Scandal's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Richard saw them; the breath trapped in his chest abruptly released in a huge sigh of relief—he reached out, grabbed her, wrapped his arms about her, and buried his face in her hair. And breathed deeply, inhaling the scent he’d so missed the previous night. “Then I’ll stay.”

  After a long, silent moment, she sniffed, and softened in his arms. “You will?”

  “Forever.” Lifting his head, he brushed her hair from her face and kissed her. Long and lingeringly. “Come to bed.”

  Her lids lifted; she met his gaze. “Bed?”

  Richard grimaced. “Your hands are hurt, remember.” He stood, simultaneously lifting her into his arms. He lost his towel in the process; neither of them cared. He carried her to the bed, laid her down gently, freeing her hair, spreading it over the pillows, then, holding her wrists so she wouldn’t forget in her passion and harm them, he covered her.

  She’d cooled, but when he pressed into her she arched, then arched again and took him in. He settled within her, then drank her soft gasp when he drew back and thrust deep. Three thrusts later, she wriggled beneath him, tilting her hips to better receive him, lifting her legs and clasping his flanks—welcoming him in, holding him to her. Loving him.

  Richard slowed, wallowing in the glory, in the intimate caresses she pressed on him. He bent his head and kissed her—she drew him deep there as well.

  And so they loved—now slow, then faster, then slow again when the compulsion to savor the moment came upon them. Their bodies shifted and flexed in a dance older than time, hard pressing soft, rough rasping smooth. They lost track of time, of the world about them, of the night beyond their bed. The only things that mattered were each other’s pleasure and the soft murmurs of contentment they shared.

  And when the spinning stars finally crashed down upon them and took them from the world, they were together, as one, much more deeply than before.

  Much more wedded than before.

  Sunk deep in her softness, collapsed upon her, Richard’s last thought was: At long last, he’d found his home.

  Later, in the untrammeled depths of the night, held securely in Richard’s arms yet still drifting in a sated sea, Catriona recalled her first sensing of him, recalled his hot hunger—his lustful desire—and his restless longing. She remembered very well that restlessness in his soul, his deep-seated need to belong. She could, she now knew, satisfy his lustful hunger—she could fulfill his other need, too. And thus anchor him here, by her side, satisfied with what she could give him.

  She could be his cause, become his life’s purpose.

  Her initial reading of him, that, quite aside from his strengths, he bore a wound which needed her healer’s touch, had been accurate. He did have a deep need for something she could give him—herself, but not just physically; he needed much more than that. He needed her specifically, and that need, even once satisfied, would never die; it would always be a part of him. And if that was so, then if she gave freely, she had no reason to fear losing him.

  The only question that remained was how much he understood—whether he would still fight fate—The Lady’s will—or accept what she offered him.

  She knew he was still awake, still floating in the warm afterglow. She drew in a slow breath, and took her courage in both hands. “Why did you decide to come back?”

  The quiet question hung in the dark, a sweetly tolling bell exhorting the truth.

  Richard heard and considered the many answers. He’d returned because of the loneliness that had wracked his soul when, last night, he’d slept without her. Tried to sleep without her—without her warmth beside him, without her silken limbs alongside his, the sound of her breathing, soft and low, echoing in his heart. Tried to sleep without the fragrance of her hair sinking through his senses, anchoring him through the night. He hadn’t slept at all.

  He’d returned even faster after learning of Dougal Douglas, because of the feeling that had churned in his gut, spurring him back from Carlisle. Because of the dread certainty that he should never have left her.

  A certainty transmogrified to fact in that horror-filled moment when, clattering wildly into the yard having seen the flames and smoke through the trees, he’d seen his worst nightmare enacted before him—seen her rush into a burning building.

  He wasn’t about to deny what he felt for her—the depth of what he felt for her—not ever again. He would have to learn to deal with it, learn how to live with it—and so would she.

  Not, however, tonight. They were both far too tired to face such a task.

