Scandal's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Algaria had fallen silent; as the days passed, she’d become withdrawn. Inwardly sighing, Catriona accepted it and waited for her mentor to see the light.

  For herself, revelation had already come.

  As husband and wife, she and Richard had shared a room, shared a bed, for the past two nights. Time enough, opportunity enough, for her to see what the future might hold. Falling asleep in his arms had been heaven. Waking up there had proved a new delight.

  Feeling heat in her cheeks, Catriona inwardly grinned. She avoided looking at the cause and kept her gaze on the white fields, her hot cheeks close to the cold window.

  While her mind remembered all the details, and her wayward senses reveled in recollected sensation.

  She’d woken that morning to find him wrapped around her, woken to the sensation of him sliding into her. She’d gasped and clutched the arm wrapped about her waist, only to have him tip her hips back so he could enter her more deeply.

  He’d loved her as he always did—slowly, languorously, powerfully. Indefatigably. That seemed to be his style. It was one she found addictive. There was a depth to their intimacy, both physical and emotional, that she hadn’t expected.

  She’d closed her eyes and drunk it in, let it seep through her and nourish her soul.

  Now, she was all but hanging out of the window in her excitement, her eagerness to be home. To start her new life—to have him there, a part of it.

  “There!” Like a child, she pointed through the birches, a forest of trunks and bare branches. She glanced over her shoulder at Richard. “That’s Casphairn Manor.”

  He shifted and drew near to peer over her shoulder. “Grey stone?” Catriona nodded as a turret flashed into view.

  “The park looks extensive.”

  “It is.” She glanced at him. “It’s necessary to protect the manor from the winds and snows driving off Merrick.”

  He nodded and sat back again; Catriona turned back to the window. “Another ten minutes and we’ll be there.” Worry tinged her voice—directly attributable to the sudden, disconcerting thought of whether there was any potential problem she’d failed to foresee, any action she ought to be prepared to take to smooth his entry into the vale, into her life. Inwardly frowning, she stared out the window.

  Richard noted her concern, as he’d noted her earlier absorption with her holdings. Her mind was clearly on her fields, on the vale—on her responsibilities, not on him.

  His gaze on her profile, he inwardly grimaced. The last two days had gone his way—all his way. She was his on one level at least. But once they gained Casphairn Manor, he’d face new challenges—ones he’d never faced before.

  Like keeping his promise not to interfere with her role, with how she ran the vale. Like learning to accept what he meant to her—whatever that was.

  That last grated, on his temper, on his Cynster soul. He was not at all sure he appreciated the hand Her Lady had had in bringing about their marriage. Admittedly, if it hadn’t been for such divine intervention, Catriona might not now be his—not on any level. Witch that she was, she was stubborn, willful, and not easily swayed, particularly when it came to matters affecting her calling.

  His gaze locked on her face, he felt his features harden, felt determination swell.

  It must, he reflected, be his week for making vows.

  In this case—her case—he didn’t even have to think of the wording, the statement simply rang in his mind. She would, he swore, come to want him on her own account, not because Her Lady had ordained it. She’d want him, all of him, for herself—for what he gave her.

  That wasn’t, he felt sure, how she felt about him now, how she saw him in relation to herself, but he was a hunter to his soul—he was perfectly prepared to play a waiting game. Prepared to lay snares, carefully camouflaged traps, to persist until she was his.

  His in body, as she already was, and his in her mind as well.

  His—freely. That was, he suddenly realized, the only way he’d truly have her—the only way he’d know that she truly was his.

  As the carriage slowed, rocked, then rumbled through a pair of gateposts and on down a long avenue through the park, Richard watched his new bride—and idly speculated on just how she would tell him—how she would show him—when the time came, and she truly was his.

  “Good morning, m’lady! And a good morning it is that brings you home safe and sound.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Broom.” Taking Richard’s hand, Catriona descended the steps of his carriage, and, to her surprise, couldn’t exactly place what her housekeeper was thinking. Mrs. Broom was usually easy to read, but the huge grin on her homely face as she beamed up at Richard, all handsomely elegant as usual, defied interpretation.

