Bride by Contract Read online

  'It depends,' Troy sounded dangerously affable, 'whether your aim was to kill grouse or to terrify guests. You have a total lack of gun sense, Eden,' he fired a quick snap shot that caught Percy point blank with his mouth wide open. 'People like you are a menace to companions on shoots. You do realise that most of our guests have spent the morning cowering in butts ever since they became aware of a high velocity swarm of ammunition coming from your direction? In future, to protect your neighbours from yourself and yourself from angry neighbours, you will not be allowed within range of a rabbit on my estate!'

  Percy's complexion turned puce. 'Are you,' he placed insulting emphasis, 'daring to accuse me of incorrect behaviour?'

  'Social etiquette may be the prerogative of the British aristocracy, but sporting etiquette is universal. Nowhere are good manners so essential as in the shooting field. Consideration for others is the underlying principle, but any man who swings a gun about regardless of where the barrels are pointing, who climbs fences, and jumps ditches, without breaking and emptying his gun is a danger to human life—a potential killer.

  'There are occasions when it is permissible, even necessary, to carry a loaded gun,' Percy patronised, goading Troy's temper with an unpleasant sneer.

  'And there are also rules governing such occasions, Eden,' Troy dismissed with the air of a man disinclined to waste time or energy upon cracking a nut with no kernel, 'just as there are rules governing employment which state that a man can be dismissed if his work should be discovered unsatisfactory.'

  Morva clenched her fists, digging sharp nails into her palms without noticing the pain, conscious only that Percy, when provoked, could be savagely unpredictable.

  'You can't dismiss me, Belvoir,' he swaggered, realising her wildest fears, 'my sister won't allow it! But in case you should be tempted to try, I must warn you that plans for a divorce are already under discussion!'

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was wonderful seeing Ravenscrag restored to its former grandeur, seeing valuables that had been packed and stored in a strongroom unearthed and rearranged in their original positions. Merely to dust them sent a thrill of delight through Morva's frame. Listening to her grandmother indulging in her self-imposed duty of conducting the uninitiated on a tour of the picture gallery, helping them to distinguish between Renaissance, Baroque and the rather more severe Byzantine style helped her to gain a faint insight into the mind of a stern matriarch who considered the aristocratic tradition of retaining wealth and position of far more importance than the mere bruising of human emotions.

  As she stroked a duster across the elaborate gilding of a collection of Sevres vases she paused, straining her ears to catch the comments of a group of guests whose voices were drifting into the State Music Room from the direction of the Painted Hall.

  'Don't you just adore being wakened each morning by a maid serving early morning tea?' The questioner's voice rang with a note of awe.

  'Not half so much as I enjoy returning to my room after breakfast to discover that the bed has been made, the furniture dusted, and all discarded lingerie removed for hand washing.'

  'Ah, yes, but you mustn't overlook the bliss of finding half a bathful of hot water drawn each evening—just waiting for the cold to be added—with a maid on hand to press whichever dress one has decided to wear at dinner!'

  'That meal is the highlight of my day! Delicious food expertly cooked and beautifully presented, and eaten in the company of a charming earl and his lovely young countess.'

  Morva started with surprise, barely able to equate her personal estimate of worth with such a flattering description.

  'I believe some extra special entertainment is being arranged for this evening to sort of compensate for the sadness of having to begin our journey home tomorrow. I've already booked our rooms for next year's vacation,' the voice faded as the ladies began moving away, 'my husband insisted…'

  Next year! Suddenly the colourful porcelain figure of Harlequin, the mischievous fellow supposed to have been invisible to all eyes except those of his faithful partner, Columbine, began dancing before Morva's tear blurred eyes. Where might Troy be a year from now? she wondered miserably. Would a combination of deceit, lies, and misunderstandings have driven him back home to Canada, to territory that was the natural habitat of Lords of High Places, born bachelors who treasured their freedom and relished the wild, sweet thrill of capricious, uncommitted conquest?

  She screwed her duster into a ball and walked across to the window, conscious of the danger of blurred vision and trembling fingers spelling disaster to the fragile figurines she had made her own particular responsibility, unwilling to add to the mounting pile of breakages—shattered trust, ragged nerves, and an irreparably broken heart.

