Scandal's Bride (41 page)

She'd fallen asleep on her knees by the side of the bed, her arms stretched across Richard. With a start, she jerked upright.

Her heart in her mouth, she stared at his face.

His color was that of one alive, pale, but still with her; she only breathed again after seeing his chest rise shallowly, then fall.

With an immense sigh of relief, she eased back on her knees. He hadn't slipped away from her while she slept.

Thanking The Lady, she struggled to her feet, wincing as cramped muscles protested. She hobbled to a nearby chair and fell into it, her gaze locked on Richard.

He was still held fast by the poison; he still needed her as his anchor.

Catriona sighed, then painfully rose and hobbled to the bellpull. She was going to have to share the watches with others, others she could trust, and put her faith in them to call her the next time he started slipping away.

She couldn't risk falling asleep and leaving him unwatched again.

Courtesy of Mrs. Broom and Cook, she slept the next night through—which was just as well as the morning brought with it a challenge she hadn't expected to face for at least a few more days.

“How on earth did they get here this soon?” Standing beside McArdle on the front steps, she watched the huge black travelling carriage drawn by six powerful black horses come rolling up through the park. There was no need for her to see the crest worked in gold on the carriage's doors to guess who was calling.

“They must ha' traveled through the night—no way elsewise they'd be here now.” McArdle's gruff tones held a hint of approval. “Must be right powerfully attached to his brother.”

That was Catriona's unwelcome conclusion—dealing with Richard's brother was shaping to be a battle, one she didn't know if she had the strength to win. Suppressing the urge to clutch her pendants, she drew herself up; summoning every last weary ounce of her power, she lifted her chin and prepared to make the acquaintance of her brother-in-law.

As it happened, she was to meet her sister-in-law first. A tall, powerful figure uncurled long legs and stepped down from the carriage the instant it halted, but beyond throwing a hard, raking glance about the courtyard, he didn't advance, but turned back to hand a lady from the carriage—he had to lift her as she was quite clearly not about to wait for the steps to be let down.

The instant her feet touched the cobbles, she glided forward, her gaze fixed on Catriona. The lady was severely but elegantly attired in a warm woolen cloak over a carriage dress of rich brown, chestnut hair escaping from a simple chignon. She was taller than Catriona; her features were fine and presently set in a noncommittal expression. Her gaze was direct, her whole bearing declared she was a lady used to command. Catriona braced as the woman looked down, lifting her hems as she negotiated the steps.

Reaching the top, she dropped her skirts and looked Catriona directly in the eye. “My poor dear.”

The next instant, Catriona was enveloped in a scented embrace.

“How dreadful for you! You must let us help in whatever way we can.”

Released, Catriona tried to steady her reeling head.

“Is this your steward?” The lady—presumably Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives—smiled kindly at McArdle.

“Yes,” Catriona managed. “McArdle.”

“A pleasure, Your Grace.”

McArdle tried to bend his arthritic spine into a bow of the required degree—Honoria put a hand on his arm. “Oh, no—don't bother. We're family, after all.” McArdle shot her a grateful look.

“If you wouldn't mind, my dear . . . ?”

The deep, rumbling resigned tones had the duchess whirling. “Yes, of course. My dear”—she looked at Catriona and gestured to the presence that had followed her up the steps—“Sylvester—Devil to us all.”

Holding her calm before her like a shield, Catriona turned, a welcoming smile on her lips—and had to quell an impulse to take a large step back. She was used to Richard and his towering propensities—Devil was worse—about two inches worse.

She blinked into a hard face that was so much like Richard's it made her heart stop, then she looked into his eyes—a lucent green quite unlike Richard's burning blue. In color. The cast of his harsh features, until then severe, eased. As he smiled, she saw the likeness rise again—in the set of the lips, that untrustworthy glint in the eyes. They were, quite clearly, alike in many ways. She blinked again. “Ah . . .”

Despite his sobriety, his smile held a hint of the devil he must be. “It's a pleasure to meet you, my dear. I thought Richard must have lied but he hasn't.” With effortless grace, he captured her hand, planted a kiss on her fingertips, then, his other arm having stolen about her shoulders, bent his head and brushed a perfectly chaste, oddly reassuring kiss on her cheek. “Welcome to the family.”

