Scandal's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  As McArdle heaved himself up, Richard reached out and caught Catriona’s hand. She turned and raised a brow.

  “Don’t forget,” he murmured, his eyes on hers, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.

  For one instant, she stared at him—and he could see she couldn’t decide what he was reminding her of—her agreement to tell him her whereabouts, or his invitation to midday snacks. Then she blinked. And looked at him again. “I’ll be in the office for most of the day.”

  And it was his turn to be uncertain—unsure—just what she meant. She gently tugged and he eased his grip and let her fingers slide from his. She inclined her head, then turned away.

  As he watched her glide to the door, he still wasn’t sure which she meant.

  He’d decided on the library as his own domain—according to Catriona, only she, and Algaria occasionally, used it. There was a huge, old desk, lovingly polished, and a well-padded chair that accommodated his large frame surprisingly well.

  Through the combined efforts of Mrs. Broom and Henderson, a large morose man who filled the position of general factotum, he was supplied with paper, pen and ink. Worboys, looking in on him, departed and returned bearing his seal and a stub of wax. After dispatching a maid to fetch a candle, Worboys cast a haughty, barely approving glance over the leather-bound tomes, then sniffed.

  “If you need me, sir, I’ll be in your room. Henderson—a nice enough chap if one can cope with his brogue—is organizing to have a second wardrobe moved in. I’ll be tending your coats.”

  Lovingly, Richard had not a doubt. “Very well—I doubt I’ll need you much in the coming days.” He looked up at Worboys. “We won’t be entertaining.”

  Worboys only just avoided a snort. “It does seem unlikely, sir.” With that comment on his new home, Worboys took himself off.

  Raising his brows, secretly surprised not to have been presented with Worboys’ resignation, Richard turned back to his letters.

  He considered, then settled to write a fuller account of his marriage to Devil—the easiest task facing him. He filled in the details he’d omitted in his earlier brief note, but saw no reason to elaborate on his feelings, on the reasons he’d taken the plunge. He was quite sure Devil, having already succumbed, and having lived with the outcome for a year, could fill in the blanks for himself.

  And heaven knew Honoria, Devil’s duchess, and Helena, Richard’s stepmother, certainly would.

  Sealing Devil’s letter, Richard grimaced and set another blank sheet before him.

  He stared at it for half an hour. In the end, he wrote a very careful, exquisitely guarded account, rather shorter on actual facts than the first note he’d sent Devil, but filled instead with the sort of information he knew his stepmother would want to know. That yes, he’d found his mother’s grave. A description of the necklace his mother had left him. The fact Catriona had long red hair and green eyes. That it had snowed on the day they had married.

  Those sort of things.

  He penned them carefully and hoped, without much hope, that she’d be satisfied with that. At least for a while.

  With a sigh, he signed his name. He’d told Devil they wouldn’t be attending the Christmas celebrations at Somersham this year. He knew without asking that Catriona would prefer to remain here, and even after only one night under this roof, he agreed. Maybe, in years to come, when their life here was more established, they would journey south for those few, family-filled days—he, she and their children.

  The thought held him for long moments, then he stirred, sealed his missive to Helena, and turned to his last letter—to Heathcote Montague, man of business, on permanent retainer to all the Cynsters.

  That letter was more to his liking—making decisions, dealing with his varied interests, giving directions to enable him to manage them all from the vale—these were positive actions reinforcing his new position, his new role.

  He signed that letter with a flourish. Impressing his seal on the melted wax, he waved the letter to cool it, then gathered up all three packets and rose. And set out to discover who collected the mail.

  There was no butler as such. Old McArdle retained the title of steward, but from all he’d heard, Richard strongly suspected that Catriona did the bulk of the work herself. Henderson, as factotum, was the most likely to oversee the delivery of letters and parcels. Richard wandered through the corridors toward the back of the house, looking in on small workrooms, finding the butler’s pantry—but no Henderson.

  Deciding to place the matter—along with his letters—in Worboys’s ever efficient hands and only then remembering Henderson’s appointment with his henchman in the main bedchamber, Richard headed back toward the stairs.