  'Morva, honey, you do have a genius for hiding yourself away!'

  She swung away from the window, feeling a sensation akin to relief as she welcomed a spate of Aunt Cassie's inconsequential chatter.

  'As you are aware, Morva, Mrs Mackay has enlisted my co-operation with preparations for tonight's surprise Wild West Party. We are in complete agreement that the buffet meal should represent a last frontier of food to be savoured as it was in the past, before processed and packaged meals made recipes introduced into the Yukon by varied ethnic settlers all but obsolete. Our problem arose when it came to deciding which drinks should be served with the food. I reckoned that the traditional tipple of three or four shots of hard liquor per person would be all that was needed in the way of alcohol—even for the ladies, most of whom will have been raised on tales that made heroines out of high-kicking, hard-drinking gals who provided all the entertainment available in Wild West Saloons. But Mrs Mackay seemed scandalised by the suggestion and insisted that wine must be made available. So I've come to find out whether there is any unfussy, clean-flavoured Californian wine in the cellars?'

  'I'm afraid I've no idea, Aunt Cassie, but either Troy or Percy should be able to tell you. Unfortunately, I'm not certain where either of them can be found at the moment. You could try the paddock where Percy may be finalising arrangements for polo matches that are due to be played this afternoon.'

  'And what about Troy,' the old lady's voice held a gentle inflection which Morva's sensitive soul immediately interpreted as pity, 'have you no notion of his whereabouts?'

  Find Lynda and Troy's sure to be around! she was tempted to blurt, but instead bit her lip and turned aside, anxious to hide her expression from astute eyes probing every unhappy feature. She started towards the door feeling trapped, sensing too late that Aunt Cassie's reason for searching her out had been no more than a ploy to get her on her own.

  'Wait one moment, if you please, Morva!' The command issued in a tone of authority that had often quelled a canteen full of rowdy cowboys stopped her in her tracks. Reluctantly she turned, resigned to being browbeaten into betraying the cause of Troy's lengthy absences, solitary moods, and moments of deep introspection that were bound to spell out trouble to anyone who loved him. 'Sit down honey,' his aunt instructed more gently, 'and tell me what has gone wrong between yourself and my nephew. Don't worry,' she hastened to appease Morva's shamed gasp, 'the rift isn't obvious to everyone. But I know Troy better than most, which is why I reckon I'm entitled to demand from you the explanation he refuses to give. I'm on your side,' she coaxed urgently. 'Troy can be cussed, overbearing, bad-tempered as a bear, yet I know you love him as much as I do.'

  Seconds later, without actually, knowing how she had managed to get there, Morva was kneeling on the carpet with her head cradled in Aunt Cassie's lap, spilling out all her family's scheming machinations and the misunderstanding that had finally destroyed her marriage. Aunt Cassie listened in silence until she had finished, smoothing a comforting hand over softly tumbled hair, murmuring words of encouragement whenever broken phrases faltered, choked into extinction by bitter tears. Then after a while when tears had dried up and she had nothing left to say, Morva slowly raised her head and lifted wet lashes wondering why the o
ld lady was doubtfully shaking her head from side to side.

  'I'm sorry, honey,' she finally surprised her, 'but some of the things you've told me just don't add up. For instance, the reason Troy gave for proposing marriage strikes me as ludicrous. Why, in heaven's name, should a young man in his position—wealthy, attractive and with a horde of prospective brides to choose from—pretend to be in desperate need of the sort of guidance to be gained from a downy chick who would be hard pushed to find her own way around a chicken run!'

  'Aunt Cassie…!' she gasped a protest.

