Scandal's Bride (25 page)

While making the introductions, Catriona studied her staff—one and all, their response to Richard was genuine. They were, indeed, very pleased to see him, to welcome him as her husband. The more he spoke, the more they smiled and grinned. The more she inwardly frowned.

When they were free to go inside, Richard led her up the steps. They passed Algaria, standing silent and withdrawn at the top. Catriona met her black gaze—and instantly knew what she, at least, was thinking.

But Richard's reaction was not feigned, nor part of any plan; as she'd introduced him to a welcome she hadn't foreseen, she'd sensed—known beyond question—that he hadn't foreseen it, either. He'd been as surprised as she, but quick to respond to her people's invitation.

What had her puzzled was what, precisely, that invitation was—and why it had been issued so readily.

Those questions plagued her all day.

By the time the household gathered for dinner, she was seriously disturbed. There was something happening in her small world that she didn't understand, some force stirring over which she had no control. Which was definitely not how it had been, nor how she liked it.

Made uneasy by something she could not name, she glided into the dining hall. Richard prowled at her heels, as he had for most of the afternoon, as she'd shown him about her home. Now his home.

Glancing over her shoulder, Catriona inwardly frowned. The matter of where they would live was something they hadn't actually discussed—she'd simply assumed they would live here. Together. Lady and consort. But she'd assumed wrong on one point—she could be wrong on that issue, too. The thought did not calm her—right now, she needed calm.

Drawing that emotion to her, she smiled at Mrs. Broom and stepped up to the dais. Going to her place at the center of the long table, she graciously waved Richard to the carved chair beside hers. The chair that had stood against the wall, unneeded since her parents' deaths.

Richard held her chair as she sat, then took the chair beside her. Catriona nodded to Mrs. Broom, who clapped her hands for the first course to be served. Maids hurried in, carting piled platters. Unlike the household of gentry elsewhere, at the manor, all the household ate together, as they had for centuries.

Lounging in the chair beside Catriona, Richard studied her people, studied the open and easy manners that pertained between mistress and staff. There was a warmth, a camaraderie present that he previously had encountered only among soldiers; given the vale's isolation, the trials of long winters and wild weather, it was perhaps a good thing—a necessary cohesiveness.

All in all, he approved.

Not so Worboys.

Seated at the table directly below the main one, poor Worboys looked stunned. Inwardly grimacing, Richard made a mental note to expect his resignation. Used to the strict observances pertaining among the best households in the ton, the situation at Casphairn Manor would not meet Worboys's high standards.

And God only knew what the blacking was like.

“Do you care for some wine?”

Turning his head, Richard saw Catriona lift a decanter. Reaching out, he took it from her and studied the golden liquid within. “What is it?”

“Dandelion wine. We make it ourselves.”

“Oh.” Richard hesitated, then, inwardly grimacing, poured himself a half glass. He passed the decanter to Mrs. Broom, who had slipped into the seat beside him.

“You must tell me,” she said, “what your favorite dishes are.” She flashed him a wide smile. “So we can see what we can do to accommodate your tastes.”

Richard smiled his slow Cynster smile. “How kind of you. I'll give the matter some thought.”

She beamed, then turned aside.

Richard turned back to Catriona, but she was absorbed in her meal. Lifting his wineglass, he sipped. Then blinked. Then sipped again, more slowly, savoring the tart taste, the complexities of the bouquet.

Liquid ambrosia.

Straightening, he set his glass down and picked up his soup spoon. “How much of that wine do you have?”

Catriona shot him a glance. “We make as many casks as we can every summer. But we always have some left year to year.”

“What do you do with it? The stuff left over?”

Laying down her spoon, she shrugged. “I expect the old casks are still there, in the cellars. I told you they're extensive—they run all the way beneath the main building.”

“You can show me tomorrow.” When she looked at him suspiciously, he smiled. “Your cellars sound quite fascinating.”

She humphed.

