Scandal's Bride (7 page)

A
few minutes before eleven o'clock the next morning, Catriona made her way to the library, whence they'd been summoned to hear Seamus's last testament. She'd breakfasted in her room—because it was warmer there.

The attempt at self-deception worried her, as did its cause. She'd breakfasted privately so she wouldn't have to face Richard Cynster and the power he wielded. Whatever it was. She knew, of course, but she wasn't game to let herself contemplate it. At all. That way lay confusion.

A footman stood before the library door; he opened it and she glided through. And gave thanks that some sensible soul had given orders for the fire to be built up above its usual meager pile. The cavernous fireplace filled one end of the monstrous room, the largest in the house, stretching the length of one entire wing. As the walls were stone and the narrow windows uncurtained, the room was perpetually chill. She'd dressed appropriately in a dress of blue merino wool with long fitted sleeves, but was still grateful for the fire.

Jamie and Mary sat on the
chaise;
the others sat in armchairs on either side, all the seats arrayed in a semicircle facing the fire and, to one side, the huge old desk behind which Seamus had habitually sat. Now, a Perth solicitor sat in Seamus's chair and shuffled papers.

Subsiding into the one vacant armchair, between Meg and Malcolm, Catriona returned the solicitor's polite nod, then acknowledged the others present, only at the very last letting her eyes meet Richard Cynster's.

He sat on the other side of the
chaise,
beyond Mary, filling a chair with an indolent grace in stark contrast to the tentative postures of the other males present. He inclined his head, his expression impassive; Catriona inclined her head in return and forced her eyes elsewhere.

One glance had been enough to fill her mind with a vision far more powerful than the one that had brought her here. He was wearing a blue coat of a deeper hue than her dress, superbly tailored to hug his broad shoulders. A blue-and-black striped silk waistcoat covered a snowy white shirt topped by a beautifully tied cravat. His breeches, of the finest buckskin, clung to long, powerful thighs far too tightly for her comfort; his boots she already knew.

She wished him anywhere else but here; she had to fight to keep her eyes from him. Malcolm, beside her, was not so restrained; slumped in his chair, he gnawed on one knuckle and stared openly at the lounging elegance opposite. Catriona suppressed a waspish urge to tell him he'd never measure up, not while he slouched like that.

Instead, she breathed deeply, and determinedly settled, drawing calmness to her with every breath. Hands clasped in her lap, she reminded herself that she was here by The Lady's orders; perhaps she'd been sent here to meet Richard Cynster to learn what it was she should avoid.

Masterful men.

Denying the urge to glance at one, she fixed her gaze on the solicitor and willed him to get on with his business. He looked up and blinked, then owlishly peered at the mantel clock. “Hurrumph! Yes.” He glanced around, clearly counting heads, matching faces against a list before laying it aside. “Well then, if we're all assembled . . . ?”

When no one contradicted him, he picked up a long parchment, cleared his throat, and commenced. “I read the words of our client, Seamus McEnery, Laird of Keltyhead, as dictated to our clerk on the fifth of September this year.”

He cleared his throat again, and changed his voice; all understood that they were now hearing Seamus's words verbatim.

“ ‘This, my last will and testament, will not be what any of you, gathered here at my request, will be expecting. This is my last chance at influencing things on this earth—to put right what I did wrong, to rectify the omissions I made. With the hindsight of age, I've been moved to use this, my will, to that end.' ”

Not surprisingly, a nervous flutter did the rounds of the listeners. Catriona was immune, but even she frowned—what was the wily old badger up to now? Even Richard Cynster, she noticed, shifted slightly.

Settling in his chair, Richard inwardly frowned and struggled to shake off the premonition Seamus's opening paragraph had evoked. He was only a minor player in this scene; there was no reason to imagine those words were aimed at him.

Yet, as the solicitor went on, it seemed he was wrong.

“ ‘My first bequest will close a chapter of my life otherwise long completed. I wish to give into her son's hands the necklace my first wife bequeathed to him. As I have stipulated that he, Richard Melville Cynster, must be here to receive it, it has now served its purpose.' ” The solicitor fumbled on the desk, then rose and crossed to Richard.

