Scandal's Bride by Stephanie Laurens
“You could say,” he murmured, “that a Cynster without a family is a Cynster who’s failed.”
They’d reached the end of the ridge; the path turned at the rocky point, which formed a small lookout, then wound back up the slope through the trees. They halted on the point; the wind blew fresh and chill from the white mountaintops before them.
As one, they viewed the majestic sight; unprompted, Catriona pointed out various peaks and landmarks, naming them, citing their significance. Richard listened attentively, blue eyes narrowed against the wind and glare. As he studied the landscape, Catriona surreptitiously studied him.
His expression, she had realized, was very rarely spontaneous, even though he sometimes appeared open and easy. He was, in reality, reserved, his feelings kept close behind his mask—that facade he showed to the world. Whatever reactions he displayed were those he wanted to show; even his glib and ready charm was a carefully cultivated skill.
But when he’d spoken of his family—and of family—his mask had slipped, and she’d seen the man behind, and a little of his vulnerability. The insight had touched her, stirred her—and made her clamp a firm hold over her own reactions before they could carry her away. Richard Cynster, she’d already realized, was temptation incarnate—this morning had added another dimension to his attractiveness.
Quite the last thing she needed.
With a half-suppressed sigh, she turned. “We’d better get back.”
Richard turned, and, scanning the path upward, suppressed a sigh of his own. Tightening his grip on his rakish impulses, he gave Catriona his arm up the first section of path, made hazardous by melting snow. Pacing slowly beside her, aware through every pore of her soft warmth, gliding along beside him, and not making any advance whatsoever, had taken considerable effort; speaking of his family, explaining why he felt as he did, while maintaining the distance between them, had required superhuman resolution. But he wasn’t yet sure how far he could push her—and he wasn’t yet sure if he should.
As he’d foreseen, she slipped on the path; resigned, he caught her against him, unable to deaden the impact of her soft curves against him, let alone his instant reaction. Luckily, she was engrossed in regaining her footing, but when she tumbled against him again, one ripe breast pressing hard against his chest, one hip and sleek thigh riding against his hip, he had to bite his lip against a groan.
When they finally reached the place where the path leveled out, he’d given up hiding his scowl. She stopped to catch her breath; he stopped to let his body ease. Innocently, she regarded the scenery; annoyed, irritated, and mightily frustrated, he regarded her. And resumed his impassive mask. “You do understand why Seamus did as he did, don’t you?”
She turned to face him. “Because he was mad?”
Richard let his lips thin. “No.” He hesitated, studying her clear eyes. “You’re an attractive proposition, both personally and for your lands. You can’t be unaware of it. The offers for your hand have apparently been legion, most from men who would sell your vale from under you and treat you with far less respect than is your due. Seamus, more than anyone, was aware of that, so he tried a last throw, a last attempt to see you safe.”
She half smiled, her expression, her eyes, full of a feminine superiority expressly designed to goad him—or any male. “Seamus was a tyrant in his own family—it would never have occurred to him that I’m well able to take care of myself.”
If she had patted him on the hand and told him not to worry, it would have had the same effect; he didn’t bother to suppress his aggravated sigh. “Catriona, you are incapable of defending yourself against one determined callow youth, let alone a determined man.”
Up went her pert nose. “Rubbish.” Green eyes clashed with his. “Besides, The Lady protects me.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed—men always think they have the winning hand, simply because they’re bigger and stronger.”
“And they’re wrong?”
“Completely. The Lady has ways of dealing with importunate suitors—and so do I.”
Richard sighed and looked away—then abruptly swung back and stepped toward her. She half-shrieked and jumped back—plastering herself helpfully against the bole of a tall tree. He splayed one hand on the bole by her side; with his other hand, he trapped and framed her face. The base of the tree was higher than the path, making her relatively taller. Richard tilted her face to his; with her skirts brushing his boots, and a mere inch between them, he looked down into her wide eyes. “Show me.”
