Scandal's Bride (10 page)

“Oh, Algaria?”

From behind him, Richard heard Mary call, and saw consternation and indecision infuse Algaria's face.

Halting before her, a pace behind Catriona's back, Richard smiled, all teeth. “I don't bite—at least, not in drawing rooms.”

The comment, or perhaps its tone, reached Catriona; she stirred and turned and took the situation in in one glance. Reaching for one of the cups, she grimaced at Algaria. “Oh, go! And you might check on Meg for me.”

With one last, warning glance at Richard, Algaria inclined her head and went. Richard watched her retreat, her spine poker-stiff. “Does
she
bite?”

Catriona nearly choked on her tea. “She's a fully fledged disciple—she was my mentor after my mother died. So beware—she might turn you into a toad if you step too far over the line.”

Richard sipped, then turned and studied her. She was still simmering. “You can rip up at me, if you like.”

The glance she shot him suggested she was seriously considering it. “This is all your fault. While they think there's an outside chance—the most distant possibility—they'll feel compelled to make a push to”—she gestured—“interest you in me.”

“You could always explain they don't need to make the effort.”

Catriona stiffened; she glanced up—and saw the lurking heat in his eyes. She frowned. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop thinking of that kiss in the graveyard.”

“Why? It was a very enjoyable kiss, even in a graveyard.”

She fought not to wriggle her shoulders, fought not to think of it herself. “It was a mistake.”

“So you keep insisting.”

“You could end this entire charade, this senseless agony of expectation, by simply stating your mind.”

“How can I do that if I don't know it myself?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know perfectly well you'll return to London in a week's time, unencumbered by a wife.” He merely raised his brows, with that irritatingly arrogant confidence that never failed to get her goat. She looked away. “You don't want to marry me, any more than I wish to marry you.”

Turning his head, he looked down at her; she felt the sudden intensity of his gaze.

“Ah—but I do wish, very much, to bed you, as much, if not more, than you wish me to do so, which might well predispose us to wed.”

Stunned, Catriona looked up; politely, he raised his brows, his eyes like blue flame. “Don't you think?”

She snapped her mouth shut. “I do
not!”
Her cheeks burned; she dragged in a breath and looked away, adding through clenched teeth: “I most certainly do
not
wish you to bed me.”

He studied her profile; even without looking, she knew his brows rose higher. “
Now
who's lying?”

She straightened, but couldn't meet his eyes. “You're only teasing me.”

“Am I?”

The soft words set her nerves skittering. And his fingers settled on the sensitive skin of her nape. She lost her wits, lost her breath. His fingers shifted, in the lightest caress—

She hauled in a breath and whirled to face him. “Stop that!”

“Why?” His expression unreadable, he studied her frown. “You like it.”

Biting her tongue against another lie, she forced herself to meet his gaze—to ignore the wild sensations crashing through her. “Given that you
will not
be bedding me, there will be
no reason
for us to wed, and you will go back to London, and Seamus's fortune will go to the Church. Why won't you admit it?”

He raised his brows. “I will admit that if I'm involved at all, a wedding will certainly necessitate a bedding. In your case, to my mind, the two are inseparable—the one will beget the other.”

“Very likely.” Catriona spoke through gritted teeth.

“
However,
as there will be
no wedding
—”

“What's this?”

Before she could focus, let alone gather her wits, he reached for the fine chain that hung about her throat, visible above the neckline of her gown. Before she could catch his hand, he drew the chain free, lifting the pendant from its sanctuary in the valley between her breasts.

And clasped it in his hand, turned it between his long fingers. Catriona froze.

Squinting at the long crystal, he frowned. “It's carved, like the one on my mother's necklace, only of the other stone.”

Drawing a shaky breath, Catriona lifted the pendant from his grasp. “Rose quartz.” She wondered whether her voice sounded as strained as it felt. She dropped the pendant back into its haven—and nearly gasped in shock at its heat. It had been warm from her flesh, but the heat of his hand had raised its temperature much higher. With a herculean effort, she reassembled her scattered defenses, and retreated behind a haughty wall. “And now, if you've quite finished teasing me—”

The chuckle he gave was the definition of devilish. “Sweet witch, I haven't even started.”

His blue eyes held hers; trapped for one instant too long, Catriona felt the hot flames sear her. And felt . . .

“You're a
devil
.” She picked up her skirts. “And very definitely no gentleman!”

His lips twitched, just a little at the ends. “Naturally not. I'm a bastard.”

He was that—and much more.

And he will father your children.

Catriona awoke with a start, with a gasp that hung, quivering, in the empty dark. About her, the room lay still and silent; the bedcovers lay over her, in tangled disarray. She lay on her back, her heart racing to a beat she did not know, but recognized too well. Her arms lay tensed at her sides, her fingers gripping the sheets.

It took effort to straighten her fingers, to ease her locked muscles. Gradually, the tension holding her decreased; her breathing slowed.

Leaving behind confusion, consternation—and a compulsion that grew stronger by the day, by the hour. And even more by the night.

Night—when she need not—could not—hide from herself, when, in her dreams, her deepest yearnings and unvoiced needs held sway. Overridden, as always, by The Lady's will.

But that was not happening now. Instead, The Lady's will and her own deep yearnings were acting in concert, pushing her forward, into the arms of—

“A man I
can't
marry.”

Rolling onto her elbow, Catriona reached for the glass of water on the table by the bed. She sipped; the cool water doused the lingering heat—heat that had flared at the dream of his lips on hers, of the touch of cool marble that incited flame. Heat that had spread through her like forest fire in response to the hot hunger in his eyes, in his soul.

In response to his desire.