“Thank you,” Richard murmured, lifting the delicate strands from the solicitor's gnarled hands. Gently, he untangled the finely wrought gold links, interspersed with opaque rose pink stones. From the center of the necklace hung a long crystal of amethyst, etched with signs too small for him to make out.

“It was quite out of order for Mr. McEnery to keep it from you,” the solicitor whispered. “Please do believe it was entirely against our advice.”

Studying the pendant, noting the curious warmth of the stones, Richard nodded absentmindedly. As the solicitor returned to the desk, Richard glanced up—from across the circle of seats, Catriona's gaze was fixed on the pendant. Her absorption was complete; deliberately, he let the crystal hang, then moved it—her gaze remained riveted. The solicitor reseated himself; Richard closed his fist about the pendant. Catriona sighed and looked up; she met his gaze, then calmly looked away. Resisting an urge to raise his brows, Richard pocketed the necklace.

“Now, where were we? Ah . . . yes.” The solicitor cleared his throat, then warbled: “ ‘As to all the wealth of which I die possessed, property, furniture, and funds, all is to be held in trust for a period of one week from today, the day on which my will is read.' ” The man paused, drew breath, then went on in a rush: “ ‘If during that one week, Richard Melville Cynster agrees to marry Catriona Mary Hennessy, the estate will be divided amongst my surviving children, as described below. If, however, by the end of that week, Richard Cynster refuses to marry Catriona Hennessy, my entire estate is to be sold and the funds divided equally between the dioceses of Edinburgh and Glasgow.' ”

Shock—absolute and overpowering—held them all silent. For one minute, only the rustle of parchment and the odd crackle from the fire broke the stillness. Richard recovered, if that was the right word, first; he dragged in a huge breath, conscious of a sense of unreality, as if in a crazy dream. He glanced at Catriona, but she wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed in the distance, her expression one of stunned incredulity.

“How could he?”
Her vehement question broke the spell; she focused abruptly on the solicitor.

A cacophany of questions and exclamations poured forth. Seamus's family could not take in what their sire had done to them; most of them were helpless, barely coherent.

Seated beside Richard, Mary turned a stricken face to him. “My God—
how
will we manage?” Her eyes filled; she grasped Richard's hand, not in supplication, but for support.

Instinctively, he gave it, curling his fingers about hers and pressing reassuringly. He saw her face as she turned to Jamie, saw the hopelessness that swamped her.

“What will we do?” she all but sobbed as Jamie gathered her into his arms.

As stunned as she, Jamie looked at the solicitor over her head.
“Why?”

It was, Richard felt, the most pertinent question; the solicitor took it as his cue and waved his hands at the others to hush them. “If I might continue . . . ?”

They fell silent, and he picked up the will. He drew breath, then looked up, peering over his pince-nez. “This is a most irregular will, so I feel no compunction in breaking with tradition and stating that I and all others in my firm argued most strongly against these provisions, but Mr. McEnery would not be moved. As it stands, the will is legal and, in our opinion, uncontestable by law.”

With that, he looked down at the parchment. “ ‘These next words are addressed to my ward, Catriona Mary Hennessy. Regardless of what she might think, it was my duty to see to her future. As in life I was not strong enough to influence her, so in death I am putting her in the way of one who, if half the tales told of him and his clan are true, possesses the requisite talents to deal with her.' ”

There followed a detailed description of how the estate was to be divided between Seamus's children in the event Richard agreed to marry Catriona, to which no one listened. The family and Catriona were too busy decrying Seamus's perfidy; Richard was too absorbed in noting that not one of them imagined any other outcome than that the estate would pass to the Church.

By the time the solicitor had reached the end of the will, despair, utter and complete, had taken posssession of the McEnerys. Jamie, swallowing his bitter disappointment, rose to shake the solicitor's hand and thank him. Then he turned away to comfort Mary, distraught and weeping.

“It's iniquitous,” she sobbed. “Not even the barest living! And what about the children?”

