Scandal's Bride (45 page)

“And now,” Catriona declared, “Richard needs to rest.”

The three exchanged a meaningful look; Catriona stood and smiled at Vane and Gabriel. “If you would, gentlemen?”

She waved to the door; they left with smooth smiles and no argument. Bustling to the bed, she tucked Richard in. He wished he could frown, but he really was tired.

“Come and lie down with me.” He tried to catch her, but he was far too slow.

She whisked away, raised one finger to waggle at him, then changed her mind and smiled. A smile that softened her face and set his pulse racing, a smile that should have sealed her fate—if he'd been in any way up to it.

“Later,” she said. “When you're well again.”

There was a softness in her eyes, an echo of something in her tone, that eased and soothed his irritation. She drew the curtains and left him; Richard drifted off, into dreams of a highly selected orgy, restricted to just two.

By the next morning, he had really had enough. He felt strong enough while lying relaxed on his back, but even lifting his arms was an effort. He couldn't make love to his wife. He couldn't get out of bed.

As far as he was concerned, he needed practice on both counts.

To that end, he persuaded Devil, so often his partner in crime in days past, now left to bear him company while their ladies took the air in the park, to help him up.

“If I can just get my legs functioning properly . . .”

Ducking one shoulder beneath Richard's arm, Devil helped him balance his weight as he rose from the side of the bed. “Let's try it to the fireplace and back. We need to avoid the window—they might glance back and see us.”

Richard grabbed Devil's shoulder and lifted his foot to take the first step—

The door opened. “It's drizzling—” The Dowager, in advance of her daughters-in-law, halted and viewed her sons—caught in an act of disobedience—through narrowing eyes. “What is this?”

They both blushed. The degree of accent in Helena's speech gave them warning she was not amused.

“I would 'ave thought you were both now old enough to 'ave more sense,” she declared.

“Sense?” Her expression mirroring her skeptical tone, Honoria stepped around the Dowager. Devil quickly slid Richard back down on the bed and straightened. Honoria marched up to him, met his gaze directly, then took his hand. “Come—I believe you've been relieved of duty here. Permanently.” With that, she towed him to the door.

Devil cast a glance back at Richard and shrugged helplessly.

Richard fell back on his pillows with a groan—as the two most important women in his life descended on him.

They lectured and fussed and lectured again, in between tucking him in tenderly. He bore it stoically—with a final sharp but concerned glance, Catriona had to leave him.

Helena pulled up the chair, picked up Catriona's discarded mending, and settled down to watch over him.

Richard sighed. “I promise I won't try to get up again—not until my wife gives her permission.”

“Be quiet. Go to sleep.”

Helena's stern tone told him she had not forgiven him his indiscretion yet.

Richard swallowed a grunt. After a moment, he said: “You never fuss over Devil.”

“That's because he never needed to be fussed over. You do—now be silent and sleep. And leave me to fuss.”

Thus adjured, he shut up and found himself, to his surprise, drifting into a doze. Before he succumbed, he asked: “What do you think of Catriona?”

“She's the perfect wife for you. She will fuss very well in my stead.”

Richard felt his lips twitch resignedly; he took her advice, shut up and slept.

He awoke some hours later to discover the twins, one perched in a straight-backed chair to the left, the other in a matching chair to the right, bright blue eyes wide, watching over him.

Astonished, he stared at them. “What the devil are you doing here?”

They smiled. “Guarding you.”

Richard glowered; he looked them over, noting the full curves that filled out their bodices, the trim figures revealed by their muslin skirts—and glowered even more. “Your necklines are too low—you'll catch your deaths.”

They bent identical disgusted looks on him.

“You're as bad as Devil.

“And Vane.”

“
Almost
as bad as Demon—he's been underfoot everywhere we go!”

“What
is
the matter with all of you?”

He humphed and shut his eyes—and refrained from telling them. “This is the Lowlands,” he stated incontrovertibly. “It's colder up here.” He wondered if Catriona had some spare shawls they could pin over their shoulders, closed to the neck.

Still, at least they were up here, with him, Devil, Vane and Gabriel about, not gallivanting in the south, flaunting themselves like plump lambs before God knew how many hungry wolves, with only Helena for protection.

Keeping his eyes shut, he sank deeper into his bed. Perhaps there was some sense to this madness after all.

T
he week passed slowly for Richard, confined to his bed, and in a whirl of unaccustomed gaiety for the other inhabitants of the vale.

They'd never encountered people like the Cynsters before.

Entering the stable yard four mornings later, Catriona was conscious of the smile on her face—it rarely dimmed these days, despite Richard's posioning and what she would, once their guests left, have to face. For now, all was running smoothly, with a bubbling, effervescent sense of life. Thanks to their guests.

They were everywhere, helping with everything, yet they had, with a characteristic tact that was in itself overwhelming, managed to do so without stepping on anyone's sensitivities.

A feat that commanded her respect.

On her way back to the house after checking the still slumbering gardens, she paused to take in the activity in the yard. Devil was there with McAlvie and his lads; beside them, Vane and Corby were mounted, about to ride out to check the orchards. Vane was looking down, Devil was looking up—all the other men seemed not just smaller, but somehow less alive. Then Devil nodded and stepped back. Vane wheeled his mount; with Corby at his heels, he clattered out of the yard. Turning away, Devil collected McAlvie; with the herdsman's lads following close behind, they strode down the slope to the cattle barn.

Smiling to herself, Catriona resumed her progress to the house. Devil watched over the livestock, Vane the orchards. Without the slightest comment, they'd left the crops to her. They'd divided Richard's responsibilities between them and were acting in his stead. As for Gabriel, he'd appointed himself Richard's amanuensis; he was presently sitting with Richard and dealing with the accumulated correspondence concerning his business affairs. She hadn't realized how extensive Richard's investments were until Gabriel had found the pile of letters in the library and come storming upstairs, waving them and insisting Richard deal with them.

