Scandal's Bride (39 page)

Closing his hands about her waist, Richard held her there, delectably displayed before him, while he pondered his next move. He was in no hurry to make it; he knew, very well, what her present position—sitting astride him, displayed, exposed to him—was doing to his sweet witch. She was melting, heating—just behind her flaming curls, she was open and vulnerable, her knees held wide.

He was hardly immune himself. He could feel the silky pressure of her naked inner thighs pressing on either side of his hips, could feel the warm, heating weight of her across his lower stomach. Half an inch behind the taut globes of her bottom, he was achingly rigid.

Then he remembered. Turning, he looked at the beside table; reaching out, he snagged the knob of the drawer, tugged the drawer open, then dipped his fingers inside. “Worboys found this in the pocket of one of my coats.”

He drew out his mother's necklace, the finely wrought gold chain interspersed with round, rose pink stones. The amethyst pendant slid from the drawer last, swinging heavily on the chain. Richard held the necklace in both hands, gently shaking the pendant free—and for one wild minute, considered using it to love her. Considered placing it—the heavy, slightly bulbous crystal with its edges smoothed, the numerous round, tumbled stones, each one carrying a certain weight—inside her, sliding it into her warm sheath, stone by stone, each pushing the wider, heavier crystal deeper, each pressing against her soft inner surfaces, drawing the necklace out, pushing it in, until she cried out, until she convulsed.

It was an attractive vision; with a mental sigh, he set it aside—for later. After he'd thought through all the possibilties, developed the idea to its fullest, made plans to extract every last ounce of sensuality from it.
Then
he'd break the news to her. But there was no need to rush, to miss anything. He had all his life to tease her.

With his Cynster smile curving his lips, he looked up and met Catriona's wide gaze. “For you.” Raising his arms, he slipped the necklace over her head, then gently lifted her hair free. “A belated bridal gift.”

He'd teased her about giving her diamonds—he was rich enough to give her them and more, but . . . in his heart, he knew diamonds would mean nothing to her, not at the moment. But she'd been fascinated by the one sight she'd had of his mother's necklace—she would, he felt, appreciate it far more than other jewelry.

He was perfectly right. Wide-eyed, lips parted, Catriona stared down at the necklace as it settled against the soft skin of her chest, the heavy pendant sliding into the valley between her breasts as if it belonged there.

Perhaps it did.

There were times when even she was stunned to silence by The Lady's ways.

She knew her eyes were shining, knew her face glowed as she carefully took the pendant between her fingers and raised it to scan the tiny engravings.

“Do you know what this is?” Her words were hushed, tinged with awe.

She felt Richard's gaze on her face, sensed he was intrigued by her reaction. Eventually, drawing the last lock of her hair free, he answered: “It's my mother's necklace—now yours.”

Catriona sucked in a huge breath—truer words he could not have spoken; it was as if The Lady had used him to voice her decision. “It's a disciple's necklace—the engravings say that. They're the same as those on my crystal, committing the wearer to allegiance to The Lady and her teachings. But
this
necklace is from a very senior disciple—more senior than me, or any of the past ladies of the vale.” She had to stop, to fight for calm; her heart felt like it might burst with sheer joy. She moistened her lips. “This necklace is much older than mine.”

“I knew it was different but similar.” Reaching to the other table, Richard drew her necklace, which she left there every night, to him, then held it up between them. “I thought it was the same but with the stones inverted.”

Catriona looked at him, then drew in a deep breath and nodded; he was involved in this, he was her consort. She could tell him the facts. “On the surface, of course, it is. But there's a deeper meaning.” She caught the pendant of her own necklace. “This is rose quartz, which signifies love, and these”—she pointed to the round purple stones embedded in the chain—“are amethyst, which signifies intelligence. So in this arrangement, the stones mean intelligence driving love, the rose quartz being the focus. However”—pausing, she licked her lips and looked back at the necklace now lying against her skin—“
this
is the way it was supposed to be—used to be—before the supplies of amethyst crystals large enough and fine enough to make the focus crystals ran out.”

