Scandal's Bride (20 page)

The sight held him entranced. She moaned softly, then rotated her hips, clinging to him, closing like a burning glove about him as he pressed deep.

Richard gasped; he closed his eyes and tightened his death grip on his impulses.

Opening his eyes again, he drew a ragged breath—and leaned forward. And reminded himself to be ruthless.

But the instant his hands curved about her shoulders, then trailed down to cup her breasts, he knew the best he could hope to be—with her—was ruthlessly gentle.

Not even she could worship her Lady with the same devotion with which he worshipped her—felt compelled to worship her. She was his temple, he her priest, serving her. Lavishing attention on her. Helplessly in thrall, drawn deeper with every heated thrust, every caress he pressed on her—and she pressed on him—he was a victim of emotion that bound him to her through this act and yet more deeply, reaching to his soul. Demanding his obedience, his acceptance, his surrender. It was as if some deeply buried part of him recognized her as his mate—and his salvation.

When next he straightened, his breathing was beyond ragged, his control badly frayed. He knew he had a question—it took a moment to recall what it was. With her on her knees before him, with his staff buried in her sweet heat, it was difficult to imagine anything else mattered.

But one thing did. Chest swelling, he set himself to take her up the last stretch of their road. Fingers tightening about her hips, he looked down—and noticed a birthmark, just by his thumb on her right buttock—a strawberry mark in the shape of a butterfly in flight. The size of his thumbnail, the mark showed clearly against her pale skin.

Richard dragged in a deep breath; fingers sinking into her hips, he anchored her, and thrust deep. Again, and again—pushing her high, then higher, swiftly taking her toward the shattering climax that he'd deliberately designed for her. On and on, higher and higher—she panted, then sobbed in her need.

He took her to the last but one step—

And withdrew from her, drawing her up against him, his hands full of her breasts, his throbbing erection riding between the globes of her bottom. He held her upright on her knees against him, and delicately kissed one ear.

The change was so swift, Catriona could barely take it in, barely heard, over the desperate thudding of her heart, his gravelly whisper.

“Why do you want me inside you?”

She couldn't see his face; she was so heated and urgent and needy she couldn't think—yet she heard the warrior's demand in his voice; she answered truthfully.

“Because I need you.” The words came out on a sob—a sob of pure need. Raising one hand, she reached back and traced his lean cheek. “
Please,
Richard.
Now.”
His face was beside hers; she heard a soft hiss, then a smothered curse.

Then he reached around her, grabbing first one pillow, then another, piling them before her, even as his other hand pressed on her back and guided her down. Swiftly, he drew her knees back, and she was lying on her stomach, the piled pillows beneath her hips.

And he was behind her, between her spread thighs, his hips pressing against her bottom. Against skin flickering with heightened nerves, her inner thighs excruciatingly sensitive to the brush of his hair-dusted limbs.

With one thrust, he surged into her.

She screamed with sheer delight. Horrified, she grabbed handfuls of the twisted sheets and held them to her face. And heard him groan—braced above her, his hands planted on either side of her, he drew back, and surged deep—so deep—again.

In bliss—and knowing there was more to come—Catriona closed her eyes, buried her face in the bedclothes, and surrendered—her wits, her senses, her body—to the glory that beckoned. Surrendered to the desire to take him deep and love him, hold him tight and caress him.

He rode her hard, filling her completely, driving her on—straight over a precipice and into the sun.

She screamed as it shattered about her.

Eyes closed tight, braced above her, Richard drank in the lovely sound. Half muffled by the sheets, it was still pure magic; the sound of her ecstasy was pure ecstasy to him. Sunk to the hilt inside her, he held still, rigid, tense as a coiled spring, and savored her contractions, the rippling caress of her body as release swept through her.

He waited, not patiently, but with steely determination, until she eased beneath him, then, gritting his teeth, he leaned forward, grabbed two more pillows, lifted her, and raised her hips still higher.

