Scandal's Bride (53 page)

She paused for breath; Douglas, on his knees before her, simply stared. “Damn it, ye daft woman—the man's a damned Sassenach!”

“
Sassenach?
What does
that
have to do with it? He's a
man
—far more of one than you'll ever be.” She stepped forward; eyes locked on hers, Dougal Douglas cowered back.

Catriona pointed a finger directly at his nose. “Hear me well.” Her voice had changed to one of mezmerizing power. “If you ever again act against me, the vale or any of my people—and especially my consort—those jewels you hide beneath your sporran will shrivel, and shrink, until they're the size of apricot kernels. Then they'll fall off. And as for the rest of your apparatus, should you entertain so much as a black thought against any of The Lady's people, it will grow black, too. And wither away. And if you speak ill of anyone from the vale, or even connected with the vale, then for every ill word a boil will grow—on that part of you that has more will than your brain.”

She paused for breath; Richard reached out, closed his hands about her shoulders and lifted her aside. Setting her down just behind him, a little to the side, he leaned down so his face was level with hers and whispered: “I think he's got your message. Any more, and he might faint.” He glanced at Dougal Douglas, who, aghast and pasty-faced, was watching them both like a trapped rabbit. Richard grinned and turned back to his wife. “Much as I enjoyed your performance, leave the rest to me.” He trapped her wide gaze. “It's my job to protect
you
, remember?”

She humphed, and crossed her arms over her chest, and glowered at Dougal Douglas, but she consented to remain silent and still.

Richard turned back to survey their malefactor. “Might I suggest,” he said, “that before my wife further develops her theme, you might care to be on your way?” The relief on Douglas's face was plain; he started to get to his feet. Richard stayed him with one raised finger. “However, do make sure that, henceforth, you stay out of our way, and out of the vale. On pain of The Lady's wrath. Furthermore, just in case you're inclined, once you're well away from here, to forget how potentially violent The Lady can be, you would do well to dwell on this, more mortal threat.”

All hint of expression leaching from his face, Richard held Dougals's gaze calmly. “All the details of your recent interference in the vale, all the facts plus witnesses' accounts, will be forwarded to my brother, Devil Cynster, His Grace of St. Ives. Should any inexplicable harm subsequently befall anyone in the Vale of Casphairn, it will be laid at your door. And the Cynsters will come after you.” He paused, then added, his voice still even and low: “You should also bear in mind that we've centuries of experience in asking for no permissions, but exacting vengeance swiftly—and looking innocent later.”

Exactly which one of them Dougal Douglas found more intimidating would have been hard to say. With a dismissive gesture, Richard waved him away. Cradling his wrist, he stumbled to his feet, then lurched off to catch his horse, which was ambling off down the valley.

Richard heard an odd sound from beside him—something between a snort and a cough, crossed with a disgusted humph. He wondered whether his witchy wife was fixing her curse on Dougal Douglas, but decided he didn't need to know—didn't want to know.

He whistled, and Thunderer came ambling up, heartened by his brisk ride. Turning, Richard saw Algaria trotting up, leading Catriona's mare. Draping an arm about Catriona's shoulders, he steered her to the mare.

“It's a great pity we can't lay charges with the magistrate—but we can't.” Catriona stopped and looked up, waiting for Richard to lift her to her saddle.

“Indeed not,” Algaria agreed. “The last thing we need is to draw official attention to the vale. But your combined threats should hold him.” She regarded Richard with real approval. “That last threat of yours was a masterstroke. No matter what curses Catriona levels, men always understand legal threats best.”

Richard smiled and lifted Catriona to the saddle—and forebore to point out that his threat was not precisely legal—rather the opposite, in fact—a distinction he felt sure Dougal Douglas had understood. But even more to the point, he could attest that Catriona's curses would make any man think twice. Equipment shrinking, then dropping off, turning black, boils—what else she might have dreamed up he hadn't wanted to hear.

The thought made him shudder as he swung up to his saddle; his wife noticed and looked her question—he smiled and shook his head.

Then he clicked the reins, and they headed home—back to the Vale of Casphairn.

Later that night, snug and safe in their bed, soothed and sated and quietly happy, Richard looked down at his wife's red head, comfortably settled on his chest. Raising one hand, he lifted one fiery lock from her cheek. “Tell me,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice low so he wouldn't break the spell, “when you were ranting at Dougal Douglas, were you angry on The Lady's behalf, or your own?”

Catriona humphed and wriggled deeper into his arms, pressing herself to him, holding him tightly. “That was the
third
time I nearly lost you! If you must know, I didn't even
think
of The Lady. Or her edicts. Although in this case, it's really all the same thing. But just because
she
issues the directives, that doesn't mean
I
don't have my own opinions. She sent me to you—you were destined for me. But I agreed to have you. And now you're here and you're mine.” She tightened her arms about him. “I'm not letting you go. I want you beside me—and I have no intention of letting anyone interfere, not Sir Olwyn, Dougal Douglas, Algaria, or anyone else!”

Lying back on the pillows, Richard grinned into the dark. After a moment, he murmured: “Incidentally, I'm only half-Sassenach. The other half derives from the Lowlands.”

His witchy wife shifted, lifting away from him. “Hmmm . . . interesting.” A moment later, she asked: “Which half?”

A week later, Richard was shaken to life—literally—by his witchy wife.

“
Wake up,
do!”

Obligingly, he reached for her.

“No,
no!
Not that! We have to get up! Out of bed, I mean.”

She illustrated by leaping out from under the warm covers, letting in a blast of icy air.