“So,” frowning slightly, Richard followed her thoughts, “this necklace”—he placed his fingers on the necklace lying on her flesh and was surprised at how warm it felt—“signifies intelligence driven by love?”

Catriona nodded. “That was the original meaning. That's The Lady's message, the one every disciple must understand and learn to live by. Love is the principal force—the driving force—behind all; all intelligent acts should be governed by, directed by, love.”

After a moment's pause, Richard shifted, and laid Catriona's own necklace aside, then settled back beneath her, studying her rapt expression. Quite obviously, he could not possibly have given her a more meaningful gift. But . . . “How did my mother come to have such a necklace?”

Catriona lifted her head and met his gaze. “She must have been a disciple, too.” When Richard raised his brows, she nodded. “That's possible. She came from the Lowlands, where there were once many followers of The Lady. It's possible that she was descended from one of the oldest lines of disciples—that's what the necklace suggests—but that she wasn't trained, or, even if trained, had been forced to marry Seamus.”

Richard lay back on the pillows and stared at his witchy wife, stared deep into her green eyes. And wondered . . .

Her eyes widened slightly. “The ways of The Lady are often complex, far-sighted—too intricate for us to understand.” Slowly, her gaze locked mesmerizingly on his, she leaned forward. “Stop thinking about it.”

The soft command, enforced by an underlying compulsion, fell from her lips; the next instant they touched his in an achingly sweet kiss. Richard inwardly shuddered and decided, for once, to obey.

Decided to follow her lead as she wove her witchy wiles and drew them both deeper into desire, deeper into the heat spiralling upward between them.

Followed her as she shifted, lifted, and drew him deep into the shocking heat of her body, into the furnace of her need. He rose with her as she rode him, sweetly urgent, without guile, in undisguised abandon. Brushing aside her gown, he clamped his hands about her hips, then leaned forward and drew one turgid nipple into his mouth. He laved it—a muted cry was his reward.

He settled to feast on her bounty, pausing now and then to watch their bodies merge, to wonder, sensually dazed, as he gazed at his mother's necklace, now gracing his wife's flushed skin.

Then her heat reached flashpoint and exploded; she clung to the peak, her face awash with sensation, then, with a long, soft, sob of joy, crumpled against him.

Burying his face in her hair, he held her close, anchored her hips against him, and drove into her molten softness, once, twice, and again, savoring to his marrow the sense of completeness that was always his when he was buried within her.

Between them, locked in the valley between her breasts, crushed to his chest, his mother's pendant lay, pulsing with a force that was warm yet owed nothing to any fire's heat.

Closing his eyes, his cheek hard against his wife's fiery hair, Richard dragged in a huge breath and let sensation take him. Just as his mother's necklace had always been destined to find it's way here, to reside with his sweet witch in the vale, he, too, his mother's only child, was destined to find his home, his haven, his salvation, here.

In his witch's arms.

In her.

With a long, shuddering groan, he surrendered to fate.

“Master!”

Richard whirled to see one of the workers from the farm at the mouth of the vale come hurrying across the stable yard. “What is it, Kimpton?”

The man halted before him and touched his cap. “You asked that we should report anything not right, sir.”

“I did. What's amiss?”

“The gate on the south paddock.” The man looked Richard in the eye. “ 'Twas fast last night when I did my rounds, but 'twas wide this morning, when my youngest went down that way.”

Richard's gaze sharpened. “Did he close it?”

“Aye, sir.” The man nodded. “And I checked it, too. Nothing wrong with the latch.”

Richard smiled. “Very good. Let's see what happens.”

Sir Olwyn Glean arrived just after lunch.

He brusquely thrust his hat at Henderson and charged straight for Catriona's office.

He started blustering the instant he flung open the door. “Miss Hennessey! I really must protest—”

“To whom are you referring, sir?”

Catriona's chill tones brought Sir Olwyn up short; he struggled for an instant to breathe, then drew in a huge breath. And nodded in a belated attempt at polite form.

“Mrs. Cynster.”