So he could ride her on, up the next peak—the one she hadn't even guessed existed. When she realized it was there, she joined him—eagerly, wantonly—as focused as he. Heated once more, flushed, her skin dewed, she writhed beneath him, urging him on not with words but with deeds, with the flagrant encouragement of her lush body.

And when he sent her tumbling through the stars again, the effect was cataclysmic. He heard it in her unrestrained scream. The sound caught him up—tugged at his heart, his loins, his soul. Closing his eyes, he filled her completely and swiftly followed her beyond the end of the world.

* * *

Catriona awoke, disoriented, not entirely sure she
was
awake. Sweet peace held her; warmth surrounded her—she didn't want to move, to disturb the spell.

But presentiment nagged her—reluctantly, she lifted her lids. And looked into gloomy darkness. Blinking rapidly improved her vision marginally, enough to realize where she still was—where she shouldn't be.

In Richard's bed.

The warmth around her was him. The fact she could see at all warned her that deepest night had passed—morning was not far away.

Wielding a mental whip, she drew a shallow breath—all she could manage with his arm over her waist—and started the process of carefully untangling her limbs from his. This was the third morning she'd had to ease from his arms, but the task wasn't getting any easier with practice.

Eventually, she managed to slide from the bed. Quickly donning her robe, she fastened it, then swiftly straightened the sheet, settled the covers and silently plumped the pillow.

Pausing, she looked down at her companion of the night. He slept sprawled on his stomach, the arm and leg that had been thrown over her now relaxed on the bed. She studied his face, what she could see of it. The harsh planes had eased, but still retained their hardness, the promise of strength; his lashes lay, black crescents on his cheekbones, his lips still firm, purposeful. Even in repose, his face told her little—beyond the fact that here lay a warrior without a cause.

She had to leave him.

Drawing in a deep breath, she reached out to brush back the errant lock of hair that made a habit of falling over his forehead—and stopped herself. For one instant, her hand hovered over the neatened covers, then she sighed and, with a sad grimace, drew it back.

She couldn't risk waking him.

And she could sense the house stirring, tweenies waking in the attics, doors banging in the far distance.

Hugging her robe about her against the morning chill, she took one last, long look—at the husband she couldn't have—then slipped out through the bed curtains.

The instant the curtains closed, Richard opened his eyes. He listened—and heard the faintest of clicks as the door closed. For an instant, he simply stared at the closed curtains, at the empty space beside him, then he drew a huge breath and turned on his back. Crossing his arms behind his head, he stared at the canopy.

He still didn't have his answer—at least, not all of it. But he had learned something through the night. Whatever it was that drove his lust for her—she felt it, too. When they were together, her feelings for him were the counterpart of his feelings for her.

What his feelings for her were, however, was beyond his ability to describe. There was a sensual connection between them, something that invested their lovemaking with a deeper, stronger, more vibrant energy than the norm. He knew all about the norm—he'd had so many women, the difference was stark. Even in her innocence, she must be aware of it—that power that flared between them every time they touched, every time they kissed.

In his case, it was now with him constantly, ready to rear its head every time he set eyes on her. He was even, heaven help him, getting used to it. It had very quickly become a part of him.

Grimacing, he threw back the covers, sat up, and ran his hands over his face. He knew himself too well not to know, not to accept, that he wouldn't readily give it up—cut himself off from that power, from the addictive surge of possessiveness that swept him every time he saw her.

He still didn't know why she'd given herself to him. In the depths of the night, when they'd stirred and untangled their limbs, and she'd wordlessly slid into his arms, he hadn't had the heart to further interrogate her—he'd kissed her, soothed her into sleep, then tightened his arms about her and fallen into blissfully sated slumber himself.

Standing, he stretched, then grimaced. He'd have it out with her tonight. Once she was in his arms. Today, especially after last night, there were other things he needed to do.

The solicitor would return tomorrow.

He waited at the breakfast table until Jamie appeared. His host passed Algaria in the doorway. After waiting, and waiting, for Catriona to appear, Algaria had thrown him a black look that should have flayed him, then risen and gone to search out her erstwhile pupil.