A clanging sounded throughout the large room. All turned to where McArdle stood at the end of the main table. When all had quieted, he raised his goblet high. “I propose a toast—to Casphairn Manor. Long may it thrive. To our lady of the vale—long may she reign. And to our lady's new consort, Mister Richard Cynster—a warm welcome to the vale, Sassenach though he might be.”

Laughter greeted that last; McArdle grinned and turned to address Catriona and Richard directly. “To you, my lady—and the consort The Lady has sent you.”

Wild cheering and clapping rose throughout the hall, echoing from the stone walls and high rafters. Smiling easily, fingers crooked about the stem of his glass, Richard turned his head and cocked a brow at Catriona.

His question was clear; Catriona hesitated, then nodded. She watched as, with nonchalant grace, Richard rose; cradling his goblet, he lifted it high and said, very simply: “To Casphairn Manor.”

All drank, as did he. Lowering his glass, he scanned the room, but did not sit down. After a moment, when all attention was again focused on him, on his commanding figure dominating the main table, he said, his voice low but carrying readily through the room: “I make the same pledge to you, and the vale, that I have already made to your lady.” A glance directed their attention to her, then he lifted his head and raised his glass. “As consort to your lady, I will honor the ways of the vale and protect you and the vale from all threats.”

He drank off his wine, then lowered his glass as clapping erupted from all sides. Heartfelt, the sound rose and rolled over the room. Richard sat—instinctively, Catriona put out a hand to his sleeve. He looked at her—she met his gaze fleetingly, then smiled and looked away.

And wondered at herself—at what he'd made her feel—all of them feel—in those few brief moments, with those few simple words. Magnetic words—she'd felt the tug herself, seen the effect it had had on her household. Her people were very much his already, and he'd only crossed the threshold mere hours ago.

Through the rest of the meal, Catriona pondered that fact. She steadfastly avoided looking at Algaria, but could feel her black glare. And sense her thoughts.

Nevertheless . . . she knew, to her bones, that this was how it was meant to be. Quite how their marriage would work out was what she couldn't, at present, see. She'd known Richard for a potent force even before she had met him, which was why she'd believed he was no suitable consort for her. The Lady had deemed otherwise.

Which was all very well but it was
she
who had to cope with his unsettling presence.

Off-balance, uncertain—in severe need of some quiet and calm—she waited until dessert was being cleared, then set aside her napkin. “I'm afraid the journey must have been more tiring than I thought.” She smiled at McArdle. “I'm for bed.”

“Of course, of course.” He started to rise to draw out her chair, then smiled over her head and subsided.

Catriona felt the chair shift and looked around. Richard stood behind her. She smiled at him, then smiled at Mrs. Broom and the rest of the table. “Goodnight.”

The others all nodded and smiled. Richard drew her chair farther back; she slipped past, then glided along behind the other chairs, stepped off the dais, and turned through an archway into the corridor leading to the stairs.

The instant she was out of sight of the dining hall, she frowned and looked down. Pondering her state—the uneasiness, the sense of being off-center that had gripped her the moment she'd stepped over her own threshold, Richard by her side—she absentmindedly trailed through the corridors, through the front hall, and climbed the stairs to the gallery and crossed it to her chamber.

Halting before her chamber door, she focused—to find herself standing in deep shadow. She'd forgotten to pick up a candle from the hall table. Luckily, born in this house, she didn't need to see to find her room. She reached for the door latch—

And very nearly screamed when a dark shadow reached past her, gripped the latch, and lifted it.

Hand to her throat, she whirled—even before she saw him, denser than night at her side, she realized who it must be.
“Richard!”

He stilled; she could feel his frown. “What's the matter?”

The door swung wide, revealing her familiar room, lit by flames leaping in the grate. Catriona gazed in and tried to calm her racing heart. “I didn't realize you were there.” She stepped over the threshold.

“I'll always be here.” He followed her in.

Catriona whirled—her heart raced again as she faced him. And realized what he meant. “Ah . . . yes. Well . . .” Airily gesturing, she turned and walked further into the room. “I'm just not used to it—having someone there.”

