"Now, where were we? Ah… yes." The solicitor cleared his throat, then warbled: " 'As to all the wealth of which I die possessed, property, furniture, and funds, all is to be held in trust for a period of one week from today, the day on which my will is read.' " The man paused, drew breath, then went on in a rush: " 'If during that one week, Richard Melville Cynster agrees to marry Catriona Mary Hennessy, the estate will be divided amongst my surviving children, as described below. If, however, by the end of that week, Richard Cynster refuses to marry Catriona Hennessy, my entire estate is to be sold and the funds divided equally between the dioceses of Edinburgh and Glasgow.' "
Shock-absolute and overpowering-held them all silent. For one minute, only the rustle of parchment and the odd crackle from the fire broke the stillness. Richard recovered, if that was the right word, first; he dragged in a huge breath, conscious of a sense of unreality, as if in a crazy dream. He glanced at Catriona, but she wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was fixed in the distance, her expression one of stunned incredulity.
"How could he?" Her vehement question broke the spell; she focused abruptly on the solicitor.
A cacophony of questions and exclamations poured forth. Seamus's family could not take in what their sire had done to them; most of them were helpless, barely coherent.
Seated beside Richard, Mary turned a stricken face to him. "My God-how will we manage?" Her eyes filled; she grasped Richard's hand, not in supplication, but for support.
Instinctively, he gave it, curling his fingers about hers and pressing reassuringly. He saw her face as she turned to Jamie, saw the hopelessness that swamped her.
"What will we do?" she all but sobbed as Jamie gathered her into his arms.
As stunned as she, Jamie looked at the solicitor over her head. "Why?"
It was, Richard felt, the most pertinent question; the solicitor took it as his cue and waved his hands at the others to hush them. "If I might continue…?"
They fell silent, and he picked up the will. He drew breath, then looked up, peering over his pince-nez. "This is a most irregular will, so I feel no compunction in breaking with tradition and stating that I and all others in my firm argued most strongly against these provisions, but Mr. McEnery would not be moved. As it stands, the will is legal and, in our opinion, uncontestable by law."
With that, he looked down at the parchment. " 'These next words are addressed to my ward, Catriona Mary Hennessy. Regardless of what she might think, it was my duty to see to her future. As in life I was not strong enough to influence her, so in death I am putting her in the way of one who, if half the tales told of him and his clan are true, possesses the requisite talents to deal with her.' "
There followed a detailed description of how the estate was to be divided between Seamus's children in the event Richard agreed to marry Catriona, to which no one listened. The family and Catriona were too busy decrying Seamus's perfidy; Richard was too absorbed in noting that not one of them imagined any other outcome than that the estate would pass to the Church.
By the time the solicitor had reached the end of the will, despair, utter and complete, had taken possession of the McEnerys. Jamie, swallowing his bitter disappointment, rose to shake the solicitor's hand and thank him. Then he turned away to comfort Mary, distraught and weeping.
"It's iniquitous," she sobbed. "Not even the barest living! And what about the children?"
"Hush, shussh." Jamie tried to soothe her, his expression one of abject defeat.
"He was mad." Malcolm spat the words out. "He's cheated us of everything we'd a right to expect."
Meg and Cordelia were sobbing, their meek spouses incoherent.
Sitting quietly in his chair, untouched by the emotion sweeping his hosts, Richard watched, and listened, and considered. Considered the fact that not one of the company expected him to save them.
Considered Catriona, sleek and slender in deep blue, her hair burning even more brightly in the dull and somber room. She was comforting Meg, counseling her away from hysteria, exuding calm in an almost visible stream. Straining his ears, he listened to her words.
"There's nothing to be done, so there's no sense in working yourself into a state and having a miscarriage. You know as well as anyone I didn't get along with Seamus, but I would never have believed him capable of this. I'm as deeply shocked as you." She continued talking quickly, filling Meg's ears, forcing the woman to listen to her and not descend into excessive tears. "The solicitor says it's a fait accompli, so other than calling down curses on Seamus's dead head, there's no use in having the vapors now. We must all get together and see what can be done, what can be salvaged."