Richard watched her go—Algaria clearly knew where her erstwhile pupil had been spending her nights—then turned to Jamie.

Who looked worried and drawn, obviously exercised by the difficulties of where the family would remove to, how they would cope after tomorrow. Jamie smiled wanly. “Not a particularly fine day, I fear.”

Richard hadn't noticed. “Actually, I was wondering if you might appease my curiosity.” Before Jamie could ask how, Richard waved languidly at Jamie's plate and picked up his coffee mug. “Once you've finished breakfast.”

Malcolm and one of Jamie's nondescript brothers-in-law was present; Richard did not want his plans broadcast, especially not to the ears of his witch. He intended to inform her of his decision in person. Tonight. He was looking forward to it; he would allow no one to spoil his plans.

Jamie ate quickly; together they left the breakfast parlor and strolled into the hall. Jamie paused and looked inquiringly at him. Richard waved toward Jamie's office, and they strolled on, into the corridor.

“I was curious,” Richard murmured, “about those letters you mentioned. The ones Seamus received about Catriona and her lands. I've been trying to fathom just why your father wanted me to marry Catriona—if I could see what he'd been handling in relation to her, it might clarify the matter.”

Jamie's brows rose. He blinked at Richard, rather owlishly. “I see.” He halted outside his office door; Richard halted, too. Jamie cleared his throat. “Are you . . . ah . . .
considering
. . . ?”

Richard grimaced lightly. “Considering, yes. But . . .” He met Jamie's eyes. “If even that gets to Catriona's ears, life for all of us will be that much harder.”

Jamie blinked and straightened. “Indeed.” As Richard watched, Jamie's face lost some of its unnatural pallor, as hope, however faint, replaced despondency.

“Those letters?”

“Oh! Yes.” Jamie shook himself. “I left them in the library.”

The afternoon was dying beyond the library windows before he'd read them all. When Jamie had spoken of a pile of letters, Richard hadn't imagined a pile literally two feet high. And in no order to speak of. He'd spent hours sorting them, then even more hours deciphering the scripts and the demands.

For demands there'd been. Many of them.

Of Seamus's replies there was no record, but from the continuing correspondence, his attitude was clear. He'd done a stalwart job of defending Catriona and her vale.

Heaving a sigh, Richard set the last of the letters back on the stack, then pushed back his chair, opened the large bottom drawer of the desk and set the stack, in two halves, back where Jamie had stored it. Then he sat back in the chair and stared at the three piles he'd separated from the stack and lined up on the blotter.

Each little pile derived from one of Catriona's nearest neighbors. He had earlier taken a break and wandered down the hall to Jamie's office to check the maps. Her neighbors wanted her land. However, contrary to Jamie's recollections, all three still offered marriage—Sir Olwyn Glean to himself, Sir Thomas Jenner to his son, Matthew, while Dougal Douglas had not specified.

All three sets of correspondence were current—all three were at the stage of veiled threats on both sides. Seamus was less than subtle, Glean was patronizing, Jenner pompous, and Douglas the most disturbing, the most pointed.

Richard lit the desk lamp, and reread the letters, every one, then stacked them together. His expression set, his lips a thin line, he considered the pile, then folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket.

In the distance, the dinner gong boomed. Pushing back his chair, Richard rose and headed upstairs to change.

That night, Catriona tossed and turned. Wide awake, she stared at the canopy of her bed, then turned—and tossed—again.

She couldn't get to sleep.

Some devil inside her informed her why—and prodded her. Pointed out it was only a short distance to Richard's room. Richard's bed. Richard's arms.

And all the rest of him.

With a frustrated groan, Catriona shut her ears to the temptation. She had to—she couldn't give into it.

She'd known how it would be—that she would be tempted to go to him, that she would try to tell herself one more night wouldn't matter. But her only justification for going to him as she had was The Lady's orders—and they didn't include extra nights purely for her own indulgence. At this time of her cycle, three nights were enough. The way he'd loved her, that should be
more
than enough. She couldn't justify more.