“Hush, shussh.” Jamie tried to soothe her, his expression one of abject defeat.

“He was mad.” Malcolm spat the words out. “He's cheated us of everything we'd a right to expect.”

Meg and Cordelia were sobbing, their meek spouses incoherent.

Sitting quietly in his chair, untouched by the emotion sweeping his hosts, Richard watched, and listened, and considered. Considered the fact that not one of the company expected him to save them.

Considered Catriona, sleek and slender in deep blue, her hair burning even more brightly in the dull and somber room. She was comforting Meg, counselling her away from hysteria, exuding calm in an almost visible stream. Straining his ears, he listened to her words.

“There's nothing to be done, so there's no sense in working yourself into a state and having a miscarriage. You know as well as anyone I didn't get along with Seamus, but I would never have believed him capable of this. I'm as deeply shocked as you.” She continued talking quickly, filling Meg's ears, forcing the woman to listen to her and not descend into excessive tears. “The solicitor says it's a
fait accompli
, so other than calling down curses on Seamus's dead head, there's no use in having the vapors now. We must all get together and see what can be done, what can be salvaged.”

She continued, moving the direction of her thoughts, and Meg's and Cordelia's and their husbands', into a more positive vein. But that vein followed the line of what to do to cope with this unexpected shock; at no point did she, or anyone, not even Jamie or Mary when they joined the group, allude to any alternative.

Not once did Catriona glance his way; it was almost as if she'd dismissed him from her mind, forgotten his existence. As if they'd all forgotten him—the dark predator, the interloper, the Cynster in their midst. No one thought to appeal to him.

To them all, not only Catriona, the outcome was a
fait accompli
. They didn't even bother to ask for his decision, his answer to Seamus's challenge.

But then, they were the weak and helpless; he was something else again.

“Ah-hem.”

Richard glanced up to see the solicitor, his papers packed, peering at him. His exclamation startled the others to silence.

“If I could have your formal decision, Mr. Cynster, so that we can start finalizing the estate?”

Richard raised his brows. “I have one week to decide, I believe?”

The solicitor blinked, then straightened. “Indeed.” He shot a glance at Catriona. “Seven full days is the time the will stipulates.”

“Very well.” Uncrossing his legs, Richard rose. “You may call on me here, one week from today”—he smiled slightly at the man—“and I will give you my answer then.”

Responding to his manner, the solicitor bowed. “As you wish, sir. In accordance with the will, the estate will remain in trust until that time.”

Quickly gathering his papers, the solicitor shook hands with Richard, then with Jamie, stunned anew, then, with a general nod to the rest of them, quit the library.

The door shut behind him; the click of the latch echoed through the huge room, through the unnatural stillness. As one, the family turned to stare, dumbfounded, at Richard, all except Catriona; she was already staring at him, through ominously narrowed eyes.

Richard smiled, smoothly, easily. “If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll stretch my legs.”

With that, he did so, strolling nonchalantly to the door.

* * *

“Don't get your hopes up.” Brutally candid, Catriona all but pushed Jamie into a chair in the parlor, then plopped down on the
chaise
facing him. “Now, concentrate,” she admonished him, “and tell me everything you know of Richard Cynster.”

Still dazed, Jamie shrugged. “He's the son of Da”s first wife—hers, and the man the English government sent up here one time. A duke, he was—I've forgotten the title, if I ever heard it.” He screwed up his face. “I can't remember much—it was all before I was born. I only know what Da' let slip now and then.”

Catriona restrained her temper with an effort. “Just tell me everything you
can
remember.” She needed to know the enemy. When Jamie looked blank, she blew out a breath. “All right—questions. Does he live in London?”

“Aye—he came up from there. His valet said so.”

“He has a valet?”

“Aye—a very starchy sort.”

“What's his reputation?” Catriona blinked. “No—never mind.” She muttered beneath her breath: “I know more about that than you.” About a man with lips like cool marble, arms that had held her trapped, and a body . . . she blinked again. “His family—what do you know of them? Do they acknowledge him openly?”