the room.

“Witness,” cried Greer. “Let the dominie stand as witness.” Someone shoved Malcolm Campbell to the front of the assembly. “Bear witness t’ the bedding,” Greer said.

“Aye,” came Hurley’s burred concurrence. “Bear witness t’ the master’s bedding of the English widow. Let all who see remember.”

Rob Campbell approached the bed. “Proof,” he demanded. “’Tis custom for the laird to show his bride.”

Anne moaned low in her throat and hid her face against Ross’s chest.

“We must see to witness,” Malcolm called.

Ross lifted the edge of the quilt far enough to show his own state of undress and a glimpse of Anne’s exposed leg. “You’ve seen all ye need to,” he roared good-naturedly. “Away with ye now. Eat and drink. I’ll join ye when I’ve finished this task.”

“Aye,” Greer said with a broad grin. “The lady is a widow. We’ve no need of stained sheets.” She fixed Ross with a shrewd gaze. “Will ye take the lady with all her faults, be she barren or nay?”

“I take the lady,” Ross replied solemnly. “I have seen her from withers to rump, and I take her as I see her.”

“Do you, lady, take the Master of Strathmar with all his faults?” Malcolm demanded.

“What faults?” Ross retorted. The onlookers laughed heartily. “She takes me, don’t ye, hinney?” He squeezed Anne tightly and she gasped again. “Aye.” He grinned. “She takes me as I am. Now out with ye, afore I come down and drink the castle dry and leave no cup or bite of food for any of the rest of ye.”

Still laughing, Rob turned and motioned toward the door. “Ye heard the laird. He’s a task to finish, and one best completed alone.”

Anne kept her eyes shut until she heard the last footstep and the thud of the heavy door closing. Then she let out her breath and opened her eyes.

It was done. Against her will, she had been wed to this giant barbarian. Now he would ravish her body, and nothing, not Church or law, would stop him. Tears pooled in her eyes. This way was not the way she had dreamed of losing her maidenhood.

“Do what you will to me,” she whispered dryly. “I’ll not fight you, but for mercy’s sake be gentle, for I have never known a man.”

Ross’s angry bellow rattled the windowpanes. Swearing, he leaped from the bed and dashed the wine ewer and glasses off a low table and onto the floor. They shattered around his bare feet, but he paid no heed. “Could ye not trust me a little?” he roared. “Have I hurt a hair of your head since I took ye from London Town?” he demanded. “Sweet Jesus, but it twists my guts to see ye lying there whimpering like a whipped cur. Ye cut me deep, woman, if ye believe I could force myself on any wench, kitchen slut or lady wife.” He seized the wooden stool and threw it hard against the hearth. “I had more respect for you when you split my head with that mug!”

Anne sat up, clutching the sheet over her breasts. “I thought—” she began.

“Hellfire and damnation! I know what you thought. But I gave you my word—I promised ye that I’d not hurt ye. I told ye the wedding was to save my life. Ye had no need to shame me before these people.”

“But . . . but you married me,” she stammered. The tears rolled freely down her cheeks.

“More fool I.” Turning his back to her, he wrapped his plaid around his waist and threw a section over his shoulder. Buckling on his belt, he retrieved his knife from where it had fallen beside the bed and thrust it into its sheath. He raised his head, and his angry gaze raked over her with scorching contempt. “Look to your fortune, wife. Your gold is in more danger from me than your cold thighs.”