Scandal's Bride (16 page)

It was there, written on his soul—and in that moment she'd been able to read the words. The truth. The reality of what he yearned for.

So she welcomed him to her, wrapping her arms about him as he covered her. Nudging her thighs wider, he settled between and fitted himself to her slick sheath. Turning his head, he took one pebbled nipple into his mouth and suckled fiercely; she arched, and he pressed inside her, stretching her.

She tensed and tried to force her muscles to ease. He reached down, between their bodies, and caressed the nubbin he'd earlier teased.

Sensation streaked—jagged lightning striking deep. It broke the banks and set the floodtide raging, molten passion, lava hot, surging, racing through her. And she was caught in the tide, swept up and whirled away, into the pure heat of the moment. She felt him retreat, then powerfully surge, and fill her.

Felt him ride deep to her core.

She melted about him and welcomed him in—into her body, into her heart. She knew it was dangerous—she saw the gaping hole yawning at her feet, but the desire that drove him, the raw need that now filled him, driving him into her again and again—as surely as it had caught him, it caught her. She jumped into the hole without a second thought.

And gave herself to him, opened her body and her senses, and let him fill both. Exquisitely vulnerable, spread beneath his hard strength, held immobile by it, impaled by it, she kissed him wildly, and urged him on.

But not even she could warp his true character; despite the force of the energy flowing so strongly between them, he harnessed it and set himself to please her. Pleasure her.

In a wild and wonderful way.

His surging rhythm became hers, became her very heartbeat. He used his body to love her—she learned to use hers to love him back. He was no gentle teacher, yet he forced nothing but pleasure on her. She raised her knees and gripped his hips, and gave herself up to his loving.

To the joy, the heat, and the escalating pleasure. To the moment that came upon her unawares, and stole her mind, her senses, her very being from her.

And left her floating in a void of delight, anchored only by his heartbeat.

She only just managed to smother her scream; she wasn't even sure she succeeded. She wasn't even sure that she cared.

Richard felt her melt beneath him, felt the last of her contractions fade, sensed her final surrender. With a gasp and a groan, he thrust deep and shut his eyes, blocking out the sight of her, the blazing mane of her hair a frame for her ecstasy, for the expression of pure peace that filled her face.

Racking shudders swamped him; he felt her grip him tight.

He gasped again and surrendered, and followed her into the void.

Later, much later, he lifted from her and drew her into his arms. She turned and snuggled closer, warming him inside and out. He felt his lips lift—he couldn't understand why he felt so pleased. Why he felt so at ease. So complete.

Then he remembered.

But it was just a dream.

With a soft sigh, he closed his eyes and wished dreams could last forever.

R
ichard woke the next morning, very slowly. An age seemed to pass before he felt certain he was in this world, and not some other. He felt disoriented, lethargic. Drained.

If he hadn't known better, he would have said he felt sated.

The thought made him frown. The thoughts that followed made him frown even more.

“Rubbish.” He looked at the bed beside him. The covers were straight, the pillow still plump. No hint of a bedmate. To prove the point, he lifted the covers and peered down. Beside him, the sheet was not rumpled in the least; it was, in fact, very neat.

Instead of lightning, his frown grew blacker. He shifted his gaze to that part of his anatomy that featured most prominently in his disturbing dream. He gazed at it as if it could answer the wild question in his mind; it simply lay there, in its customary semi-aroused morning state, and told him nothing. He checked, but there was no discernible evidence that it had engaged in any wild nocturnal coupling.

Dropping the covers, Richard lay back on the pillows; crossing his arms above his head, he gazed at the canopy. But the more he let his mind dwell on his dream, the more vivid it became, refusing to fade in the cold morning light. The more he thought of it, the more definite details became, the more intense the sensual memories.

“Ridiculous.” Flinging back the covers, he sat up.

He washed and shaved, attended by Worboys, then dressed, shrugged into his coat and headed downstairs. Throughout his ablutions, his dream had refused to get out of his mind, had only grown more vivid. More detailed.

Lips compressed, he stepped off the stairs. Given his recent abstinence, given the witch presently under the same roof, given the fantasies he'd been consciously and unconsciously concocting about her, it probably
wasn't
surprising she'd started inhabiting his dreams.

He strolled into the breakfast parlor, knowing he was late. Exchanging mild nods with the rest of Seamus's dull household, he filled his plate and carried it to the table. The object of his lustful dreams was not present, but she'd proved to be an early riser.

At McEnery House, bright morning chatter was unheard of, which suited his mood. He ate in silence. He was devilishly hungry. He'd cleared half his plate when rushing footsteps sounded in the corridor. Everyone looked up.

Catriona hurried in.

Her gaze collided with his; she stopped as if she'd run into a wall. For one instant, she stared, her expression unreadable.

“Well! I wondered when you'd rouse.”

Algaria's dry, disapproving comment broke the spell; Richard couldn't tell who'd thrown it—Catriona or him. Or some other force entirely.

Catriona glanced at Algaria, then approached the table. “I . . . ah, overslept.”

“You were dead to the world when I looked in.”

“Hmm.” Without meeting anyone's eye, Catriona served herself a large portion of the kedgeree the butler offered. Instead of her customary tea and toast.

Richard frowned—first at her plate, then at his. And wondered if it was possible for people to share dreams.

