Scandal's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Richard watched her, blinked at her, then undressed and joined her in record time. He pinched out the candle just before he did, plunging the room into a mysterious dark lit by flickering firelight. The pallet dipped beside her as he stretched beneath the second blanket; he was all dark, mysterious male when he loomed on his elbow beside her. And reached for her.

  “No.” Catriona braced one hand against his chest when he would have rolled her beneath him. She wriggled the other way, pressing him back to the pallet. “This time, I want to love you—not the other way about.”

  Richard blinked again and swallowed the reassurance that had risen to his tongue. She always loved him—took him into her body with a joyous delight, a witchy neediness, that was all the loving he needed. But . . . if she wanted to love him even more, he’d grit his teeth and bear it. “Just what form,” he murmured, as he rolled obediently onto his back, “is this loving of yours going to take?”

  “This, for a start.” Scrambling over him, Catriona found his lips with hers, and kissed him—gently at first, then with greater confidence as he parted his lips and welcomed her in, playing the role that was usually hers. She took his, wriggling so she was higher over him to deepen the kiss, to coax, to incite, to sexually stir him.

  Not that he needed any stirring. Against her thigh, cocooned in the warmth of the blankets, she could feel the steady, pulsing throb of his erection—hard and heavy and all hers. Inwardly grinning, she shifted, trapping it between her thighs, artfully caressing.

  It grew hotter, harder. His hands, splayed across her back, tensed.

  She pulled back from their kiss. “I want,” she whispered, already slightly breathless, “you to tell me what you like.”

  “What I like?” His voice was a gravelly murmur in her ear. “What I like, sweet witch, is to feel your body close tightly about me, all hot and wet and urgent.”

  “Hmmm, yes. But before that,” she insisted. “Do you like this?” Discovering a flat nipple hidden beneath the crisp mat of his hair, she burrowed her head down and licked it—lovingly.

  And felt him tense, just a little, beneath her. “Very nice.” The words sounded a touch strained. In wriggling lower, she’d slithered over his erection; it was now cradled in her curls, pulsing against the rounded softness of her belly.

  “Good.” Artfully sliding this way, then that, using her whole body as well as her hands to caress him, she pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, down the ridged muscles of his abdomen, interspersing her kisses with well-placed licks and the occasional suck.

  Beneath her, his body was hardening; muscles here and there flickered restlessly. Recalling in fine detail all the caresses he’d pressed on her—and which ones drove her the most demented—Catriona decided that what was good for the goose probably worked equally well with the gander.

  The sudden hiss of his indrawn breath as, sliding swiftly further down, she curled her fingers about his rigid length, then caressed it with the warm swells of her breasts, suggested her reasoning was sound. Smiling to herself, she slid further yet, deliberately guiding his long length up from the valley between her breasts, along the smooth skin of her upper chest, then up, sinuously lifting her head to caress him with her throat.

  Before turning her head and caressing him with her lips.

  He jerked; every muscle in his body locked tight. His hands shifted from her shoulders; his fingers sank into her curls. “Catriona?”

  He sounded shocked. Inwardly grinning, Catriona was too busy to answer him. She didn’t, however, have any real clue what she was doing, how much pleasure he was feeling, so, after kissing, licking and sucking to her own content, she decided to inquire about his.

  “Do you like this?” She planted a soft, wet kiss on his pulsing tip.

  Richard bit back a groan. “No,” he lied. But he couldn’t force his fingers to grip her tresses and haul her away.

  “Oh. Well, perhaps you like this better?”

  He did; Richard gave up and groaned as she closed her mouth, all soft, hot heat, around him. He withstood her torture for two more, exquisitely wracked minutes, before realizing that, no matter that he could tease her to extremis, his own constitution wasn’t up to it.

  “Catriona—” In an explosive movement, he half-sat—for one fractured instant driving his shaft deeper into her mouth—then he caught her, lifted her, scattering the blankets they no longer needed. They were both burning with an inner heat.

  An inner heat that poured over his teased and sensitive flesh as he set her on her knees, straddling his hips.

