Scandal's Bride (21 page)

But she'd known she'd be tempted, so while, in the full light of day, her resolution had held firm, and he'd been ensconced in the library, she'd gone to his room and replaced the drugged brandy with untainted stock. So she couldn't go to him, even if she weakened.

She'd weakened long before the clock struck twelve.

Now it was striking four, and she still hadn't fallen asleep. She hadn't settled in the least. First, she felt hot, then not hot enough. Her body was restless, her emotions disturbed. As for her thoughts . . . she would much rather be asleep.

In the forefront of her mind hung the fact that, after tomorrow, when the solitcitor left, she would never see Richard again.

And he would never see his child.

She didn't know which thought made her feel worse.

M
orning eventually dawned. Weary, wrung-out, Catriona dragged herself from her uncomfortable bed. She washed and dressed, then paused before the door—and plastered on a bright, breezy smile before opening it.

As had been her previous habit, she was early to the breakfast table. As the others appeared, she poured tea and helped herself to toast, all the while maintaining her glamor of morning cheer.

Richard saw her smile, her bright eyes, the instant he stalked in. Sweetly sunny, her expression stated she did not have a care in the world.

Little did she know.

Her gaze flew to his face—he saw her eyes widen. Richard suppressed an impulse to snarl. He met her gaze—pinned her for one brief instant—then turned and stalked to the sideboard.

And piled his plate high. He would rather have followed up the threat in that one glance, but there were others present. There was a need for civility—for the cloak of sophisticated behavior he habitually wore. He reminded himself of that—even while he itched to throw the cloak aside.

He was frustrated to the point of violence.

Never in his life had he had to cope with this degree of sexual frustration. Of frustrated intent. As for the emotional side of the coin—he couldn't even think of that. Not without a swirling haze of anger clouding his mind.

His response was not rational—the realization didn't help in the least. When it came to Catriona Hennessey, witch, his thoughts—his feelings—definitely didn't qualify as rational. They were powerful. Strong. And very close to slipping their leash.

Plunking his plate down at the place opposite hers, Richard sat. He met her wide gaze with a hard stare and saw her cheery smile waver. Belatedly remembering what the morning held, he gritted his teeth and looked down at his plate. And kept his gaze lowered as he ate.

She'd fled from him before—he didn't want to look out of the library window and see her carriage rolling down the drive. His plans were otherwise.

“Miss? They be awaiting ye in the lib'ry.”

Catriona whirled, straightening, her attention flying from the child she'd been tucking in. “Already?”

Head poked around the nursery door, the maid nodded, wide-eyed. “Did hear as the s'licitor came early.”

Catriona inwardly cursed. “Very well.” Turning to the children's nurse, she gave brisk instructions, patted heads all around, then hurried down the long, cold corridors.

She stopped in the front hall to check her reflection in the mirror—what she saw did not reassure her. Her hair was neat, but not as lustrous as usual; the curls at her nape hung limp. As for her eyes, they were overlarge and faded. Washed-out—just like she felt. Her morning gown of rich brown, normally a good color for her, did nothing to disguise her pallor. She was tired; she still felt drained. Not, in all honesty, up to handling the inevitable grief when the final blow
finally
fell and Seamus's maltreated family learned they would have to quit the house. She'd intended to leave this afternoon, but had already revised her plans—she would be needed here for another day at least, to calm Meg and the children most of all.

With a sigh, she braced herself and headed for the library.

The butler opened the door for her; she glided through—and was instantly aware of a presence in the air. An unexpected presence. The hair on her nape lifted; she paused just inside the long room and took stock.

The family—
all of them
!—she inwardly sighed—were gathered before the fireplace as before. Seated at the desk, the solicitor shuffled papers; he glanced at her fleetingly, then looked away.

To where Richard stood, looking out one long window, his back to the room.

Together with the solicitor, Catriona studied that back, elegantly clad in deep blue. Her earlier uneasiness returned—that edgy, nervous feeling that had overtaken her in the breakfast parlor when he'd looked at her so accusingly. As if he had a very large bone to pick with her.

She didn't know—couldn't guess—what it was.

Neither his back, straight and tall, nor his hands, clasped behind him, offered any clues.

And now, on top of that uneasiness, came this other presentiment. A swirling, building sense of impending . . . something. Something momentous. The energy was strong, all-pervasive in the room; she couldn't discern its focus. On guard, she glided forward and took the empty seat beside Mary.

In that instant, Richard turned—and looked at her.

She met his gaze—and instantly understood who was the source of that energy. And who its focus. Suddenly breathless, she glanced at the door, then back at him.

Prowling forward to stand by the mantelpiece, he gazed at her steadily, his message transparent. He was now ten feet away, the door was thirty. No escape.

His intention, however, remained unclear.

Catriona dragged in a breath past the now familiar vise locked about her lungs and let haughtiness infuse her expression. Tilting her chin, she returned his regard, then pointedly switched her gaze to the solicitor. And willed him to get on with his business. To get this over and done with, so Richard Cynster could leave, and she could breathe again.

The solicitor coughed, sent a shaggy browed look around the room, then peered at the papers in his hand. “As you are all aware . . .”

His preamble outlined the situation as they knew it; everyone shifted and shuffled and waited for him to get to the point. Eventually, he cleared his throat and looked directly at Richard. “My purpose here today is to ask you, Richard Melville Cynster, if you accept and agree to fulfill the terms of our client Seamus McEnery's will.”

“I do so accept and agree.”