Richard groaned feelingly and cracked open his lids. He blinked into deep gloom. “
By The Lady!
It's pitch dark—what the devil's got into you, you daft witch?”

“I'm not daft. Just get up!
Please?
It's important.”

He groaned again, with even more feeling—and got up.

Catriona pushed and prodded him into his clothes and down the stairs. Clutching one sleeve, she dragged him into the dining hall, and up onto the dais, and around to the wall behind the main table. She stopped and pointed to a huge old broadsword hanging on the wall. “Can you lift it down?”

Richard looked at it, then at her, then reached for the sword.

It was heavy. As he lowered it and settled his hand about the pommel, he knew it was not just old but ancient. There was no scabbard. But he got no time to dwell on the weapon, because his wife was urging him on.

They went out to the stables and he saddled their sleepy mounts while she held the sword balanced before her. Then they mounted, and he hefted the sword; in the crisp chill of pre-dawn they set out for the circle.

“Tether the horses,” Catriona said as he lifted her to the ground. “Then bring the sword.”

Richard threw her a glance, but did as she asked. She was gripping and releasing her fingers, her gaze flicking again and again to the line of light slowly advancing up the vale. As far as he could see, she still had plenty of time, and yet . . . his witchy wife was nervous.

The instant he'd finished with the horses and hefted the sword, she gripped his other hand and towed him urgently toward the circle. She didn't drop his hand as they came to the place where he usually sat and waited for her. She didn't stop until they stood at the very entrance to the circle.

Only then did she release his hand and swing to face him.

Catriona looked down the vale, at the slowly advancing line of light; at her back, she could sense the power within the circle start to awaken, to unfurl in anticipation of the first touch of the sun. It was cold and frosty, but the day would be fine. Drawing a deep breath, feeling the age-old power in her veins, she looked up at Richard.

And smiled, unaware that the light of her love filled her face with a glow he found wondrous. Dazzling. A glow he, the warrior, would have moved heaven and earth just to see.

“There's a great deal I have to give thanks for.” Her voice was clear, calm, yet vibrant. “As my chosen and accepted consort, as my husband and my lover, it's your right to enter the sacred circle and watch over me while I pray. My father used to stand guard over my mother.” She paused, her eyes locked on the blue of his. “Will you perform that office for me?”

It was an offer she needed to make—it was her final acknowledgment that he belonged beside her—always beside her, even here, at the epicenter of her life. They belonged to each other, and nowhere more so than here, before The Lady.

They were one and always would be, both with each other and with the vale.

This, she knew beyond certainty, was how it was meant to be.

Richard stilled. Unable to think, all he could do was feel—sense—the power that held him. And her. He had no wish to break it—to reject it—to fight against its bonds; instead, he welcomed it with all his heart. He drew in a slow breath and wondered at the headiness in the air. “Aye, my lady.” Bending his head, he touched his lips to hers, then drew back. “My witchy wife.”

He held her sparkling gaze for an instant, then gestured with the sword. “Lead on.”

They entered the circle just as the sun reached them, bathing them in her golden glow. He followed her in, hers to the death, the far-sighted warrior who had found his cause.

March 1, 1820
Albemarle Street, London

“A
nd so there you have it.” Leaning back in a chair drawn up to the table, Vane raised his ale mug in a toast. “Richard and Catriona—and all the London belles can bid Scandal good-bye.”

“Humph!” Languidly asprawl at the other end of the table, resplendent in a navy silk dressing gown embroidered with peacocks, Demon Harry eyed his elder brother with apparent equanimity—and underlying unease. “How's Patience?”

Vane grinned. “Blooming.”

The sight of his brother's transparent happiness made Demon shift in his seat.

“Mama, of course, is
aux anges
over the impending addition.”

“Hmm—she would be.” Demon wondered whether that would divert her attention from him—he doubted he could rely on it.

“And there's already plans afoot for a huge celebration sometime this summer—Richard and Catriona have committed to coming down, and, of course, all the aunts and connections will want to see them, and the new arrivals.

Demon frowned. He'd missed something. “Arrivals?”

Vane's grin surfaced. “Devil, again—what else? Honoria's due about the same time as Patience, so it'll be quite a summer celebration.”

Babies and wives all over. Demon could just imagine.

Having brought him up to date, Vane heard creaks upstairs and, with a raised brow and an understanding smile, made his excuses and left. But instead of repairing upstairs, to further indulge himself with the feminine charms of the luscious body he'd left sprawled in his bed, Demon remained at the table, considering all Vane had told him—chilled, more and more, by the shadow of impending fate.

Which just went to show.

Demon drummed well-manicured fingernails on the table; he was going to have to do something about his situation. The situation he now found himself in.

First Devil, then Vane, now Richard. Who would be next?

There were only three of them left—him, Gabriel and Lucifer—and he was the eldest. There was no doubt in his mind who the aunts and connections would next expect to front the altar.

The odds were narrowing—to a degree he didn't like.

But he'd already made his vows—to himself. He'd vowed he'd never marry—never put his trust, his faith, his heart in any woman's hands. And the notion of limiting himself to one woman sexually was beyond his ability to comprehend. How the others managed to do so—Devil, Vane and now Richard—he couldn't imagine. They certainly hadn't before.

It was one of life's mysteries he had long ago decided he didn't need to unravel.

The question now before him, on this brisk sunny morning, was how to avoid fate—a fate that was steadily closing in on him.

His position wasn't good. Here he was, in London, with the Season about to start, with his mother and all his aunts in residence, with the scent of blood firing them . . .