  She blinked down at him. “I was only trying to please you.”

  He scowled at her; despite the poor light, he could see the witchy smile on her lips. “You please me every time you take me in, you damn witch.”

  His knowing fingers found her softness, deftly probed, stroked and readied her. It took only one flick to replace his fingers with his throbbing shaft. Gripping her hips, he eased her down, closing his eyes in ecstasy as she slowly slid down and enveloped him.

  “That,” he stated his voice deep but weak, “is what pleases me the most.”

  He heard her witchy chuckle, then she rose on him and slid down, clasping him tight again. Sliding his hands about the globes of her derriere, he gripped and helped her rise—and felt the dew spring up beneath his hands as he stroked and caressed.

  They settled into their usual slow rhythm; only then did he lift his heavy lids. Small hands braced on his chest, she rode him happily, a serene, definitely witchy, lustfully knowing smile on her lips. Her gaze was fixed on his face, watching, gauging, assessing his response to that ultimate, most intimate caress.

  He only just managed to suppress his wolfish grin. He was blessed, and he knew it. “If you really want to please me, one thing you could do is always come to me stark naked, with your hair down.” As it currently was, a rich, vibrant corona about her head, rippling fire over her white shoulders and down her slim arms. When he took her from behind, it was like a living veil, sliding sensuously over her back. He loved her hair.

  Her eyes glinted; she inclined her head. “Any other requests?”

  “Just one. Stop trying to muffle your moans and screams.”

  She frowned slightly; he smiled winningly and she humphed. “That’s all very well for you to say, but if anyone else heard me—well”—she caught his eye and frowned—“it’s rather revealing, you know.”

  He grinned. “I do, indeed, which is why I like to hear them—those little sounds of your appreciation.” He gripped her bottom and lifted her high, then thrust deeply into her as he lowered her again. Eyes closing, she bit her lip to hold back a groan. “Like that. They’re little sounds of pleasure—and they’re precious to me. They’re like trophies that I win for pleasuring you.” After a moment, he added: “How else do I know if I’m hitting the mark?”

  “You always hit the mark,” Catriona retorted, her lids still too heavy to lift. “You always pleasure me to oblivion.”

  “Perhaps—but I like to hear you admit it.”

  Opening her eyes, Catriona studied his as she continued to move upon him. Then he shifted her, pulling her thighs wider so he could sink more deeply into her; a moan welled in her throat—this time, she let it go. And sensed the real pleasure the sound gave him.

  “Very well.” Leaning forward, she kissed him, letting their hungry lips feast. As she drew back, eyes closed in concentration as he started moving more powerfully beneath her, she mumured, “I’ll try.”

  It wasn’t hard, especially given their location, with no one within miles to hear her screams. But he reveled in her commitment and took advantage to the full.

  He garnered a whole swag of trophies that night.

  Courtesy of Richard’s developing fondness for the amenities of the shepherd’s hut, it was mid-afteroon before they reached Algaria’s cottage.

  She’d seen them coming. She stood in the doorway as they rode up, Catriona just a little in the lead. Algaria met
Catriona’s gaze, then, deliberately, her hands clasped before her, bowed her head. Turning, she went into the cottage, leaving the door open.

  Richard dismounted, then lifted Catriona down. She paused, held between his hands, and met his gaze. “Remember your promise.”

  He grimaced. “I won’t forget. I’m your right arm—your protector. I’ll follow your lead.” He gestured her toward the house.

  Drawing a deep breath, drawing herself up, Catriona led the way inside.

  It was a two-room cottage, one up, one down, with the kitchen facilities in a lean-to at the rear, and a small stable against the side. Pausing on the threshold to let her eyes adjust, Catriona scanned the room and saw Algaria standing, hands clasped before her, her head still bowed in the attitude of a penitent, on the other side of the deal table with her back to the cold hearth.

  Catriona moved into the room, until she stood at the opposite side of the table, facing Algaria. Richard’s shadow blocked the light from the door momentarily, then she sensed his presence at her back.

