Scandal's Bride (28 page)

“Sir Olwyn's always trying to create situations out of nothing.”

“Hmmm.” Placing her hand on his sleeve, Richard started up the stairs.

Catriona frowned. “Where are we going?”

“To our room.” Richard waved ahead. “Henderson and Worboys have been doing a little reorganizing—I think we should see if you approve.” He smiled at her, effortlessly charming. “And there's one or two other things I'd like you to consider.”

Like the appetite he'd worked up dispensing with Sir Olwyn.

It was time for a midday snack.

Four days later, when Catriona again tried to slip from her husband's arms before dawn, he grunted, held her close for an instant, then let her go—and rolled out of bed as well.

“This is really not necessary,” Catriona stated as, ten minutes later, she stood in the dimness of the stable and watched Richard saddle her mare. “I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

“Hmm.”

Catriona glared. She knew it was useless, but it eased her temper, confused as it was. “You could have stayed nicely warm in bed.”

Cinching the girths, he looked up and met her eyes. “There's no point in staying nicely warm in bed if you're not in it.”

It was her turn to humph. Gathering the reins, she put her hands to the saddle, intending to scramble up. He was around beside her in a blink; lifting her, he dropped her onto her perch.

Glaring, she reminded herself, was wasted effort. She settled her feet in the stirrups. “I'll be back in less than two hours.”

Tight-lipped, he nodded and led the way up the long main corridor of the stable to open the door for her.

Halfway along, he abruptly ducked—avoiding a huge horsy head that suddenly appeared over the top of one stall. The head bobbed and danced, huge eyes rolling at the mare, who promptly skittered and shied. Catriona cursed and drew the mare back.

Richard stared at the huge horse, its head considerably higher than his. “Where the devil did you come from?”

“That's Thunderer.” Holding the mare still, Catriona looked at the troublemaker. “He's not usually in this section of the stables. Higgins is making repairs in the other building—perhaps that's why he's moved Thunderer here.”

The big horse shifted, then snorted and kicked restlessly. Catriona sighed. “I wish he'd calm down. He half demolishes his stall every month.”

“He probably just needs more exercise.” Climbing up on the gate of the next stall, Richard looked down on the massive beast. The sleek, dappled grey coat had obviously given him his name—that, and the noise he made with his huge hooves, constantly stamping, shifting, kicking. Richard frowned. “Is he a stallion?”

“Yes—he's stallion to the vale's herd. In winter, all the mares are quartered around the other side.”

With a snort, Richard dropped back to the ground. “Poor animal.” He shot a glance at Catriona. “I know just how he feels.” She sniffed; he looked back at the stallion. “You need to give orders for him to be ridden more—at least once a day. Or you'll be paying for it in timber and tending bitten grooms.”

“Unfortunately, with Thunderer, we have to pay and tend. He's unridable.”

Richard frowned at her, then back at the horse.

“He's a superb horse, a thoroughbred with excellent bloodlines. We needed a stallion like him to improve the herd, and he was a bargain because the gentleman who owned him couldn't ride him.”

“Hmm. That doesn't necessarily mean he's unridable.”

Catriona shrugged. “He's thrown every groom in the vale. So now, in winter, he just mooches around in a foul temper.”

Richard shot her a sharp glance. “That, I can appreciate.”

Sticking her nose in the air, Catriona waved at the door. “I have to reach the circle before dawn.”

She couldn't hear what Richard grumbled, but he turned and strode on. Keeping to the far side of the corridor, she walked the mare past Thunderer, who whinnied pitifully. “Males!” she muttered under her breath.

Her own male was waiting, holding the door wide; she rode through and turned—and met his eye. And heard herself assure him: “I'll be back soon.”

For all the world as if she was promising on her return to engage in their habitual morning activities. As if her prayers were merely an interruption. A quirk of his brow told her how he'd interpreted her impulsive words; mentally cursing, Catriona turned, touched her heels to the mare's flanks—and escaped.

For now. Later, she was obviously destined to provide another of his midday snacks.

The fact that the tingling in her veins owed nothing to the exhilaration of her ride she studiously ignored.

His arms draped over the top rail of the yard fence, Richard watched her fly across the winter landscape. When she was halfway to where he would lose sight of her, he slid his hand into his greatcoat pocket and drew out the spyglass he'd found in the library. Extending the glass to its full length, he put it to his eye, adjusted the focus, then scanned the snow-covered ground ahead of Catriona.

Not a single hoofprint—or footprint—marred the snow carpet.

Lips curving in grim satisfaction, Richard lowered the glass and put it away. There were more ways than one to keep a witch safe.

He'd ridden out to her circle two days before. Even he, unsusceptible to local superstitions, had felt the power that protected the grove of yews, elms and alders—trees not common in these parts. He'd circled it on foot and had confirmed to his own satisfaction that there was no possible approach to the circle other than by crossing the expanse of ground he'd just scanned.

While he'd much rather be with her—was, indeed, conscious of a strong desire to ride there at her side—without an invitation from her, watching over her from afar was the best he could do.

At least, he thought, as the flying figure that was his witch rounded a small hillock and disappeared from sight, this way, the possessive protectiveness that was now a constant part of him was at least partly assuaged.

Turning from the now empty landscape, he started back to the house. Then stopped. Slowly, frowning, he looked back at the stable, then swung about and strode back to the door.

“Where
is
he?” Tugging her day gown over her head, Catriona heard the waspishness in her tone, and humphed. “That, I suppose, is what comes of consorting with rakes.” Having a rake for a consort.