  The sight of an unknown carriage leading her own up the long drive had brought the manor’s people running. Maids and stablelads, grooms and workmen, all piled into the courtyard, gathering in a loose crowd about the main steps before which Richard’s coachman had pulled up.

  Richard had descended first; from the shadows of the carriage, Catriona had watched her people’s eyes widen, seen the surprise, the speculation. She’d waited for the distrust, the defensiveness, ready to combat it—but it hadn’t yet appeared.

  Leaving one hand in Richard’s, she gestured with the other, smiling as, with a wave, she gathered her people’s attention, then directed it to Richard. “This is my husband, Mr. Richard Cynster. We were married two days ago.”

  A wave of excitement, a murmur of clear approval, swept the crowd. Catriona smiled at Richard, then smoothly turned to the old man leaning heavily on a stick beside Mrs. Broom. “Allow me to present McArdle.” The old man bowed, slow and deep; when he straightened, a smile wider than any Catriona could recall wreathed his face.

  “ ’Tis a pleasure to welcome you to Casphairn Manor, sir.”

  Smiling back, Richard inclined his head urbanely. “It’s a pleasure to be here, McArdle.”

  As if some ritual—one she was unaware of—had been successfully completed, everyone—all those who had served her since birth, all those who were in her care—relaxed and welcomed Richard Cynster into their midst. Utterly bemused, Catriona felt their warm welcome enfold him. He responded; placing her hand on his sleeve, he turned her. With her at his side, he slowly circled the gathering, so he could meet all her household.

  While making the introductions, Catriona studied her staff—one and all, their response to Richard was genuine. They were, indeed, very pleased to see him, to welcome him as her husband. The more he spoke, the more they smiled and grinned. The more she inwardly frowned.

  When they were free to go inside, Richard led her up the steps. They passed Algaria, standing silent and withdrawn at the top. Catriona met her black gaze—and instantly knew what she, at least, was thinking.

  But Richard’s reaction was not feigned, nor part of any plan; as she’d introduced him to a welcome she hadn’t foreseen, she’d sensed—known beyond question—that he hadn’t foreseen it, either. He’d been as surprised as she, but quick to respond to her people’s invitation.

  What had her puzzled was what, precisely, that invitation was—and why it had been issued so readily.

  Those questions plagued her all day.

  By the time the household gathered for dinner, she was seriously disturbed. There was something happening in her small world that she didn’t understand, some force stirring over which she had no control. Which was definitely not how it had been, nor how she liked it.

  Made uneasy by something she could not name, she glided into the dining hall. Richard prowled at her heels, as he had for most of the afternoon, as she’d shown him about her home. Now his home.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Catriona inwardly frowned. The matter of where they would live was something they hadn’t actually discussed—she’d simply assumed they would live here. Together. Lady and consort. But she’d assumed wrong on one point—she could be wrong on that issue, too. The thought did not calm her—right no
w, she needed calm.

  Drawing that emotion to her, she smiled at Mrs. Broom and stepped up to the dais. Going to her place at the center of the long table, she graciously waved Richard to the carved chair beside hers. The chair that had stood against the wall, unneeded since her parents’ deaths.

  Richard held her chair as she sat, then took the chair beside her. Catriona nodded to Mrs. Broom, who clapped her hands for the first course to be served. Maids hurried in, carting piled platters. Unlike the household of gentry elsewhere, at the manor, all the household ate together, as they had for centuries.

  Lounging in the chair beside Catriona, Richard studied her people, studied the open and easy manners that pertained between mistress and staff. There was a warmth, a camaraderie present that he previously had encountered only among soldiers; given the vale’s isolation, the trials of long winters and wild weather, it was perhaps a good thing—a necessary cohesiveness.

  All in all, he approved.