  Somewhere in the depths of the house, a bell clanged.

  He was in the corridor heading for the front hall when he heard footsteps cross the tiles, then a heavy creak as the front doors were opened.

  “Good morning, Henderson! And where is your mistress? Pray tell her I wish to see her right away. A matter of some seriousness, I fear.”

  The hearty, emphatically genial tones carried clearly; slowing, Richard halted in the shadows of the archway giving onto the front hall. From there, he could see the large, heavily built gentleman handing his hat to Henderson—and the reluctance with which Henderson accepted it.

  “I’ll see if the mistress is free, sir.”

  Piggy eyes in a round, reddened face narrowed slightly. “Now you just tell her it’s me, and she’ll be free, I’ll warrant. Now get a move on, sirrah—don’t keep me standing—”

  “Sir Olwyn.” Catriona’s quiet, dignified tones carried clearly down the hall. Richard watched as, having glided from the office, she took up a stance directly before the main stairs. And faced Sir Olwyn calmly.

  “Miss Hennessey!” Sir Olwyn’s impending scowl was banished by a beaming smile. With over-hearty eagerness, he strode up the hall. “A pleasure to see you returned, my dear.” Catriona smiled coolly and inclined her head, but offered no hand in greeting; Sir Olwyn only beamed brighter. “I trust your little sojourn in the Highlands passed without mishap?” As if only then recalling what had occasioned her absence, his smile evaporated, to be replaced with an expression of patently false sympathy. “A great loss, I’m sure, your guardian.”

  “Indeed.” Her voice as cold as the snows outside, Catriona inclined her head again. “But—”

  “His son has inherited, I understand?” Catriona drew a patient breath. “Yes. His son Jamie was, indeed, my late guardian’s heir. But—”

  “Aye, well—he’ll want to pay attention to things down here, and that right quickly, I make no doubt.” Bluffy earnest again, Sir Olwyn looked at Catriona and shook his head. “I fear, my dear, that I must again lodge a protest—vale cattle have been found wandering miles into my fields.”

  “Indeed?” Brows rising, Catriona turned and looked at McArdle, who had followed her into the hall. He looked steadily back, then gave one of his exaggerated, disclaiming shrugs—this one expressing subtle contempt for the suggestion. Catriona turned back to Sir Olwyn. “I fear, sir, that you must be mistaken. None of our cattle are missing.”

  “No, no, my dear—of course they aren’t.” Braving the prevailing chill, Sir Olwyn boldly took Catriona’s hand and patted it. “My men have strict orders to return them. Many other landowners would not be so lenient, my dear—I do hope you appreciate my concern for you.” Cloyingly paternalistic, he smiled into her eyes. “No, no—you losing beasts is not the point, sweet lady. The point is that they should not have wandered in the first place and should certainly not have caused damage to my fields.

  Not thawed in the least, Catriona, very deliberately, withdrew her hand. “What—”

  “No, no! Never fear.” With a hearty laugh, Sir Olwyn held up one hand. “We’ll say no more of it this time. But you really need to pay attention to your stock management, my dear. Of course, being a female, you shouldn’t need to worry your pretty head over such matters. A ma
n is what you need, m’dear—”

  “I doubt that.” With languid ease, Richard strolled into the hall. “At least, not another one.”

  Sir Olwyn stared, then he bristled. “Who are you?”

  Richard raised one brow and looked at Catriona.

  With unimpaired calm, she returned her gaze to Sir Olwyn. “Allow me to present Richard Cynster—my husband.”

  Sir Olwyn blinked, then he goggled. “Husband?” “As I was trying to tell you, Sir Olwyn, while in the Highlands, I married.”

  “Me.” Richard smiled—a distinctly Cynster smile.

  Sir Olwyn eyed it dubiously. He mouthed a silent “Oh,” then flushed and turned to Catriona. “Felicitations, my dear—well! It’s quite a surprise.” His piggy eyes sharpened; he looked intently at her. “Quite a surprise.”

