Scandal's Bride (30 page)

She moaned softly and let her head fall back against his shoulder. From beneath heavy lids, she watched his fingers flex. Swallowing, she moistened her lips, saw them already parted, already sheening. “The bed?”

“No.” He breathed the word against the soft skin of her throat—he was watching his hand on her. “Here.”

She shuddered, one small part of her mind desperate to protest, the rest awash with tingling anticipation. Anticipation that steadily built, then silvered into excitment. Into arousal that escalated with each slow sweep of his hands over her flickering skin, with each knowing caress, each expert touch.

He did nothing else but caress her bare body, worshipped it until her skin was flushed rose in the golden candle-glow, and she was quivering with need.

“Lean forward.” His voice was a deep, gravelly whisper in her ear. “Place your hands palms down on the table.”

She did; he shifted behind her. From under weighted lids, she saw him steady her before him, then reach around her. Splaying one hand across her stomach, he angled her hips back; looking down, he fitted himself to her.

Then, with one slow thrust that threatened to lift her from her knees, he filled her. Stretched her. Completed her.

Fully embedded within her, he leaned forward; his lips brushing her nape, he filled his hands with her breasts. And fondled her swollen flesh as he rocked her. Rocked her slowly, languorously, to heaven.

Until she panted, and moaned, and tried to wriggle her hips—tried to urge him on. His slow rhythm was driving her insane—she wanted him deep, wanted him filling her more forcefully. More rapidly.

She wanted to rush on to the stars.

He straightened; his hands drifted from her breasts to lock about her hips. He anchored her before him, so she couldn't move—and pressed more deeply into her. But he still kept the rhythm slow—slower than she wanted.

So she could feel every inch of his repeated penetrations, was aware to her fingertips of the reined strength of his invasions. Was intimately conscious of the hard, hot rod with which he claimed her, of the slick softness with which she accepted him.

She shuddered and closed her eyes and clamped tightly about him. And sensed his chest swell, sensed his tension tighten. Felt his grip about her hips lock like iron and felt the brush of his thumb over her birthmark. It would be clearly visible in the light, contrasting against the ivory of her buttock, so taut, so tight.

Compulsion forced her to look, to crack open her lids and look at him behind her, his hard body flexing as he loved her. Forced her to study his face, to see the concentration and passion and sheer devotion etched therein, delineating the hard angles gilded by the candles' glow. Forced her to notice her own body, lushly wanton, her skin flushed, her hair wild fire spread over her shoulders and arms, her breasts swollen and tipped with deep rose, her thighs clamped together, her hips rocking only slightly as he filled her. Forced her, at the last, to look at her face, at the expression of sensual abandon stamped on her features, her heavy-lidded eyes, her panting, parted lips.

With a soft moan, she closed her eyes tightly and felt him lift the tempo, felt him start the long crescendo that would carry her to the stars.

And when she reached them, he held her there for long, immeasurable minutes, caught on the cusp of delight—then he joined her, and her heaven was complete.

A week later, Catriona pulled on her heavy cloak, picked up a basket lined with scraps of flannel, and headed out to the large barn. It was three o'clock; the light would soon fade. As she trudged across the yard whipped by lightly flurrying snow, the sun, hidden behind banks of grey cloud, cast the scene in a smoky, pale gold haze.

Struggling against the flurries, she hauled open the single door set in the barn's main doors, then slipped inside. Setting her basket down, she latched the door, then turned, paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimness, then scooped up her basket and headed for the loft ladder.

To find the kitchen cat, who, entirely out of synchrony with the seasons, had given birth somewhere up in the hay.

Gaining the top of the ladder, Catriona swung her basket up, then surveyed the scene—the expanse of hay bales stacked almost to the roof all the way along the loft which stretched down one side of the long barn.

She knew the cat and kittens were in the hay somewhere. She didn't know how she knew—she just did. She also knew that the kittens would die by morning if she didn't find them and take them into the warm kitchen.

With a sigh, she clambered up onto the hay-strewn loft boards and started to search.