The words, so unexpected, were uttered so calmly Catriona did not—could not—take them in. Her mind refused to believe her ears.

Apparently similarly afflicted, the solicitor blinked. He peered at his papers, adjusted his spectacles, drew breath, and looked again at Richard. “You declare that you will marry the late Mr. McEnery's ward?”

Richard met his gaze levelly, then looked at Catriona. Trapping her gaze, he spoke evenly, deliberately. “Yes. I will wed Catriona Mary Hennessey, ward of the late Seamus McEnery.”

“Good-
oh!”

Malcolm's gleeful shout led the cacophany; the room erupted with exclamations, heartfelt thanks, outpourings of profound relief.

Catriona barely heard them—her gaze locked with Richard's, she let the tide wash over her and sensed a none-too-subtle shift in the energy around her. Some trap was closing on her—and she couldn't even see what it was.

Despite Jamie thumping him on the back and pumping his hand, despite the questions of the solicitor, Richard's blue gaze didn't waver. Trapped in that steady beam, Catriona slowly rose, much less steadily, to her feet. Putting out one hand, she gripped the chairback and straightened to her full height, so much less than his; unable to help herself, she tilted her chin defiantly.

Gradually, the clamor about them died, as the family belatedly sensed the clash of wills occurring beneath their noses.

Catriona waited until silence reigned, then, in a cool, clear voice, stated: “
I,
however, will not marry you.”

A shadow passed through his eyes; the planes of his face set. He shifted—the others stepped quickly from between them. He strolled toward her, his stride his customary prowl. While subtly intimidating, there was no overt threat in his approach. He stopped directly before her, looking down at her, still holding her gaze, then he glanced over his shoulder at the others. “If you'll excuse us?”

He waited for no yea or nay, not from them or her; he grasped her hand—before she could blink he was striding down the long room, towing her with him.

Catriona stifled a vitriolic curse; she had to pace quickly to keep up. But she reined in her temper—there was a definite advantage in putting distance between themselves and the rest of the company.

He didn't stop until they reached the other end of the room, hard up against the wall of bookshelves and flanked by two heavy armchairs and a small table. The instant he released her, she swung to face him. “I will
not
marry you. I've told you why.”

“Indeed.”

The word was a lethal purr. She blinked and found herself pinned by a stare so hard she literally felt stunned.

“But that was
before
you came to my bed.”

Her world tilted. She could hear her heart thudding in her throat. She blinked again, slowly. And opened her lips on a denial—the look in his eyes, burning blue, changed her mind. She lifted her chin. “You'll never get anyone to believe that.”

His brows rose. “Oh?”

To her surprise, he glanced around—Meg's sketchbook and pencil lay on the small table. He picked both up; before her puzzled eyes, he opened the book to a blank page and sketched rapidly, then handed the book to her.

“And just how do you plan explaining how I know about this?”

She stared. He'd sketched her birthmark. Her world had already tipped; now it reeled.

He shifted, leaning closer, simultaneously protective and threatening. “I'm sure you can recall the circumstances in which I saw it. You were in my bed, on your knees, totally naked, before me—and I was buried to the hilt in you.”

The words, uttered low, forcefully and succinctly, from less than a foot away, battered at her defenses. Catriona felt them weaken, then crack—and felt the emotion, the sensations, all she'd felt at that moment when she'd been in his bed, seep through. And touch her.

It took all her will to shut them out and seal up the break in her shields. She stared, unseeing, at the drawing until she'd regained some degree of calm, then, very slowly, lifted her gaze to his face. “You were awake.”

“I was.” His face was a mask of hard angles and planes—determination incarnate.

Catriona mentally girded her loins. “Completely awake?”

“
Wide
awake. I didn't touch the whiskey the second night. Or the third.”

She studied his face, his eyes, then grimaced, and looked down.

He waited. When she said nothing more, he straightened, and took the sketch book from her hands. “So”—he nodded toward the others—“shall we go and tell them the news?

She lifted her head. “I haven't changed my mind.”

He looked down at her—then stepped closer, towering over her. “Well,
change it.”

He took another step; eyes locked on his, Catriona backed. She glanced up the room and saw the others watching. Immediately, she stiffened her spine; switching her gaze back to her tormentor, she halted, raised her hands and pushed against his chest. “Stop that! You're deliberately trying to frighten me.”

“I'm
not
trying to frighten you,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I'm trying to
intimidate
you—there's a difference.”

Catriona glowered. “You don't need to intimidate me—just stop and
think!
You don't want to marry me—you don't want to marry at all. I'm just a woman—just like all the others.” She gestured, as if encompassing hordes. “If you just leave, you'll discover I'm like all of the rest of them—you'll forget me within a week.”

“Much you know about it.”

His tone was contemptuous; his eyes bored into hers. He slapped one hand on the bookshelf by her shoulder, half caging her. Catriona felt the shelves at her back; she stiffened her spine and tilted her chin higher. And kept her eyes locked on his.

Lips compressed, he looked down at her. “Just so you know . . . I generally insist that the ladies I consort with have the good sense not to get under my skin. Some try, I admit, but none succeed. They all stay precisely where I want them—at a safe distance. They don't get into my dreams, interfere with my aspirations, challenge my hopes—or my fears.” His eyes narrowed. “
You,
however, are different.
You
succeeded in getting under my skin without even trying—before I even knew how witchy you were going to be. Now you're there, you're there to stay.” His gaze hardened. “I suggest you accustom yourself to your new position.”