Unknown by Unknown

She twisted round to face him again, and a hand
came out from beneath the bedclothes to grasp his lace-edged wrist,
the nails digging into his flesh. 'Oh, James, James - I do not know!
Sweet Christ have mercy upon me - I do not know!' she sobbed.
    Frowning,
the man bent to kiss that flushed brow, to stroke that thick,
lustrous hair soothingly. He was not the only one whom the years had
changed, it seemed. It was all true. They had been wed as little more
than children. At seventeen, with his Mastership of Arts from St
Andrews secured, his curators, Archie Napier, Graham of Morphie and
David Carnegie, had decided that the Earl of Montrose ought to be
married. What better choice than the sixteen-year-old youngest
daughter of Carnegie, childhood playmate, neighbour, family friend -
a sound match for both. Neither were really consulted - but, at that
age, neither would have dreamed of objecting. Next to their sisters
and brothers, they knew each other better than they knew anyone else,
and had always been good enough friends. So all had been suitably
arranged, the marriage setdement drawn up and signed, lands and dowry
apportioned. Graham of Morphie had commissioned the famous George
Jamesone to paint a portrait of the bridegroom. Exactly a year later,
an heir was bom, Johnnie - the object of the exercise. It had all been quite notably suitable, satisfactory, successful.
    Magdalen,
and therefore her young husband, had continued to live at
Kinnaird — although he often had to be away visiting his other
great estates in the south. The house of Old Montrose, three miles to
the east, was old indeed -though that was not what the name meant. It
should have been Aid Montrose, from the Gaelic alt
moine ross , the
burn of the mossy point. But, more than old, it was large, rambling
and neglected, indeed part derelict, for the Grahams had other and
more favoured castles in south and west, and the town-house in the
burgh of Montrose itself, where James Graham had been born, served
them adequately as occasional base in these parts. Old Lord
Carnegie would not hear of his young daughter departing for far
parts, moving into the decayed barracks down the road, or setting up
house amongst the burghers of Montrose town. There was plenty of room
at Kinnaird where the young couple could live conveniently under
the authoritative eye of father and curator. And it was so. Possibly
that was a large part of the trouble.
    Montrose
did not withdraw his arm. With the other hand he continued to stroke
her hair. 'You are overwrought, my dear,' he said. 'Tired. Upset. It
has been too long a day. But you will feel better. Tomorrow. You will
see. We shall talk then. I have much to tell you. Today has been too
much for you.’
    Her
smothered sobs were all his answer .
‘Sl eep
now, Magdalen lass. That is your need. I will go
    bed
down in the boys' chamber above. I shall do very well there ...'
    'No!
No - you will not!' Fiercely she cried it
    'It
would serve best, I think. For tonight ..
    'I
say no.' Suddenly she threw back the bedclothes strongly, and
revealed herself as lying naked, a well-made young woman,
heavy-breasted but fair, her abundant white flesh warm in the mellow
lamp-light. 'See - I am a dutiful wife. I told you so. Told you that
I waited for you!' Her voice broke again.
    He
moistened his lips, and took some time to reply, 'Is this ... what you waited for, then?' he got out. 'I think not, my dear.’
    'Yes.
Yes, I say.' She spread herself on the bed, in a sort of defiant
invitation, but with her flushed face and tear-dewed eyes turned away
from him. She spread her body in deliberate invitation - yet her
abhorrence was in every inch of her flaunting yet shrinking person.
    The
man, who was no monk, was deeply moved. And as deeply perplexed, his
body at odds with his mind and heart.
    But
whatever of repugnance he sensed in her, he could by no means reject
that offer and demand. To do so was unthinkable. He rose, and
commenced to remove his