The loft extended over the entire barn, over the three separate sections the large building housed. Mentally tossing a coin, she elected to start searching the section nearest, the one over the carriages, carts and ploughs.

Methodically pushing through hay stacks, pressing apart bales, sliding her hand, oh-so-trustingly, into possible dens, she tried to keep her mind on her search and away from its principal preoccupation.

As usual, she failed.

Her husband exerted an almost hypnotic attraction over her thoughts. Over her senses, he wielded absolute control—that, she accepted. But the degree to which she found herself dwelling on him—on his plans—on what his intentions really were—was disconcerting. She'd never before been that linked to anyone, never before felt her happiness dependent on someone else.

She'd been her own mistress for years—being his was changing her in ways she hadn't expected.

In ways she didn't entirely like—in ways she couldn't control.

In moments of weakness, like the present, as she absentmindedly crooned for the cat, when her mind was caught, trapped, in senseless speculation, raising visions that were unnervingly depressing, she'd fallen back on her old habit of lecturing herself. Telling herself, sternly, that what would be, would be.

It only made her feel more helpless, more in the grip of some force beyond her control, as if her life was now tuned to some unknown piper.

Reaching the end of the first section without any sign of the cat, she straightened, pressed out the kinks in her spine, then trailed back to the ladder to fetch her basket. And doggedly glided into the next section—the one over the quartered dairy herd.

She was halfway through that section when she heard voices. Rocking back on her heels, she listened—and heard them again, low, almost murmuring. Curious, she rose and quietly walked into the last section of the loft.

In the back of her mind ran the thought that she might stumble on some illicit assignation—such was her interpretation of the tone of those murmurs. Ready to retreat silently if that proved the case, she inched closer to the loft's edge.

And heard Richard say: “Gently. Easy, sweetheart. Now—let's take it very slowly.”

An assenting murmur in a light female tone answered him.

Catriona froze. She turned cold, then burned as temper seared her. What she felt in that instant was beyond her description—but betrayal was there, certainly, as was a furious force she'd never before felt—every bit as green as her eyes. It was that force that fanned the flames of anger into a righteous blaze. Fists clenched, quivering with rage, she marched to the top of the ladder leading down into the last section of the barn.

They heard her footsteps—and looked up.

For one fractured instant, Catriona stared down at her husband and the maid within his arms.

The eight-year-old maid he held balanced on the back of a shaggy coated pony.

Catriona's eyes widened from their angry slits; even while she mentally scrambled to keep her features unrevealing, her lips formed a telltale “Oh.” Relief swept her; she teetered and had to take a quick step back from the loft's edge.

Richard's gaze, locked on her face, intensified. He straightened, fluidly swinging the girl down. Only then did Catriona notice the others surrounding the improvised ring, all waiting, obediently silent, for their turn.

“I, ah . . .” Weakly, she gestured to the hay-filled loft behind her. “The cat's had kittens.”

“Tabitha?” One of the boys broke from the circle and raced to the ladder. “Where?”

“Well, . . .” Flustered, Catriona stepped back as the whole riding school swarmed up the ladder. “That's the problem, you see.”

The pupils were followed by their teacher who, as was his wont, made the loft shrink as he stepped onto the boards. Catriona backed against the wall of hay and waved down the loft. “She's somewhere up here. We have to find her and take the kittens into the kitchen to keep warm, or they'll die.”

The children didn't wait for more. They enthusiastically clambered over the hay, calling the cat, a favorite of theirs.

Leaving her with their teacher. Catriona flicked him a quick glance. “I've searched the first section.”

Head tilted, he studied her. “They'll find her.” A ferocious sneeze was echoed by two more. He raised his brows. “That, or die trying.” He continued to study her; after a moment, he asked: “Have you been up here long?”

Catriona shrugged as nonchalantly as she could and avoided his gaze. “A few minutes.” She waved along the loft. “I was at the other end.”