  Lifting one hand, she extended it across the table. “Algaria—”

  “As you love me, let me speak.” Slowly, Algaria lifted her head. She looked first at Richard, standing silent at Catriona’s shoulder, then shifted her black gaze to Catriona’s face. “I now know what I did was wrong, but at the time, it seemed right—what The Lady required of me. But rather than you, it was I who made the mistakes in interpreting Her signs. I acted wrongly, and I deeply regret the pain and suffering I caused.” She drew breath, her gaze locked on Catriona’s, and pressed her hands tightly together. “I ask for your understanding and will abide by your judgment.”

  Lowering her proud head, she looked down.

  Catriona waited a moment, then asked: “What made you realize you were wrong?”

  Algaria lifted her head; the glance she bent on Richard was hardly affectionate but contained a respect that had not previously been there. “He lived.” She looked at Catriona. “If you knew how much wolfsbane I put in that cup . . .” She pressed her lips together, flicked Richard another glance, then stated: “Not even your intervention should have been able to save him. Yet he lived. The Lady’s intention is clear—she could not have spoken any louder.”

  Catriona nodded. “As you say. It took him a long time to recover, yet every day longer made his living more remarkable.”

  Algaria inclined her head and looked down once more. “It is clear The Lady wishes him as your consort—the error of my actions could not be more plain.” She lifted her head and met Catriona’s gaze levelly. “I am sincerely contrite”—she drew a tight breath—“and ready to accept whatever judgment you make.”

  “Why?” Catriona asked. “Why did you think it necessary to remove Richard, especially knowing you were acting against my wishes?”

  Algaria grimaced. The look she flicked Richard held an element of apology. “Because I believed he was responsible for the fire.”

  “What?” Catriona felt Richard shift behind her, but true to his word, he held silent. “He was in Carlisle—or riding back—at the time the fire started.”

  Algaria held up a hand. “Bear with me—I knew that was what we’d been told. However,” she paused and drew a deep breath, “if you recall, three days after the fire, we were running low on tansy, and I offered to go and check the patch south of the woods.” Catriona nodded; Algaria glanced at Richard. “The patch in the woods always sprouts ahead of the main bed at the manor itself.”

  Richard inclined his head; Algaria went on: “On that side of the park lives an old man known to us all as Royce. You and he, now I’ve thought back on it, haven’t yet met—he’s something of a hermit in winter.”

  “He’s a marvel with animals, particularly with birthing lambs,” Catriona put in. “He lives in a small hut on the south side of the park.”

  “I saw Royce that day when I went looking for the tansy—it was sunny and he was stretching his stiff limbs. He sat on a rock and talked—despite living so alone, he loves to talk to people, so I waited and listened.”

  “He talked about the fire only in passing—he’d missed all the excitement. He couldn’t see the smoke because of the park—he’d only heard about it later. What he did say, however, was that on the day when he came to the manor to fetch bones for broth, while returning home, he saw a stranger—a tall, dark-haired gentleman riding a dark horse. This man rode through the park, but not up to the manor. It was late afternoon, heading into evening—the stranger tethered his horse in the park, took something from his saddle pocket, then skirted the manor itself, and went around behind the forge. He didn’t see Royce watching. Royce thought it strange, but . . .” Algaria grimaced. “He assumed the gentleman was you. Later the gentleman came back, mounted his horse, and rode down the vale—that time, Royce was close enough to see the man had blue eyes.” She paused and met Richard’s undeniably blue eyes. “I knew Royce got his bones on the day of the fire—I gave them to him myself. He didn’t know about the timing of the fire, so he didn’t know you didn’t apparently arrive until black night.”

  “You thought it was me?”

  Lifting her chin, Algaria nodded. “I reasoned that in order to tighten your hold on Catriona, you’d been seen to leave, then you rode back, earlier than anyone thought, set the fire, waited until it was blazing, then rode in and rescued the situation.” She eyed Richard; her lips tightened. “If that had been your plan, from all I saw afterward, it worked.”

