The Marriage Contract (Marriage #3) - Cathy Maxwell Page 0,25
hounds.”
“Then I’m going to stay?” she asked hopefully.
He wouldn’t make that commitment. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
She spontaneously reached up and kissed him on the cheek. It was probably the most unloverlike one he’d ever had from a woman within ten years of his age on either side. But her eyes had grown shiny again and both he and she were embarrassed.
“Don’t cry,” he warned her. “I don’t like women who cry.”
“I never cry,” she promised, and meekly followed him out the door. He led her into the bedroom, where he picked up the sable throw.
She held back shyly. “Did you hunt for all of those furs?”
He shook his head. “Some are gifts from the Danes and other traders. Some homage. I only hunt for food.”
“I thought you said you hunted for sport earlier.”
“There is sport in it.”
“The sport is painting your face?” she teased softly. Then, “Are you really going to let me stay if I wish?”
“We’ll discuss it.” He moved toward the door. “For tonight, the room is yours.”
Her shyness evaporated. “Yes, goodnight,” she answered happily.
Her obvious relief to be out of his presence irked his male vanity. Minutes ago, she’d been begging him, and now she seemed cheerful to have the bed to herself.
“The room is all yours for tonight, Anne,” he rephrased pointedly.
She smiled serenely. “Goodnight, Aidan.”
At the doorway, he paused for one last look. She waited by his bed, sweet, uncompromised, vastly relieved to escape his clutches. Women!
He threw the sable blanket over his shoulders and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Downstairs, Deacon was enjoying a pipe in front of the fire. He’d stretched out in two chairs to sleep, as was his custom.
Deacon eyed Aidan’s fox fur loincloth and said, “Tiebauld, I’ve gone along with your medieval schemes in the past, but whatever it is you are planning, this is one outfit you’re going to have wear alone.”
Aidan lay down by the fire and rolled himself in the sable. “It isn’t a costume. She’s in my bed.”
“Hmmmm, I had imagined that was her intent all along.” Deacon tapped his pipe. The ashes fell on the floor, close to Aidan’s head. He thought about complaining, but didn’t.
“So, she is leaving in the morning,” Deacon reiterated, as if fearful something had happened to change Aidan’s plans.
And something had. “We’ll see.”
Deacon sat up. “Tiebauld—”
“It’s not for discussion, Deacon. I said we’ll see and so we shall.”
His friend wanted to say more but Aidan rolled toward the fire and shut him out. His rushes smelled doggie. It was cold on the floor, too. Rugs would be better. But he didn’t need a managing female to help him come to those conclusions.
Aidan closed his eyes, certain he’d sleep well. Anne had practically run him to the ground.
Suddenly, he was hit with an idea. He might not be made of the sort of stuff to force Anne to leave, but what if she chose to leave? What if she found highland life was so arduous and so difficult, she couldn’t wait to return to London?
Taking a sniff of his rush mat, he had an idea of how to make that happen.
He went to sleep with a smile on his face.
Anne snuggled down in the rich, warm furs, happily dreaming of riding a flying horse.
So it was a complete surprise when suddenly, her horse overturned her—
—And she found herself landing on her bum in a cascade of bedclothes and furs.
Dazed, she looked around and realized she wasn’t dreaming. Someone had tossed her out of bed.
“Good morning, wife.” Her husband grinned at her from over the edge of the cotton stuffed mattress. He let the mattress fall back in place.
“Why did you wake me?” she murmured.
“I can’t have you sleeping until noon, can I?” he asked pleasantly. He walked around the bed to help her up. “You can’t run a household from bed.”
“What do you want me to do?” She had trouble keeping her eyes open and was conscious he was completely dressed and not in a kilt. He wore thigh-hugging breeches and a white cotton shirt, but without a stock. He’d also shaved already and pulled his hair back in a neat queue.
He looked handsome. Devilishly handsome, as her cousins would have said.
“You know everyone wears his hair short in London nowadays,” she said inanely.
“I am aware that I am not a tulip of fashion. But I’m also hungry. You’d best get down to the kitchen and give Roy direction.”