Bride by Contract Read online

  Swiftly, as if denuded of patience, he swivelled twin bore attention upon Morva.

  'We're almost ready to leave. Are you coming…?'

  'No, I don't shoot,' she declined hastily, 'and besides that, I'll be far too busy supervising the picnic arrangements.'

  She almost bit her lip with vexation, conscious that yet another opportunity had been lost, when Lynda's voice trilled from a close distance, 'Do hurry up, Troy, you're keeping everyone waiting!'

  He turned to leave, then hesitated as if something about her woebegone mouth and slightly dejected-looking figure had disturbed his conscience. He frowned, then in a few lengthy strides drew near enough to tilt her chin with one forceful finger and to gaze long and deeply into wondering brown eyes.

  'You've done a great job of work during the past few weeks, honey. I've heard nothing but praise from guests who believe in registering complaints whenever they are justified and in being equally quick to praise when they receive first-class treatment. Without exception, they appear to be charmed, if a little in awe, of your regal grace and quiet dignity. Some have even begun referring to you as "The Princess", did you know that?'

  The pleased smile curling his lips had the instant effect of turning her knees to jelly.

  'I must remember,' he mused with a hint of promise that caused her hopes to soar, 'to find some way of rewarding your tireless efforts. At the moment, however, duty calls.' With what she dared to imagine was a regretful sigh, he removed his propping finger from beneath her chin and stepped away. 'See you at lunchtime partner?' he cocked an enquiring eyebrow. 'Promise me…!'

  'Yes… yes, of course.' She forced out the tongue-tied stammer while hammering heartbeats were drumming out the message that nothing on earth would keep her away.

  But when he strode out of the room she was shot down to earth by her grandmother's sniping acerbity.

  'I am gradually being led towards the conclusion that your marriage to that young man was a great mistake. As we have all discovered to our cost,' she admitted grimly, 'he is far less malleable than we had hoped, much shrewder than we had expected.'

  Walking stiffly upright she crossed over to the window to watch the cavalcade of Land Rovers moving away. 'I think, Morva, my child, the time has come when we must begin planning how best to rectify what, to modern-minded members of society, at least, is no longer regarded as an irreparable error.'

  Morva's fingers faltered over the task of clearing and re-setting the breakfast table, ready for the small number of late risers who had refused to take up the option of having breakfast served in their rooms. Her spirits were still high, her heart and mind still occupied with Troy's image, his words and their possible meanings, yet the hard tone of her grandmother's voice intruded like a discordant note into her harmonious musing.

  'I'm sorry, Granny, I wasn't paying proper attention, would you mind repeating your last remark?'

  'I said,' she swivelled round from the window to face her, 'that it is time we began examining the possibility of your suing for divorce. But we mustn't act too hastily,' she strolled nearer looking, to Morva's horrified eyes, like a thoughtful expert deliberating upon the next fraught move across the chessboard of her life. 'If we bide our time, I'm certain that Belvoir and his besotted young friend will provide us with all the evidence of misconduct we need to ensure a swift, uncontested suit and to make certain of a financially sound future for the innocent party. Meanwhile, we must begin preparing a rich, comfortable lining for your solitary nest by investing in as many pieces of jewellery, paintings and valuable objets d'art as your bank balance will permit.' Sharply she demanded, 'I trust you have been sensible enough to follow my instructions by insisting that your husband should provide you with a generous allowance in addition to the customary privilege of having personal accounts opened at all the major London stores?'

  Morva stared, speechless with disgust, yet struggling to find excuses for the young, idealistic girl her grandmother must once have been, before a dutiful marriage had condemned her to a proud, ancient, loveless role in history. Pausing also to pity and to ponder for the very first time upon the feelings of her late and unlamented grandfather whose accident of high birth had sentenced him to be joined in matrimony with an eminently suitable partner fashioned from flawless steel by zealots devoted to the cause of ancestor worship.