Catriona stared into his eyes. “Th . . . thank you.” She blinked, and looked at Honoria—who was waiting to catch her eye.

“Don't let it bother you—they're all like that.”

Imperiously waving her husband back, she linked arms with Catriona and turned to the door. “Quite clearly my feckless brother-in-law is still alive, or you wouldn't be greeting us so calmly.”

“Indeed.” Finding herself back in her own hall, Catriona quickly introduced Henderson and Mrs. Broom. She grasped the moment while her overpowering relatives were divesting themselves of their coats to relocate and strengthen her habitual serenity. “Mrs. Broom has prepared a room for you—I'm afraid you'll find the household not quite what you're accustomed to. It's a good deal smaller, of course, and we're also much less formal.”

“Oh, good.” Handing her gloves to Mrs. Broom, Honoria looked up and smiled. “I'm afraid Cynsters aren't much for formality within the family. And as for this”—with a graceful wave she indicated the house about them—“not being what we're accustomed to, you must remember I was only a lowly governess until just over a year ago.”

Catriona blinked. “You were?”

Honoria studied her surprise. “Didn't Richard tell you?” Shaking her head, she linked arms with Catriona; together they turned for the stairs. “Isn't that just like a man—never tells one the important things. I'll have to fill you in.”

From behind them, where Devil prowled in their wake, Catriona heard: “Lowly governess?
Lowly?
You've never been lowly in your life.”

Despite her woes, Catriona's lips twitched; she couldn't resist glancing at Honoria.

Who waved dismissively. “Don't mind him—he's the worst of them all.”

They halted at the foot of the stairs; sobering, Catriona drew her arm from Honoria's and turned to face them both. “As Worboys informed you, Richard was poisoned—precisely with what I don't know, but I've been treating him generally, and . . .” Her voice quavered; she broke off and drew in a breath. Lifting her chin, she fixed her gaze on Devil's green eyes. “I want you to know that I had nothing to do with it—I did
not
poison Richard.”

They both looked at her, studied her, their expressions blank, their eyes filled with sharp intelligence. Then, just as Catriona was about to speak again—to say something to break the silence—Devil reached out, took her hand, and patted it. “Don't worry—we're here to help. You're obviously overtired.”

“Have you been nursing him all by yourself?”

The tone of Honoria's question demanded an answer.

“Well, I . . . until yesterday.”

“Humph! Just as well we almost crippled the horses to get here. One member of the family in a sickbed is quite enough.” Taking Catriona's arm again, Honoria took to the stairs. “Now show us where he is, then you can tell us what needs to be done.”

Swept up the stairs by an irresistible force, it was all Catriona could do to steady her whirling head. She'd expected censure, certainly a reserved stiffness, at least some degree of suspicion; instead, all she could sense from her new relatives was a warm tide of sympathy and support. She led them to the turret room, to where Richard lay, straight and still in the bed.

Standing at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on Richard's face, she waited while Honoria and Devil greeted Worboys, who had been watching over his master. Then they joined her, one on either side, and looked down at Richard.

“He's still breathing freely and his pulse is steady, but he hasn't regained consciousness since he collapsed.”

Catriona heard the tiredness in her voice, and felt, again, Devil's hand slide around hers. He squeezed her fingers gently, comfortingly. She felt Honoria's sympathetic gaze on her face, then sensed an exchanged glance pass over her head.

“I'll sit with him for the next few hours.” Devil released her hand.

“Perhaps,” Honoria said, “you could show me to our room?”

She didn't really want to leave Richard, but . . . Catriona gripped her fingers tightly and lifted her gaze to Devil's face. “If his breathing starts to slow, or grow weaker, you must promise to call me immediately. It's important.” Her eyes locked on his, she reinforced that thought. “I might need to . . .” She gestured vaguely.

Devil nodded and looked at the bed. “I'll send Worboys or one of the others for you at the slightest sign.” Then he looked back, a slight smile curving his long lips. “But if he hasn't already died, the chances are he won't.” His gaze drifted to Honoria; the look in his eyes deepened. “There are any number of people who can tell you that Cynsters lead charmed lives.”

