Scandal's Bride (51 page)

In making him feel relaxed and rather cossetted himself.

It was a distinctly pleasant feeling.

Smiling serenely, Catriona watched the heavy muscles in his shoulders ease, watched the glow of comfort suffuse his expression. And inwardly smiled all the more.

She hadn't been sure whether to bring him with her on this journey, not until he'd asked and sworn his allegiance. Then she'd known it was right—that he should be by her side when she faced Algaria at her cottage, and whatever truths awaited them there.

But she could do nothing about Algaria tonight, and, regardless of what transpired with Algaria, her own life would go on—and she had a goal, a personal aim, one vitally important to her.

She needed to show Richard she loved him. Needed to convince him of that fact—drum it through his Cynster skull so that, someday, he would be confident enough to openly show his love for her. She wasn't holding her breath, of course—she knew it would take time. Men as reserved as he did not change their habits overnight. But she was prepared to be patient; she would persevere.

The first thing to do was to start.

And now was as good a time as any.

Sliding the wooden eating bowls back into her saddlebag, she set it aside, then approached Richard where he sat on a round stool before the fire, staring at the flames. Resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, she brushed her lips along his cheek. “Come to bed.”

The soft whisper had him standing immediately; he'd already banked the fire. Taking his hand, a soft smile playing on her lips, Catriona led him to the pallet lying on a crude frame in the corner. She'd had him fetch fresh spruce to slide into the dry straw, then she'd covered the whole with a blanket, keeping two others to wrap about them. The warmth in the cottage released a faint tang from the spruce; their warm bodies crushing it would release even more.

Stopping by the bed, he drew his fingers from hers and immediately reached for her laces. Laying aside the warm shawl she'd draped over her shoulders, she let him do what he did so well. He divested her of her gown and petticoats, then considered her fine lawn chemise.

“You might want to keep that on.”

Catriona considered her own plans for the night and shook her head. “Not tonight.” Quickly, fingers flying, she slid the tiny buttons undone, noting his blink, his sudden stiffening as she opened the bodice. Then she grasped the hem and whisked the chemise off over her head. She dropped it on a stool with the rest of her clothes, then grabbed one waiting blanket, shook it out, and slid onto the bed beneath it.

Richard watched her, blinked at her, then undressed and joined her in record time. He pinched out the candle just before he did, plunging the room into a mysterious dark lit by flickering firelight. The pallet dipped beside her as he stretched beneath the second blanket; he was all dark, mysterious male when he loomed on his elbow beside her. And reached for her.

“No.” Catriona braced one hand against his chest when he would have rolled her beneath him. She wriggled the other way, pressing him back to the pallet. “This time, I want to love you—not the other way about.”

Richard blinked again and swallowed the reassurance that had risen to his tongue. She always loved him—took him into her body with a joyous delight, a witchy neediness, that was all the loving he needed. But . . . if she wanted to love him even more, he'd grit his teeth and bear it. “Just what form,” he murmured, as he rolled obediently onto his back, “is this loving of yours going to take?”

“This, for a start.” Scrambling over him, Catriona found his lips with hers, and kissed him—gently at first, then with greater confidence as he parted his lips and welcomed her in, playing the role that was usually hers. She took his, wriggling so she was higher over him to deepen the kiss, to coax, to incite, to sexually stir him.

Not that he needed any stirring. Against her thigh, cocooned in the warmth of the blankets, she could feel the steady, pulsing throb of his erection—hard and heavy and all hers. Inwardly grinning, she shifted, trapping it between her thighs, artfully caressing.

It grew hotter, harder. His hands, splayed across her back, tensed.

She pulled back from their kiss. “I want,” she whispered, already slightly breathless, “you to tell me what you like.”

“What I like?” His voice was a gravelly murmur in her ear. “What I like, sweet witch, is to feel your body close tightly about me, all hot and wet and urgent.”

“Hmmm, yes. But before that,” she insisted. “Do you like this?” Discovering a flat nipple hidden beneath the crisp mat of his hair, she burrowed her head down and licked it—lovingly.