She was learning new things every day.

Like the fact that, while in no way susceptible in the common sense, the other women in the vale were very definitely appreciative of men like the Cynsters. A group of them had gathered in the doorway of the dairy to enjoy the sight of Devil and Vane. All the Cynster men drew the same response—they were always so elegantly dressed and shod, yet thought nothing of picking up an axe and splitting logs, or helping with a fence, or herding cows. The local women had grown used to Richard, but . . . their wide smiles and their comments, drifting on the breeze—“And there are more of them yet, Cook says.” “Oh, my!” as, with smiling nods to her, they turned back into the dairy—suggested they were far from bored with the sight.

Her smile converting to a grin, Catriona climbed the steps and pushed through the heavy back door. Cynsters, she'd decided, were simply larger than life.

Two of them were baking bread. Up to their elbows in flour, Amelia and Amanda stood at the kitchen table, giggling with Cook's girls as they all kneaded dough. All the girls were flushed, Amelia's and Amanda's ringlets were dancing, their huge cornflower blue eyes brilliant with laughter. Even with flour smudges over their pert noses, they were beauties.

Beautiful young English ladies from one of the very best of the old families.

They could still giggle with the best of them. While certainly not unconscious of their charms, neither twin seemed to have a “conscious” bone in her body—while neither would ever forget who they were, they were openly friendly and ready to be pleased.

Cook's girls were in awe, but equally ready to join in the fun.

“Perhaps we could do the loaves in braids—like this.” Amelia created a distinctly skewed braid with her dough.

“Aunt Helena likes bread made like that,” Amanda explained, “but perhaps we should try some different shapes—braids might not be to the gentlemen's taste.”

Smiling broadly, Catriona passed on, leaving them devising all manner of fancy loaves. Those sitting down to lunch would have a new interest.

Heading into the house, she passed the archway to the second kitchen, which housed the main ovens of the manor. And halted—arrested by the sight of two derrieres, side by side, one cloaked in serviceable drab, the other in fashionable twill.

“Hmm—I think it needs a touch more rosemary.” Bent over, peering into the dark cavern of the roasting oven, Honoria passed the basting ladle to Cook.

Who nodded her grey head. “P'raps, p'raps. And maybe a pinch more tarragon and a clove or two. Just to pick it up a bit, like.”

Neither heard her, neither turned around; both continued to study the roast with absolute concentration. Smiling still, Catriona glided on.

“I have always found that a
soupc¸on
of lavender in the polish is the perfect touch. It freshens a room without overpowering.”

“I do so agree, madam. And it makes the beeswax just that bit softer, to go just that bit farther. Can I help you to a little bit more sherry, Your Grace?”

From the shadows of the corridor, Catriona watched Mrs. Broom refill the sherry glass clasped between the Dowager's fine fingers. A ring of emeralds and diamonds flashed as the Dowager gestured her thanks.

“I have noticed,” she said, as Mrs. Broom returned to her chair, “that your silver has a very nice luster. What polish do you use?”

“Ah, well, now—that's a bit of a vale secret, that is. Howsoever, seeing as you're family now . . .”

Shaking her head, Catriona glided silently on, storing the moment in her memory to describe to Richard later. The Dowager could very well have sat in the drawing room and commanded Mrs. Broom's presence; instead, she'd elected to take sherry with the housekeeper in her snug little parlor. The better to learn her secrets.

The Dowager was incorrigible.

Her smile wreathing her face, Catriona stepped into the hall—and remembered those she had not seen in her journey through the nether regions. The manor's tribe of children. They'd been noticeably absent—not one small body had she seen, not one shrill shriek had she heard.

Which was not necessarily a good thing.

Where were they? And what were they up to?

She detoured via the games room—and found her answers. Patience was sitting on the rug before the hearth, her elegant skirts spread wide to accommodate the kittens, playing, rolling, batting at fingers and hands. The children were all gathered about, quietly enthralled.

“Ooh, look!” one said in wonder. “This one likes my hair.”

“Their claws are sharp.”

“Indeed,” Patience warned, “and so are their teeth.”

She looked up at that moment and saw Catriona—Patience raised her brows in question. Catriona smiled and shook her head.

“Ow!”

Patience turned back. “Now be careful—they're only very young and don't mean to hurt.”

With her manor filled to bursting, and yet, at peace, Catriona headed on to the stillroom.

She was there an hour later when Patience put her head around the door. “Can I interrupt?” Catriona grinned. “Please do—I'm only refreshing the linen sachets.”

“Perhaps I could help.” Pulling a stool up to the other side of the table at which Catriona sat, Patience settled and picked up one of the small linen bags. “I'll sew them up, if you like.”

“You can interrupt me any time,” Catriona informed her, pushing the needle and thread over the table. “That's the part I hate.”

Once they'd settled to their tasks, Patience said: “Actually, I was wondering if you could recommend anything to help settle my stomach.” She caught Catriona's eye and grimaced. “Just in the mornings.”

“Ah.” Catriona smiled and dusted off her hands. “I have a tea that should help.” She had the canister to hand. “It's mainly chamomile.”

The family had celebrated Patience and Vane's good news with a boisterous round of toasts around Richard's bed some nights before. Honoria had tried to take a backseat, claiming a second pregnancy was less news than a first—they hadn't let her succeed. However, other than exchanging warm glances, she and Richard had said nothing; both, independently, had felt the need to keep their news to themselves for a time—to savor it fully before sharing it with others. Setting the canister down, she found a cloth bag and filled it with the leaves. “Have the maid brew this for you every morning and drink it before getting out of bed—it should soothe you.”