She continued, moving the direction of her thoughts, and Meg's and Cordelia's and their husbands', into a more positive vein. But that vein followed the line of what to do to cope with this unexpected shock; at no point did she, or anyone, not even Jamie or Mary when they joined the group, allude to any alternative.
Not once did Catriona glance his way; it was almost as if she'd dismissed him from her mind, forgotten his existence. As if they'd all forgotten him-the dark predator, the interloper, the Cynster in their midst. No one thought to appeal to him.
To them all, not only Catriona, the outcome was a fait accompli. They didn't even bother to ask for his decision, his answer to Seamus's challenge.
But then, they were the weak and helpless; he was something else again.
"Ah-hem."
Richard glanced up to see the solicitor, his papers packed, peering at him. His exclamation startled the others to silence.
"If I could have your formal decision, Mr. Cynster, so that we can start finalizing the estate?"
Richard raised his brows. "I have one week to decide, I believe?"'
The solicitor blinked, then straightened. "Indeed." He shot a glance at Catriona. "Seven full days is the time the will stipulates."
"Very well." Uncrossing his legs, Richard rose. "You may call on me here, one week from today"-he smiled slightly at the man-"and I will give you my answer then."
Responding to his manner, the solicitor bowed. "As you wish, sir. In accordance with the will, the estate will remain in trust until that time."
Quickly gathering his papers, the solicitor shook hands with Richard, then with Jamie, stunned anew, then, with a general nod to the rest of them, quit the library.
The door shut behind him; the click of the latch echoed through the huge room, through the unnatural stillness. As one, the family turned to stare, dumbfounded, at Richard, all except Catriona; she was already staring at him, through ominously narrowed eyes.
Richard smiled, smoothly, easily. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I'll stretch my legs."
With that, he did so, strolling nonchalantly to the door.
"Don't get your hopes up." Brutally candid, Catriona all but pushed Jamie into a chair in the parlor, then plopped down on the chaise facing him. "Now, concentrate," she admonished him, "and tell me everything you know of Richard Cynster."
Still dazed, Jamie shrugged. "He's the son of Da''s first wife-hers, and the man the English government sent up here one time. A duke, he was-I've forgotten the title, if I ever heard it." He screwed up his face. "I can't remember much-it was all before I was born. I only know what Da' let slip now and then."
Catriona restrained her temper with an effort. "Just tell me everything you can remember." She needed to know the enemy. When Jamie looked blank, she blew out a breath. "All right-questions. Does he live in London?"
"Aye-he came up from there. His valet said so."
"He has a valet?"
"Aye-a very starchy sort."
"What's his reputation?" Catriona blinked. "No-never mind." She muttered beneath her breath: "I know more about that than you." About a man with lips like cool marble, arms that had held her trapped, and a body… she blinked again. "His family-what do you know of them? Do they acknowledge him openly?"
"Seemingly." Jamie shrugged. "I recall Da' saying the Cynsters were a damned power
ful lot-military, mostly, a verra old family. They sent seven to Waterloo-I remember Da' saying as the ton had labelled them invincible because all seven returned with nary a scratch."
Catriona humphed. "Are they wealthy?"
"Aye-I'd say so."
"Prominent in society?"
"Aye-they're well connected and all tha'. There's this group of them-" Jamie broke off, coloring.
Catriona narrowed her eyes. "This group of them?"
Jamie shifted "It's nothing as…" His words trailed away.
"As should concern me?" Catriona held his gaze mercilessly. "Let me be the judge of that. This group?"
She waited; eventually, Jamie capitulated. "Six of them-all cousins. The ton calls them the Bar Cynster."
"And what does this group do?"
Jamie squirmed. "They have reputations. And nicknames Like Devil, and Demon, and Lucifer."
"I see. And what nickname is Richard Cynster known by?"
