The Marriage Contract (Marriage #3) - Cathy Maxwell Page 0,8
straight in the fashion of all good finishing schools. He wondered if her pride would be lowered to realize her huffiness added a delightfully indignant, but decidedly feminine, sway to her hips. Her braid bounced with her rhythm.
Anne. Her straightforward name suited her.
“What do you think this is about?” Deacon asked.
“No more than what it appears,” Aidan answered.
“It could be an English trick.”
He pulled his gaze away from where Anne contemplated the best way to climb back into the coach while preserving her dignity. Her first small jump had been woefully unsuccessful, especially since she’d kept one hand on her skirts to hold them down. “You wouldn’t think so if you knew my sister,” he told Deacon and added with a reassuring smile, “Don’t worry. All will be fine. This bit of a muslin is not some English spy.”
“And Delilah wasn’t a barber, either,” Hugh interjected.
His jab hit home. Hugh might be a clown but his keen eyes saw everything. He’d caught Aidan admiring the lass. “She’s not for me,” Aidan said.
Hugh’s smile turned skeptical while Deacon snorted his opinion.
Aidan’s temper rose. He tucked the miniature in the waist of his kilt. “The two of you fetch the horses. We need to take the coachman’s body back with us to Kelwin and see to a decent burial.”
“What of her?” Deacon asked.
Anne had managed to pull herself up onto the coach, exposing quite a bit of leg in the process. She had trim, lovely ankles. And long legs. Aidan liked long legs. He forced his gaze away from the sight. “What do you mean?”
“Do we take her with us?” Deacon asked.
“Of course. We can’t leave her here.”
“Yes we could,” Deacon replied. “If we were wise, we would. Your sister has built a trap and baited it well. She knows your weakness.”
“Which is women?”
“An English woman, Tiebauld. She reminds you of your English past, of where your sister believes you belong. Where it is safe.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Your sister has powerful connections. You don’t think she suspects…?” He let his voice trail off.
“There is nothing to suspect,” Aidan said calmly, but he knew what Deacon meant. He trod a fine line, one complicated not only by the British military commander Lambert’s undisguised hate for him but also Deacon’s firebrand brother Robbie, who was the zealot leader of a brewing rebellion amongst the highlanders.
“I’ve agreed to help Robbie smuggle in the Danish gunpowder, but I’ll do no more, Deacon.”
“Not yet,” Deacon assured him. He glanced at Hugh, who dropped his gaze, not wanting to be a part of a deadly decision, before saying, “Be careful, Tiebauld. The time is coming when all men must choose sides. You will have to decide if your loyalty lies with England or with Scotland.”
Aidan replied tightly, “My decision will rest on what is best for my clan.”
Deacon smiled. “Then you’ve made your choice. ’Tis a king of our own and self-rule that will make Scotland strong.”
“And if we are caught with the gunpowder, we will all be hanged.”
At that moment, Anne tumbled through the coach door. She let out a shout as she fell, followed by a thump Aidan could hear from where he stood.
Dismissing the men with a wave of his hand, he jogged toward the coach. “Miss Anne?” he called, as he drew closer.
She groaned.
With a bound, he leaped up onto the coach side, stretched out on his belly, and looked down through the door. She sat in a heap of skirts, rubbing a spot on her head. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She frowned. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Aidan laughed. He couldn’t help it. She appeared comical…and it was a sign of her temperament that she didn’t lash out at him as any number of people would. Instead, she held up a sheaf of folded papers she’d removed from the brown silk bag in her lap.
He took them. “Do you need help up?”
“Help would be nice,” she admitted dryly.
Reaching down, he grabbed her offered hand by the wrist and easily lifted her to sit beside him. She was a mite of a thing. Average height, slender build, but with nice breasts. He’d noticed those almost immediately, although he hadn’t wanted to admit it, since it fell in line with Deacon’s suspicions.
Deacon was overreacting. Aidan admired all women’s breasts…of course, he’d also noticed Anne’s fine gray eyes framed by long black lashes. Honest eyes. Intelligent ones. She was so refined, so sophisticated—so bloody English.