Her eyes grew wider as they searched his. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, straining the fabric of her coat—and still she was breathless. “Show you . . . what?”
“These ways you and Your Lady have of dealing with importunate suitors.” His gaze dropped to her lips; with his thumb, he brushed the lower.
And felt her quiver. Her heart was racing, and he hadn’t even kissed her.
The thought prompted the deed; bending his head, he brushed his lips tantalizingly over hers, not sure who he was teasing the most.
“How had you planned to protect yourself against a man who accosts you and kisses you?” He whispered the taunt against her lips, then raised his head—her lips parted fractionally. He sucked in a breath, and went back for more—for a slow, leisurely exploration of her luscious lips, of the soft, warm cavern of her mouth.
And she melted for him—with no hint of a struggle, she welcomed him in, her tongue tangling tentatively with his.
He drew back only to drag in a breath, and, his voice deep and grating, ask: “Just how had you planned to stop a man ravishing you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but ravished her mouth, taking all she offered, and demanding more. Commanding more. Which she gave.
Unstintingly.
The damned woman had no defenses to speak of.
Some small part of Catriona’s mind knew what he was thinking—the rest of her mind didn’t care. She’d never expected to have any defense against him; she could normally freeze any man with a mere glance, yet from the first, he’d been immune, both to such overt intimidation and to more subtle manipulations. But she certainly wasn’t going to explain that—that with him, her defenses, those The Lady had gifted her with, would not, for some misbegotten reason, work.
Even with her head spinning, her wits reeling, she wasn’t that daft. She could normally tie men in mental or verbal knots, make them trip over their toes, stutter, wheeze—a whole host of simple difficulties that would send the most confident fleeing.
But not him.
With him, all she could do was run.
But at present, she couldn’t run. All she could do was . . .
Enjoy her ravishment.
Not a difficult task. One her senses recommended.
Wholeheartedly.
At some point, she lifted her arms and wrapped them about his neck, and he moved closer, the pressure of his chest easing her aching breasts. She kissed him back with giddy abandon and felt him shift. Then his hand slid behind her, between the tree and her back, and slid down. Her willful senses leapt as he cradled her bottom, tilting her hips away from the tree. Then he pressed one hard thigh between hers.
She would have pulled back from their kiss and gasped, but he wouldn’t let her go—their kiss continued with escalating urgency, an urgency she felt to her bones. Their lips fused, eased, then melded again—his were cool marble, hers burned. He leaned into her—she drew him closer. Her thick pelisse muted the sensation of body meeting body, yet heat still swept through her, wave after wave, increasing in intensity—they had to be melting the snow for yards.
But she didn’t pull back—didn’t struggle to escape—she returned his kisses with increasing fervor, undismayed by the intimacy he pressed on her, eagerly savoring every nuance, every facet—what else could she do? This was experience, one she might never again enjoy.
So she enjoyed—and encouraged, invited, incited.
And he responded. Ardently.
His desire, his fire, set her aflame. When his hand dropped from her face to close firmly about her breast, she gasped and swayed—her knees literally wobbled. His hand firmed beneath her bottom, supporting her as his long fingers closed and caressed, firming about her nipple, squeezing gently. She arched against him, driven by instinct, by a hot need that was the counterpart of his. His prowling hunger had never been so clear, so forcefully imprinted on her senses. She tasted it in his kiss, felt it in his locked muscles, in the ridge of rampant flesh riding against her belly.
He tilted her hips, lifting her slightly—his thigh pressed deeper between hers, shifting suggestively.
The heat took her—a storm of fire and flame raced through her. She clutched his head wildly, threading her fingers through his thick locks as she angled her lips beneath his.
Crack!
Mere seconds later, or so it seemed, she was stepping carefully along the path a full five yards past the comfortable tree, one hand on Richard’s sleeve, the other holding her skirts as she stepped over a tree root, when firm footsteps approached from behind.
