Scandal's Bride (13 page)

Catriona paced determinedly. “Presumably by going to his bed.”

“Yes—but . . .” Clearly dumbfounded, Algaria drew a deep breath. “It's not that simple.”

Irritated by her lingering uncertainty,
and
her lack of experience, Catriona frowned. “It can't be that hard. He's a rake—the activity should come naturally. And it's the right time of my cycle—all the signs are propitious.”

Algaria shook her head. “But what if, after the deed, he changes his mind and decides to stay. You can't be
sure
he'll leave.”

“I've thought of that.” Catriona paced before the fireplace, all that Richard had said of family still fresh in her mind. And although they hadn't discussed it, she could guess what his stance over abandoning a bastard child would be. She felt some qualms over that, but . . . she had always obeyed The Lady, and always would. Besides, Richard's child would not be alone—it would be a much-loved child. Hers. “He won't know.”

Algaria simply stared. “He'll father a child on you and he won't know?” She got off the bed and laid a hand on Catriona's forehead.

Irritated, Catriona brushed it aside. “I've thought it through—it can be done—you know that as well as I. It's tricky, admittedly—he must be asleep enough not to consciously remember, and yet his body and senses must be able to respond and perform. A sleeping potion will dull the brain, an aphrodisiac will prime the body. The doses will have to be perfectly judged, one against the other, but if I gauge the amounts correctly, all should go smoothly.”

Algaria looked ill, but didn't contradict her—she couldn't; she'd taught her most of that lore herself. She could, however, protest. “You're mad. This will simply not work—too many things can go wrong.”

“Nonsense!”

Algaria grew stern, but her underlying fear and concern showed through. “I'll have no part in it—this scheme is as mad as old Seamus's.”

“It's what The Lady requires. She will guide me.”

Tight-lipped, Algaria shook her head. “You must have misinterpreted.”

Catriona drew herself up—she knew Algaria didn't believe that; there was no possiblity she could have misinterpreted such a strong and repeated directive. Folding her arms, she returned her mentor's black stare. “Give me an alternative and I'll consider it—just as long as it results in Richard Melville Cynster being the father of my child.”

Slowly, Algaria shook her head. “I'm against it—this
can't
be right.”

Aware of her mentor's deep distrust of most men, and ones like Richard Cynster in particular, Catriona didn't argue. “I have The Lady's orders—I'm determined to obey them.” She paused, then asked, more gently: “Will you help me?

Algaria met her gaze, and held it for a full minute. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “No—I cannot. I'll have no part in this—no good will come of it, mark my words.” She spoke slowly; she had no alternative to offer and she knew it.

Catriona sighed. “Very well. Leave me—I need to work up the mixture.” She had all she needed in her traveling kit, the kit she'd inherited from her mother. She'd religiously replaced each herb and specific as they aged without questioning why each was included in the selection. The aphrodisiac had always been there—it was there now, when she needed it. Along with a powerful sleeping potion.

Algaria trailed to the door; hand on the knob, she paused and looked back.

Sensing her gaze, Catriona looked up, and raised a brow.

Algaria straightened and lifted her chin. “If you bear any love for me, I pray you,
do not go
to Richard Cynster.”

Catriona held her black gaze steadily. “The Lady wills it—so I must.”

The mechanics of drugging her nemesis proved much easier than she'd expected. Late that night, Catriona paced her bedchamber and waited for the moment of truth—when she would go to his room and discover how successful she had been.

Mixing the potion had been merely a matter of making a series of estimations, all based on her extensive experience. She routinely held the health of the more than two hundred souls who inhabited the vale in her hands—she treated them from birth to death; she knew her herbs. Her only uncertainty lay in gauging her mark's weight—in the end, she'd simply added an extra dash of both potions and prayed fervently to The Lady.

As for getting him to down the drug, the vehicle had been ready to hand—she'd remembered his talk of the whiskey; it was perfect for her needs. The strong, smoky taste would disguise the tang of the herbs, at least to one who was not a connoisseur. She had gauged the amount to add to the decanter so that a good dram would hold enough drug to accomplish what she needed.

Introducing the potion to his decanter had been simplicity itself. She was always the last down to dinner; she simply waited until her usual time, then stopped by his room on the way. Her one tense moment had occurred when she was almost at his door. It had opened, and his servant had come out. Standing still as a statue in the shadows, she had watched him depart, then, barely breathing, smoothly continued on and entered the room.

It was one of the largest bedchambers in the house; the decanter stood on a sideboard beneath one window. It had been the work of a moment to gauge the volume in the decanter and add the required amount of her mixture. Then, stoppering the vial, she'd turned and glided out of the room and down to dinner.

And had had the devil's own time dampening her awareness, her consciousness of what she was up to, especially while under Richard's blue gaze. He'd sensed that she was edgy, so she'd put on a haughty act and prayed he'd see her skittishness as a lingering effect of their morning's kiss.

Catriona humphed and swung about, the skirts of her dressing robe flaring about her. Beneath it, she wore a fine lawn nightgown—she supposed, for him, it should have been silk, but she didn't possess any such apparel. The thought of his hands on her body shielded only by the thin gown made her shiver. She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece just as it chimed.

Twelve solid bongs.

It was time for her to go.

Dragging in a breath past the vise locked about her lungs, she closed her eyes and uttered a brief prayer, then, clutching her robe about her, determinedly headed for the door.

To keep her appointment with he who was to father her child.

T
wo minutes later, Catriona stood in the shadows before Richard's door and stared at the oak panels. An overwhelming sense of fatality weighed heavily upon her; she stood on the threshold of far more than just a room. In opening the door and stepping inside, she would take an irrevocable step into a future only dimly perceived.

