Scandal's Bride (36 page)

He wriggled them. “Only minor ones.”

“Humph! Well you can sit there a minute more while I salve them.” She fetched the right pot from her supplies on the shelf; luckily, her fingers weren't burned, only her palms. She could grip things, could spread and knead; she carefully worked the salve into his burns. Then she stood back and surveyed his back more carefully.

“If you've finished soothing those burns, I have another burning part of my anatomy awaiting your attention.”

The gravelly comment jerked her upright. “Yes, well.” Quickly, she replaced the pot on the shelf. Half turning, she gestured to the bedchamber. “Come to bed, then.”

His gaze fastened on her hand as he stood. “One moment.”

He caught her hand, and inspected the raw redness. He swore, glared at her, then towed her back to the shelf. “Where's that salve?”

“My hands will be all right.”

“Ah-ha!”

Catriona frowned as he lifted the pot down. “What happened to your burning anatomy?”

“I can suffer a few minutes more. Hold out your hands.”

Trapped between him and the door, she had to comply. “This is quite unnecessary.”

He glanced at her briefly. “All healers are supposed to be terrible patients.”

She humphed, but held her tongue, surprised to find how cool and soothing the salve felt on her scorched flesh. She studied her palms while he returned the pot to the shelf. His left hand appeared; he grasped her right wrist and tugged forward. She stepped forward and looked up—and stubbed her nose on his back. “What . . . ?”

For answer, he clamped her right forearm beneath his right arm—tight as a vise. She pushed against his back; it was like pushing a mountain. “What are you doing?”

On the words, she felt the soft touch of gauze; she whipped her head around and scanned the shelf—the roll of gauze bandage she kept there was missing.

“Richard!” She tried to wriggle and accomplished nothing. The gauze wound steadily about her hand. She glared at his back. “Stop it!”

He didn't. He was surprisingly deft; when he released her hand, she found herself staring at a perfectly neat bandage, secured by a tight knot. He reached for her other hand—

“No!” She danced back, hiding it behind her.

“Yes!” He stepped forward.

“
I'm
the healer!”

“You're a stubborn witch.”

He
was unstoppable; despite her protests, despite her active resistance, her left hand, too, was carefully wrapped in gauze, so her fingers were locked together with only her fingertips protruding. Defeated, she stared, first at one mittened hand, then the other. “What . . . ? How . . . ?

“There's nothing you need do until morning—that'll give the salve a chance to sink in.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Come here. You have ashes in your hair.”

He pulled her to the stool; resigned, she sank down and stared at the flames as, standing behind her, he pulled out her pins, searching through the wild mass her hair had become to find them. He shook the long tresses out, then fetched her brush from her dressing table and proceeded to brush out her hair.

“Thank God—or The Lady—there are no burned or singed locks. No thanks, however, to you.”

Catriona wisely kept mum and concentrated on the tug of the brush through her long hair, on the soothing, repetitive rhythm. The flames in the hearth burned strongly; she closed her eyes and felt their warmth on her lids, on her naked breasts. With him behind her and the fire before her, she felt secure and warm. Her senses spread, sure and calm; about her, her world had steadied.

“I didn't expect you back—I thought I was dreaming when you appeared in the yard.” She made the statement calmly, leaving it to him to respond if he would.

His eyes on the burnished flame of her hair, rippling and glowing beneath each stroke of the brush, Richard drew in a slow breath, then replied: “I got as far as Carlisle. We spent the night there, and I decided I'd made a mistake. I didn't want to go to London—I never did.” There was nothing south of the border for him now. He paused, then brushed on. “And if I'd needed any prompting, discovering this morning that, after my arrival at the inn last night, Dougal Douglas had been inquiring after who I was and where I was headed, clarified the position nicely.”

“Douglas?”

“Hmm. He lives near there and was in the town when I drove in. He quizzed the ostlers, then made the mistake of approaching Jessup late that night in the tap. Jessup reported his questioning to me this morning.”

“And that brought you back?”

Lips compressing, Richard held back the impulse to agree. After three long strokes, he managed to get the truth out. “I'd already decided to return, but the notion that Douglas knew I'd left the vale, leaving you, in his terms, alone, made me hire a horse and ride. I left Worboys and Jessup to follow with the carriage.”

“I didn't hear or see you ride in.”

“No one did. You were all engrossed with the fire.” He gave the lock he was holding an extra tug. “With running into a burning building.”

She didn't respond. He brushed on, steadily removing flecks of ash from her bright mane. Under the brush, her hair came alive in his hands, like living fire. Warm, fragrant, gentle fire.

“Will you be staying?”

There were times, Richard decided, when he definitely did not appreciate being married to a witch. To a woman who could hold her demeanor to the calm and serene regardless of her true feelings. He never could tell what she really felt. Her question—surely one of the most vital facing them—had been couched as the most politely distant, totally innocent, query. Which, he decided, after all they'd shared, was too much to accept.

Frowning, he stared at the back of her glossy head.

“
That
depends on you.”

She clearly expected him to sleep with her—while in this house, he was still, quite obviously, to her, her husband. But what were the boundaries of his role in her eyes?—
that
was something he didn't know, something he needed to find out. Something they needed to discuss.

Abruptly, he stopped brushing. Grasping her shoulders, he drew her around on the stool, then hunkered down before her, so his eyes were level with hers. “Do you want me to stay?”

