One glance had been enough to fill her mind with a vision far more powerful than the one that had brought her here. He was wearing a blue coat of a deeper hue than her dress, superbly tailored to hug his broad shoulders. A blue-and-black striped silk waistcoat covered a snowy white shirt topped by a beautifully tied cravat. His breeches, of the finest buckskin, clung to long, powerful thighs far too tightly for her comfort; his boots she already knew.
She wished him anywhere else but here; she had to fight to keep her eyes from him. Malcolm, beside her, was not so restrained; slumped in his chair, he gnawed on one knuckle and stared openly at the lounging elegance opposite. Catriona suppressed a waspish urge to tell him he’d never measure up, not while he slouched like that.
Instead, she breathed deeply, and determinedly settled, drawing calmness to her with every breath. Hands clasped in her lap, she reminded herself that she was here by The Lady’s orders; perhaps she’d been sent here to meet Richard Cynster to learn what it was she should avoid.
Masterful men.
Denying the urge to glance at one, she fixed her gaze on the solicitor and willed him to get on with his business. He looked up and blinked, then owlishly peered at the mantel clock. “Hurrumph! Yes.” He glanced around, clearly counting heads, matching faces against a list before laying it aside. “Well then, if we’re all assembled . . . ?”
When no one contradicted him, he picked up a long parchment, cleared his throat, and commenced. “I read the words of our client, Seamus McEnery, Laird of Keltyhead, as dictated to our clerk on the fifth of September this year.”
He cleared his throat again, and changed his voice; all understood that they were now hearing Seamus’s words verbatim.
“ ‘This, my last will and testament, will not be what any of you, gathered here at my request, will be expecting. This is my last chance at influencing things on this earth—to put right what I did wrong, to rectify the omissions I made. With the hindsight of age, I’ve been moved to use this, my will, to that end.’ ”
Not surprisingly, a nervous flutter did the rounds of the listeners. Catriona was immune, but even she frowned—what was the wily old badger up to now? Even Richard Cynster, she noticed, shifted slightly.
Settling in his chair, Richard inwardly frowned and struggled to shake off the premonition Seamus’s opening paragraph had evoked. He was only a minor player in this scene; there was no reason to imagine those words were aimed at him.
Yet, as the solicitor went on, it seemed he was wrong.
“ ‘My first bequest will close a chapter of my life otherwise long completed. I wish to give into her son’s hands the necklace my first wife bequeathed to him. As I have stipulated that he, Richard Melville Cynster, must be here to receive it, it has now served its purpose.’ ” The solicitor fumbled on the desk, then rose and crossed to Richard.
“Thank you,” Richard murmured, lifting the delicate strands from the solicitor’s gnarled hands. Gently, he untangled the finely wrought gold links, interspersed with opaque rose pink stones. From the center of the necklace hung a long crystal of amethyst, etched with signs too small for him to make out.
“It was quite out of order for Mr. McEnery to keep it from you,” the solicitor whispered. “Please do believe it was entirely against our advice.”
Studying the pendant, noting the curious warmth of the stones, Richard nodded absentmindedly. As the solicitor returned to the desk, Richard glanced up—from across the circle of seats, Catriona’s gaze was fixed on the pendant. Her absorption was complete; deliberately, he let the crystal hang, then moved it—her gaze remained riveted. The solicitor reseated himself; Richard closed his fist about the pendant. Catriona sighed and looked up; she met his gaze, then calmly looked away. Resisting an urge to raise his brows, Richard pocketed the necklace.
“Now, where were we? Ah . . . yes.” The solicitor cleared his throat, then warbled: “ ‘As to all the wealth of which I die possessed, property, furniture, and funds, all is to be held in trust for a period of one week from today, the day on which my will is read.’ ” The man paused, drew breath, then went on in a rush: “ ‘If during that one week, Richard Melville Cynster agrees to marry Catriona Mary Hennessy, the estate will be divided amongst my surviving children, as described below. If, however, by the end of that week, Richard Cynster refuses to marry Catriona Hennessy, my entire estate is to be sold and the funds divided equally between the dioceses of Edinburgh and Glasgow.’ ”
Shock—absolute and overpowering—held them all silent. For one minute, only the rustle of parchment and the odd crackle from the fire broke the stillness. Richard recovered, if that was the right word, first; he dragged in a huge breath, conscious of a sense of unreality, as if in a crazy dream. He glanced at Catriona, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was fixed in the distance, her expression one of stunned incredulity.
“How could he?” Her vehement question broke the spell; she focused abruptly on the solicitor.
A cacophany of questions and exclamations poured forth. Seamus’s family could not take in what their sire had done to them; most of them were helpless, barely coherent.
Seated beside Richard, Mary turned a stricken face to him. “My God—how will we manage?” Her eyes filled; she grasped Richard’s hand, not in supplication, but for support.
Instinctively, he gave it, curling his fingers about hers and pressing reassuringly. He saw her face as she turned to Jamie, saw the hopelessness that swamped her.
“What will we do?” she all but sobbed as Jamie gathered her into his arms.
As stunned as she, Jamie looked at the solicitor over her head. “Why?”
It was, Richard felt, the most pertinent question; the solicitor took it as his cue and waved his hands at the others to hush them. “If I might continue . . . ?”