  'Morva, I hope you won't feel offended if I speak bluntly, because it's the only way I know how.' Doggedly she pressed on. 'Had my ex-tree felling, deer-stalking, trout-tickling, business barracuda of a nephew been in need of any sort of guidance he would have followed his usual practice of engaging an expert to teach him the tricks of the trade. Troy has always placed enormous value upon his freedom, so how can you possibly regard yourself as a bargain bride,' she snorted, 'when marriage has cost him his most treasured possession! No, honey,' she rejected firmly, 'far from shopping in bargain basements, Troy is attracted only by objects of refinement tucked away out of reach on the highest shelves. I fear your arguments must have been felled by his power of persuasion, that you have been played like a fish, stalked and led straight into a matrimonial trap—but for what purpose I cannot guess. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt,' she insinuated softly, 'by beginning to study the not inconceivable notion that my nephew's low-key, very hasty proposal might have been the act of a coward in love…'

  For the first time in days Morva's wounded mouth turned upwards in a smile as she considered the outrageous suggestion that Troy might be anything other than a dedicated go-getter, an assured, self-confident king of commerce, born to rule, to command respect from his kingdom of less ruthless, less determined, less single-minded followers.

  'You can't be serious, Aunt Cassie!' She trembled as she dared to imagine for one fleeting moment what it might be like to be loved by Troy, to be swept into arms strong enough to afford hard-muscled protection against the assaults of her scheming family, to experience his stormy kisses and the electrifying touch that could unleash a tempest of feeling that only a man of force and ferment could satisfy.

  She sighed, and with bright stars of wonder slowly fading from her eyes whispered sadly.

  'Don't you think, Aunt Cassie, that anyone fortunate-enough to earn Troy's affection would be left in no doubt about his feelings?'

  'Ordinarily, yes.' Gently she smoothed a silken wisp of hair from Morva's brow. 'But you are far from ordinary, child, and I suspect that he could be a little in awe of you.'

  'In awe of me!'

  Aunt Cassie smiled. 'Honey,' she chided, 'I don't think you realise the impact your quiet, dignified manner has upon most people. Even I,' she confessed dryly, 'have sometimes felt tempted to curtsey when entering the presence of yourself or your grandmother. Fortunately, I've been around long enough to have learned that those who appear most self-confident are often the most insecure. How is any man to know, without the benefit of encouragement, that the fragile porcelain shepherdess placed in his clumsy keeping might possess as much tough resilience as the roughly whittled image of an Indian squaw?'

  Urgently she tipped up Morva's chin until wise old eyes were directly in line with bewildered brown.

  'The choice is yours, Morva! It is up to you to take the initiative, to prove to Troy that you are not a brittle objet d'art but a flesh and blood woman with enough passion in her veins to turn water into steam! What do you say, gal. Are you game…?'

  Swept along on the surge of Aunt Cassie's enthusiasm, Morva gasped, drew in a shaken breath, then stammered.

  'Yes… yes I am! But how…?'

  'I'll tell you how,' she beamed, her eyes flickering bright with spirit inherited from tough, pioneering ancestors. 'Just listen carefully while I explain exactly what I want you to do…'

  For the remainder of that day guests seeking information or advice from their polite, helpful hostess found her unusually distrait, possessed of a dream-like quality that made her responses abstract, her pale pixie features turned fey by wide eyes that looked stunned, fixed upon some mental vision whose bizarre theme was holding her in the grip of horrified fascination.

  Conscious of a need to keep her mind upon her duties, she made her way through the grounds towards the building that was to be the base of this evening's festivities, the grand farewell party for their first contingent of overseas guests. Anxious to ensure that no curious follower should deprive fellow guests of the element of surprise, she took care to keep well out of sight of spectators crowding around the edge of the paddock waiting for the first polo chukka to begin. Her objective was a sizeable building set apart from the castle, a small private theatre that had been built by a previous earl who had indulged his thespian leanings by starring in plays and musicals put on by a society of amateur performers made up of family, staff, and any talent that could be culled from surrounding villages. Far from disbanding after the earl's death, the society had striven over the years to reach a standard of perfection Troy and his aunt had found amazing when they had eavesdropped on one of their regular weekly rehearsals and heard vigorous male voices belting out a rousing chorus from the musical Oklahoma.

  It had been the colourful checked shirts, the high-heeled boots and wide-brimmed stetsons worn during the dress rehearsal that had inspired Aunt Cassie's idea for a Wild West Party. Her suggestion had been met with shy agreement from the cast, but when Morva stepped inside the theatre she was astonished by the discovery that enthusiasm whipped up by Aunt Cassie had resulted in the transformation of a rather bare oblong room into a replica of a Wild West saloon, complete with a long wooden bar well stocked with bottles ranging the width of a stretch of tarnished, flyblown mirror; makeshift spitoons scattered over a sawdust carpeted floor; plain wooden chairs set around bare circular tables, and a honky-tonk piano placed in a pit situated directly below a stage draped with red velvet curtains.

