Scandal's Bride (8 page)

“Seemingly.” Jamie shrugged. “I recall Da' saying the Cynsters were a damned powerful lot—military, mostly, a verra old family. They sent seven to Waterloo—I remember Da' saying as the ton had labelled them invincible because all seven returned with nary a scratch.”

Catriona humphed. “Are they wealthy?”

“Aye—I'd say so.”

“Prominent in society?”

“Aye—they're well connected and all tha'. There's this group of them—” Jamie broke off, coloring.

Catriona narrowed her eyes. “This group of them?”

Jamie shifted. “It's nothing as . . .” His words trailed away.

“As should concern me?” Catriona held his gaze mercilessly. “Let me be the judge of that. This group?”

She waited; eventually, Jamie capitulated. “Six of them—all cousins. The ton calls them the Bar Cynster.”

“And what does this group do?”

Jamie squirmed. “They have reputations. And nicknames. Like Devil, and Demon, and Lucifer.”

“I see. And what nickname is Richard Cynster known by?” Jamie's lips compressed mulishly; Catriona levelled her gaze at him.

“Scandal.”

Catriona's lips thinned. “I might have guessed. And no, you need not explain how he came by the title.”

Jamie looked relieved. “I dinna recall Da' saying much more—other than they were all right powerful bastards wi' the women, but he would say that, in the circumstances.”

Catriona humphed. Right powerful bastards with women—so, thanks to her late guardian's misbegotten notions, here she was, faced with a right powerful bastard who, on top of it all, was in truth a bastard. Did that make him more or less powerful? Somehow, she didn't think the answer was less. She looked at Jamie. “Seamus said nothing else?”

Jamie shook his head. “Other than that it's only fools think they can stand against a Cynster.”

Right powerful bastards with women
—that, Catriona thought, summed it up. Arms crossed, she paced before the windows of the back parlor, keeping watch over the snow-covered lawn across which Richard Cynster would return to the house.

She could see it all now—what Seamus had intended with his iniquitous will. His final attempt to interfere with her life, from beyond the grave, no less. She wasn't having it, a Cynster or not, powerful bastard or otherwise.

If anything, Richard Cynster's antecedents sounded even worse than she'd imagined. She knew little of the ways of the ton, but the fact that his father's wife, indeed, the whole family, had apparently so readily accepted a bastard into their midst, smacked of male dominance. At the very least, it suggested Cynster wives were weak, mere cyphers to their powerful husbands. Cynster males sounded like tyrants run amok, very likely domestic dictators, accustomed to ruling ruthlessly.

But no man would ever rule her, ruthlessly or otherwise. She would never allow that to happen; the fate of the vale and her people rested on her shoulders. And to fulfill that fate, to achieve her aim on this earth, she needed to remain free, independent, capable of exercising her will as required, capable of acting as her people needed, without the constraint of a conventional marriage. A conventional husband.

A conventional
powerful bastard
of a husband was simply not possible for the lady of the vale.

The distant scrunch of a boot on snow had her peering out the window. It was mid-afternoon; the light was rapidly fading. She saw the dark figure she'd been waiting for emerge from the trees and stroll up the slope, his powerful physique in no way disguised by a heavy, many-caped greatcoat.

Panic clutched her—it had to be panic. It cut off her breathing and left her quivering. Suddenly, the room seemed far too dark. She grabbed a tinderbox and raced around, lighting every candle she could reach. By the time he'd gained the terrace, and she opened the long windows and waved him in, the room was ablaze.

He entered, brushing snowflakes from his black hair, with nothing more than a quirking brow to show he'd noticed her burst of activity. Catriona ignored it. Pressing her hands together, she waited only until he'd shrugged off his coat and turned to lay it aside before stating: “I don't know
what
is going on in your mind, but I
will not
agree to marry you.”

The statement was as categorical and definite as she could make it. He straightened and turned toward her.

The room shrank.