  So he searched for a way to answer, some phrase that encompassed the truth. “I came back because this is my place.” Turning his head, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “This is where I belong. With you. By your side.”

  Catriona closed her eyes tight—against tears of relief, of joy, and something more besides. That last welled through her, poured through her, glowing brighter than spun gold.

  This was where he belonged—here—by her side. She knew it—thank The Lady, he knew it, too.

  Chapter 15

  Despite the fire and its aftermath, or, perhaps, because of it, they both slept deeply and awoke early, still in each other’s arms. The temptation to celebrate the night and its revelations was strong, but . . .

  “I have to go to the circle.” Her head resting on Richard’s chest, Catriona pushed at the heavy arm lying possessively over her waist. “I should have gone two mornings ago—I really must go today.”

  “I’ll go with you.” The words were out before Richard thought; he quickly amended: “I’ll escort you there—if that’s permitted?”

  Still trapped under his arm, Catriona wriggled around so she could look into his face. “You’ll ride there with me?”

  Somewhat warily—was he committing some witchy solecism?—Richard nodded. “I’ll wait, and ride back with you.”

  She searched his eyes, searched his face, then her face transformed, lit by a glorious smile. “Yes—come. I’d like that.”

  It was all she said before scrambling from the bed; Richard followed, bemused. The smiles she kept beaming his way, even when—especially when—she thought he wasn’t watching, tugged at his heart and made him smile, too. By the time they clattered out of the yard, she on her mare, he on Thunderer, she was radiant with delight.

  He shook his head at her. “Anyone would think I’d offered to buy you diamonds, not just ride with you to your prayers.”

  She laughed—a sound so glorious it shook him—touched her heels to her mare’s flanks, and headed across the melting snow.

  Richard followed, easing Thunderer up alongside her mare. There was no point racing; the mare’s short strides were no match for Thunderer’s might. So they raced the wind instead, streaking up the vale in the chill of near-dawn, hoofbeats thudding in time with their hearts, breaths steaming as exhilaration overtook them.

  Reaching the head of the vale, they slowed; Catriona led the way to an outcropping of rock that formed a natural shelf beside the circle. Sliding from her saddle, she glanced down the vale. The sun was rising in the purple mists beyond the mouth of the vale; the line marking the boundary between night and day, fuzzed by the clouds, advanced, unstoppable, toward them.

  “I have to hurry.” Breathless, she glanced up at him as he took her reins, then she threw her arms about him, hugged him wildly, then ran for the entrance to the circle.

  It was not a simple circle of trees, but a circular grove, grown dense with the centuries. The shadows within swallowed her up as she ran down the dimly lit path. Richard watched until the flickering light of her hair disappeared, then tethered the horses and found a comfortable rock on which to perch.

  He was sitting on a lichen-covered boulder appreciating the sunrise when she came running out of the trees, with such joy suffusing her face that just knowing that he, quite aside from The Lady, had played a part in putting it there, warmed his heart. Smiling, he rose, and caught her as she ran full-tilt into his arms. He hugged her, stole
a swift kiss, then tossed her to the mare’s saddle.

  They rode back through the sun-kissed morning, birdcall ringing about them, the chill lifting as the sun struck through the clouds and brought the landscape alive. Snow still stood in drifts across the fields, but brown now showed as well. Behind them, Merrick was still completely mantled, but below the snows, the earth was stirring. Warming. Returning to life.

  As they rode side by side into the morning, Richard couldn’t suppress the feeling that he, too, had lived through a dark season and was now emerging into the light.

  No longer in any hurry, they ambled about the low hummock that hid the manor from sight. Squinting into the silver disc of the sun, they couldn’t see the buildings, but knew they were there.

  “Hrroooo.”

  Richard reined in, blinking to clear his vision. Before them stood two of the vale’s steers, in less than perfect condition. The cattle blinked sad brown eyes at them, then turned and ambled away. Frowning, Richard watched them go.