They both turned, with wholly false expressions of polite surprise. Catriona could only be thankful for the dappled shadows that hid her face as Algaria’s black gaze found her.
Algaria frowned. “I thought you might have got lost.”
Refraining from pointing out that she knew these woods better than her mentor, Catriona inclined her head. Carefully—it was still spinning. “I showed Mr. Cynster the lookout. We were on our way back.” Via a tree.
She could only just summon enough breath to get the words out; Algaria merely humphed and waved them on.
“Don’t wait for me—I’ll just plod along slowly.”
Catriona flicked a glance at her companion in time to see his lips twitch; she ignored the dangerous light in his eyes. “Very well.”
Gracefully haughty, as befitted The Lady’s senior disciple, she turned and allowed her nemesis to lead her on. She felt his gaze on her face, but kept her eyes fixed on the path and the scenery; she was still giddy, and flushed, with her senses clamoring. Insistently.
Steadfastly, she ignored them—and the question of what might have happened had Algaria not arrived. Such speculation was not calming, and right now, she needed calm.
Calm to deal with Richard Cynster—and calm to deal with herself. And she wasn’t at all sure which would prove more difficult.
His attitude to family had intrigued her, so she’d tried to draw him out, driven by a compulsive need to know more about him, so she could interpret her visions in a more sensible light. Instead, what she’d learned had made her decision harder still—how could she not respond to a man who desired and actively sought to establish a real family?
Yet the rest—all she had learned since they’d left the lookout—had only hardened her resolve to resist him. His facade had slipped long enough to confirm her inner view of him—to confirm his emotional motivation. He was, indeed, a warrior without a cause—the cause he searched for, yearned for, was a family to defend and protect.
Which was all very well, but warriors, especially the hereditary sort, did not hang up their swords in the hall and become simple family men. Far from it. They remained warriors still, to the heart, to the soul.
And warriors ruled.
Inwardly she sighed, and saw the house looming ahead. All she had learned had confirmed her in her resistance, while increasing the temptation to give herself to him—to have him as her lord. But first and last, she was the lady of the vale—she couldn’t, simply could not, let him into her life, couldn’t let him think of her as part of his cause, no matter how tempting that might be.
And tempting it was. Just how tempting she hadn’t understood, not until she’d stood pressed against him under that tree.
They stepped out of the woods and onto the lawn, spotted white with snow; Algaria followed close behind them. Calmer, more determined, Catriona drew a deep breath; she glanced briefly at Richard’s face, then looked at the house.
Temptation incarnate was what he was—his attitudes were strongly attractive, his sensuality so compelling he engaged her senses to the exclusion of all else. But his very strength was what stood between them. He was too powerful a personality, too strong a male, to surrender his natural dominance to a wife. A witch-wife at that.
He was a powerfully attractive, family-oriented gentleman, but he was still a warrior to the core.
The house rose before them, cold and grey; she felt his gaze on her face.
“You look pale.”
She glanced up and realized he thought she was still reeling. She let cool haughtiness infuse her eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
She looked ahead; from the corner of her eye, she saw his lips twitch.
“Indeed? Perhaps you should take up the local custom of a dram of whiskey before climbing into bed. Jamie tells me the locals all swear by it.”
Catriona humphed. “They’d swear by any ‘custom’ that means drinking whiskey.”
He chuckled. “Understandable—it’s good stuff. I hadn’t really appreciated it before. I’m a rabid convert to the local custom.”
“Converts are always the most rabid,” Catriona observed. “But if you really are interested, you should visit the distillery in the valley.”
They’d reached the side steps; describing the distillery, she led the way inside.
Chapter 5
“Ah—Richard?”
Halfway across the front hall, Richard halted and swiveled—Jamie stood uncertainly in a doorway.
“I . . . ah, wondered if you could spare me a moment of your time?”