The walls pressed in on her; she couldn't breathe, she could barely think. The compulsion to flee—to escape—was strong; stronger still was the mesmeric attraction, the impulse to learn what power it was that set her pulse pounding, her skin tingling, her nerves flickering.

Defiantly she held firm and tilted her chin.

His eyes met hers; there was clear consideration in the blue, but beyond that, his expression told her nothing. Then he moved—toward her, toward the fire—abruptly, Catriona scuttled aside to allow him to warm his hands. While he did so, she struggled to breathe, to think—to suppress the skittering sensations that frazzled her nerves, to prise open the vise that had laid seige to her breathing. Why a large male should evoke such a reaction she did not know—or rather, she didn't like to think. The blacksmith at the vale certainly didn't have the same effect.

He straightened, and she decided it was his movements, so smoothly controlled, so reminiscent of leashed power, like a panther not yet ready to pounce, that most unnerved her. Leaning one arm along the mantelpiece, he looked down at her.

“Why?”

She frowned. “Why what?”

The very ends of his lips twitched. “Why won't you agree to marry me?”

“Because I have no need of a husband.”
Especially not a husband like you
. She folded her arms beneath her breasts and focused, solely, on his face. “My role within the vale does not permit the usual relationships a woman of my station might expect to enjoy.” She tilted her chin. “I am unmarried by choice, not for lack of offers. It's a sacrifice I have made for my people.”

She was rather pleased with that tack; men like the Cynsters understood sacrifice and honor.

His black brows rose; silently he considered her. Then, “Who will inherit your manor, your position, if you do not marry and beget heirs?”

Inwardly, Catriona cursed; outwardly, she merely raised her brows back. “In time, I will, of course, marry for heirs, but I need not do so for many years yet.”

“Ah—so you don't have a complete and absolute aversion to marriage?”

Head high, her eyes locked on his, Catriona drew a deep breath and held it. “No,” she eventually admitted, and started to pace. “But there are various caveats, conditions, and considerations involved.”

“Such as?”

“Such as my devotions to The Lady. And my duties as a healer. You may not realize it, but . . .”

Propped against the mantelpiece, Richard listened to her excuses—all revolved about the duties she saw as devolving to her through her ownership of the manor. She paced incessantly back and forth; he almost ordered her to sit, so he could sit, too, and not tower over her, forcing her to glance up every time she wanted to check his deliberately uninformative countenance, then he realized who her pacing reminded him of. Honoria, Devil's duchess, also paced, in just the same way, skirts swishing in time with her temper. Catriona's skirts were presently swinging with agitated tension; Richard inwardly sighed and leaned more heavily on the mantelpiece.

“So you see,” she concluded, swinging to face him, “at present, a husband is simply out of the question.”

“No, I don't see.” He trapped her gaze. “All you've given me is a litany of your duties, which in no way that I can see preclude a husband.”

She had never in her adult life had to explain herself to anyone; that was clearly written in the astonished, slightly hoity expression that infused her green eyes. Then they flared. “I don't have
time
for a husband!” Quick as a flash, she added: “For the arguments, like this one.”

“Why should you argue?”

“Why, indeed—but all men argue, and a husband certainly would. He would want me to do things his way, not my way—not The Lady's way.”

“Ah—so your real concern is that a husband would interfere with your duties.”

“That he'd seek to interfere in
how I perform
my duties.” She paused in her pacing and eyed him narrowly. “Gentlemen such as you have a habit of expecting to have your own way in all things. I could not possibly marry such a man.”

“Because you want to have your
own
way in
all things?”

Her eyes flashed. “Because I need to be free to perform my duties—free of any husbandly interference.”

Calmly, he considered her. “What if a husband didn't interfere?”

She snorted derisively and resumed her pacing.

Richard's lips twitched. “It is possible, you know.”

“That you would let your wife go her own way?” At the far end of her route, she turned and raked him with a dismissively contemptuous glance. “Not even in the vale do pigs fly.”

It was no effort not to smile; Richard felt her raking gaze pass over every inch of his body—he had to clamp an immediate hold over his instinctive reaction. Ravishing her wouldn't serve his purpose—he had yet to decide just what his purpose was. Learning more of her would, however, greatly assist in clarifying that point.