  He had to start somewhere. “Catriona—”

  “I was just thinking—”

  She broke off and looked at him; Richard quelled a grimace and gestured for her to go on.

  Hands crossed on her saddlebow, she stared toward the manor. “I was just wondering . . .” She paused; he saw her lips tighten. “If you stay, will you miss the balls and parties?” Swiftly, she glanced at him. “We don’t have any, you know.”

  “Thank heaven—and The Lady, I suspect—for that. I don’t give a damn about balls and parties.” Considering the statement, Richard raised his brows. “In fact, I haven’t cared for them for years.” He met Catriona’s wide—definitely wondering—gaze and narrowed his eyes. “And I don’t give a damn about the incredibly beautiful ladies who attend such events, either.”

  Her eyes searched his, then her lips formed a silent “Oh” before curving, just a little, at the ends.

  Richard fought down an urge to kiss them. “I’m staying—and you can forget any idea that I’ll grow bored. There’s plenty to keep me busy here—which brings me to what I wanted to discuss with you. The breeding stock.”

  She grimaced and set the mare plodding slowly on. “I haven’t been able to find any source that I consider suitable. Mr. Potts is waiting for—urging—my final authority to purchase from his contact at Montrose, but I know it’s not right—not what the vale needs.”

  Richard drew in a long breath. “I have a suggestion.” When she looked quickly around at him, he held up a staying hand. “I know I vowed I wouldn’t interfere with how you ran things—with how you managed the vale—so if you want to do something different . . .” Frowning, he paused, then caught her eye, and drew in a deep breath. “The truth is, your whole situation with livestock badly needs an overhaul. The cattle herd is the most desperate case—they need an immediate injection of good quality stock. But your rams and ewes need weeding out, too, and the dairy herd is only just meeting your needs. You should think of diversifying, too—goats should do well here, and geese. The vale’s a reasonably sized holding and while you’ve managed the crops well, the livestock could do better.” Deciding he may as well be hanged for a wolf as a lamb, he added: “And your buildings, fences and shelters need repair and in some cases resiting.”

  She stared at him, then looked ahead, drew a huge breath and turned back to him.

  “I know,” Richard said, before she could speak, “I promised no interference, so I can work on each problem with you, behind the scenes.”

  Catriona frowned and reined in her mare. “That’s not—”

  “If you prefer, I can just list my suggestions, and you can take it from there.” Richard halted Thunderer beside her. “Or if you’d rather, I can talk each matter through with McArdle and the others, and then write to the various dealers in your name and set up the meetings, then you could—”

  “Richard!”

  He looked at her stonily. “What?”

  “Your vow!” Catriona glared at him. “I’ve already realized it’s senseless to refuse your help with the business side of the vale. While the spiritual side of things”—she flung out a hand, encompassing the vale and the circle behind them—“and all healing matters must be left in my hands, I need you to help me with the rest.”

  He stared at her unblinkingly. “You need me?”

  Catriona met his gaze directly. “After last night, you need to ask?”

  A long moment passed. “But you didn’t want me to help—I asked, and you said you didn’t need my assistance.”

  Catriona blushed; the mare sidled. “I thought,” she confessed, holding his gaze, “that you didn’t mean to stay—that you were preparing to leave.” She frowned, recalling. “In fact, I came to the library one morning to ask you for help with the breeding stock and heard you talking to Worboys, making plans to leave. That was before you offered to help.”

  Richard frowned. “You were behind that other door in the library?” Catriona nodded; Richard grimaced. “Worboys and his plans.” Briefly, he explained.

  Catriona sat back in her saddle. “So you never intended to leave at all?”

  “Not until you made it impossible to stay.” Remembering how she’d made him feel, Richard narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you think that in future, you could just tell me what is really in your witchy mind without trying to guess my thoughts first?”