* * *

It was a horridly dull day, with sleet and snow lashing the house. Denied any chance of a walk to clear her head, Catriona set herself to review the stillroom. Which appeared not to have been reviewed since last she'd visited. The task proved so consuming, she got no chance to devote any sensible thought to the problem she'd seen looming on her horizon.

She hadn't seen it until that morning, when she'd rushed into the breakfast parlor. Not that she could have foreseen it, given she hadn't foreseen the depth of her involvement with Richard.

He who was to father her child.

But she got no chance to think on that, to dwell on how her view of him had changed, and on whether that meant she could, or should, change her plan, or even whether her plan was now safer, or more dangerous.

He'd been confused this morning—and that she hadn't expected. She'd seen it in his eyes as he'd looked at her—a remembrance of the night. Given what had happened, she wasn't surprised; she hadn't expected him to be even partially awake, much less in that peculiar state of a waking dream.

It wasn't, therefore, surprising that he remembered something; his confusion told her he hadn't remembered enough. Enough to be sure it hadn't been a dream.

She was safe, but he was disturbed. She needed to think about that.

“Tie all these up in bunches and hang them properly. And when you've finished with that, you can throw all this away.” “All this” was a pile of ancient herbs that had long ago lost their efficacy. Hands on hips, Catriona surveyed the much-improved stillroom, then nodded briskly. “We'll make a start on the oils in the morning.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the housekeeper and two maids chorused.

Catriona left them to their labors and headed back to the family parlor. Her route lay through a labyrinth of corridors giving onto a narrow gallery overlooking the side drive.

The gallery led to the main wing of the house. She'd started along it before she looked up and saw the large figure standing before one of the long windows looking out at the wintry day. He heard her and turned his head, then turned fully, not precisely blocking her path, but giving the impression he would like to.

Head high, Catriona's steps did not falter. But she slowed as she neared him, suddenly aware of a changed presence in the air, of some blatantly sexual reaction. On his part—and on hers.

She stopped a full yard away, not daring to venture closer, unsure just what the sudden searing impulse to touch him might lead her to do. Keeping her expression mild and uninformative, she lifted her chin and raised a questioning brow.

He looked down at her, his expression as unreadable as hers.

And the hot attraction between them grew stronger, more intense.

It stole her breath and fanned heat over her body. Her nipples crinkled tight; she held her ground and prayed he wouldn't notice.

“I wondered,” he eventually said, “if you'd like to stroll.” His tone made it clear he wanted her alone, somewhere private so he could investigate what he was feeling. “The conservatory as we have no other choice.”

The fact that—even knowing the truth—she actually considered the possibility truly scared her. “Ahh . . . I think not.” Prudence reasserted itself in a rush; Catriona softened her refusal with a smile. “I must tend to Meg—she's unwell.”

“Can't Algaria tend Meg?”

His irritation nearly made her grin; his mask was slipping—the warrior was showing. “No—Meg prefers me.”

His lips thinned. “So do I.”

Catriona couldn't stop her grin. “She's ill—you're not.”

“Much you know.” Thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets, he turned and sauntered beside her as she resumed her progress into the main wing.

Catriona shot him a careful glance. “You're not sick.”

He raised an arrogant brow. “You can tell just by looking?”

“Generally, yes.” She trapped his gaze. “In your case, your aura is very strong, and there's no hint of any illness.”

He searched her eyes, then humphed. “When you've finished with Meg, you can come and examine my strength in greater detail.”

Catriona fought to keep her lips straight enough to frown. “You're just feeling a trifle under the weather. Perfectly understandable.” They'd reached the bottom of the main stairs; with a nod, she indicated the bleak scene beyond the hall windows.

He looked, but didn't seem to see. He stopped before the stairs; she halted on the bottom step and faced him.

“I'd be perfectly all right,” he said, meeting her eyes, “if I could just . . .”

His words died; desire swept over them, tangible and hot as a desert wind. He stared at her; Catriona held tight to the banister and struggled not to respond, to keep her own mask in place as his wavered.

Then he blinked, frowned, and shook his head. “Never mind.”

More shaken than she could allow him to see, Catriona smiled weakly. “Later, perhaps.”

He looked at her again, then nodded. “Later.”

There was to be no later—not that day. Despite her best intentions, Catriona found herself in constant demand, with Meg, with the children, even with Mary, who was usually as hale as a horse. The tensions in the house, generated by Seamus's iniquitous will, were taking their toll.

The only time she had to herself was the half-hour while she dressed for dinner. Hardly enough time to consider the implications of the unexpected turn her straightforward plan had taken. As she scrambled into her gown, then shook out her hair, brushed it and re-braided it, she swiftly reevaluated her position.

If things had gone as she'd planned, she would have steadfastly avoided Richard during the days, done nothing to give him the slightest reason to change his mind. She had planned to hold aloof until he'd refused Seamus's edict, seen him on the road to London, then headed for the vale. Carrying his child.

Such had been her plan.

Now, however, one small element had gone awry. She needed to adjust. He'd remembered enough of the night to be seriously disturbed. The idea that he might be affected in some way as a result of her machinations was not one she could accept.

She'd have to do something about it.

The first thing she did, on her way down to dinner, last as ever, was to add to his fateful decanter a few drops of another potion, one that would prevent him from remembering any further “dreams.”

The second thing she did was stand, rather than flee, when he reentered the drawing room after dinner and stalked straight to her side.

Algaria, beside her, stiffened. Catriona waved her away—she went, reluctantly. Richard barely nodded at her as he took her place.

“Where the devil have you been?”