With another disgusted humph, she scooped her discarded riding clothes into a pile and dumped them on a chair.

She'd returned from her prayers, from her wild ride through the snow-kissed countryside, excited and exhilarated, bubblingly eager to set eyes on her handsome husband again. He who she'd left waiting.

Ridiculously eager to soothe his frustrations.

She'd expected to find him in the warmth of the kitchen, or perhaps in the dining hall, or even brooding—darkly sensual—in the library.

He hadn't been anywhere, brooding or otherwise. She'd looked, but hadn't been able to locate him.

Now, she was disappointed.

Now,
she
was frustrated.

With a smothered growl, Catriona stalked to the window and threw back the curtains, then opened the pane and set the shutters wide.

And saw him.

Her room was in one of the turrets set into the angles at the front of the house; its windows revealed a vista stretching over her lands to the mouth of the vale. Nearer at hand, the gardens rolled down to the river, now visible only as a snow ribbon edged by banks of brown.

It was there that she saw him, riding like the wind along the path that followed the river. The horse under him was dappled grey, a flash of silver in the crisp morning light.

Her heart in her throat, Catriona watched, waiting for the inevitable balk, the scream, the rearing and bucking—the inevitable fall.

It didn't happen. Like kindred souls, man and beast flew over the white ground in perfect harmony, every movement a testimony to their innate strength, every line a testimony to their breeding.

She watched until they disappeared into the glare of the morning sun, rising like a silver disc over the mouth of the vale.

She was waiting for him in the stable when he clattered in. He saw her—his brows quirked, then he dismounted. Hands on hips, she watched as he led Thunderer back to his stall and unsaddled the huge grey. Both he and the horse were breathing fast; they were both smiling the same, thoroughly male smile.

Suppressing a humph, she leaned against the open stall door and folded her arms. “How did you manage it?”

Busy brushing the now peaceable stallion, he glanced at her. “It was easy. Thunderer here had simply never had the option put to him.”

“What option?”

“The option of staying cooped up in here, or of going for a long run with me on his back.”

“I see. And so you simply put this option to him and he agreed?”

“As you saw.” Tossing the brush aside, Richard checked the stallion's provisions, then joined her by the stall door.

Arms still crossed, she eyed him broodingly. He was still breathing more rapidly than usual, his chest rising and falling—and he still wore that same, ridiculously pleased-with-himself smile.

He glanced back at Thunderer. “I'll take him for a run every now and then.” He looked down at her. “Just to keep him in shape.”

His eyes trapped hers—Catriona sucked in a quick breath. They were blue—burning blue—hot with passion and desire. As she stared into their heat, wariness—and expectation—washed over her. No one else was around; all the stable hands were at breakfast.

“Ah . . .” Eyes locked on his, she slid sideways, along the open door. He followed, slowly, as if stalking her. But the threat didn't come from him; the knowing lilt to his lips said he knew it. She should, she knew, draw herself up, find her haughty cloak and put it on without delay. Instead, his burning gaze drew forth the exhilaration she'd felt earlier, and sent it singing through her veins. “Breakfast?” she managed, her voice faint.

His eyes held hers; his lips lifted in a slow, slight, very intent smile. “Later.”

She'd slid away from the door; reaching out, he swung it shut without looking and continued to follow her, herd her, into the next stall. Which was empty.

Wide-eyed, still backing up, Catriona glanced wildly about. And came up against the wall. She put up her hands, far too weak to hold him back. Even had that been her intent. “Richard?”

It was clearly a question. He answered with actions. And she discovered how useful a feed trough could be.

D
ecember rolled on, and winter tightened its grip on the vale. Richard's boxes and trunks arrived, sent north by Devil, delivered by a carter anxious to turn his horses about and get home for Christmas.

Along with the boxes came letters—a whole sack of them. Letters for Richard from Devil, Vane and the Dowager, as well as a host of pithy billets from his aunts and female cousins, not amused by his distant wedding, and notes of commiseration from his uncles and ones of sympathy from his unmarried male cousins.

For Catriona came a long letter from Honoria, Devil's duchess, which Richard would have liked to read, but he was never offered the opportunity. After spending a full hour perusing the letter, Catriona folded it up and put it away. In her desk. In a locked drawer. Richard was tempted to pick the lock, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. What could Honoria have said anyway?

As well as Honoria's letter, Catriona received scented notes from all the Cynster ladies welcoming her into the family. She did not, however, receive any communication from the Dowager, a fact she seemed not to notice, but which Richard noted with some concern.

The only reason Helena would not to write to Catriona was because she was planning on talking to her instead.

It was, he supposed, fair warning.

But fate and the season were on his side; the snows blew hard—the passes were blocked, the highways impassable.

He was safe until the thaw.

Then Christmas was upon them, and he had too much on his plate with the here and now—with absorbing traditions somewhat different from those he knew, with learning how the vale and all the manor celebrated yuletide—to worry about what the future held.

And over and above, through all the merriment and laughter, all the joys and small sorrows, there remained what he considered his principal duty—his principal focus. Learning everything he could about his witchy wife.

Having her in his arms every morning and every night, and in between learning all her strengths, her weaknesses, her foibles, her needs. Learning how he could best support her, as he had vowed to do. Learning how to fit into her life. And how she fitted into his.

It was, he discovered, an absorbing task.

A temporary easing in the weather between Christmas and the New Year saw three travellers appear at the manor's gate. They proved to be a father and his two adult sons, agents for various produce, come to see the lady of the vale.