  'I could never do that, Granny,' she reproved sadly. 'Though Troy was generous enough to imply that the contract we entered into would entitle each partner to an equal share of company assets, I respect him too much to even consider abusing his trust.'

  'Trust!' Her grandmother snorted inelegantly. 'You may sometimes feel inclined to forgive an enemy, but never to trust him!'

  She drew herself up to her full, diminutive, yet intimidating height and with a lack of heat that betrayed complete faith in her ability to dominate, ordered complacently.

  'You must be guided by my wisdom in these matters, my dear, otherwise I'll be led to suspect that you have been foolish enough to fall in love with the man! And while we are dealing with the subject of foolishness,' her voice sharpened, 'would you kindly cease denigrating your position by carrying out menial tasks that are best left to servants!'

  Every physical instinct responded immediately to her grandmother's command, yet simultaneously both mind and spirit were stirred from apathy into stubborn rebellion. Encouraged by the certainty that she was following in the wake of her mother's flight from a lifetime of total domination, she squared her shoulders, drew in a steadying breath, and severed the cords of bondage with the simple admission.

  'If every fool wore a crown, then I should be able to satisfy all your ambitions by being made Queen! I am, in fact, two fools—one for loving and one for saying so. But perhaps it is an inherited weakness for, according to a quote by my mother from a treasured book of poems:

  "All love is sweet,

  Given or returned.

  Common as light is love,

  And its familiar voice wearies not ever".'

  A few hectic hours later, as she was being driven in the direction of a once-derelict cottage that had been transformed on Troy's orders into an ideal base for the last-minute preparation and despatch of picnic lunches, Morva's heady sense of freedom, her feeling of having shed an intolerable load, was intensified by the sight of parent kestrels hovering over fields in which hay was being turned and baled, waiting to pounce upon any disturbed mice or insects to provide a tasty meal for ravenous young chicks. Then as the road climbed up the side of the cultivated valley and clambered over the rim into an unbroken sea of purple moorland, a glimpse of red sandstone tower that could be seen from the fells for miles around reminded her of the church she had visited often as a child and where she had experienced a curious empathy with a trussed and bound figure imprisoned in ancient stone by some long-dead sculptor.

  Subconsciously, she began rubbing her wrists as if expecting to feel the weals of recently removed manacles, then feeling slightly foolish she leant her head sideways against the window frame of the car to cool fevered cheeks in a draught of air scented with heather, cool and pure as water surging and sparkling through backs draped like silver ribbons from the crowns of green, gently moulded fells.

  Once she would have been devastated, reduced to a cowering mass of nerves by the scene that had followed her disclosure to her grandmother that she had been in touch with, and had even spent the night beneath her mother's roof. Yet she had survived the barrage of jealous outrage, her accusations of treachery and even her final, superbly acted display of tearful reproaches without suffering one iota of guilt, her tender heart protected from barbs by an armour of newfound confidence that had rendered it immune to the digs of family members who had manipulated and exploited her for their own selfish gain.

  She winced when the distant sound of gunfire revived a childhood abhorrence of the acrid waft of spent cartridges and the sight of helpless birds being blasted in graceful flight, then plunging down to earth to be plucked int
o the jaws of slobbering retrievers and raced to enlarge macabre stoles of lifeless companions slung around the necks of the battalion of pickers-up that followed in the wake of victorious guns.

  'It all seems such a dreadful waste.' Mrs Mackay put Morva's thoughts into words. 'All the work that goes into the rearing of birds, the cost of arranging a shoot, the need for expensive guns and cartridges?, hardly seems justified when one considers the pitifully small value of the end product.'

  Morva nodded agreement. 'Up gets a tenner, bang goes ten pence, and down conies a couple of quid, as they say, Mrs Mackay. Basically, it is enthusiasm for the sport and the pleasure men gain from outdoor activity that makes them argue that the expense is worthwhile.'