Alone in the night, there was no point in denying that, from the first, she had wanted him. Wanted him with a finality, a certainty, an absolute conviction that stunned her. She wanted him in her bed, wanted him to be the one to fill the empty space beside her, to dispel the private loneliness that was a part of her public persona. But from childhood she'd been taught to put her wants below the needs of her people; in this instance, the choice had been clear.

Or so she had thought.

She was no longer so sure. Of anything.

Slumping back in the bed, she focused on the canopy. She had occasionally in the past, in her wild and willful youth, fought The Lady's will; she knew what it felt like.
This
was what it felt like. A draining combination of uncertainty, dissatisfaction, and an overwhelming confusion, from which, no matter how hard she tried, she could not break free.

She was at odds with herself, because she was at odds with fate, with The Lady's will.

Muting a scream of keen frustration, she thumped her pillow, then turned on her side and snuggled down.

It had to be impossible. Had the Lady
seen
him? Did she know what—in this case—she was suggesting? Ordering?

Did she know what she was getting her senior disciple into?

Marriage to a masterful bastard.

The thought froze her mind; she stared, unseeing, into the dark, then shook herself, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep—without any more dreams.

She woke late the next morning—too late for breakfast. After taking tea and toast on a tray, she dressed warmly, dragged on her pelisse, and, avoiding Algaria's watchful eye, set out for a long walk. She needed to clear her head.

The day was brighter than the one before; only a sprinkling of snow remained on the paths. Pausing on the side steps, Catriona looked around; seeing no one, she walked briskly to the opening of one of the three paths leading downward, and slipped into the shadows beneath the trees.

Under the spreading branches, cool peace held sway. She swung along, the scrunch of her boots on the crisp, dead leaves the only sound she could hear. The air was fresh and clean; she drew it deep into her lungs. And felt better.

The path swung sharply, descending into a hollow; she rounded the bend—and saw him waiting, leaning negligently against the bole of a tall tree, his greatcoat protecting him against the light breeze that ruffled his black hair.

His eyes were on her, his attitude that of a man waiting for his lover at an assignation previously planned.

As she drew level with him, Catriona was tempted to reach out and lay her hand over his heart, to see if it was beating too quickly. He must have left the house behind her; he must have run down the other path to get here—be here—now. But touching him was out of the question. She raised her brows instead. “Lost again?”

His eyes held hers steadily. “No.” He paused, then added: “I was waiting for you.”

She returned his gaze consideringly, then humphed, and waved an acceptance of his escort. He fell in beside her as she strolled on, his stride a long prowl. He was so much larger, stronger, than she, his presence weighed heavily on her senses. Catriona drew a tight breath; she looked up at the patches of sky framed by the bare branches. “Do the Cynsters live in London?”

“Yes. Some all of the time, others some of the time.”

“And you?”

“All of the time, these days.” He scanned their surroundings. “But I grew up in Cambridgeshire, at Somersham Place, the ducal seat.”

She threw him a quick glance. “Jamie said your father was a duke.”

“Sebastian Sylvester Cynster, 5th Duke of St. Ives.” The affection in his tone was easily heard; she glanced at him again. “You were brought up within the family?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you have an older brother?”

“Devil.” When she raised her brows, he grinned and added: “Sylvester Sebastian to
Maman
—Devil to all others.”

“I see.”

“Devil has the title now. He lives at Somersham with his duchess, Honoria, and his heir.”

“Is it a big family?”

“No, if you mean do I have other brothers and sisters, but yes, if you mean is the clan, as you might call it, large.”

“There are lots of Cynsters?”

“
More
than enough, as any fond mama in the ton will tell you.”

“I see.” She was too interested to sound suitably reproving. “So you have—what? Lots of cousins?”

With an ease she hadn't expected, he described them—his uncles and aunts, and their children, led by his four male cousins. After a quick listing of the family's major connections, he enumerated his younger cousins. “Of course,” he concluded, “about town, I tend to meet only Amanda and Amelia.”

Catriona located them on the mental tree she'd been constructing. “The twins?”

“Hmm.”

He frowned and looked down. When he said nothing more, she prompted: “Why are they a worry?”

He glanced at her. “I was just thinking . . . both Devil and Vane, who are recently married gentlemen, are unlikely to spend much time in town. And with me up here . . .” His frown deepened. “There's Demon, of course, but he might have to visit his stud farm, which leaves it all up to Gabriel and Lucifer.” He grimaced. “I just hope Demon remembers to jog their elbows before he leaves town.”

“But why do they need to be ‘jogged?' Surely, with all your relatives and connections, the twins will be closely watched over.”

His expression hardened; he threw her another glance. “There are some dangers extant within the
ton
which are best dealt with by experts.”

She opened her eyes wide. “I would have thought you rated more as one of the dangers.”

His mask slipped; the warrior showed through. “That's precisely why I—and the others—are the sort of watchers the twins most need.”

She could tell—from his eyes, his expression—that he was deadly serious. Nevertheless . . . looking ahead, she fought to keep her lips straight—and failed. A gurgle of laughter escaped her.

He shot her a narrow-eyed glance.

She waved placatingly. “It's just the thought of it—the vision of you and your cousins creeping around ballrooms keeping surreptitious watch over two young ladies.”

“
Cynster
young ladies.”

“Indeed.” Tilting her head, she met his gaze. “But what if the twins don't want to be watched—what if, indeed, they possess the same inclinations as you? You come from the same stock—such inclinations aren't restricted to males.”

He stopped stock-still and stared at her, then humphed, shook his shoulders, and started to pace once more. Frowning again. “They're too young,” he finally stated.

Lips still not straight, Catriona looked away, across the snowy tops of the foothills. After a moment, she mused: “So the family's large, and you were brought up within it—and that's why you see family as important.”

She did not look at him, but felt the swift touch of his gaze on her face. Although delivered as a statement, that was, in fact, her principal question: why did a man like him have such strong feelings about family?