Scandal's Bride (9 page)

He could follow her thoughts easily in her vibrant eyes.

“Ah, no,” he murmured, “that doesn't mean you're safe with me.” He smiled. “Just that I won't seduce you without marrying you.”

She glared—at this distance, he could feel the heat. It stopped abruptly; an arrested expression filled her eyes. Then she focused on him.

“I just realized . . . Seamus only required
you
to agree to marry
me,
not that
I
agree to marry
you
. He knew I wouldn't agree; I'm under no compulsion to obey him.” She frowned. “What
did
he imagine he'd achieve?”

Looking down into her upturned face, at her eyes, wide and puzzled, at her lips, warm and slightly parted, Richard fought down an urge to kiss her. “I told you—Seamus made a very thorough study of the Cynsters.”

“So?” She searched his face, then his eyes.

“So he knew that, if I publically declare I'll wed you, I will.”

Her eyes flew wide, then narrowed to green shards. “That's
ridiculous!
You can't simply declare we'll wed—
I
have to agree. And I won't!”

“
If
I decide to have you . . .”—he kept his words deliberate, pausing to let the qualification sink in—“I'll have to change your mind.”

“And just how do you imagine doing that?”

The words were flung at him, a challenge, a taunt. Brows slowly rising, his gaze intent, locked on hers, Richard held her trapped—and raised one hand. And deliberately caressed the curl quivering by one ear.

Her ice shattered—she gasped, shivered, and stepped back. The blood drained from her face, then rushed back as she stiffened.

And threw him a sizzling glare. “Forget it!”

She whirled, skirts hissing; spine rigid, she stalked out.

And slammed the door behind her.

T
hat night, Catriona slept poorly, bedevilled by a vision of a warrior's face. Forced to view that same vision, in the flesh, over the breakfast table, she inwardly sniffed and decided to go for a long ride.

Heading upstairs to change, she met Algaria at the top of the stairs. Algaria's black gaze swept her, then fastened on her face.

“Where are you off to so early?”

“I need some fresh air—how can a place so cold be so stuffy?”

“Hmm.” Looking down into the hall, Algaria sniffed disparagingly. “The atmosphere is certainly less than convivial”—she shot a shrewd glance at Catriona—“what with this unnecessary charade.”

“Charade?”

“Aye. It's plain as a pikestaff that bastard from below has no real intention to wed—not you, nor, I'll warrant, any woman.” Algaria's face was set, the lines deeply etched. “It's clear he's a wastrel and just enjoying himself at our expense. Even Mary holds no hope other than that he'll eventually decline to be a part of Seamus's wild scheme and go back to London. She thinks he's making a show of considering the issue out of politeness.”

Catriona stiffened. “Indeed?”

Algaria's lips twitched; she patted Catriona's hand. “No need to take offense—it's what we want, after all.” She started down the stairs. “Him to go away and leave you alone.”

Catriona stared at the back of Algaria's head; her answering “Hmm” was supposed to be approving—somehow, a hint of disappointment crept in. She shut her ears to it; swinging about, she marched purposefully to her room.

It was the work of a few minutes to don her riding habit, a snugly fitting jacket and full skirt in jewel green twill. Serviceable, it was not especially warm; she hunted through the wardrobe for her old-fashioned fur-lined cloak. Her hair was a problem—in the end, she braided it and looped the braids about her head.

“There!” Satisfied her hair would not come loose no matter how hard she rode, she swung the cloak about her shoulders and headed for the door.

The stables huddled between the main house and the mountain, sheltered from the incessant winds and, at present, the lightly flurrying snow. The day was overcast, but the clouds were too light to deter her; she was accustomed to riding in all weather, whenever her duties called. The views might be grey, but they were visible; the hovering clouds kept the temperature above freezing. While the snow on the bare fields was hoof-deep, on the paths and tracks, the cover was less, and none of it was dangerously icy.

All in all, a perfectly acceptable winter's day to go riding in The Trossachs. That was Catriona's determined thought as, atop a strong chestnut, she clattered out of the stable yard and headed into the trees. She'd ridden often in the few weeks she'd previously spent here as an escape from the battleground of the house; she remembered the tracks well. The one she took wound its way through stands of birch girding the rocky mountainside, eventually meeting another bridle path leading to the summit. Looking forward to a brisk gallop across the clear top of Keltyhead, she urged her mount upward.

The Highlands spread out before her as she emerged from the trees onto the normally wind-swept mountaintop. The earlier breeze had died to nothing more than a whisper, threading sibilantly through the bare boughs. Even the fall of fine snow had ceased. Catriona's spirits soared; scanning the wide views, she drew in a deep breath. Directly before her, an open area thinly covered with rough mountain grass beckoned—she waited for no more. A smile on her face, a “Whoop!” on her lips, she set the chestnut to a canter, then shifted fluidly into a gallop.

Cold, bitterly fresh, the air rushed to greet her. It whipped her cheeks and tugged at her braids. She welcomed it joyously—one of The Lady's simple pleasures. Exhilarated, at one with her mount, she journeyed across the empty space, immersed in the wide silence about her.

She was halfway across the treeless expanse when a heavy clop and a whinny broke the stillness. Glancing back, she saw a familiar tall figure, mounted, watching her from the skirts of the forest. As still and dark as the trees behind him, he studied her. Then he moved; the deep-chested black beneath him stepped out powerfully, on a course to intercept her.

Her breath tangled in her throat; abruptly, Catriona looked forward and urged her mount on. Damn the man! Why couldn't he leave her alone? The thought was shrewish, the smile tugging at her lips much less so—
that
was instinctively feminine, a reflection of the
frisson
of excitement that had shot down her nerves.

Had he followed her?