As lunch had concluded half an hour ago, and as his witch had haughtily declined his invitation to find another tree and, nose in the air, hips seductively swaying, retired to her room, he’d been on his way to the billiards room to while away the afternoon, Richard saw no reason not to smoothly incline his head and stroll through the doorway through which Jamie waved him.
He knew what was coming.
Jamie didn’t disappoint him. Closing the door, Jamie followed him into the room and indicated a large chair angled before a desk. Richard sank into the chair, lounging gracefully, balancing one boot on his knee.
His host, however, didn’t settle in the chair behind the desk, but paced nervously before the hearth—before Richard. Glancing about, Richard noted the ledgers filling the shelves lining one wall, and the maps and diagrams of the area scattered about the room. This was clearly the estate office, equally clearly Jamie’s domain. The room was small but comfortable, much more comfortable than the library Seamus had inhabited.
“I wondered,” Jamie eventually began, “whether you’ve decided yet how you will answer the solicitor next week.”
The look he bent on Richard was a plea—not to be saved, but to have the worst told to him.
“I’m afraid,” Richard replied in his London drawl, “that I’ve not yet decided.”
Jamie frowned and paced on. “But . . . well, it isn’t all that likely, is it?”
“As to that,” Richard answered, “I really can’t say.”
In the hall, hugging the shadows, Algaria pressed her ear to the oak panels of the office door. She’d been traversing the gallery upstairs, on her way to Catriona’s room to inquire as to the reason for her unusual withdrawal, when she’d heard Jamie speak to Richard in the hall. His intent had been obvious; what she’d heard thus far confirmed it. She was not averse to a little eavesdropping if it served to ease her mind. And Catriona’s.
“But you normally reside in London, I understand. I’m afraid Catriona will never live anywhere else but Casphairn Manor.”
“So I apprehend.”
“And, well, she really is a sort of a witch, you know. Not the sort to change people into toads or eels or whatever she might say, but she really does—can—do strange things—and make other people do strange things.”
“Really?”
&nbs
“And doubtless you’re accustomed to balls and parties in London—a constant stream of them, I imagine.”
“Indeed—a never-ending stream of balls and parties.”
The undertone sliding beneath that reply made Algaria frown, but before she could define the emotion, Jamie spoke again.
“And, ah . . .” He coughed. “I daresay there are many ladies—very beautiful ladies—gracing the balls and parties.”
Leaning back in the chair, Richard merely inclined his head and kept his face expressionless.
His lack of response made Jamie more nervous. “I understand life at the manor is very quiet—no balls or parties at all. In fact, according to Catriona, it’s even quieter than here.”
“But not colder.” The words left Richard’s lips before he’d thought; luckily, Jamie took them only literally.
“True—but it’s still very cold.” He threw him a searching look. “The Lowlands are a lot colder than London.”
“Indubitably.”
As Jamie continued highlighting the stark contrasts between the life he imagined Richard led in London—only a slight exaggeration of the truth—and the life he could expect to lead as the lord of Casphairn Manor, Richard politely held to his noncommittal replies. As Jamie was his host, he felt obliged to humor him thus far, but would not commit himself, one way or the other.
He couldn’t. He hadn’t yet made up his mind.
Commited by a freakish, witch-induced impulse to seriously consider Seamus’s proposal, the more he did—the more he learned of Catriona Hennessey—the more he felt inclined to accept. To take up Seamus’s gauntlet, accept his challenge, which, day by day, was looking more like an appeal—an appeal to greater strength—the offer of a commission.
A commission for life, admittedly, but he was developing a serious taste for one of the payments that would accrue. The idea of having a witch in his bed for the rest of his life, his to tease, taunt and enjoy as he—and she—pleased, was shaping as a potent inducement.
But he distrusted the entire situation. Fate and Seamus McEnery had conspired to place him in it—he had no reason to trust either. Not on the question of marriage, not given what marriage meant to him.