Scandal's Bride (12 page)

He was a powerfully attractive, family-oriented gentleman, but he was still a warrior to the core.

The house rose before them, cold and grey; she felt his gaze on her face.

“You look pale.”

She glanced up and realized he thought she was still reeling. She let cool haughtiness infuse her eyes. “I haven't been sleeping well lately.”

She looked ahead; from the corner of her eye, she saw his lips twitch.

“Indeed? Perhaps you should take up the local custom of a dram of whiskey before climbing into bed. Jamie tells me the locals all swear by it.”

Catriona humphed. “They'd swear by any ‘custom' that means drinking whiskey.”

He chuckled. “Understandable—it's good stuff. I hadn't really appreciated it before. I'm a rabid convert to the local custom.”

“Converts are always the most rabid,” Catriona observed. “But if you really are interested, you should visit the distillery in the valley.”

They'd reached the side steps; describing the distillery, she led the way inside.

“A
h—Richard?”

Halfway across the front hall, Richard halted and swiveled—Jamie stood uncertainly in a doorway.

“I . . . ah, wondered if you could spare me a moment of your time?”

As lunch had concluded half an hour ago, and as his witch had haughtily declined his invitation to find another tree and, nose in the air, hips seductively swaying, retired to her room, he'd been on his way to the billiards room to while away the afternoon, Richard saw no reason not to smoothly incline his head and stroll through the doorway through which Jamie waved him.

He knew what was coming.

Jamie didn't disappoint him. Closing the door, Jamie followed him into the room and indicated a large chair angled before a desk. Richard sank into the chair, lounging gracefully, balancing one boot on his knee.

His host, however, didn't settle in the chair behind the desk, but paced nervously before the hearth—before Richard. Glancing about, Richard noted the ledgers filling the shelves lining one wall, and the maps and diagrams of the area scattered about the room. This was clearly the estate office, equally clearly Jamie's domain. The room was small but comfortable, much more comfortable than the library Seamus had inhabited.

“I wondered,” Jamie eventually began, “whether you've decided yet how you will answer the solicitor next week.”

The look he bent on Richard was a plea—not to be saved, but to have the worst told to him.

“I'm afraid,” Richard replied in his London drawl, “that I've not yet decided.”

Jamie frowned and paced on. “But . . . well, it isn't all that likely, is it?”

“As to that,” Richard answered, “I really can't say.”

In the hall, hugging the shadows, Algaria pressed her ear to the oak panels of the office door. She'd been traversing the gallery upstairs, on her way to Catriona's room to inquire as to the reason for her unusual withdrawal, when she'd heard Jamie speak to Richard in the hall. His intent had been obvious; what she'd heard thus far confirmed it. She was not averse to a little eavesdropping if it served to ease her mind. And Catriona's.

“But you normally reside in London, I understand. I'm afraid Catriona will never live anywhere else but Casphairn Manor.”

“So I apprehend.”

“And, well, she really is a sort of a witch, you know. Not the sort to change people into toads or eels or whatever she might say, but she really does—can—do strange things—and make other people do strange things.”

“Really?”

The tone of that response had Algaria gritting her teeth.

“And doubtless you're accustomed to balls and parties in London—a constant stream of them, I imagine.”

“Indeed—a never-ending stream of balls and parties.”

The undertone sliding beneath that reply made Algaria frown, but before she could define the emotion, Jamie spoke again.

“And, ah . . .” He coughed. “I daresay there are many ladies—very beautiful ladies—gracing the balls and parties.”

Leaning back in the chair, Richard merely inclined his head and kept his face expressionless.

His lack of response made Jamie more nervous. “I understand life at the manor is very quiet—no balls or parties at all. In fact, according to Catriona, it's even quieter than here.”

“But not colder.” The words left Richard's lips before he'd thought; luckily, Jamie took them only literally.

“True—but it's still very cold.” He threw him a searching look. “The Lowlands are a lot colder than London.”

“Indubitably.”

As Jamie continued highlighting the stark contrasts between the life he imagined Richard led in London—only a slight exaggeration of the truth—and the life he could expect to lead as the lord of Casphairn Manor, Richard politely held to his noncommittal replies. As Jamie was his host, he felt obliged to humor him thus far, but would not commit himself, one way or the other.

He couldn't. He hadn't yet made up his mind.

Commited by a freakish, witch-induced impulse to seriously consider Seamus's proposal, the more he did—the more he learned of Catriona Hennessey—the more he felt inclined to accept. To take up Seamus's gauntlet, accept his challenge, which, day by day, was looking more like an appeal—an appeal to greater strength—the offer of a commission.

A commission for life, admittedly, but he was developing a serious taste for one of the payments that would accrue. The idea of having a witch in his bed for the rest of his life, his to tease, taunt and enjoy as he—and she—pleased, was shaping as a potent inducement.

But he distrusted the entire situation. Fate and Seamus McEnery had conspired to place him in it—he had no reason to trust either. Not on the question of marriage, not given what marriage meant to him.

So he hedged and said nothing—the gentlemanly course. “Well!” Jamie exhaled as he ground to a halt and somewhat dampeningly concluded: “The truth is, I suppose, that life in the Lowlands, married to a wild witch, would not measure on the same scale as the life of a London swell.”

Lids lowered, Richard gravely inclined his head. “Indeed not.”

Life with a wild witch was infinitely more alluring.

Out of breath, Algaria reached the top of the stairs just as the office door opened. Silently, she slipped into the shadows of the gallery and headed for Catriona's room.