  As soon as the estate cars laden with food and carrying the wives of estate workers eager to lend a helping hand drew up outside the one-storey cottage, Mrs Mackay took command, supervising the unloading of food containers, ushering everyone inside the one main room that had lanterns hanging from old oak beams, and piles of logs stacked against one wall ready to fuel an ancient iron stove which earlier in the day had had a fire kindled inside its iron belly that had been banked high then left to achieve a steadily glowing heat.

  In a matter of seconds the room was transformed into a hive of activity. While Cook's Hunter's Stew—a savoury brew made from her own secret recipe—was being poured from containers into a huge black cauldron set on top of the stove, many hands were put to work at an old refectory table ranged down the centre of the room, slicing and buttering crusty, freshly baked loaves; unwrapping huge wedges of moist pungent cheese from protective veils of muslin; setting out trays with capacious earthenware soup bowls, spoons, and sets of salt and pepper, and lining others with rows of glasses ready to be filled with champagne from dark green, gold-foiled bottles ranged, still uncorked, along the cold stone floor of a larder.

  Standing in the doorway of the cottage situated well behind the firing line, Morva caught an occasional glimpse of beaters' waistcoats flickering flame-bright among the heather; heard the far-off crack of unseen guns, yapping dogs, excited male voices, and shuddered from a mental picture of feathers cascading high in the air from a cartwheeling, bright-plumaged target. Then the signal for which she had been waiting rent the air, two long shrill whistles ordering all guns to unload before gathering to enjoy a welcome break and a substantial picnic lunch. During the short furore that followed handlers shouted urgent instructions to dogs sniffing nose-down through the heather in search of the fallen. Then silence fell as gradually the guns began drifting towards the cottage, their faces registering various degrees of pleasure or dissatisfaction according to the number of birds they had bagged, exchanging good-humoured chaffing as they sank weary limbs on to travelling rugs spread across blanket of heather and waited for healthy appetites to be appeased by stew sending a rich meaty aroma drifting from the simmering cauldron.

  Dogs were splayed out on the heather, contentedly gnawing bones that had been salvaged the night before from the stock pot, and most members of the party were washing down second helpings of stew with glasses of chilled champagne by the time Morva's anxious eyes were rewarded by the sight of Troy and Lynda striding into view. In spite of her inability to dislike Lynda, Morva was shamed by a small thrill of triumph when she noted the bedraggled appearance of the girl who had made a picture of sartorial elegance when she had set out for the shoot a few hours earlier. Once-immaculate slacks had been ruined by grass stains and by mud clinging in patches to finely woven, creamy beige wool. A rent that had been caused by too-close proximity to thorny branches or prickly gorse bushes was visible on the shoulder of a superbly cut tweed jacket, and a felt hat with a row of tiny feathers stuck into its band, that had looked so perfect on Lynda's blonde head, had been reduced to a soggy misshapen pulp pinched between the fingers of a hand extended disdainfully, as if its owner was anxious to put as much space as possible between herself and the well-trampled, muddy-pawed object.

  Keeping her movements casual, her expression unreadable, Morva hurried to offer refreshments to the exhausted-looking girl and her black-browed companion who appeared ready to inflict upon some unfortunate person the same force of action he had used to break the gun he had hooked over one arm.

  'I've saved each of you a bowl of stew!' Keeping her eyes averted from Troy's scowling face, she spread out a rug on a patch of sunwarmed heather and tried not to sound too much like a nagging wife when she enquired. 'What kept you, the others arrived back ages ago?'

  Looking on the verge of collapse, Lynda sagged gratefully on to the rug and immediately began undoing laces so that she could kick off a pair of soggy leather brogues.

  'Why did no one warn me about the excruciating physical exertion required of a person wishing to be a mere spectator at a grouse shoot!' she wailed painfully. 'I did not come prepared to spend a whole morning walking up what appeared at first sight to be just a short climb, for stumbling over uneven ground, sinking into quagmires, or for having to balance for hours on a couple of rocking stones in a boggy butt accompanied by a man in the grip of grouse fever!'