And felt him tense, just a little, beneath her. “Very nice.” The words sounded a touch strained. In wriggling lower, she'd slithered over his erection; it was now cradled in her curls, pulsing against the rounded softness of her belly.

“Good.” Artfully sliding this way, then that, using her whole body as well as her hands to caress him, she pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, down the ridged muscles of his abdomen, interspersing her kisses with well-placed licks and the occasional suck.

Beneath her, his body was hardening; muscles here and there flickered restlessly. Recalling in fine detail all the caresses he'd pressed on her—and which ones drove her the most demented—Catriona decided that what was good for the goose probably worked equally well with the gander.

The sudden hiss of his indrawn breath as, sliding swiftly further down, she curled her fingers about his rigid length, then caressed it with the warm swells of her breasts, suggested her reasoning was sound. Smiling to herself, she slid further yet, deliberately guiding his long length up from the valley between her breasts, along the smooth skin of her upper chest, then up, sinuously lifting her head to caress him with her throat.

Before turning her head and caressing him with her lips.

He jerked; every muscle in his body locked tight. His hands shifted from her shoulders; his fingers sank into her curls. “Catriona?”

He sounded shocked. Inwardly grinning, Catriona was too busy to answer him. She didn't, however, have any real clue what she was doing, how much pleasure he was feeling, so, after kissing, licking and sucking to her own content, she decided to inquire about his.

“Do you like this?” She planted a soft, wet kiss on his pulsing tip.

Richard bit back a groan. “No,” he lied. But he couldn't force his fingers to grip her tresses and haul her away.

“Oh. Well, perhaps you like this better?”

He did; Richard gave up and groaned as she closed her mouth, all soft, hot heat, around him. He withstood her torture for two more, exquisitely wracked minutes, before realizing that, no matter that he could tease her to
extremis,
his own constitution wasn't up to it.

“Catriona—” In an explosive movement, he half-sat—for one fractured instant driving his shaft deeper into her mouth—then he caught her, lifted her, scattering the blankets they no longer needed. They were both burning with an inner heat.

An inner heat that poured over his teased and sensitive flesh as he set her on her knees, straddling his hips.

She blinked down at him. “I was only trying to please you.”

He scowled at her; despite the poor light, he could see the witchy smile on her lips. “You please me every time you take me in, you damn witch.”

His knowing fingers found her softness, deftly probed, stroked and readied her. It took only one flick to replace his fingers with his throbbing shaft. Gripping her hips, he eased her down, closing his eyes in ecstasy as she slowly slid down and enveloped him.

“That,” he stated his voice deep but weak, “is what pleases me the most.”

He heard her witchy chuckle, then she rose on him and slid down, clasping him tight again. Sliding his hands about the globes of her derriere, he gripped and helped her rise—and felt the dew spring up beneath his hands as he stroked and caressed.

They settled into their usual slow rhythm; only then did he lift his heavy lids. Small hands braced on his chest, she rode him happily, a serene, definitely witchy, lustfully knowing smile on her lips. Her gaze was fixed on his face, watching, gauging, assessing his response to that ultimate, most intimate caress.

He only just managed to suppress his wolfish grin. He was blessed, and he knew it. “If you really want to please me, one thing you could do is always come to me stark naked, with your hair down.” As it currently was, a rich, vibrant corona about her head, rippling fire over her white shoulders and down her slim arms. When he took her from behind, it was like a living veil, sliding sensuously over her back. He loved her hair.

Her eyes glinted; she inclined her head. “Any other requests?”

“Just one. Stop trying to muffle your moans and screams.”

She frowned slightly; he smiled winningly and she humphed. “That's all very well for you to say, but if anyone else heard me—well”—she caught his eye and frowned—“it's rather revealing, you know.”

He grinned. “I do, indeed, which is why I like to hear them—those little sounds of your appreciation.” He gripped her bottom and lifted her high, then thrust deeply into her as he lowered her again. Eyes closing, she bit her lip to hold back a groan. “Like that. They're little sounds of pleasure—and they're precious to me. They're like trophies that I win for pleasuring you.” After a moment, he added: “How else do I know if I'm hitting the mark?”