After her exertions of that morning, let alone all the mornings before, Catriona was of the firm opinion she fully deserved the title. Regally, she inclined her head and folded her hands on her ledger. “To what do I owe this visit, sir?”

“As always,” Sir Olwyn declared with relish, “to your cattle! Having them scattered about foraging two and three to a field through winter means you can never keep a sufficiently good eye on them. Fence latches break, or get loose—and then what happens?”

“I have no idea”—Catriona looked at him serenely—“but whatever it is, if the matter concerns the vale's livestock, you should speak with my husband.” She waved toward the door. “He's in charge of the herds.”

“Much good that is,” Sir Olwyn retorted, “with him away in London.”

“Oh, no, Sir Olwyn—I'm much nearer than that.”

Sir Olwyn jumped and whirled. From just behind him, Richard smiled urbanely, every inch a wolf about to take a large chunk out of a marauding dog.

Catriona fought valiantly to keep a straight face; she nearly choked swallowing her giggle. As for McArdle, he looked down at his closed ledger and didn't look up again. The tips of his ears, however, grew redder and redder.

Smoothly continuing into the room, Richard drawled: “What's this about the vale's cattle?”

Red-faced, Sir Olwyn belligerently spluttered: “The vale's cattle have strayed into my cabbages and ruined the crop.”

“Indeed?” Richard's brows rose high. “And when did this happen?”

“Early this morning.”

“Ah.” Richard turned to Henderson, who stood in the doorway. “Please fetch McAlvie, Henderson.”

“Aye, sir.”

McAlvie must have been waiting, for he was back with Henderson before the silence in the office stretched too thin.

“Ah, McAlvie.” Richard smiled at the herdsman. “Are we missing any cattle this morning?”

McAlvie shook his shaggy head. “No, sir.”

“
How
would you know?” Sir Olwyn scornfully interjected. “The vale's cattle wander all the time, especially in winter.”

“Mayhap they used to,” McAlvie stated, “all the other times when we've paid for your cabbages. Aye, and your corn. But not any more.”

Sir Olwyn glowered. “What do you mean—not any more?”

“Precisely that, Sir Olwyn.” Deliberately, Richard captured his gaze. “
Not
any more.” Then he smiled. “We've instituted a new procedure for managing our cattle through the winter. We have a new barn—the entire herd's been confined there since before the last snowfall, so if any had won loose, the tracks would be easy to see. But they haven't.” Richard smiled again. “No tracks. If you'd like to go with McAlvie, I'm sure he'd be happy to count the herd with you and show you about our new facilities.”

Sir Olwyn simply stared.

“However,” Richard drawled, “to return to your complaint, I'm afraid if any cattle have damaged your cabbages, they really must be your own.”

Sir Olwyn's inner struggle showed on his surface—his face mottled, veins stood out on his forehead. He managed not to glare, but only just. All but visibly fuming, he swung on his heel, grabbed his hat from Henderson, went to jam it on his head, and remembered, just in time, to nod briefly to Catriona. Then he forced himself to nod, exceedingly stiffly, to Richard. “Your pardon,” he growled. Then he stumped out.

Henderson hurried after him to open and close the front door. Returning to the office, he gruffly declared: “Good riddance, I say!”

Doubled up with laughter, none of the others could speak.

Catriona came early to the dining hall that evening. Sliding into her seat at the main table, she watched as her household—her people—filed in and found their seats, chatting and laughing, faces bright and smiling.

The manor had always been a peaceful place, secure and stable; she was accustomed to the sense of calm serenity that had always hung a comforting blanket over this room. The serenity was still there, but, lately, another element had been added. A certain vigor, a joy in life, an eager confidence to see what tomorrow held.

It was, very definitely, a male quality, owing something to assured strength, to experience, and to sheer energy. At times, it almost sparked with rude vitality. To her heightened, experienced senses, the new force melded and merged with the serenity—primarily her contribution; the result was a household more joyfully alive, more happy and content in its peace, than had existed before.

She knew from whom that new force derived; she had to wonder if he knew he was responsible. On the thought, he entered, pausing to chat with Irons and two of McAlvie's lads.