Scandal's Bride (17 page)

Catriona opened her eyes wide. “Calming Meg, dosing the children—all six of them—then mixing Mary a potion, then checking the children, then helping Meg get up, then checking the children, then . . .” She waved. “My day flew, I'm afraid.”

He eyed her narrowly. “I'd hoped to catch up with you after lunch.”

Catriona threw him a helpless, apologetic look.

Richard inwardly snorted, and all but glowered at the rest of the company. He'd filled in what probably ranked as the dullest day of his life in the library and in the billiard room, praying that his sudden susceptibility would fade.

It hadn't.

Even now, just standing beside her, his body was literally remembering what hers had felt like pressed against him. Naked—skin to skin. The thought made him hot—hotter than he already was. If she'd been a problem yesterday, with her ability to arouse him, after last night's dream, she qualified as a full blown crisis. “I wanted to speak with you.”

About what, he wasn't sure. But he definitely wanted to know if she felt what he did—if she could sense the sheer lust that scorched the air between them. He'd watched her carefully but had detected no especial awareness; he slanted a glance at her now, as, with less than a foot between them, she calmly considered his words. Not a glimmer of consciousness showed.

While all he could think of was how it had felt to slide inside her.

He bit back a groan; it was no use hardening his muscles against the remembered sensations—they were hard enough as it was. “We need to talk.”

The glance she threw him was searching. “You're not sick—you don't need my professional advice.”

She sounded positive—Richard wasn't so sure. He might not be physically ill, but . . . he knew his “dream” was a dream for the simple reason it could not have really happened. The chances of her turning up in his room like that, smiling and saying she'd come to go to bed with him, were, in his estimation, less than nil.

And if that hadn't happened, then the rest certainly hadn't.

But he'd never had memories like this, not even of real events. Real women—ones with whom he
had
shared a bed. Much as he hated to think it, he wasn't at all sure that all the long nights of his lenthy and lustfully successful rakish career weren't coming back to haunt him.

Because he was sure—to his bones—that he knew her in the biblical sense.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth. “Do you know much about dreams?” He glanced at her. “Can you read them?”

She looked up and met his eyes; he sensed her hesitation. “Sometimes,” she eventually replied. “Dreams often mean something, but that something often isn't clear.” She considered, then quickly added: “And it's often not the thing it appears as in the dream.”

He threw her an exasperated look. “That's a lot of help.”

She blinked and considered him. Rather carefully, he thought.

“If you're troubled by some dream, then the best thing to do is set it aside for the moment, because if it
is
supposed to mean something, then that something will become apparent, usually in a few days. Or the dream will disappear.”

“Indeed?” Richard raised a brow, then reluctantly nodded. That was probably sound advice—he might as well put it into practice. But first, he needed to stop her from deserting him. He nodded to the tea trolley being stationed before Mary. “I'll get our cups.”

Catriona graciously inclined her head and watched him cross the room. And swore she'd start carrying a fan. She was so hot, she was surprised she hadn't spontaneously combusted—gone up in flames right here in Mary's drawing room. The flushes that washed through her came in two forms—hot and hotter. Hot when he wasn't looking directly at her, hotter when he was. The only reason she was still standing here, using every ounce of her will and experience to appear unaffected, was because she'd convinced herself this was the penance she had to pay for the way her plan had affected him—to bear with the counter-effect and bring him what ease she could. But . . .

She was desperately in need of her tea.

He returned and handed her her cup; she accepted it and sipped gratefully.

Richard sipped, too, for much the same reason, then set his cup back on its saucer. “Tell me about this role of yours—being the lady of the vale.”

Catriona blinked and looked up at him. “The lady of the vale?” When he simply waited, she asked: “You want to know what I do?”

Richard nodded. And saw wariness seep into her eyes.

“Why?”

“Because . . .” He paused, then continued, “I want to know what I'm turning down.” If she thought he was considering falling in with Seamus's plan, she'd tell him nothing. He capped the words with one of his teasing smiles, and was rewarded with one of her humphs.

“You don't need to know.”

“Where's the harm?” He slanted her a glance—she'd tossed her pert nose in the air again and he was wretchedly uncomfortable. “You're the local healer, but that can't be the summation of your duties, not if you own the vale.”

“Of course not.”

“I assume you keep control over the rents and sales of produce, but what about the other areas? The livestock, for instance. Do you supervise the breeding yourself, or does someone else help?”

The glance she shot him was part irritation, part resignation. “There are others, of course. Most of the husbandry is dealt with by one of my staff, but the dairy is separate.”

“Do you make your own cheese?” By dint of a succession of careful questions, he dragged a reasonable outline of her holdings, and how she managed them, from her. As he'd expected, there were gaps in her management—important areas in which she relied on people who themselves had no real qualifications. She trusted too easily, despite, or perhaps because of, her beliefs.

He'd already proved that.

Catriona answered his questions because she couldn't see any reason not to. And he surprised her—with his insight, his understanding, his experience. In the end, she asked: “How do you know to ask all this?” She frowned at him, grateful the heat between them had ebbed. Not disappeared, but eased. “Do you manage large estates in your spare time?”

He looked mildly bemused. “Spare time?”

“I gathered your conquests in London take up
most
of your time.”

“Ahh.” Her tart reply amused him. “You forget—I'm a Cynster.”

“So?”

His smile started off as teasing, but somewhere along the way turned intent. “You've forgotten,” he murmured, “the family motto.”

Catriona felt the air about her stir; she was surprised it didn't crackle. She held his gaze and lifted a haughty brow. “Which is?”

“To have . . . and to hold.”

The words hung between them, layered with meaning; holding his gaze, Catriona prayed he couldn't see through her mask as easily as she could see through his. She didn't need to be told those words were not just a motto—they were a
raison d'être
. For them all, perhaps, but especially for him.