  “Indeed,” Richard drawled, “a surprise all around, I fancy.” Smoothly moving forward, he interposed himself between Catriona and Sir Olwyn, ineffably gathering Sir Olwyn within one outstretched arm, turning him and steering him back down the hall. “Glean—it is Sir Olwyn Glean, is it not?—perhaps . . . you understand I haven’t yet had time to fully acquaint myself with the situation here—we’ve only just arrived, you see . . . where was I? Ah, yes—perhaps you’d be so good as to explain to me how you identified these wandering cattle as originating from the vale. I gather you didn’t see them?”

  Discovering himself back at the front door, which Henderson had helpfully set wide, Sir Olwyn blinked, then shook himself. And flushed. “Well, no—but—”

  “Ah! Your men verified their identities, then. I’m so glad—they’ll be able to tell me the farm from which the cattle escaped.”

  Sir Olwyn flustered. “Well—as to that—”

  Catching his eye, Richard dispensed with his drawl. “I will, of course, be taking steps to ensure no similar situation occurs again.” He smiled, very slightly, very intently. “I do hope you take my meaning.”

  Sir Olwyn flushed to the roots of his hair. He threw a stunned look back at Catriona, then grabbed the hat Henderson held out, crammed it on his crown, swung on his heel and clattered down the steps.

  Richard watched him go—watched him scramble atop his showy bay and canter out of the courtyard.

  At Richard’s shoulder, the taciturn Henderson nodded at Glean’s departing back. “Good job, that.”

  Richard thought so. He smiled and handed Henderson his letters, then turned back into the hall. Behind him, Henderson pulled the heavy doors shut.

  Catriona hadn’t moved from her position before the stairs; Richard strolled up the hall and stopped directly before her.

  She met his gaze directly. “Our cattle don’t stray beyond the vale—I’d know if they did.”

  Richard studied her eyes, then nodded. “I’d assumed after reading Glean’s letters to Seasmus that all that was so much hot air.” He took her hand and turned her toward the stairs.

  “Sir Olwyn’s always trying to create situations out of nothing.”

  “Hmmm.” Placing her hand on his sleeve, Richard started up the stairs.

  Catriona frowned. “Where are we going?”

  “To our room.” Richard waved ahead. “Henderson and Worboys have been doing a little reorganizing—I think we should see if you approve.” He smiled at her, effortlessly charming. “And there’s one or two other things I’d like you to consider.”

  Like the appetite he’d worked up dispensing with Sir Olwyn.

  It was time for a midday snack.

  Four days later, when Catriona again tried to slip from her husband’s arms before dawn, he grunted, held her close for an instant, then let her go—and rolled out of bed as well.

  “This is really not necessary,” Catriona stated as, ten minutes later, she stood in the dimness of the stable and watched Richard saddle her mare. “I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

  “Hmm.”

  Catriona glared. She knew it was useless, but it eased her temper, confused as it was. “You could have stayed nicely warm in bed.”

  Cinching the girths, he looked up and met her eyes. “There’s no point in staying nicely warm in bed if you’re not in it.”

  It was her turn to humph. Gathering the reins, she put her hands to the saddle, intending to scramble up. He was around beside her in a blink; lifting her, he dropped her onto her perch.

  Glaring, she reminded herself, was wasted effort. She settled her feet in the stirrups. “I’ll be back in less than two hours.”

  Tight-lipped, he nodded and led the way up the long main corridor of the stable to open the door for her.

  Halfway along, he abruptly ducked—avoiding a huge horsy head that suddenly appeared over the top of one stall. The head bobbed and danced, huge eyes rolling at the mare, who promptly skittered and shied. Catriona cursed and drew the mare back.

  Richard stared at the huge horse, its head considerably higher than his. “Where the devil did you come from?”

  “That’s Thunderer.” Holding the mare still, Catriona looked at the troublemaker. “He’s not usually in this section of the stables. Higgins is making repairs in the other building—perhaps that’s why he’s moved Thunderer here.”

  The big horse shifted, then snorted and kicked restlessly. Catriona sighed. “I wish he’d calm down. He half demolishes his stall every month.”

  “He probably just needs more exercise.” Climbing up on the gate of the next stall, Richard looked down on the massive beast. The sleek, dappled grey coat had obviously given him his name—that, and the noise he made with his huge hooves, constantly stamping, shifting, kicking. Richard frowned. “Is he a stallion?”