Never before had she faced such a choice—such a crucial, life-changing decision.

Shifting, she drew her dressing robe closer and inwardly chided her hesitant self. Of course stepping over the threshold would change her life—getting with child was definitely irrevocable, but quite clearly part of her future. That future lay beyond the door—why was she hesitating?

Because it wasn't just a child who lay beyond the door.

Exasperated, she straightened and reached for the doorknob, simultaneously opening her senses—to detect any hint of warning, any last-minute premonition that her intent was wrong. All she sensed was peace and silence, a deep, quiet steadiness throughout the house.

Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door. It swung noiselessly wide; beyond, the room lay silent and still, lit only by the glow of the fire still flickering in the hearth.

Stepping quietly inside, Catriona closed the door, easing the lock back so it slid home without a sound. Eyes already adjusted to the dark, she scanned the room. The huge four-poster bed stood shrouded in shadows, its head against the corridor wall. The sight held her eyes, her senses. Slowly, on silent slippered feet, she approached the bed.

She was five paces from it when she realized it was empty, the coverlet flat, undisturbed. Eyes flying wide, her breath caught in her throat, she whirled and scanned the room again.

And, from her new position, saw an arm, clad in a dark coat sleeve, wide white cuff golden in the firelight, hanging over the side of the wing chair facing the fire. The arm hung limply, long, lax fingers almost reaching the floor. Between their tips hung a crystal tumbler, its base balanced on the polished boards.

It was empty.

Drawing a calming breath, Catriona waited for her heart to slow, then, carefully silent, glided forward and rounded the chair.

At least one part of her potion had worked—he was asleep. Asprawl in the chair, his long legs stretched before him, his waistcoat undone, his cravat untied, he still managed to look elegant. Elegantly dissolute, elegantly dangerous. His chest, covered by his fine linen shirt, rose and fell regularly.

Catriona's gaze roamed, then lifted to his face; she studied the lean planes gilded by the firelight—a bronze mask more relaxed than she'd yet seen it. With his eyes shut, it was easier to concentrate on his face, on what it showed. Strength was still there, glaringly apparent even in repose; the hint of not sadness, but a lack of happiness that hung about his well-shaped mouth was not something she'd noticed before.

Inwardly frowning, she committed the sight to memory, then shook herself, and turned her mind to her task. Step one had been accomplished—he was asleep.

Fully dressed.

In the chair before the fire.

A good ten paces from the bed.

Catriona frowned in earnest. “What now?” she muttered under her breath. Hands rising to her hips, she studied him—and considered—and studied him some more. Her head was shaking even before she reached her conclusion: with him asleep,
she'd
have to provide the lead in the upcoming proceedings, and for that, she definitely needed him on the bed. A chair might be possible, but her imagination boggled at the thought.

She glared at her sleeping victim. “I might have known you'd find some way to be difficult,” she informed him in a hissed whisper. Bending, she retrieved the tumbler from his fingers before it fell, and turned to set it on a side table. The glass clicked on the polished table top.

Catriona swung back, her eyes flying to Richard's face. The black crescents of his lashes flickered. Then rose.

He looked directly at her.

She froze. Her mind seized; she stopped breathing.

His lips curved, kicking up at the ends first, then curving fully into a beguiling smile. “I might have known you'd turn up in my dreams.”

Daring to breathe—just a little—Catriona slowly straightened and finished turning to stand before him. His eyes followed her; as his lids lifted farther, it was clear he was drugged. Ringed by deep blue, his pupils were huge, his gaze unfocused, not sharp and intent as it usually was.

His beguiling smile, both inviting and evocative, deepened. “Only fair, I suppose—the witch of my dreams haunting my dreams.”

He was awake, but thought he was dreaming. Catriona blessed The Lady—this way, she could get him to the bed. Letting her features, which had blanked with shock, ease, she smiled back. “I've come to spend the night with you.”

His smile changed to a wicked grin. “That's usually my line, but in the circumstances, I'll let you borrow it.”

He seemed in no hurry to rise from the chair; smiling still, Catriona held out one hand.

Retrieving his right arm from over the side of the chair, he reached out and grasped her fingers; before she could urge him up, he drew her closer. His gaze swept her, far hotter than the fire at her back.

“You need to get rid of that robe.”

Catriona hesitated for only a second; any argument might bring him to his senses. Drawing her fingers from his, still smiling, she raised her hands and lifted the loose robe from her shoulders, then let it slide down her arms.

His dazed blue gaze followed it to the floor, then slowly, very slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, rose, caressing her legs, her thighs, her hips, her breasts—by the time he reached her face her cheeks were flaming.

A situation not helped by the wicked glint in his eyes or his openly lustful smile.

“Good enough to eat.”

He made the pronouncement as if he was contemplating doing just that. His gaze slid from her face to rove hungrily again—and Catriona realized that with the fire behind her, her fine nightgown would be translucent.

“Ahh . . . come to the bed.”She held out both hands.

His gaze still on her body, he lifted his hands, every movement slow and heavy, as if his limbs were leaden. His fingers closed about hers—then he lifted his blue gaze to her face, to her eyes, and she saw the wicked laughter flare.

“Not yet.”

He pulled her into his lap.

Catriona went to shriek—and had to swallow the sound. She tensed to struggle—and had to suppress the impulse. Sharp sound, or a fight, could wake him. She wriggled in his lap and managed to face him. His thighs felt like solid oak beneath hers, his chest, when she placed both palms against it, felt like warm rock. About her, his arms lay heavy and relaxed—they might as well have been steel bands holding her trapped.