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