  Catriona narrowed her eyes back. “I wouldn’t need to guess if you just told me how you felt.” She considered his face. “You’re very good at hiding your feelings—even from me.”

  “Humph. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Don’t—it’s going to have to change.”

  “Oh?” Brows rising, he looked down at her, arrogantly challenging.

  “Indeed.” Catriona met his gaze, sheer determination in hers. The horses sidled and stamped—sending them swaying closer. She raised her brows. “I’ll make a deal with you. Another set of vows.”

  Richard’s brows quirked, then he grimaced. “Let’s make them a little clearer than the last.”

  “Assuredly—in fact, these vows are designed to ensure future understanding.”

  Richard eyed her with increasing unease. “What are they?”

  Catriona smiled into his eyes and held up her hand. “I vow before The Lady that I will henceforth always speak my mind directly to you—if you will reciprocate in like vein.”

  Richard studied her eyes, her face, then drew breath, raised his hand, placed it palm to palm with hers, and linked their fingers. “Before Your Lady, I swear I’ll . . .”—he hesitated, then grimaced—“try.”

  Catriona blinked at him, then her lips twitched, then curved, then she threw back her head and laughed. Peal after peal of her glorious laughter rang out; mock-disgruntled, Richard reached for her. “It’s not funny, being naturally reticent.”

  She stopped laughing on a gasp as she landed in his saddle, facing him. “Reticent? You?” As his hands ran over her body, then slid beneath her hems, her eyes widened even more. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  Over the next few minutes, he gave her justification and more for that assessment, until she finally gasped, as categorically as she could: “Richard! It is not possible on a horse.”

  It was, of course; he demonstrated with an e´lan that left her shuddering.

  Neither of them noticed, on the sun-glazed horizon, a flashing pinprick of light—a reflection off the manor’s spyglass as it was lowered and snapped shut.

  From the fence near the stables, Algaria stood, watching the two figures locked together on the back of the grey stallion, for two more minutes, then, her face colder than ice, she turned and reentered the house.

  That afternoon, Richard penned a detailed inquiry to Mr. Scroggs of Hexham, describing the breed, age, gender and number of cattle he wished to purchase on behalf of his client, unnamed. That letter was easy—he knew exactly how his father, or Devil, would have worded such a missive. By leaving the identity of the ultim
ate purchaser unspecified, he left the breeder no facts on which to speculate, and no reason to inflate his prices.

  Enclosing the letter with a note instructing Heathcote Montague to forward the letter on, Richard sealed the packet and set it aside. Drawing forth a fresh sheet, he settled to write a more challenging missive—a letter to Mr. Potts.

  That letter took him two hours and five sheets, resulting in a brief, single-page epistle. Rereading it, he smiled. After laboring to find the correct tone, the precise colors in which he wished to paint himself, he’d finally taken it into his head to approach the exercise as if he was Catriona’s champion, her protector, her right arm. To wit, her consort. She was the lady, but he was the one who dealt with beef.

  Proud of his handiwork, he rose and went to show her.

  He found her, as always, in her office, poring over a collection of lists and detailed maps. She looked up as he entered, and smiled—warmly, welcomingly. Richard grinned. He waved the letter at her. “For your approval.”

  “Approval?” Her eyes flicking to his face, she took the letter, then glanced at it. “Who . . . ? Oh—Potts.”

  Scanning the letter, her expression softened from unreadable, to amused, to one step away from joyful. Reaching the end, she giggled and looked up at Richard. “That’s perfect!” She handed the sheet back. “Here—I received this in today’s packet.”

  Richard took the letter she held out and swiftly read it—it was from Potts.

  “He’s becoming more and more insistent.” Catriona heaved a relieved sigh. “I’d laid it aside to talk to you about later, but the truth is, I need to deal with Potts for our grain. He’s always been our most active and reliable buyer, so putting him off over the breeding stock, especially when they’re so expensive and will bring him a good commission, had started to give me a headache.”