  Not so Worboys.

  Seated at the table directly below the main one, poor Worboys looked stunned. Inwardly grimacing, Richard made a mental note to expect his resignation. Used to the strict observances pertaining among the best households in the ton, the situation at Casphairn Manor would not meet Worboys’s high standards.

  And God only knew what the blacking was like.

  “Do you care for some wine?”

  Turning his head, Richard saw Catriona lift a decanter. Reaching out, he took it from her and studied the golden liquid within. “What is it?”

  “Dandelion wine. We make it ourselves.”

  “Oh.” Richard hesitated, then, inwardly grimacing, poured himself a half glass. He passed the decanter to Mrs. Broom, who had slipped into the seat beside him.

  “You must tell me,” she said, “what your favorite dishes are.” She flashed him a wide smile. “So we can see what we can do to accommodate your tastes.”

  Richard smiled his slow Cynster smile. “How kind of you. I’ll give the matter some thought.”

  She beamed, then turned aside.

  Richard turned back to Catriona, but she was absorbed in her meal. Lifting his wineglass, he sipped. Then blinked. Then sipped again, more slowly, savoring the tart taste, the complexities of the bouquet.

  Liquid ambrosia.

  Straightening, he set his glass down and picked up his soup spoon. “How much of that wine do you have?”

  Catriona shot him a glance. “We make as many casks as we can every summer. But we always have some left year to year.”

  “What do you do with it? The stuff left over?”

  Laying down her spoon, she shrugged. “I expect the old casks are still there, in the cellars. I told you they’re extensive—they run all the way beneath the main building.”

  “You can show me tomorrow.” When she looked at him suspiciously, he smiled. “Your cellars sound quite fascinating.”

  She humphed.

  A clanging sounded throughout the large room. All turned to where McArdle stood at the end of the main table. When all had quieted, he raised his goblet high. “I propose a toast—to Casphairn Manor. Long may it thrive. To our lady of the vale—long may she reign. And to our lady’s new consort, Mister Richard Cynster—a warm welcome to the vale, Sassenach though he might be.”

  Laughter greeted that last; McArdle grinned and turned to address Catriona and Richard directly. “To you, my lady—and the consort The Lady has sent you.”

  Wild cheering and clapping rose throughout the hall, echoing from the stone walls and high rafters. Smiling easily, fingers crooked about the stem of his glass, Richard turned his head and cocked a brow at Catriona.

  His question was clear; Catriona hesitated, then nodded. She watched as, with nonchalant grace, Richard rose; cradling his goblet, he lifted it high and said, very simply: “To Casphairn Manor.”

  All drank, as did he. Lowering his glass, he scanned the room, but did not sit down. After a moment, when all attention was again focused on him, on his commanding figure dominating the main table, he said, his voice low but carrying readily through the room: “I make the same pledge to you, and the vale, that I have already made to your lady.” A glance directed their attention to her, then he lifted his head and raised his glass. “As consort to your lady, I will honor the ways of the vale and protect you and the vale from all threats.”

  He drank off his wine, then lowered his glass as clapping erupted from all sides. Heartfelt, the sound rose and rolled over the room. Richard sat—instinctively, Catriona put out a hand to his sleeve. He looked at her—she met his gaze fleetingly, then smiled and looked away.

  And wondered at herself—at what he’d made her feel—all of them feel—in those few brief moments, with those few simple words. Magnetic words—she’d felt the tug herself, seen the effect it had had on her household. Her people were very much his already, and he’d only crossed the threshold mere hours ago.

  Through the rest of the meal, Catriona pondered that fact. She steadfastly avoided looking at Algaria, but could feel her black glare. And sense her thoughts.

  Nevertheless . . . she knew, to her bones, that this was how it was meant to be. Quite how their marriage would work out was what she couldn’t, at present, see. She’d known Richard for a potent force even before she had met him, which was why she’d believed he was no suitable consort for her. The Lady had deemed otherwise.