Jamie's lips compressed mulishly, Catriona levelled her gaze at him.
"Scandal."
Catriona's lips thinned. "I might have guessed. And no, you need not explain how he came by the title."
Jamie looked relieved. "I dinna recall Da' saying much more-other than they were all right powerful bastards wi' the women, but he would say that, in the circumstances."
Catriona humphed. Right powerful bastards with women-so, thanks to her late guardian's misbegotten notions, here she was, faced with a right powerful bastard who on top of it all, was in truth a bastard. Did that make him more or less powerful? Somehow, she didn't think the answer was less. She looked at Jamie. "Seamus said nothing else?"
Jamie shook his head. "Other than that it's only fools think they can stand against a Cynster."
Right powerful bastards with women-that, Catriona thought, summed it up. Arms crossed, she paced before the windows of the back parlor, keeping watch over the snow-covered lawn across which Richard Cynster would return to the house.
She could see it all now-what Seamus had intended with his iniquitous will. His final attempt to interfere with her life, from beyond the grave, no less. She wasn't having it, a Cynster or not, powerful bastard or otherwise.
If anything, Richard Cynster's antecedents sounded even worse than she'd imagined. She knew little of the ways of the ton, but the fact that his father's wife, indeed, the whole family, had apparently so readily accepted a bastard into their midst, smacked of male dominance. At the very least, it suggested Cynster wives were weak, mere cyphers to their powerful husbands. Cynster males sounded like tyrants run amok, very likely domestic dictators, accustomed to ruling ruthlessly.
But no man would ever rule her, ruthlessly or otherwise. She would never allow that to happen, the fate of the vale and her people rested on her shoulders. And to fulfill that fate, to achieve her aim on this earth, she needed to remain free, independent, capable of exercising her will as required, capable of acting as her people needed, without the constraint of a conventional marriage. A conventional husband.
A conventional powerful bastard of a husband was simply not possible for the lady of the vale.
The distant scrunch of a boot on snow had her peering out the window. It was mid-afternoon; the light was rapidly fading. She saw the dark figure she'd been waiting for emerge from the trees and stroll up the slope, his powerful physique in no way disguised by a heavy, many-caped greatcoat.
Panic clutched her-it had to be panic. It cut off her breathing and left her quivering. Suddenly, the room seemed far too dark. She grabbed a tinderbox and raced around, lighting every candle she could reach. By the time he'd gained the terrace, and she opened the long windows and waved him in, the room was ablaze.
He entered, brushing snowflakes from his black hair, with nothing more than a quirking brow to show he'd noticed her burst of activity. Catriona ignored it. Pressing her hands together, she waited only until he'd shrugged off his coat and turned to lay it aside before stating: "I don't know what is going on in your mind, but I will not agree to marry you."
The statement was as categorical and definite as she could make it. He straightened and turned toward her.
The room shrank.
The walls pressed in on her; she couldn't breathe, she could barely think. The compulsion to flee-to escape-was strong; stronger still was the mesmeric attraction, the impulse to learn what power it was that set her pulse pounding, her skin tingling, her nerves flickering.
Defiantly she held firm and tilted her chin.
His eyes met hers; there was clear consideration in the blue, but beyond that, his expression told her nothing. Then he moved-toward her, toward the fire-abruptly, Catriona scuttled aside to allow him to warm his hands. While he did so, she struggled to breathe, to think-to suppress the skittering sensations that frazzled her nerves, to prise open the vise that had laid seige to her breathing. Why a large male should evoke such a reaction she did not know-or rather, she didn't like to think. The blacksmith at the vale certainly didn't have the same effect
He straightened, and she decided it was his movements, so smoothly controlled, so reminiscent of leashed power, like a panther not yet ready to pounce, that most unnerved her. Leaning one aim along the mantelpiece, he looked down at her.
"Why?"
She frowned. "Why what?"
The very ends of his lips twitched. "Why won't you agree to marry me?"
