Scandal's Bride (29 page)

Catriona received them as old acquaintances. Introduced, Richard smiled politely, then lounged in a chair set back against the office wall and watched how his witchy wife conducted the vale's business.

She was, he learned, no easy mark.

“My dear Mr. Potts, your offer simply will not do. If, as you say, the market is so well supplied, perhaps we should store all our grain for the next year.” Catriona glanced at McArdle, sitting at the end of her desk. “Could we do that, do you think?”

“Oh, aye, m'lady.” Like a benighted gnome, McArdle nodded sagely. “There's space in the cellars, and we're high and dry here, so there's no fear of it going damp.”

“Perhaps that would be best.” Catriona turned back to Mr. Potts. “If that's the best offer you can manage?”

“Ah. Well.” Mr. Potts all but squirmed. “It's possible we
might
—considering the quality of the vale's grain, you understand—manage some concession on the price.”

“Indeed?”

Fifteen minutes of haggling ensued, during which Potts made more than one concession.

“Done,” Catriona finally declared. She smiled benignly on all three Pottses. “Perhaps you'd like a glass of our dandelion wine?”

“I don't mind if I do,” Mr. Potts agreed. “Very partial to your dandelion wine.”

Richard inwardly humphed and made a mental note to take a piece of chalk down to the cellars and inscribe all the remaining barrels of dandelion wine with an instruction that they were not to be broached without his express permission. Then he recalled that he really should gain his wife's approval for such an edict—which led to thoughts of taking her down to the cellars, which led to thoughts . . .

He frowned, and shifted in his seat. Accepting the wine one of the maids served, he directed his attention once more to the Pottses.

“Now, about those cattle you wanted.” Potts the elder leaned forward. “I think I can get some young heifers from up Montrose way.”

Catriona raised her brows. “None from any nearer? I don't like to have them transported so far.”

“Aye, well. Cattle—good breeding stock—are in rare demand these days. Have to take what you can get.”

Richard inwardly frowned. As he listened to the discussion—of sources of breeding stock, of prices, of the best breeds for the changing market—he shifted and inwardly frowned harder.

From all he'd heard, all he'd already noted, he knew more about livestock than his witch. Not that she lacked knowledge in general, or an understanding of the vale's present needs—it was more that she lacked experience of what was available in the wider world—a world she, for good reason, eschewed.

The temptation to speak—to butt in and take overgrew; Richard ruthlessly squelched it. If he so much as said a word, all three Pottses would turn to him. From the first, the younger ones had eyed him expectantly—from the looks on their faces now, they would be much more comfortable continuing their discussion of the performance characteristics of breeding stock with him. Man to man.

Richard cared nothing for their sensitivities—he cared much more about his witch, and hers.

He'd sworn not to take the lead, not to take her role, not to interfere with how she ran the vale. He couldn't speak publically, not without her invitation. He couldn't even bring the matter up privately—even there, she might construe it as indicating somewhat less than complete commitment to adhering to his vow.

A vow that, indeed, required complete commitment, required real and constant effort from him to keep it. It was not, after all, a vow a man like him could easily abide by. But he would abide by it—for her.

So he couldn't say anything—not unless she asked. Not unless she invited his comment or sought his views.

And so he sat there, mum, and listened, and itched to set her—and the Pottses—right. To explain that there were other options they ought to consider. Should consider.

But his witch didn't look his way—not once.

He had never felt the constraint of his vow more than he did that day.

The year turned; the weather continued bitter and bleak. Within the manor's stone walls, the lamps burned throughout the dull days, and the fires leapt in every hearth. It was a quiet time, a peaceful time. The men gathered in the dining hall, whiling away the hours with chess and backgammon. The women still had chores—cooking, cleaning, mending—but there was no sense of urgency.

Early in the new year, Catriona took advantage of the quiet and compiled an inventory of the curtains. Which resulted in a list of those she wanted mended or replaced. In search of a seamstress, she wandered into the maze of smaller rooms at the back of the ground floor, her attention focused on the list in her hand.