Her brief tap on the door went unanswered; frowning, she tapped again. When no sound came from within, she frowned even harder and opened the door.

And saw Catriona slumped on the floor.

Smothering a cry, Algaria quickly shut the door and rushed forward; the briefest glance at the items on the table beside which Catriona lay was sufficient to tell her all. Her erstwhile pupil had been scrying, and scrying deep, if her swoon was any guide.

Even as Algaria straightened her limbs, Catriona stirred.

A second later, as a wet cloth passed over her face, she regained full consciousness. Peeking through her lashes, she saw that her attendant was Algaria, and relaxed. “Oh,
hell!”

Algaria sat back. “Hell?”

Struggling onto one elbow, Catriona waved. “Not you—this whole situation.” She'd gone further than mere scrying—she'd literally challenged the powers that be to reconsider, and demanded an unequivocal answer.

The answer she'd received had been more than unequivocal—it had been emphatic.

“Ah, well—the situation has just taken a turn for the better.”

“It has?” Catriona frowned as Algaria helped her to her feet. Her mentor's smug expression rang warning bells. “How?”

“In a minute.” Algaria steered her to the bed. “Here—just lie back and rest, and I'll tell you all I heard.”

Still weak from her exertions—facing She Who Knew All was exceedingly draining—Catriona was very willing to lie down. Algaria sat beside her and proceeded to tell her tale—how she'd listened to Jamie's discussion with Richard Cynster in the office.

Algaria's memory, perfected by the demands of her calling, was exceptional; Catriona had no doubt she was hearing exactly the words that had been said. Algaria's veracity was beyond question, as was her devotion to her own welfare—Catriona knew that for fact. However, in this instance, Algaria's tale gave her a headache.

A massive one.

“So!” Algaria triumphantly concluded. “It's as I said—he's only amusing himself—teasing you, if you like. But he's absolutely certain to go back to London and leave you unwed—he made no attempt to deny it.”

“Hmm.” Frowning direfully, Catriona massaged her temples.

Studying her face, Algaria's triumphant expression faded. “What is it?”

Catriona glanced at her, then grimaced. “A complication.” She saw the questions gathering on Algaria's lips; she stayed them with a raised hand. “I'm too tired to think, just now.” After a moment, she continued: “I need to rest, and consider—to see how what I've been told fits with the facts, and how the whole might come together.”

Lifting her head, she smiled, a trifle wanly, at Algaria. “Let me rest for an hour or two—come back and wake me for dinner.”

Algaria hesitated. “You'll tell me what you learned then?”

With swift understanding of the older woman's fear of being left out, being redundant, Catriona smiled and squeezed her hand. “Before dinner, I'll tell you all.”

* * *

Dinner time came around far too fast; it seemed to Catriona that she'd barely had time to marshal her thoughts before Algaria returned.

Struggling up against the pillows, she waved Algaria forward. “Come sit and I'll tell you all.”

She did, starting from the first visions she'd had, through all her subsequent communcations with The Lady, culminating in the most recent.

As she restated that last, emphatic dictate, Algaria stared. Then frowned. “Just that—no qualifications?”

“Not a one. She could hardly put it more simply:
He will father your children.”
The words still rang in Catriona's mind.

Algaria's frown mirrored her own. “But . . .”

Together, they revisted the problem—concisely; Catriona had been over the same ground on her own so many times her head still hurt.

“But he's
too strong,
” Algaria insisted. “He's not the sort of man you
can
marry—he'll never be content to sit back in besotted bliss and let you make the decisions.” Bewildered, she shook her head. “But if The Lady says . . .”

“Precisely.” Catriona waited patiently while Algaria examined the problem from every angle—her mentor's view in large part mirrored her own.

In the end, Algaria simply shook her head. “I can't make head or tail of it—we'll just have to wait for some sign of how we should proceed.”

Catriona caught her eye. “I've just had the next sign. You brought it.”

Algaria stared at her, then blinked. “The news that he'll be leaving?”

“Indeed—and if he leaves, just how is he to father a child on me? I can't go chasing him to London, yet, as you say, he seems certain to leave at the end of the week—in all my discussions with him, I've had no indication otherwise.”

Algaria shot her a quick glance. “He does seem taken with you, but many men are.”

Catriona inclined her head. “As you say—physically, I'm attractive enough, but on further reflection . . .” She considered, then stated: “All he has said and done is consistent with what you overheard—he's considering the possibility because there are various elements in the proposed situation that attract him, but, ultimately, there's nothing I can offer him that he can't, in reality, find in London, with a wife much more suited to his lifestyle.”

She felt proud of that assessment—it had taken some soul-searching, and the exercise of brutal candor, to reach it. Richard Cynster was attracted to her for a number of reasons, but she would not, ultimately, be a suitable wife for him. He was too far-sighted not to see it.

“So, what now?” Algaria asked. “If he leaves . . .”

Catriona drew in a deep breath. “If he leaves, he leaves—we can do nothing to stop him. Which means . . .” She looked at Algaria, waiting for her to reach the same conclusion she had.

This time, her mentor failed her. Totally bemused, Algaria stared at her. “Means what?”

“It means,” Catriona declared, getting off the bed to pace, “that I'm to beget a child by him, but we won't be married.” She waved aside Algaria's frown. “That, if you think about it, is possibly the perfect solution for me—to have a child outside wedlock. The Lady, you'll notice, does not mention marriage, only the fact that I'm to have a child by him. And you have to admit, if he'd been a stallion, he'd be a prize.”

“
Prize?
You're going to . . .” Algaria's voice trailed away; aghast, she stared. Then: “How?”