“You
always
hit the mark,” Catriona retorted, her lids still too heavy to lift. “You always pleasure me to oblivion.”

“Perhaps—but I like to hear you admit it.”

Opening her eyes, Catriona studied his as she continued to move upon him. Then he shifted her, pulling her thighs wider so he could sink more deeply into her; a moan welled in her throat—this time, she let it go. And sensed the real pleasure the sound gave him.

“Very well.” Leaning forward, she kissed him, letting their hungry lips feast. As she drew back, eyes closed in concentration as he started moving more powerfully beneath her, she mumured, “I'll try.”

It wasn't hard, especially given their location, with no one within miles to hear her screams. But he reveled in her commitment and took advantage to the full.

He garnered a whole swag of trophies that night.

Courtesy of Richard's developing fondness for the amenities of the shepherd's hut, it was mid-afteroon before they reached Algaria's cottage.

She'd seen them coming. She stood in the doorway as they rode up, Catriona just a little in the lead. Algaria met Catriona's gaze, then, deliberately, her hands clasped before her, bowed her head. Turning, she went into the cottage, leaving the door open.

Richard dismounted, then lifted Catriona down. She paused, held between his hands, and met his gaze. “Remember your promise.”

He grimaced. “I won't forget. I'm your right arm—your protector. I'll follow your lead.” He gestured her toward the house.

Drawing a deep breath, drawing herself up, Catriona led the way inside.

It was a two-room cottage, one up, one down, with the kitchen facilities in a lean-to at the rear, and a small stable against the side. Pausing on the threshold to let her eyes adjust, Catriona scanned the room and saw Algaria standing, hands clasped before her, her head still bowed in the attitude of a penitent, on the other side of the deal table with her back to the cold hearth.

Catriona moved into the room, until she stood at the opposite side of the table, facing Algaria. Richard's shadow blocked the light from the door momentarily, then she sensed his presence at her back.

Lifting one hand, she extended it across the table. “Algaria—”

“As you love me, let me speak.” Slowly, Algaria lifted her head. She looked first at Richard, standing silent at Catriona's shoulder, then shifted her black gaze to Catriona's face. “I now know what I did was wrong, but at the time, it seemed right—what The Lady required of me. But rather than you, it was I who made the mistakes in interpreting Her signs. I acted wrongly, and I deeply regret the pain and suffering I caused.” She drew breath, her gaze locked on Catriona's, and pressed her hands tightly together. “I ask for your understanding and will abide by your judgment.”

Lowering her proud head, she looked down.

Catriona waited a moment, then asked: “What made you realize you were wrong?”

Algaria lifted her head; the glance she bent on Richard was hardly affectionate but contained a respect that had not previously been there. “He lived.” She looked at Catriona. “If you knew how much wolfsbane I put in that cup . . .” She pressed her lips together, flicked Richard another glance, then stated: “Not even your intervention should have been able to save him. Yet he lived. The Lady's intention is clear—she could not have spoken any louder.”

Catriona nodded. “As you say. It took him a long time to recover, yet every day longer made his living more remarkable.”

Algaria inclined her head and looked down once more. “It is clear The Lady wishes him as your consort—the error of my actions could not be more plain.” She lifted her head and met Catriona's gaze levelly. “I am sincerely contrite”—she drew a tight breath—“and ready to accept whatever judgment you make.”

“Why?” Catriona asked. “Why did you think it necessary to remove Richard, especially knowing you were acting against my wishes?”

Algaria grimaced. The look she flicked Richard held an element of apology. “Because I believed he was responsible for the fire.”

“What?”
Catriona felt Richard shift behind her, but true to his word, he held silent. “He was in Carlisle—or riding back—at the time the fire started.”

Algaria held up a hand. “Bear with me—I knew that was what we'd been told. However,” she paused and drew a deep breath, “if you recall, three days after the fire, we were running low on tansy, and I offered to go and check the patch south of the woods.” Catriona nodded; Algaria glanced at Richard. “The patch in the woods always sprouts ahead of the main bed at the manor itself.”