She plunged on, determined to lose him—he rode much heavier than she. And she knew she rode well; as the end of the open area neared, she considered which of the three tracks ahead, each leading in a different direction over different terrain, would best serve her purpose. That depended on how close he was. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see him in the distance—and nearly lost her seat. Eyes widening, she gasped and swung forward. He was only two lengths away!

Lunging onto the nearest path, she raced along it, through twists, around turns, over rocky ground screened by tall trees. She burst into the next clearing at a flat gallop, the chestnut eagerly answering the challenge. They flew across the snowy white ground—but she heard, insistent, persistent, inexorably drawing nearer, the heavy thud of the black's hooves gradually gaining ground, moving alongside.

A quick glance revealed her nemesis riding effortlessly, managing one of Seamus's big stallions with ease. He sat the horse like a god—the warrior of her dreams. The sight stole her breath; abruptly, she looked ahead. Why on earth was she running?

And how, once he caught up with her, would she explain her reckless flight? What excuse could she give for fleeing so precipitously?

Catriona blinked, then, dragging in a breath, slowed the chestnut and wheeled away from the approaching trees. In a smooth arc, she curved back into the clearing; the black followed on the chestnut's heels. She slowed to a walk as they neared a section where the trees fell away. Halting, she crossed her hands on the saddlebow; eyes fixed on the white mountains spread before her, she breathed deeply, then exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax. “So exhilarating, a quick gallop in these climes.” Her expression one of infinite calmness, she looked over her shoulder. “Don't you find it so?”

Blue, blue eyes met hers. One of his black brows slowly arched. “You ride like a hoyden.”

His expression remained impassive; she felt sure he intended the remark as a reprimand. Her giddy senses, however, heard it as a compliment—one from a man who rode well; it was an effort to keep a silly grin from her lips. She met his blue gaze with regal assurance. “I ride as I wish.”

Her emphasis was subtle, but he heard it; his brow quirked irritatingly higher. “Hell for leather, without fear for life or limb?”

She shrugged as haughtily as she could and returned to surveying the scenery.

“Hmm,” he murmured. She could feel his gaze on her face. “I'm beginning to understand Seamus's reasoning.”

“Indeed?” She tried to hold them back, but the words tumbled out. “And what do you mean by that?”

“That you've run wild for too long, without anyone to ride rein on you. You need someone to watch over you for your own protection.”

“I've been managing my life for the past six years without anyone's help or interference. I haven't needed anyone's protection—why should I need it now?”

“Because . . .” And, quite suddenly, Richard saw it all—why, on his death, Seamus had trampled on custom to do all he could to put Catriona into the hands of a strong man, one he knew would protect her. His gaze distant, fixed unseeing on the white peaks before them, he continued: “As time goes on, you'll face different threats, ones you've not yet encountered.”

Not yet, because while he'd been alive, Seamus had acted as her protector, albeit from a distance. They'd found the letters, but how many more advances had been made directly? And Jamie was no Seamus—he wouldn't be able to withstand the renewed offers, the guileful entreaties. He'd refer them to Catriona, and then
she
would have to deal with . . . all the threats from which Seamus had shielded her.

That
was why he, Richard, was here—why Seamus had couched his will as he had.

Frowning, Richard refocused to discover Catriona studying his face. She humphed, then haughtily turned away, pert nose in the air. “Don't let me keep you.” With an airy wave, she gestured a dismissal. “I know this area well—I'm quite capable of finding my own way back.”

Richard swallowed a laugh. “How reassuring.” She slanted him a frowning glance; he responded with a charming smile. “I'm lost.”

Her eyes narrowed as she clearly debated whether she dared call him a liar. Deciding against it, she shifted from defense to attack. “It's truly unconscionable of you to raise the family's hopes.”

“By considering whether it's possible to help them?” He raised his brows haughtily. “It would be
unconscionable
of me to do otherwise.”

She frowned at him. “They're not your family.”

“No—but they are
a
family, and as such, command my respect. And my consideration.”

They do?
She didn't speak them, but the words were clear in her eyes. Richard held her gaze. “I'd vaguely imagined that families lay at the heart of your doctrine, too.”

She blinked. “They do.”

“Then shouldn't you be considering what you can do to help them? They're weaker, less able, than you or I. And none of this is their doing.”

It was a scramble to get back behind her defenses; she accomplished it with a frown and a fictitious shiver. “It's cold to be standing.” She looked up. “And there's more snow coming. We'd better return to the house.”

Richard made no demur as she turned her horse. He brought the black up alongside the chestnut, then gallantly drew back to amble behind her as she set the chestnut down a steep track. His gaze locked on her hips, swaying deliberately, first this way, then that, he spent the descent, not considering Seamus's family, but the mechanics of releasing them from his iniquitous will.

The behavior of Seamus's family in the drawing room, and over the dinner table, tried Catriona's temper sorely. While clearly of the opinion their cause was hopeless, they nevertheless endeavored to cast her in the most flattering light, to convince a reluctant suitor of her manifold charms. As they were self-effacing, bumbling, and close to helpless, she was forced to rein in her temper—forced to smile tightly rather than annihilate them with a crushing retort, or cut them to ribbons with her saber tongue. Richard noted her simmering—reminiscent of a barely capped volcano—and bided his time.

When they returned to the drawing room, and the tea trolley arrived, no one challenged his suggestion that he take Catriona her cup. As she was, by then, standing stiff and straight, looking out of one of the uncurtained windows, it was doubtful anyone else would have dared. As he strolled up, two cups in his hands, he fixed his gaze, deliberately unreadable, on Algaria O'Rourke's face. Holding fast to her customary position beside Catriona, she returned his stare with a black, unfathomable one of her own.