They fell silent, and he picked up the will. He drew breath, then looked up, peering over his pince-nez. “This is a most irregular will, so I feel no compunction in breaking with tradition and stating that I and all others in my firm argued most strongly against these provisions, but Mr. McEnery would not be moved. As it stands, the will is legal and, in our opinion, uncontestable by law.”
With that, he looked down at the parchment. “ ‘These next words are addressed to my ward, Catriona Mary Hennessy. Regardless of what she might think, it was my duty to see to her future. As in life I was not strong enough to influence her, so in death I am putting her in the way of one who, if half the tales told of him and his clan are true, possesses the requisite talents to deal with her.’ ”
There followed a detailed description of how the estate was to be divided between Seamus’s children in the event Richard agreed to marry Catriona, to which no one listened. The family and Catriona were too busy decrying Seamus’s perfidy; Richard was too absorbed in noting that not one of them imagined any other outcome than that the estate would pass to the Church.
By the time the solicitor had reached the end of the will, despair, utter and complete, had taken posssession of the McEnerys. Jamie, swallowing his bitter disappointment, rose to shake the solicitor’s hand and thank him. Then he turned away to comfort Mary, distraught and weeping.
“It’s iniquitous,” she sobbed. “Not even the barest living! And what about the children?”
“Hush, shussh.” Jamie tried to soothe her, his expression one of abject defeat.
“He was mad.” Malcolm spat the words out. “He’s cheated us of everything we’d a right to expect.”
Meg and Cordelia were sobbing, their meek spouses incoherent.
Sitting quietly in his chair, untouched by the emotion sweeping his hosts, Richard watched, and listened, and considered. Considered the fact that not one of the company expected him to save them.
Considered Catriona, sleek and slender in deep blue, her hair burning even more brightly in the dull and somber room. She was comforting Meg, counselling her away from hysteria, exuding calm in an almost visible stream. Straining his ears, he listened to her wor
ds.
“There’s nothing to be done, so there’s no sense in working yourself into a state and having a miscarriage. You know as well as anyone I didn’t get along with Seamus, but I would never have believed him capable of this. I’m as deeply shocked as you.” She continued talking quickly, filling Meg’s ears, forcing the woman to listen to her and not descend into excessive tears. “The solicitor says it’s a fait accompli, so other than calling down curses on Seamus’s dead head, there’s no use in having the vapors now. We must all get together and see what can be done, what can be salvaged.”
She continued, moving the direction of her thoughts, and Meg’s and Cordelia’s and their husbands’, into a more positive vein. But that vein followed the line of what to do to cope with this unexpected shock; at no point did she, or anyone, not even Jamie or Mary when they joined the group, allude to any alternative.
Not once did Catriona glance his way; it was almost as if she’d dismissed him from her mind, forgotten his existence. As if they’d all forgotten him—the dark predator, the interloper, the Cynster in their midst. No one thought to appeal to him.
To them all, not only Catriona, the outcome was a fait accompli. They didn’t even bother to ask for his decision, his answer to Seamus’s challenge.
But then, they were the weak and helpless; he was something else again.
“Ah-hem.”
Richard glanced up to see the solicitor, his papers packed, peering at him. His exclamation startled the others to silence.
“If I could have your formal decision, Mr. Cynster, so that we can start finalizing the estate?”
Richard raised his brows. “I have one week to decide, I believe?”
The solicitor blinked, then straightened. “Indeed.” He shot a glance at Catriona. “Seven full days is the time the will stipulates.”
“Very well.” Uncrossing his legs, Richard rose. “You may call on me here, one week from today”—he smiled slightly at the man—“and I will give you my answer then.”
Responding to his manner, the solicitor bowed. “As you wish, sir. In accordance with the will, the estate will remain in trust until that time.”
Quickly gathering his papers, the solicitor shook hands with Richard, then with Jamie, stunned anew, then, with a general nod to the rest of them, quit the library.
The door shut behind him; the click of the latch echoed through the huge room, through the unnatural stillness. As one, the family turned to stare, dumbfounded, at Richard, all except Catriona; she was already staring at him, through ominously narrowed eyes.
Richard smiled, smoothly, easily. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll stretch my legs.”
With that, he did so, strolling nonchalantly to the door.
* * *
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Brutally candid, Catriona all but pushed Jamie into a chair in the parlor, then plopped down on the chaise facing him. “Now, concentrate,” she admonished him, “and tell me everything you know of Richard Cynster.”
Still dazed, Jamie shrugged. “He’s the son of Da”s first wife—hers, and the man the English government sent up here one time. A duke, he was—I’ve forgotten the title, if I ever heard it.” He screwed up his face. “I can’t remember much—it was all before I was born. I only know what Da’ let slip now and then.”
Catriona restrained her temper with an effort. “Just tell me everything you can remember.” She needed to know the enemy. When Jamie looked blank, she blew out a breath. “All right—questions. Does he live in London?”
“Aye—he came up from there. His valet said so.”
“He has a valet?”
“Aye—a very starchy sort.”
“What’s his reputation?” Catriona blinked. “No—never mind.” She muttered beneath her breath: “I know more about that than you.” About a man with lips like cool marble, arms that had held her trapped, and a body . . . she blinked again. “His family—what do you know of them? Do they acknowledge him openly?”
“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 h
e’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.”
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