  Which was all very well but it was she who had to cope with his unsettling presence.

  Off-balance, uncertain—in severe need of some quiet and calm—she waited until dessert was being cleared, then set aside her napkin. “I’m afraid the journey must have been more tiring than I thought.” She smiled at McArdle. “I’m for bed.”

  “Of course, of course.” He started to rise to draw out her chair, then smiled over her head and subsided.

  Catriona felt the chair shift and looked around. Richard stood behind her. She smiled at him, then smiled at Mrs. Broom and the rest of the table. “Goodnight.”

  The others all nodded and smiled. Richard drew her chair farther back; she slipped past, then glided along behind the other chairs, stepped off the dais, and turned through an archway into the corridor leading to the stairs.

  The instant she was out of sight of the dining hall, she frowned and looked down. Pondering her state—the uneasiness, the sense of being off-center that had gripped her the moment she’d stepped over her own threshold, Richard by her side—she absentmindedly trailed through the corridors, through the front hall, and climbed the stairs to the gallery and crossed it to her chamber.

  Halting before her chamber door, she focused—to find herself standing in deep shadow. She’d forgotten to pick up a candle from the hall table. Luckily, born in this house, she didn’t need to see to find her room. She reached for the door latch—

  And very nearly screamed when a dark shadow reached past her, gripped the latch, and lifted it.

  Hand to her throat, she whirled—even before she saw him, denser than night at her side, she realized who it must be. “Richard!”

  He stilled; she could feel his frown. “What’s the matter?”

  The door swung wide, revealing her familiar room, lit by flames leaping in the grate. Catriona gazed in and tried to calm her racing heart. “I didn’t realize you were there.” She stepped over the threshold.

  “I’ll always be here.” He followed her in.

  Catriona whirled—her heart raced again as she faced him. And realized what he meant. “Ah . . . yes. Well . . .” Airily gesturing, she turned and walked further into the room. “I’m just not used to it—having someone there.”

  Truer words she’d never spoken. That was borne in on her as she walked to the fire, scanning the oh-so-familiar, oh-so-comforting furniture, and behind her, heard the latch click. Stopping by the fire, she half turned and glanced at him from beneath her lashes—he was standing just inside the door, studying her.

  This was her own private sanctuary. A place he now had the r
ight to enter whenever he chose. Yet another change marriage had wrought—yet another change she would have to accept.

  “I . . . was tired.”

  He tilted his head, still studying her. “So you said.” With that, he started to stroll, prowling about the room. Like some wild male animal assessing his new home.

  Pushing the vison from her, Catriona straightened and jettisoned all thoughts of spending a quiet hour or two considering her state. Considering her husband.

  She could hardly do that with him prowling so close.

  She could barely think with him prowling so close.

  His “I’ll always be here” was not reassuring.

  “Ah . . .” Eyeing him as he neared, she forced herself to meet his eyes. “We didn’t discuss our sleeping arrangements here.” One black brow rose. “What’s to discuss?” Reaching her side, he looked down at her, then crouched to tend the blaze.

  Looking down at his head, Catriona felt her temper stir. “We could discuss where you’ll sleep, for instance.”

  “I’ll sleep with you.”

  She bit her tongue—and warned herself of the unwisdom of biting off her nose. “Yes, but what I wondered was whether you would like a chamber of your own.”

  He seemed to consider that; he remained silent as he piled on logs, building a massive blaze. Then he stood; Catriona only just stopped herself from taking a step back.

  Richard looked down at her, then scanned the large room. Despite containing a bureau, dresser, dressing table and chairs, wardrobe and two chests, as well as the reassuringly massive four poster bed, the room was sparsely furnished. They could share it comfortably and still have room to spare. His traveling case, set against one wall, was barely noticeable.

  He looked down, into Catriona’s eyes. “Will it bother you if I say no?”

  The puzzlement that filled her eyes was impossible to mistake. “No, of course . . .” He raised a brow.