  Richard considered, then nodded. “I can prove it wasn’t me. Two of Melchett’s lads saw me riding into the vale, and we spoke briefly—we could already see the smoke rising.” He could remember that moment of dread panic very well.

  Algaria waved dismissively. “I accept without question that my interpretation was wrong—else you would have died. It wasn’t you old Royce saw.”

  “So who was it?” Catriona asked. Algaria lifted her shoulders; in the same instant, Catriona’s face lit. “Dougal Douglas!” Swinging about, she looked at Richard. “It must be him.”

  Richard grimaced. “He fits the general description, but tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed gentlemen aren’t really all that rare, even in the Lowlands.” He paused, his gaze on Catriona’s. “Algaria jumped to an erroneous conclusion—we shouldn’t repeat the mistake.” He studied her face—he could almost see her intransigence, her witch’s wiles working. Inwardly, he sighed. “But . . . I do know that Dougal Douglas knew I’d left the vale. He thought I was heading south, that I’d be well on the road to London by lunchtime that day.”

  Her eyes narrowed, Catriona humphed. “I know it was Dougal Douglas.” Transferring her gaze to Algaria, she raised her brows. “So you poisoned Richard because you believed he was responsible for the fire?”

  Algaria drew herself up. “Yes.”

  Catriona considered—considered Algaria and her rigid discipline, her rigid pride. Considered Richard, a vital force beside her, his heartbeat as familiar to her as her own. They were both dear to her, both with so much to give. She and the vale needed both of them. Straightening, she turned to Richard. “You have heard all I’ve heard—you know as much as I know. It was your life Algaria sought to take—as my consort and protector, I give you the right to pass judgment and sentence upon her.”

  She looked into Richard’s eyes, then, without another glance at Algaria, turned and left the cottage.

  Leaving Richard staring over the deal table at Algaria.

  Who stiffened and lifted her chin proudly, her black gaze smoldering. She was still a potent force—he could sense it—but expecting the worst. Yet the old witch would never beg his pardon, or ask for mercy.

  He wasn’t inclined to be all that merciful but . . . he had survived—and he and his witchy wife were much closer, more one, than they had been. She’d trusted him enough to leave her mentor’s fate in his hands.

  And, despite the fact that he wasn’t at all comfortable with Algaria, she’d behaved much as he, in the same situation, might have h
imself—although not with poison. A well-aimed fist would have been more his style.

  But what to do with her—what possible sentence could he devise? The answer popped into his mind with such vigor, such force, he grinned.

  Which made Algaria nervous; he grinned even more. “After much consideration,” he stated, “I’ve decided that the most appropriate penance, the most suitable punishment, will be for you to return to the vale, to act as overall nursemaid to our children.” Being responsible for a household of Cynster brats—oh, yes—that was perfect. And he’d so enjoy contributing to her punishment—and she’d so disapprove of the enjoyment he derived from the process. “And,” he added, “should you have any spare hours, you must devote them to easing our lady’s burden by relieving her of some of her healer’s chores.”

  He smiled, rather pleased with himself.

  Algaria raised her brows. “That’s it?”

  Richard nodded—she didn’t know anything about Cynsters—she didn’t know what she was destined for. When Algaria’s face lit with relief, he quickly added: “Just as long as you’re quite sure you won’t again decide to make away with me.”

  “What? Fly in the face of The Lady’s expressed wishes?” Algaria waved derisively. “That’s not a mistake I’m likely to make twice.”

  “Good.” Richard waved himself, gesturing her to the door. “Then I’ll leave you to make your peace with our lady.”

  He was sitting, relaxing, on a stone at the back of the cottage, out of the wind, when Catriona came searching for him. She came up behind him and slid her arms about his shoulders and hugged him.

  “Your sentence was inspired—she’s so relieved. In fact, she’s almost happy. I even saw her smile.”

  Richard squeezed her arm. “If that pleases you, then I’m glad.” He looked out at the rugged hills before them. “Actually, I was thinking of inviting Helena to come for a visit, maybe in November. She can tell Algaria all the stories of what Devil and I and all the rest used to get up to—to prepare her for what’s to come.”