Truer words she'd never spoken. That was borne in on her as she walked to the fire, scanning the oh-so-familiar, oh-so-comforting furniture, and behind her, heard the latch click. Stopping by the fire, she half turned and glanced at him from beneath her lashes—he was standing just inside the door, studying her.

This was her own private sanctuary. A place he now had the right to enter whenever he chose. Yet another change marriage had wrought—yet another change she would have to accept.

“I . . . was tired.”

He tilted his head, still studying her. “So you said.” With that, he started to stroll, prowling about the room. Like some wild male animal assessing his new home.

Pushing the vison from her, Catriona straightened and jettisoned all thoughts of spending a quiet hour or two considering her state. Considering her husband.

She could hardly do that with him prowling so close.

She could barely
think
with him prowling so close.

His “I'll always be here” was not reassuring.

“Ah . . .” Eyeing him as he neared, she forced herself to meet his eyes. “We didn't discuss our sleeping arrangements here.” One black brow rose. “What's to discuss?” Reaching her side, he looked down at her, then crouched to tend the blaze.

Looking down at his head, Catriona felt her temper stir. “We could discuss where you'll sleep, for instance.”

“I'll sleep with you.”

She bit her tongue—and warned herself of the unwisdom of biting off her nose. “Yes, but what I wondered was whether you would like a chamber of your own.”

He seemed to consider that; he remained silent as he piled on logs, building a massive blaze. Then he stood; Catriona only just stopped herself from taking a step back.

Richard looked down at her, then scanned the large room. Despite containing a bureau, dresser, dressing table and chairs, wardrobe and two chests, as well as the reassuringly massive four poster bed, the room was sparsely furnished. They could share it comfortably and still have room to spare. His traveling case, set against one wall, was barely noticeable.

He looked down, into Catriona's eyes. “Will it bother you if I say no?”

The puzzlement that filled her eyes was impossible to mistake. “No, of course . . .” He raised a brow.

“Well . . .” Abruptly, she glared. “I don't know!”

Unwisely, he grinned.

She slapped him across the chest. “Don't laugh! I've never felt so at sea in my life!”

His grin turned wry. “Why?” Catching her hand, he headed for the bed, towing her, unresisting, behind him.

“I don't know. Well . . . yes, I do. It's you.”

Reaching the bed, he turned and sat, pulling her to stand between his thighs. “What about me?”

She frowned at him; holding her gaze, his expression mild and questioning, he set his fingers to the buttons of her carriage dress.

After a long moment, she grimaced. “No—that's not it either.”

Frowning absently, she reached for the pin securing his cravat, slipped it free, then slid it into the lapel of his coat. “I'm not sure what it is—just something unsettling—something not quite in its right place.” Frowning still, she flicked the ends of his cravat undone, then fell to untwisting the folds.

Richard held his tongue and let her tug his cravat free, then obediently shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat before helping her from her dress. Sitting again, he drew her to him; trapping her between his knees, he started unpicking the laces of her petticoat.

She was still frowning.

“Did my reception surprise you?”

She looked up. He pushed her petticoats down.

“Yes.” She met his gaze squarely. “I don't understand it.” One hand in his, she stepped from the pile of her skirts. “It was as if you were”—she gestured—“someone they'd been waiting for.”

Closing his hands about her waist, Richard drew her back, locking her between his thighs. “That's how they see me, I think.”

“But . . .
why?”

For one minute, he kept his gaze on the tiny buttons of her chemise as he slipped them from their moorings. Then he lifted his gaze and met her eyes. “Because I think they fear for you—and thus, indirectly, for themselves. I showed you the letters. I imagine, if you asked, you would discover many of your household have their own suspicions of your neighbors and the threat they pose to the vale.”

Looking down, he separated the two halves of her chemise, now open to her waist, and drew the sleeves down. She shivered as the cool air touched her flesh, but lowered her arms and slid them free.