  “Yes—he’s stallion to the vale’s herd. In winter, all the mares are quartered around the other side.”

  With a snort, Richard dropped back to the ground. “Poor animal.” He shot a glance at Catriona. “I know just how he feels.” She sniffed; he looked back at the stallion. “You need to give orders for him to be ridden more—at least once a day. Or you’ll be paying for it in timber and tending bitten grooms.”

  “Unfortunately, with Thunderer, we have to pay and tend. He’s unridable.”

  Richard frowned at her, then back at the horse.

  “He’s a superb horse, a thoroughbred with excellent bloodlines. We needed a stallion like him to improve the herd, and he was a bargain because the gentleman who owned him couldn’t ride him.”

  “Hmm. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s unridable.”

  Catriona shrugged. “He’s thrown every groom in the vale. So now, in winter, he just mooches around in a foul temper.”

  Richard shot her a sharp glance. “That, I can appreciate.”

  Sticking her nose in the air, Catriona waved at the door. “I have to reach the circle before dawn.”

  She couldn’t hear what Richard grumbled, but he turned and strode on. Keeping to the far side of the corridor, she walked the mare past Thunderer, who whinnied pitifully. “Males!” she muttered under her breath.

  Her own male was waiting, holding the door wide; she rode through and turned—and met his eye. And heard herself assure him: “I’ll be back soon.”

  For all the world as if she was promising on her return to engage in their habitual morning activities. As if her prayers were merely an interruption. A quirk of his brow told her how he’d interpreted her impulsive words; mentally cursing, Catriona turned, touched her heels to the mare’s flanks—and escaped.

  For now. Later, she was obviously destined to provide another of his midday snacks.

  The fact that the tingling in her veins owed nothing to the exhilaration of her ride she studiously ignored.

  His arms draped over the top rail of the yard fence, Richard watched her fly across the winter landscape. When she was halfway to where he would lose sight of her, he slid his hand into his greatcoat pocket and drew out the spyglass he’d found in the library. Extending the glass to its full length, he put it to his eye, adjusted the focus, then scanned the snow-cove
red ground ahead of Catriona.

  Not a single hoofprint—or footprint—marred the snow carpet.

  Lips curving in grim satisfaction, Richard lowered the glass and put it away. There were more ways than one to keep a witch safe.

  He’d ridden out to her circle two days before. Even he, unsusceptible to local superstitions, had felt the power that protected the grove of yews, elms and alders—trees not common in these parts. He’d circled it on foot and had confirmed to his own satisfaction that there was no possible approach to the circle other than by crossing the expanse of ground he’d just scanned.

  While he’d much rather be with her—was, indeed, conscious of a strong desire to ride there at her side—without an invitation from her, watching over her from afar was the best he could do.

  At least, he thought, as the flying figure that was his witch rounded a small hillock and disappeared from sight, this way, the possessive protectiveness that was now a constant part of him was at least partly assuaged.

  Turning from the now empty landscape, he started back to the house. Then stopped. Slowly, frowning, he looked back at the stable, then swung about and strode back to the door.

  “Where is he?” Tugging her day gown over her head, Catriona heard the waspishness in her tone, and humphed. “That, I suppose, is what comes of consorting with rakes.” Having a rake for a consort.

  With another disgusted humph, she scooped her discarded riding clothes into a pile and dumped them on a chair.

  She’d returned from her prayers, from her wild ride through the snow-kissed countryside, excited and exhilarated, bubblingly eager to set eyes on her handsome husband again. He who she’d left waiting.

  Ridiculously eager to soothe his frustrations.

  She’d expected to find him in the warmth of the kitchen, or perhaps in the dining hall, or even brooding—darkly sensual—in the library.

  He hadn’t been anywhere, brooding or otherwise. She’d looked, but hadn’t been able to locate him.

  Now, she was disappointed.

  Now, she was frustrated.

  With a smothered growl, Catriona stalked to the window and threw back the curtains, then opened the pane and set the shutters wide.