  The look of resentment she speared towards Troy explained much of her ill humour and sent Morva's spirits soaring. So far, Percy had kept his side of their bargain but his apparent defection had caused Lynda to seek consolation from Troy, demanding comfort and companionship which, up until this morning, had seemed to have been bestowed in abundance.

  Even the arrival of two steaming bowls of stew did little to ease an atmosphere fraught with temper.

  'You've allowed yourself to grow soft, Lynda,' Troy countered in a grimly unpenitent drawl. 'Attending lots of late-night parties, indulging your taste for cocktails and guzzling strawberries and cream are pastimes that are unlikely to prepare muscles for the strain of tramping over miles of moorland. Before repeating this morning's marathon, I suggest you take a leaf from Morva's book. Hours spent exercising Clio, together with an inborn timidity that leads her to emulate the custom of birds whose- plumage enables them to fade into their background of rich brown earth and hazy blue heather, has endowed her with the stamina and grace of a thoroughbred filly and the sort of patient, noiseless presence that allows vixens to approach a covey of game birds close enough to lift sitting hens from their nests!'

  Morva would have welcomed the phenomenon of ground beneath her feet developing into a bog so that she could have slid out of sight of azure blue eyes making the most of their low vantage point by commencing just about knee level to glint an approving look over slender limbs that seemed poured into a skin of pale blue denim stretched over thighs slender as a youth's, then continued to confound such a theory by curving outwards over rounded buttocks then inwards to clutch a belt around the incredibly slender waist of a figure that was deliriously and unmistakably feminine.

  She blushed scarlet, wishing not for the first time that her mother's taste in fashion did not incline so much towards the daring, the flirtatiously revealing, then felt rescued from prolonged embarrassment by Lynda's petulant remonstrance.

  'You've scolded me once already for allowing my fluttering scarf to frighten a covey of grouse off its course, so please stop nagging me, Troy!' She thumped her soup bowl down upon the ground and glared, looking highly aggravated. 'And what is more, you needn't preach any more about ethics of behaviour that have to be upheld during a shoot, because I have no intention of repeating today's harrowing experience.'

  Angrily she appealed to Morva. 'What is it, d'you suppose, about an apparently harmless pastime that can turn a normally charming man into a boorish, thoroughly disagreeable companion?'

  A concerted shout of laughter from everyone within earshot caused Lynda's colour to deepen and a sheepish grin to lighten Troy's scowling features.

  Nearby, a man chuckled. 'Good humour is the first virtue to perish on a game shoot. But in all fairness, I must admit that some of the dangerous tactics I've witnessed this morning could not help but rile a man such as our host who has proved himself expert a
t shooting down anything that flies.'

  The chorus of assent that followed his remark seemed to indicate some source of annoyance threatening far worse consequences than the dispersal of grouse by a fluttering scarf.

  'You can say that again!' A second man confirmed Morva's suspicions even before Troy heaved to his feet to extend a tight-lipped apology.

  'I can assure you, gentlemen, that the errors of judgment encountered by most of us this morning will not be allowed to occur again. We are all aware that in order to shoot well, complete confidence in one's guns, cartridges, and companions is imperative. One bad cartridge out of a thousand is an occupational hazard. Everyone, at least once in his lifetime, discovers some fault with the mechanism of his gun. But no one, myself included, would be willing, or foolish enough, to risk a second involvement in a shoot containing a gun who has either forgotten or has never been taught the most elementary rules governing the handling and firing of guns.'

  As if to confirm that the knot of trepidation tightening in her stomach had some connection with her brother's notorious uninterest in any form of sport involving travelling great distances on foot, Percy chose that moment to make his appearance. He sauntered out of the cottage looking every inch a country gentleman in tailored plus-twos, a husky, and hand-made leather boots, and bearing a chicken drumstick in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. Either oblivious to, or unaware of black looks being directed by guests who began dispersing, making no secret of their eagerness to be spared his company, he sauntered on, alternatively nibbling and sipping until he was near enough to boast.

  'Not a bad morning's sport, wouldn't you say? All due, of course, to my expert administration!'