“Ah.” Straightening, he strolled toward her. He stopped by her side, then, without warning, gathered her into his arms. And kissed her. Very warmly.

Emerging, breathless, some moments later, Catriona blinked at him. “What was that for?”

“Reassurance.” He'd lifted his head only to change his hold; as he lowered his lips to hers again, she tried to hold him back.

“The children,” she hissed.

“Are busy,” he replied—and kissed her again.

“Tabby! Tabby!”

The shrill call had all the children running to one corner of the middle section. None looked back; none saw their lady, flustered and flushed, win free of her consort's arms. And none saw the knowing smile that lifted his lips.

Catriona tried not to notice it either; blotting the sight from her mind, she hurried after the children.

They found five tiny kittens, pathetically shivering, huddling close to their weakened mother's flank. There were ready hands enough to lift the whole family together into the lined basket, which was then carried in procession along the loft, taken down the ladder by Richard as his contribution to the rescue, then entrusted to the care of the eight-year-old maid. Surrounded by her absorbed fellows, she crossed the yard carefully, all the children huddling to protect the cat and her brood from the swirling snow.

The light had all but gone. Catriona stepped out of the barn into a twilight world. Richard pulled the door shut and fastened it, then tugged her cloak around her and anchored her against him, within one arm.

They followed in the children's wake.

“I hope the kittens will recover—they felt very cold. I suppose a little warm milk wouldn't hurt them. I'll have to ask Cook . . .”

She blathered on, not once looking up—not once meeting his eyes. Richard held her fast against the wind's tug and, smiling into the swirling snow, steered her toward the kitchen.

He didn't know what woke him—certainly not her footfalls, for she was as silent as a ghost. Perhaps it was the bone-deep knowledge that she was not there, in their bed beside him, where she was supposed to be.

Warm beneath the covers, his limbs heavy with satiation, he lifted his head and saw her, arms crossed tightly over her robe, pacing before the hearth.

The fire had died, leaving only embers to shed their glow upon the room; about them, the house lay silent, asleep.

She was frowning. He watched her pace and gnaw her lower lip, something he'd never seen her do.

“What's the matter?”

She halted; her eyes, widening, flew to his face.

And in that instant, that infinitesimal pause before she replied, he knew she wouldn't tell him.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.” She hesitated. When he remained propped on one elbow, watching her, she drifted back to the bed. “Go back to sleep.”

He waited until she halted by the side of the bed. “I can't—not with you pacing.” Not with her worrying. He could sense it strongly, now; some deep concern that was ruffling her normally unruffleable serenity. “What is it?”

Catriona sighed and shrugged out of her robe. “It's nothing.” It was the breeding stock, or lack thereof. But . . .

She shouldn't involve him.

When she'd heard his voice, heard him ask, her instinctive impulse had been to tell him, to lay her growing problem on shoulders broader than hers—to share her burden with him. But . . . in the back of her mind lurked an unwelcome notion that appealing to him was not the right thing to do. On a number of counts.

Asking him, inviting him to become more deeply involved with running the vale, might not, in the long run, be fair, either to him, or to her. There was a subtle line between offering advice and sage counsel, and making the decisions, determining the final outcome. She had always been taught that strong men, powerful men, had difficulty with that distinction.

Forcing him to face it might not be wise.

And, even if he hadn't said so yet, if he was considering leaving her and journeying to London for the Season, she would be wise to keep her own counsel. Wise to hold him at a distance, in that arena at least. She couldn't afford to start to rely on him only to find him bidding her adieu.

It hadn't escaped her that while he'd promised repeatedly not to force her to leave the vale, he'd never promised to stay. To remain by her side, to face the problems of the vale by her side.

Much as she might now feel a need for a strong shoulder to lean on, a strong arm to rely on, she couldn't afford to let herself develop that sort of vulnerability. Ultimately the vale was her responsibility.

So she summoned a smile and hoped it was reassuring. “It's just a minor vale problem.” Dropping her robe, she slid under the covers. He hesitated, then drew her into his arms, settling her against him.