His comforting gaze came back to her face as Honoria humphed.

“Indeed! Believe me,” she said, gently turning Catriona from the bed, “there's little point worrying about them, although, of course, we do.” She steered Catriona to the door. “Now come and show me where I can wash—I've been in that carriage for more hours than I care to count.”

Ten minutes later, sunk in an armchair in the room Mrs. Broom had readied for the ducal couple, Catriona knew that, far from taking care of her guests, her guests were taking care of her. She was too tired to resist, and they did it so well, so effortlessly. They made it so easy for her to just stop for a moment, to stop thinking and simply be. She needed the rest—so she took it, let the steady flow of Honoria's description of their trip north flow past her, and waited for her guest to finish her ablutions.

That done, as she'd expected, Honoria sank gracefully into the chair beside hers, leaned forward and took one of her hands. “Now tell me—why did you imagine we'd imagine you'd had any hand in poisoning Richard?”

Meeting Honoria's misty-blue gaze, Catriona hesitated, then sighed and closed her eyes. “I got a trifle in advance of myself.” Opening her eyes, she looked at Honoria. “You see, I think Richard believes I poisoned him—that might be what he believes when he awakes. I was trying to prepare you for that, trying to assure you he was wrong.”

“Well, quite obviously he's wrong—but why would he think such a thing?”

Catriona grimaced. “Possibly because I drugged him once before.”

“You did?” Honoria regarded her with more interest than puzzlement. “Why? And how?”

Catriona colored. She tried to hedge, prevaricate, avoid the questions, but, she discovered, Her Grace of St. Ives could be ruthless. Honoria dragged the answers from her—then slumped back in her chair and regarded her with awe. “You're very brave,” she eventually stated. “I don't know of many women who would be game to feed an aphrodisiac to a Cynster—and then climb into bed with him.”

Catriona raised her brows in resignation. “Blame it on total innocence.”

Honoria's lips had yet to return to straight; she shot her a measuring, not-at-all-discouraging, look. “You know, that's really a very good story, but one I fear we'll have to keep within the family—the female part of it, that is.”

Having by now realized that Her Grace of St. Ives, having been married to His Grace for more than a year, was unshockable, Catriona accepted the comment with an equanimity that, half an hour before, would have astounded her.

“However, to return to your fears over what Richard might think once he wakes, I really do think that you're underestimating him.” Head on one side, Honoria stared past her, clearly considering. “He's not usually thickheaded. And he's certainly not blind—none of them are, although you'll find they sometimes try to pretend they are.” She looked directly at Catriona. “Do you have any reason to think he believes you were involved, or is it—forgive me—merely a worry on your part?”

Catriona sighed. “I don't think so.” Briefly, she described Richard's actions before he lost consciousness.

“Hmm.” Honoria wrinkled her nose. “You could be wrong—it's perfectly possible he had some other, male-Cynster-type reason for sending so emphatically for Devil. And for staring at you in that way. However,” she stated, setting her hands on her knees, “that's neither here nor there. If he wakes with such a stupid idea in his head, you may be sure I'll set him right without delay.”

Honoria stood and shook out her skirts; rather more wearily, Catriona rose, too. “He might not listen.”

“He'll listen to me.” Honoria met her eye and grinned. “They all do, you know. It's one of the benefits of being married to Devil. As he's the head of the family, there's always the possibility that I might have the last word.”

Despite herself, for the second time that day, Catriona felt her lips twitch. Honoria saw, and smiled. “And now, if you'll do me the honor of listening to me as well, I really think you should rest. Devil and Worboys and I will watch over Richard—you need to gather your strength in case he needs your healer's skills.” Catriona looked into Honoria's eyes and knew she was right. She drew in a deep breath and felt like she was breathing freely for the first time since Richard had collapsed. Putting out a hand to Honoria's, she squeezed gently, blinked quickly, then nodded. “All right.” Smiling, Honoria kissed her cheek. “We'll call you if he needs you.”