“If we married, a man such as I,” his tone parodied her distinction, “might, given your position, agree to”—he gestured easily—“accommodate you and your duties.” She shot him a skeptical glance; he trapped her gaze. “There's no reason some sort of agreement couldn't be reached.”

She considered him, a frown slowly forming in her eyes, then she humphed and turned away.

Richard studied her back, the sweeping line of her spine from her nape to the ripe hemispheres of her bottom. The view was one designed to distract him, attract him—the stiffness of her stance, the sheer challenge of her reluctance, only deepened the magnetic tug.

“You're
not
seriously considering marrying me.”

She made the statement, clear and absolute, to the darkness beyond the window.

Richard lowered his arm and leaned back against the mantlepiece. “Aren't I?”

She continued to gaze into the gloaming. “You only claimed the week's grace because we all took it for granted that you would refuse.” She paused, then added: “You don't like being taken for granted.”

Richard felt his brows rise. “Actually, it was because
you
took me for granted. The others don't count.”

The swift glance she shot him was scathing. “I might have known you'd say it was my fault.”

“You might have noticed I haven't. You
were
the reason I so promptly claimed the time, but . . . on reflection”—his gesture encompassed the woods through which he'd tramped—“I would have claimed it anyway.”

She frowned. “Why?”

He studied her and wondered if he could ever explain to anyone how he felt about family. “Let's just say that I've a constitutional dislike of making rushed decisions, and Seamus laid his plans very carefully. He knew I wouldn't appreciate being used as a pawn to disenfranchise his family.”

Her frown deepened. “Because of being a bastard?”

“No. Because of being a Cynster.”

Her frown grew more puzzled. “I don't understand.”

Richard grimaced. “Nor do I. I'm not at all clear, for instance, on why Seamus went to such lengths—such machinations—to get me here, into this bizarre situation.”

She humphed and turned back to the window. “That's because you didn't know Seamus. He was forever plotting and scheming—like many men of wealth and position. Indeed, he often spent so much time making plans he never got around to the execution.”

Richard raised his brows. “No wonder my father was sent here.” Catriona looked her question; he met her gaze. “Cynsters are renowned for action. We might plan, just enough, but our talents lie in the execution. Never ones to drag our heels.”

She humphed softly and turned back to the night. After a moment, she raised a hand and started drawing spirals on the cold pane. “I was thinking . . .” She paused; he could hear the grimace in her voice. “Seamus may have envisioned marriage to me as a penance—a sort of deferred punishment—with you paying the price in place of your father.”

Richard frowned. “If he thought that, then the joke's on him. It would be no hardship to be married to you.”

She turned her head; their gazes locked—everything else did as well. Time, their breathing, even their heartbeats. Desire shimmered, filling the air, heightening senses, tightening nerves.

She drew breath and looked away. “Be that as it may, you
aren't
considering it.”

Richard sighed. When would she learn she couldn't sway him with her tone? “Think what you will. But the solicitor's left and won't be back for a week. I won't make my decision until then.” He wouldn't be rushed, he wasn't impulsive—and he needed to know more. Of her, and
why
Seamus had made such an iniquitous will.

She humphed and muttered something; he thought it might have been “stubborn as a mule.”

Pushing away from the mantlepiece, he strolled toward her, his footfalls muffled by the carpet. As he neared, she whirled, only just suppressing a gasp. She went to step back—and stopped herself. And tilted her chin instead.

Inwardly, he smiled—she looked deliciously ruffled, and it was he who'd done the ruffling. “Don't worry, I'm not about to pounce.”

The gold flecks in her eyes flared. “I didn't imagine—”

“Yes, you did.” He looked down at her, at her too-wide eyes, at the way her breasts rose and fell. Bringing his eyes back to hers, he grimaced. “If it eases your mind, as my host's ward and a virtuous, unmarried lady, you are effectively removed from my list of potential seductees.”