Scandal's Bride (2 page)

Yet it had.

Her heart slowing, Catriona tugged the covers about her and considered the vision that had visited her—the vision of a man's face. The details remained strongly etched in her mind. Along with the conviction that this man would mean something, impinge on her life in some vital way.

He might even be the one The Lady had chosen for her.

The thought was not unwelcome. She was, after all, twenty-two, long past the age when girls invited lovers to their beds, when she might have expected to play her part in that never-ending rite. Not that she regretted that her life had been otherwise, which was just as well, for her path had been set from the instant of her birth.
She
was “the lady of the vale.”

The title, one of local custom, was hers and hers alone; none other could claim it. As the only child of her parents, on their deaths, she'd inherited Casphairn Manor, along with the vale and its attendant responsiblities. Her mother had been the same, inheriting manor, lands, and position from her mother before her. Each of her direct female ancestors had been “the lady of the vale.”

Cocooned in warm down, Catriona smiled. Just what her title meant few outsiders understood. Some thought her a witch—she'd even used the fiction to scare away would-be suitors. Both church and state had little love of witches, but the vale's isolation kept her safe; there were few who knew of her existence, and none to question her authority or the doctrine from which it sprang.

All the inhabitants of the vale knew what she was, what her position entailed. With roots buried generations deep in the fertile soil, her tenants, all those who lived and worked in the vale, viewed “their lady” as the local representative of The Lady herself, older than time, spirit of the earth that supported them, guardian of their past and their future. They all, each in his own way, paid homage to The Lady and, with absolute and unquestioning confidence, relied on her earthly representative to watch over them and the vale.

To guard, to protect, to nurture, nourish, and heal—those were The Lady's tenets, the only directives Catriona followed and to which she'd unstintingly devoted her life. As had her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother before her. She lived life simply, in accordance with The Lady's dictates, which was usually an easy task.

Except in one arena.

Her gaze shifted to the parchment left unfolded on her dresser. A Perth solicitor had written to inform her of the death of her guardian, Seamus McEnery, and to bid her attend McEnery House for the reading of the will. McEnery House stood on a bleak hillside in The Trossachs, north and west of Perth; in her mind's eye, Catriona could see it clearly—it was the one place outside the vale in which she'd spent more than a day.

When, six years ago, her parents had died, Seamus, her father's cousin, had, by custom, become her legal guardian. A cold, hard man, he had insisted she take up residence at McEnery House, so he could better find a suitor for her hand—a man to take over her lands. With his rigid fist clamped on her purse strings, she'd been forced to obey; she'd left the vale and gone north to meet Seamus.

To do battle with Seamus—for her inheritance, her independence, her inalienable right to remain the lady of the vale, to reside at Casphairn Manor and care for her people. Three weeks of turmoil and drama later, she'd returned to the vale; Seamus had spoken no more of suitors, nor of her calling. And, Catriona was quite certain, he had never again taken The Lady's name in vain.

Now Seamus, the devil she'd conquered, was gone. His eldest son, Jamie, would succeed him. Catriona knew Jamie; like all Seamus's children, he was mild-mannered and weak-willed. Jamie was no Seamus. In considering how best to respond to the solicitor's request, she'd been much inclined to start as she meant to go on, and reply suggesting that, after the will was read and Jamie formally appointed as her guardian, Jamie should call on her here, at the manor. Although she foresaw no difficulty in handling Jamie, she preferred to deal from a position of strength. The vale was her home; within its arms, she reigned supreme. Yet . . .

She focused again on the parchment; after an instant, the outline blurred—once more the vision swam before her mind's eye. For a full minute, she studied it; she saw the face clearly—strong patriarchal nose, determinedly square chin, features chiselled from rock in their angularity and hardness. His brow was concealed by a lock of black hair; those piercing blue eyes were deep-set beneath arched black brows and framed by black lashes. His lips, held in a straight, uncompromising line, told her little—indeed, that was her summation of his face—one meant to conceal his thoughts, his emotions. From chance observers.

She wasn't a chance observer. Presentiment—nay,
certainty
—of future contact compelled her; she focused her mind and slid beneath his guard, behind his reserved facade, and tentatively opened her senses.

Hunger—hot, ravenous—a prowling, animalistic urge, swept over her. It caressed her with fingers of heat; its tug was even more physical. Beyond it, in the deeper shadows, lay . . . restlessness. A soul-deep sense of drifting, rudderless, upon life's sea.

Catriona blinked, and drew back, into her familiar chamber. And saw the letter still lying on her desk. She grimaced. She was adept at intepreting The Lady's messages—this one was crystal clear. She should go to McEnery House and, at some point, she would meet the restless, hungry, reserved stranger with the granite face and warrior's eyes.

A lost warrior—a warrior without a cause.

Catriona frowned and wriggled deeper under the covers. When she'd first seen that face, she'd felt, instinctively, deep inside, that, at long last, The Lady was sending her a consort—the one who would stand by her side, who would share the burden of the vale's protection—the man she would take to her bed. At last. Now, however . . .

“His face is too strong.
Far
too strong.”

As the lady of the vale, it was imperative that she be the dominant partner in her marriage, as her mother had been in hers. It was written in stone that no man could rule her. Not for her an arrogant, domineering husband—
that
would never do. Which was, in this case, a pity. A real disappointment.

She'd immediately recognized the source of his restlessness, the restlessness of those without purpose, but she'd never met anything like the hunger that prowled within him. Alive, a tangible force, it had reached out and touched her, and she'd felt a compulsion to sate it. A reactive urge to soothe him, to bring him surcease. To . . .

Her frown deepened; she couldn't find the words, but there'd been a sense of excitment, of daring, of challenge. Not elements she generally met in her daily round of duties. Then again, perhaps it was simply her healer's instincts prodding her? Catriona humphed. “Whatever, he
can't
be the one The Lady means for me—not with a face like
that.”