"Because I have no need of a husband " Especially not a husband like you. She folded her arms beneath her breasts and focused, solely, on his face. "My role within the vale does not permit the usual relationships a woman of my station might expect to enjoy." She tilted her chin. "I am unmarried by choice, not for lack of offers. It's a sacrifice I have made for my people."
She was rather pleased with that tack; men like the Cynsters understood sacrifice and honor.
His black brows rose, silently he considered her. Then, "Who will inherit your manor, your position, if you do not marry and beget heirs?"
Inwardly, Catriona cursed, outwardly, she merely raised her brows back. "In time, I will, of course, marry for heirs, but I need not do so for many years yet."
"Ah-so you don't have a complete and absolute aversion to marriage?"
Head high, her eyes locked on his, Catriona drew a deep breath and held it. "No," she eventually admitted, and started to pace. "But there are various caveats, conditions, and considerations involved."
"Such as?"
"Such as my devotions to The Lady. And my duties as a healer. You may not realize it, but…"
Propped against the mantelpiece, Richard listened to her excuses-all revolved about the duties she saw as devolving to her through her ownership of the manor. She paced incessantly back and forth; he almost ordered her to sit, so he could sit, too, and not tower over her, forcing her to glance up every time she wanted to check his deliberately uninformative countenance, then he realized who her pacing reminded him of. Honoria, Devil's duchess, also paced, in just the same way skirts swishing in time with her temper. Catriona's skirts were presently swinging with agitated tension; Richard inwardly sighed and leaned more heavily on the mantelpiece.
"So you see," she concluded, swinging to face him, "at present, a husband is simply out of the question."
"No, I don't see." He trapped her gaze. "All you've given me is a litany of your duties, which in no way that I can see preclude a husband."
She had never in her adult life had to explain herself to anyone, that was clearly written in the astonished, slightly hoity expression that infused her green eyes. Then they flared. "I don't have time for a husband!" Quick as a flash, she added: "For the arguments, like this one."
"Why should you argue?"
"Why, indeed-but all men argue, and a husband certainly would. He would want me to do things his way, not my way-not The Lady's way."
"Ah-so your real concern is that a husband would interfere with your duties."
"That he'd seek to interfere in how I perform my duties." She paused
in her pacing and eyed him narrowly. "Gentlemen such as you have a habit of expecting to have your own way in all things. I could not possibly marry such a man."
"Because you want to have your own way in all things?"
Her eyes flashed. "Because I need to be free to perform my duties-free of any husbandly interference."
Calmly, he considered her. "What if a husband didn't interfere?"
She snorted derisively and resumed her pacing.
Richard's lips twitched. "It is possible, you know."
"That you would let your wife go her own way?" At the far end of her route, she turned and raked him with a dismissively contemptuous glance. "Not even in the vale do pigs fly."
It was no effort not to smile; Richard felt her raking gaze pass over every inch of his body-he had to clamp an immediate hold over his instinctive reaction. Ravishing her wouldn't serve his purpose-he had yet to decide just what his purpose was. Learning more of her would, however, greatly assist in clarifying that point.
"If we married, a man such as I," his tone parodied her distinction, "might, given your position, agree to"-he gestured easily-"accommodate you and your duties." She shot him a skeptical glance, he trapped her gaze. "There's no reason some sort of agreement couldn't be reached."
She considered him, a frown slowly forming in her eyes, then she humphed and turned away.
Richard studied her back, the sweeping line of her spine from her nape to the ripe hemispheres of her bottom. The view was one designed to distract him, attract him-the stiffness of her stance, the sheer challenge of her reluctance only deepened the magnetic tug.
"You're not seriously considering marrying me."
She made the statement, clear and absolute, to the darkness beyond the window.
Richard lowered his arm and leaned back against the mantlepiece. "Aren't I?"
She continued to gaze into the gloaming. "You only claimed the week's grace because we all took it for granted that you would refuse." She paused, then added. "You don't like being taken for granted."
Richard felt his brows rise. "Actually, it was because you took me for granted. The others don't count."
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