“Hee, hee, hee!”

The childish giggle stopped her; it was followed by a high-pitched trill of laughter. Curious, she turned from her path and followed the sound of continuing chortles. As she neared the source, she heard a deeper, intermittent rumble.

They were in the old games room. The manor children, of whom there were many, used it as their playroom, the place they spent most of the hard winter. Today, Catriona saw, as she paused in the shadows just outside the open door, that they had a visitor.

Then again, he might just be a hostage.

Trapped in the huge old armchair before the fire, Richard was surrounded by children. The two youngest had clambered onto his lap and cuddled close, one on either side, two others perched on his knees, while still others balanced on the wide arms of the chair. One was even sprawled across the chairback, almost draped over Richard's shoulders. The rest surrounded him, their faces upturned, alight as they hung on his words. His stories.

Folding her arms, Catriona leaned against the door frame and listened.

Listened to tales of boys running wild—a veritable tribe of them, it seemed. Listened to tales of youthful derring-do, of cheeky larks, of dangerous dragons vanquished, of genuine adventures that fate had sent to shape their lives.

The stories were of him and his cousins, she had not a doubt, although he never identified the heroes. The culprits. The demons in disguise.

Catriona wondered how many of his tales were true. She looked at him, so impressively large, his strength still apparent even relaxed as he was, and was tempted to think they all were. His stories were the adventures that had made him what he was.

For long moments, she stood still in the shadows, unremarked as she watched. Watched him, so large and strong, so deeply masculine, open the jewel box of his childhood memories and take them out, one by one, like delicate necklaces of bright gold and beaten silver, to awe, to entertain, to amuse the children.

They were enthralled—they were his. Just as their parents were. She'd noticed that from his first day here—his intrinsic ability to give of himself, and thus inspire devotion, loyalty—his ability to lead. She wasn't sure he recognized it in himself; it was simply an inherent part of him.

As she watched, one of the littlest two, thumb in mouth and almost asleep, started to tip. Without faltering in his recitation, without, apparently, even noticing what he did, Richard cradled the tot in one hand and resettled him more securely against his side.

Catriona stood in the shadows, her gaze on him, on them, her mind full of his stories, her heart full of him, for as long as she dared, then, misty-eyed, retreated without disturbing them.

“Well! I thought I might find you here.”

Catriona looked up as Algaria entered the stillroom, and blinked at the expression of joyful confidence that lit her erstwhile mentor's face. “Are you all right?”

“Me?” Algaria smiled. “I'm very well. But I came to ask you the same question.”

Catriona straightened. “I'm well, too.”

Algaria eyed her straitly. Pointedly. When Catriona remained stubbornly silent, she elucidated: “I wanted to ask if that”—she gestured back into the house; Catriona narrowed her eyes—“
husband
of yours,” Algaria sweetly amended, “has succeeded in getting you with child.”

Catriona looked down at the herbs she was pounding. “I can't tell yet, can I?”

“Can't you?”

“Not for certain, no.”

She did know, of course, but the sheer power of the feelings that surged through her whenever she thought of Richard's child—a tiny speck of life slowly growing within her—shook her so much she couldn't yet bring herself to speak of it. Not until she was absolutely, beyond any doubt or early mishap, sure. And then the first person she would speak to was Richard. Lips firming, she ground up her herbs. “I'll tell you when I am.”

“Humph! Well, whatever, it seems as if The Lady's prophesy will, despite all, come to pass. As it always does. I have to admit I didn't think you could be right in deciding you should go to him as you did—it's so transparently obvious that he must never rule here. But The Lady has her ways.” With a graceful, devotional gesture, Algaria moved to peer out of the high window. “It all looks like turning out much as you planned.”

Grinding the pestle into the mortar, Catriona frowned. “What do you mean—as I'd planned?”