The bastard—the warrior without a cause.

Barely able to breathe, she reached for his empty cup. “If you'll excuse me, I must check on Meg.”

He let her go without a word, which was just as well. How much longer she could have withstood the temptation to reach out to him—to let him have her as his cause—she didn't like to think.

Nevertheless, later that night, when the last of the midnight chimes died, she once more stood before his closed door—and stared at it. While telling herself, in very plain terms, precisely why she was there.

First and foremost there were The Lady's orders, orders she could not defy. And it was indisputable fact that three nights was the minimum she should spend with him—that was what she would advise any other woman in her place.

And lastly, but, she had to admit, very far from least, there was the simple fact she wanted him. Wanted to lie in his arms again, wanted to miss none of the short time fate had granted them. She wanted to hold him again, the vulnerable warrior, and give herself to him completely—give herself to fill the void in his soul. She couldn't marry him, but that didn't mean that he—and she—couldn't have that.

Even if only in his dreams.

She drew a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

Lying back in his bed, wide awake, Richard stared moodily at the whiskey decanter. He'd gone without his usual nightcap. It had occurred to him that the whiskey—not his normal drop—might be to blame for his over-vivid dreams.

If it was, he'd avoid it. He couldn't handle another day like this, with his body clamoring—reacting—as if something that hadn't happened had. He'd go mad. Some held that the Scots were all insane—witness Seamus. Maybe whiskey was to blame.

The soft swoosh of air as the door opened had him turning his head. The door swung open—not tentatively—and Catriona walked in. She closed the door quietly, then scanned the room—and saw him. The fire had burned low, but he still saw her soft, peculiarly witchy smile.

Every muscle in his body locked; he couldn't breathe. A condition that worsened as, her smile still playing over her face, she walked toward the bed, slipping off her robe—a robe he remembered—as she came. She let the robe fall as she reached the side of the bed. Head on one side, she studied him—still smiling softly.

Absolutely rigid, he watched her, then realized she was searching his face. The light from the fire didn't reach the head of the bed; she might be able to see his eyes were open, but she couldn't possibly read them. If she did, she'd flee.

Instead, her smile deepened. She reached for the covers, then hesitated. Then she shrugged and straightened—and calmly unbuttoned the bodice of her nightgown, grasped the skirt, and drew it off over her head.

Richard sucked in a tortured breath; if he could have moved he'd have pinched himself. But he
knew
he wasn't asleep.

He wasn't dreaming. This was real.

Totally naked, her long tresses hanging free about her shoulders, over her back, her skin—smooth breasts, sleek flanks—gleaming like ivory in the weak light, she lifted the covers and slid in. The dipping of the mattress as she settled beside him triggered an instinctive, almost violent response. He only just managed to suppress it—the primitive urge to roll over, cover her, take her.

His mind was reeling, his wits in disarray, struggling to grasp the fact that this was
real
—that she was, in solid fact, here, in his bed—blissfully naked.

What in all hell was she up to?

He hadn't moved—he didn't dare; if he did, the reins would slip from his grasp, and God alone knew what would happen then. Every muscle quivering with restraint, he looked at her.

And she touched him.

Spread one small, warm hand over his chest, then swept it down to boldy cup him.

After that, hell, God—even her Lady—didn't matter.

He closed his eyes on a long groan. Her fingers tightened; his reins snapped. He caught her hands, first one, then the other, locking them above her head in one of his. In the same movement, he lifted over her, found her lips, and plundered.

One thought burned in his fevered brain—to confirm, beyond all doubt, that
she
had been the woman in his dream. That she'd been the woman he'd brought to life the night before, the woman who'd begged him to take her, then writhed like a wanton in his arms.

He closed his hand over one firm breast and recognized it. Felt it swell, found the tight pebble of her nipple. And recognized that, too. He swept his hand down, tracing curve after curve, of breast, waist, hip and thigh; the globes of her bottom, smooth and perfect, filled his hand. As they had last night.

And she was with him, as she had been last night—hot and urgent, her mouth, her lips, melding with his, her tongue dueling with his. With her arms still anchored above her head, her body arched beneath him, caressing him as he caressed her.

Caught in her heat, driven by wild compulsion, he wedged her thighs wide. And touched her. She was wet, scorchingly hot—she rose to his touch, mutely begging for more. He slid one finger deep and she gasped.

His name.

He drank it from her lips as he pushed her thighs wide, positioned himself between. And slid home.

Braced above her, he let his head fall back as she closed, scalding velvet, about him. He moved within her and she answered, matching him stroke for stroke, taking him deep into her heat, and holding him.

Freed, her hands rose to caress his chest, then strayed to his flexing flanks. She held him lightly, then repositioned her hips and guided him deeper.

He gasped, and came down on his elbows, framed her face and kissed her. Voraciously. The friction between their bodies was driving them both insane—demented with desire.

But he kept them there, held them there, in the heat of the furnace, in the eye of the storm. He prolonged their joining for as long as he could, addicted to the sheer joy of filling her.

Beneath him, Catriona gloried in the exquisite intimacy, in the clear, shining knowledge that this was how it was meant to be. Their bodies moved in a dance older than time, his hard, driving, hers soft, accepting.

Both loving.

The thought came to her on a fractured sigh and a guttural groan; bodies locked, they climbed higher, and higher, both focused totally on sensation—on sensation that went further than the physical, that breached some other plane.

Some plane where each touch became laden with meaning, with feeling, with emotion, where they asked and answered through each caress, through each deep thrust that linked them.

It was a plane where their heartbeats joined and swelled, where bodies ceased to exist and souls, freed, could touch. And be touched.