Was The Lady sending her a wounded male, a lame duck for her to cure? His eyes, those hard-edged features, hadn't looked lame.

Not that it mattered; she had her instructions. She would go to the highlands, to McEnery House, and see what—or rather, who—came her way.

With another humph, Catriona slid deeper beneath the covers. Turning on her side, she closed her eyes—and willed her mind away from, once again, seeking the stranger's face.

December 5, 1819
Keltyburn, The Trossachs
Scottish Highlands

“W
ill there be anything else, sir?”

An artful arrangement of sleek, nubile, naked female limbs sprang to Richard Cynster's mind. The innkeeper had finished clearing the remnants of his dinner—the feminine limbs would satisfy that appetite still unappeased. But . . .

Richard shook his head. Not that he feared shocking his studiously correct gentleman's gentleman, Worboys, standing poker-straight at his elbow. Having been in his employ for eight years, Worboys was past being shocked. He was, however, no magician, and Richard was of the firm opinion that it would take magical powers to find a satisfying armful in Keltyburn.

They'd arrived in the hamlet as the last light left the leaden sky; night had fallen swiftly, a black shroud. The thick mist that had lowered over the mountains, hanging heavy across their path, obscuring the narrow, winding road leading up Keltyhead to their destination, had made passing the night in the dubious comfort of the Keltyburn Arms an attractive proposition.

Besides, he had a wish to have his first sight of his mother's last home in daylight, and before he left Keltyburn, there was one thing he wished to do.

Richard stirred. “I'll be retiring shortly. Go to bed—I won't need you further tonight.”

Worboys hesitated; Richard knew he was thinking of who would brush and hang his coat, who would take care of his boots. He sighed. “Go to bed, Worboys.”

Worboys stiffened. “Very well, sir—but I do wish we'd pressed on to McEnery House. There, at least, I could have trusted the bootboys.”

“Just be thankful we're here,” Richard advised, “and not run off the road or stuck in a drift halfway up that damned mountain.”

Worboys sniffed eloquently. His clear intimation was that being stuck in a snowdrift in weather cold enough to freeze the proverbial appendages off brass monkeys was preferable to bad blacking. But he obediently took his rotund self off, rolling away into the shadowy depths of the inn.

His lips twitching into a slight smile, Richard stretched his long legs to the fire roaring in the grate. Whatever the state of the inn's blacking, the landlord hadn't stinted in making them comfortable. Richard had seen no other guests, but in such a quiet backwater, that was unsurprising.

The flames flared; Richard fixed his gaze on them—and wondered, not for the first time, whether this expedition to the Highlands, precipitated by boredom and a very specific fear, hadn't been a trifle rash. But London's entertainments had grown stale; the perfumed bodies so readily—too readily—offered him no longer held any allure. While desire and lust were still there, he'd become finicky, choosy, even more so than he'd already been. He wanted more from a woman than her body and a few moments of earthly bliss.

He frowned and resettled his shoulders—and redirected his thoughts. It was a letter that had brought him here, one from the executor of his long-dead mother's husband, Seamus McEnery, who had recently departed this earth. The uninformative legal missive had summoned him to the reading of the will, to be held the day after tomorrow at McEnery House. If he wished to claim a bequest his mother had made to him, and which Seamus had apparently withheld for nearly thirty years, he had to attend in person.

From what little he'd learned of his late mother's husband, that sounded like Seamus McEnery. The man had been a hothead, brash and vigorous, a hard, determined, wily despot. Which was almost certainly why he'd been born. His mother had not enjoyed being married to such a man; his father, Sebastian Cynster, 5th Duke of St. Ives, sent to McEnery House to douse Seamus's political fire, had taken pity on her and given her what joy he could.

Which had resulted in Richard. The story was so old—thirty years old, to be precise—he no longer felt anything over it, bar a distant regret. For the mother he'd never known. She'd died of fever bare months after his birth; Seamus had sent him post-haste to the Cynsters, the most merciful thing he could have done. They'd claimed him and reared him as one of their own, which, in all ways that mattered, he was. Cynsters bred true, especially the males. He was a Cynster through and through.

And that was the other reason he'd left London. The only important social event he was missing was his cousin Vane's belated wedding breakfast, an occasion he'd viewed with misgiving. He wasn't blind—he'd seen the gleam steadily glowing in the eyes of the older Cynster ladies. Like Helena, the Dowager, his much-loved step-mother, not to mention his fleet of aunts. If he'd attended Vane and Patience's celebration, they'd have set their sights on him. He wasn't yet bored enough, restless enough, to offer himself up, fodder for their matrimonial machinations. Not yet.

He knew himself well, perhaps too well. He wasn't an impulsive man. He liked his life well ordered, predictable—he liked to be in control. He'd seen war in his time but he was a man of peace. Of passion. Of home and hearth.

The phrase raised images in his mind—of Vane and his new bride, of his own half-brother, Devil, and his duchess, Honoria, and their son. Richard shifted and settled, conscious, too conscious, of what his brother and cousin now had. What he himself wanted. Yearned for. He was, after all, a Cynster; he was starting to suspect such plaguey thoughts were ingrained, an inherited susceptiblity. They got under a man's skin and made him . . . edgy. Dissatisfied.

Restless.

Vulnerable.

A board creaked; Richard lifted his gaze, looking through the archway into the hall beyond. A woman emerged from the shadows. Wrapped in a drab cloak, she met his gaze directly, an older woman, her face heavily lined. She measured him swiftly; her gaze turned frosty. Richard suppressed a grin. Spine stiff, her pace unfaltering, the woman turned and climbed the stairs.