  Her heart soared, then plummeted to earth with the speed of a stricken grouse when she saw Troy, looking completely at one with his surroundings, one elbow propped against the bar as he listened without interruption to his aunt's flow of rhetoric.

  'Can't you just feel the mounting build-up of atmosphere relevant to the hard-cussing, hard-drinking, hard-working era when men loaded with gold nuggets were prepared to fight each other for the privilege of twanging a chorus girl's garter?' Morva heard her exclaim as she approached the husband who had made it his business to ensure that they had not spent one moment alone together since Percy's spiteful disclosure.

  'My only regret,' Aunt Cassie ran on, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her listener's grave attention had suddenly been switched to Morva, 'is that in order to preserve the element of surprise we could not be more explicit about the type of dress to be worn for the party. But I did my best to stress that outfits should be informal and I think my message was received and understood. However, just in case any of the guests should still be in doubt,' her brow puckered anxiously, 'you will remember, Troy, that you promised to get ready earlier than usual and remain where you can be seen so that your casual garb can be used as an example by doubters!'

  She turned to smile acknowledgment of Morva's presence. Then with an air of innocence that caused Morva to wonder whether she had imagined the ruthless tactics that had been used to overrule all objections to her wickedly daring scheme, she promised.

  'Tonight, I aim to serve everyone with a slice of history from the Canadian side of the family cake by trying to recreate the exact atmosphere and ambience prevailing on the day Troy's great-grandfather struck gold twice in one day—once by discovering a seam of precious ore in the mountains, and secondly by snatching from the stage of a rowdy saloon the shy young girl making her terrified debut before a pack of howling miners who was given just a split second to decide whether to say yes or no to his proposal that she should become
his bride.'

  A blast of noise almost drowned her final words, a nearby baying of masculine voices interspersed with excited yells and the rapid pounding of hooves, that had the effect of darkening the frown that appeared to have become permanently etched upon Troy's features.

  'Let's hope the cake of history you are cooking up does not turn out to be little too authentic,' he warned grimly, stretching upright as if preparing to make a soft-footed retreat from a presence whose bowed head and nervously twisting fingers he found a source of aggravation. 'From what little I've seen of Eden's polo-playing cronies, there is little to choose between them and the irresponsible young braves who rode for hours astride galloping ponies, yelling blood curdling war cries to get the adrenalin flowing before embarking upon a frenzied massacre!'

  Morva watched his stiffly upright figure until he had marched out of sight, convinced by his curt dismissal, by the angry set of his shoulders, of the utter futility of the plan to which she had been committed.

  Desperately she swung round to appeal. 'Aunt Cassie, I can't do it—'

  'You can and you must,' the old mind reader snapped before Morva had time to conclude her sentence. 'Troy is angry and miserable and you are to blame! If you place any value at all upon your marriage you'll sink your pride and seize what is likely to be your last opportunity to make him see sense!'

  Feeling bullied beyond endurance, she hurried out of the old lady's presence. Much against her, inclination, she was drawn towards the paddock where the hoots and howls of both players and spectators were growing louder by the minute.

  The scene was riveting. Brilliant white shirts outstanding against a smooth sward of grass; lean, fit, arrogantly assured young men on thoroughbred ponies engaged in furious activity, uttering wild cries as they charged like knights of old waving sticks that whistled past their mounts' ears as they swung from the hips and leant well out from the saddle, striving to thwack a white plastic ball through goal posts situated either end of a long wide pitch. The exhilaration in the air was infectious. Bedlam reigned as the ponies exercised the unlimited stamina, staunchness, speed and natural balance that were the hallmarks of thoroughbreds. Excitement rose almost to the height of hysteria as admiring spectators applauded the bold approach, cool courage and arrogant disregard of watching strangers that stamped the players scions of aristocratic families.