Catriona searched his eyes—desperately. They viewed her steadily, but told her nothing. “Yes—if you wish to. I mean . . .” Dragging in a breath, her gaze locked with his, she rattled on: “If you wished to stay I would be pleased, but I don't want you to think that you must—that I'd be
expecting
you to remain here always . . . or, or . . .
resenting
. . .” She gestured vaguely.

Impatiently, lips thinning, Richard shook his head. “That's not what I asked.” He trapped her gaze and held it ruthlessly. “Do you
want
me to stay?”

Wide-eyed, Catriona tried another gesture. “Well! We're man and wife . . . I thought . . . that is, I imagined it was customary—”

“No!” He closed his eyes; his jaw set. Through set teeth he said: “Catriona, please tell me—do you wish me to stay?”

He opened his eyes—his irate gaze pinned her.

Catriona glared. “Well, of
course,
I want you to stay!” Wildly, she waved her bandaged hands. “I can't even sleep when you're not here! I feel utterly wretched when you're not by. And how on earth I'm supposed to get on if you're not here I don't know—” She broke off as tears filled her eyes.

Richard saw them; the breath trapped in his chest abruptly released in a huge sigh of relief—he reached out, grabbed her, wrapped his arms about her, and buried his face in her hair. And breathed deeply, inhaling the scent he'd so missed the previous night. “Then I'll stay.”

After a long, silent moment, she sniffed, and softened in his arms. “You will?”

“Forever.” Lifting his head, he brushed her hair from her face and kissed her. Long and lingeringly. “Come to bed.”

Her lids lifted; she met his gaze. “Bed?”

Richard grimaced. “Your hands are hurt, remember.” He stood, simultaneously lifting her into his arms. He lost his towel in the process; neither of them cared. He carried her to the bed, laid her down gently, freeing her hair, spreading it over the pillows, then, holding her wrists so she wouldn't forget in her passion and harm them, he covered her.

She'd cooled, but when he pressed into her she arched, then arched again and took him in. He settled within her, then drank her soft gasp when he drew back and thrust deep. Three thrusts later, she wriggled beneath him, tilting her hips to better receive him, lifting her legs and clasping his flanks—welcoming him in, holding him to her. Loving him.

Richard slowed, wallowing in the glory, in the intimate caresses she pressed on him. He bent his head and kissed her—she drew him deep there as well.

And so they loved—now slow, then faster, then slow again when the compulsion to savor the moment came upon them. Their bodies shifted and flexed in a dance older than time, hard pressing soft, rough rasping smooth. They lost track of time, of the world about them, of the night beyond their bed. The only things that mattered were each other's pleasure and the soft murmurs of contentment they shared.

And when the spinning stars finally crashed down upon them and took them from the world, they were together, as one, much more deeply than before.

Much more wedded than before.

Sunk deep in her softness, collapsed upon her, Richard's last thought was: At long last, he'd found his home.

Later, in the untrammeled depths of the night, held securely in Richard's arms yet still drifting in a sated sea, Catriona recalled her first sensing of him, recalled his hot hunger—his lustful desire—and his restless longing. She remembered very well that restlessness in his soul, his deep-seated need to belong. She could, she now knew, satisfy his lustful hunger—she could fulfill his other need, too. And thus anchor him here, by her side, satisfied with what she could give him.

She could be his cause, become his life's purpose.

Her initial reading of him, that, quite aside from his strengths, he bore a wound which needed her healer's touch, had been accurate. He did have a deep need for something she could give him—herself, but not just physically; he needed much more than that. He needed her specifically, and that need, even once satisfied, would never die; it would always be a part of him. And if that was so, then if she gave freely, she had no reason to fear losing him.

The only question that remained was how much he understood—whether he would still fight fate—The Lady's will—or accept what she offered him.

She knew he was still awake, still floating in the warm afterglow. She drew in a slow breath, and took her courage in both hands. “Why did you decide to come back?”

The quiet question hung in the dark, a sweetly tolling bell exhorting the truth.

Richard heard and considered the many answers. He'd returned because of the loneliness that had wracked his soul when, last night, he'd slept without her. Tried to sleep without her—without her warmth beside him, without her silken limbs alongside his, the sound of her breathing, soft and low, echoing in his heart. Tried to sleep without the fragrance of her hair sinking through his senses, anchoring him through the night. He hadn't slept at all.

He'd returned even faster after learning of Dougal Douglas, because of the feeling that had churned in his gut, spurring him back from Carlisle. Because of the dread certainty that he should never have left her.

A certainty transmogrified to fact in that horror-filled moment when, clattering wildly into the yard having seen the flames and smoke through the trees, he'd seen his worst nightmare enacted before him—seen her rush into a burning building.

He wasn't about to deny what he felt for her—the depth of what he felt for her—not ever again. He would have to learn to deal with it, learn how to live with it—and so would she.

Not, however, tonight. They were both far too tired to face such a task.

So he searched for a way to answer, some phrase that encompassed the truth. “I came back because this is my place.” Turning his head, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “This is where I belong. With you. By your side.”

Catriona closed her eyes tight—against tears of relief, of joy, and something more besides. That last welled through her, poured through her, glowing brighter than spun gold.

This was where he belonged—here—by her side. She knew it—thank The Lady, he knew it, too.

D
espite the fire and its aftermath, or, perhaps, because of it, they both slept deeply and awoke early, still in each other's arms. The temptation to celebrate the night and its revelations was strong, but . . .

“I have to go to the circle.” Her head resting on Richard's chest, Catriona pushed at the heavy arm lying possessively over her waist. “I should have gone two mornings ago—I really must go today.”