“Why, that he'll get you with child, then leave.” Algaria turned from the window and met Catriona's puzzled gaze. “The only thing you didn't foresee correctly is that he'd marry you as well. Really, it's all worked out for the best. This way, you not only get the child, but the formal protection of being a married lady. And all without the bother of a husband—a resident one, anyway.”

“But . . .” It took a full minute before Catriona fathomed Algaria's direction. When she did, the knowledge chilled her. “Why do you imagine he's leaving?”

Algaria smiled and patted her hand reassuringly. “You needn't think I have it wrong this time. His man has been with him for more than eight years and he's speaking very openly of their plans to return to London.”

“He is?” Catriona gave thanks for the dim light in the stillroom—because of the fumes, only one small lamp was burning. Carefully resting the heavy pestle in the mortar, she gripped the edge of the table. And forced herself to ask: “What is he saying?”

“Oh, no specific details yet. Just that it's apparently their way to spend winter visiting the homes of friends and acquaintances, but that sometime in February, they always return to the capital. For the Season, I understand. Worboys has been regaling the staff with stories of the balls and parties, and all the other entertainments Mr. Cynster customarily enjoys. Without expressly
stating
it, he's given the clear impression that marriage has not changed his master's style. He's expecting they'll be in London before March.”

“I see.” Wiping her hands, suddenly cold, on her apron, Catriona picked up the pestle again. She kept her gaze on her preparation, avoiding Algaria's bright eyes. “I'm sure The Lady will ensure all goes as it should.”

And arrangements that had not been expressly
stated
might not come to pass at all.

That night, Catriona sat before her dressing table brushing her long hair for far longer than was her wont. Long enough for Richard to come in and, after throwing her a lustful smile, start to undress.

Calmly, Catriona brushed and watched him in her mirror. “Your aunts, in their letters, spoke a lot of London. They seem to expect that we'll join them shortly—once the snows melt.” Serenely brushing, she watched his brows rise. “For the balls, the parties—the Season.”

He grimaced. And dropped his trousers. And stepped out of them.

Then he turned and, stark naked, prowled toward her.

“You don't need to imagine I'll insist that we go.”

“You won't?”

“No.”

He stopped behind her—all she could see was his bare chest, crisp black hair adorning the heavy muscles. He lifted her hair, spreading it, fanning it over her shoulders, over her breasts. “I'll never force you to leave the vale.”

His features had assumed an intent expression she now knew well; reaching out, he took the brush from her hand and laid it on the table.

Her heart thudding in her throat, and throbbing in her loins, she abruptly stood. His hands closed about her waist and held her still; his eyes locked on hers in the mirror.

“Open your nightgown.”

The nightgown she wore reached only to her knees; it was fastened down the front with tiny buttons. Barely able to breathe, incapable of taking her eyes from the vision before her, Catriona slowly obeyed.

One by one, the buttons slid free, all the way to her knees. She straightened, and the gown gaped. Revealing the ripe swells of her breasts, the smooth slope of her belly, the long lines of her thighs, the flaming curls between. She stared at the sight, then looked at his face.

And saw the hard planes shift, saw passion lock tight.

Hands tightening about her waist, he lifted her.

“Kneel on the stool.”

She did; he straddled her calves. And drew the nightgown from her.

Catriona's eyes flew wide; she couldn't help her shocked gasp.

Immediately he held her, his chest warm against her shoulders and back, his thighs hard, abrasive, against the sensitive skin of her bottom. “Sssh.” Head bent, he nuzzled her ear, one dark hand splayed across her midriff, a powerful contrast against her ivory skin.

Shocked to her toes, Catriona felt her senses reel. They were bathed in light—as well as the two candlesticks burning on the dressing table, two candle-stands stood on either side, both holding large candles, both lit. She could see the width of his shoulders, clearly visible above and beyond her own, could see the dark, hair-dusted columns of his legs on either side of hers.

Could feel the thick, ridged rod, so flagrantly male, pressed against the cleft between her buttocks.

And felt—and saw—his other hand slide from her hip, under the shimmering veil of her hair, to close firmly about one breast, long fingers curling about her soft flesh.