Scandals Bride c-3

by Stephanie Laurens

  For long moments, she stood still in the shadows, unremarked as she watched. Watched him, so large and strong, so deeply masculine, open the jewel box of his childhood memories and take them out, one by one, like delicate necklaces of bright gold and beaten silver, to awe, to entertain, to amuse the children.

  They were enthralled-they were his. Just as their parents were. She'd noticed that from his first day here-his intrinsic ability to give of himself, and thus inspire devotion, loyalty-his ability to lead. She wasn't sure he recognized it in himself; it was simply an inherent part of him.

  As she watched, one of the littlest two, thumb in mouth and almost asleep, started to tip. Without faltering in his recitation, without, apparently, even noticing what he did, Richard cradled the tot in one hand and resettled him more securely against his side.

  Catriona stood in the shadows, her gaze on him, on them, her mind full of his stories, her heart full of him, for as long as she dared, then, misty-eyed, retreated without disturbing them.

  "Well! I thought I might find you here."

  Catriona looked up as Algaria entered the stillroom, and blinked at the expression of joyful confidence that lit her erstwhile mentor's face. "Are you all right?"

  "Me?" Algaria smiled. "I'm very well. But I came to ask you the same question."

  Catriona straightened. "I'm well, too."

  Algaria eyed her straitly. Pointedly. When Catriona remained stubbornly silent, she elucidated: "I wanted to ask it that"-she gestured back into the house; Catriona narrowed her eyes-"husband of yours," Algaria sweetly amended, "has succeeded in getting you with child."

  Catriona looked down at the herbs she was pounding. "I can't tell yet, can I?"

  "Can't you?"

  "Not for certain, no."

  She did know, of course, but the sheer power of the feelings that surged through her whenever she thought of Richard's child-a tiny speck of life slowly growing within her-shook her so much she couldn't yet bring herself to speak of it. Not until she was absolutely, beyond any doubt or early mishap, sure. And then the first person she would speak to was Richard. Lips firming, she ground up her herbs. "I'll tell you when I am."

  "Humph! Well, whatever, it seems as if The Lady's prophesy will, despite all, come to pass. As it always does. I have to admit I didn't think you could be right in deciding you should go to him as you did-it's so transparently obvious that he must never rule here. But The Lady has her ways." With a graceful, devotional gesture, Algaria moved to peer out of the high window. "It all looks like turning out much as you planned."

  Grinding the pestle into the mortar, Catriona frowned. "What do you mean-as I'd planned?"

  "Why, that he'll get you with child, then leave." Algaria turned from the window and met Catriona's puzzled gaze. "The only thing you didn't foresee correctly is that he'd marry you as well. Really, it's all worked out for the best. This way, you not only get the child, but the formal protection of being a married lady. And all without the bother of a husband-a resident one, anyway."

  "But…" It took a full minute before Catriona fathomed Algaria's direction. When she did, the knowledge chilled her. "Why do you imagine he's leaving?"

  Algaria smiled and patted her hand reassuringly. "You needn't think I have it wrong this time. His man has been with him for more than eight years and he's speaking very openly of their plans to return to London."

  "He is?" Catriona gave thanks for the dim light in the stillroom-because of the fumes, only one small lamp was burning. Carefully resting the heavy pestle in the mortar, she gripped the edge of the table. And forced herself to ask: "What is he saying?"

  "Oh, no specific details yet. Just that it's apparently their way to spend winter visiting the homes of friends and acquaintances, but that sometime in February, they always return to the capital. For the Season, I understand. Worboys has been regaling the staff with stories of the balls and parties, and all the other entertainments Mr. Cynster customarily enjoys. Without expressly stating it, he's given the clear impression that marriage has not changed his master's style. He's expecting they'll be in London before March."

  "I see." Wiping her hands, suddenly cold, on her apron, Catriona picked up the pestle again. She kept her gaze on her preparation, avoiding Algaria's bright eyes. "I'm sure The Lady will ensure all goes as it should."

  And arrangements that had not been expressly stated might not come to pass at all.

  That night, Catriona sat before her dressing table brushing her long hair for far longer than was her wont. Long enough for Richard to come in and, after throwing her a lustful smile, start to undress.

  Calmly, Catriona brushed and watched him in her mirror. "Your aunts, in their letters, spoke a lot of London. They seem to expect that we'll join them shortly-once the snows melt." Serenely brushing, she watched his brows rise. "For the balls, the parties-the Season."

  He grimaced. And dropped his trousers. And stepped out of them.

  Then he turned and, stark naked, prowled toward her.

  "You don't need to imagine I'll insist that we go."

  "You won't?"

  "No."

  He stopped behind her-all she could see was his bare chest, crisp black hair adorning the heavy muscles. He lifted her hair, spreading it, fanning it over her shoulders, over her breasts. "I'll never force you to leave the vale."

  His features had assumed an intent expression she now knew well; reaching out, he took the brush from her hand and laid it on the table.

  Her heart thudding in her throat, and throbbing in her loins, she abruptly stood. His hands closed about her waist and held her still; his eyes locked on hers in the mirror.

  "Open your nightgown."

  The nightgown she wore reached only to her knees; it was fastened down the front with tiny buttons. Barely able to breathe, incapable of taking her eyes from the vision before her, Catriona slowly obeyed.

  One by one, the buttons slid free, all the way to her knees. She straightened, and the gown gaped. Revealing the ripe swells of her breasts, the smooth slope of her belly, the long lines of her thighs, the flaming curls between. She stared at the sight, then looked at his face.

  And saw the hard planes shift, saw passion lock tight.

  Hands tightening about her waist, he lifted her.

  "Kneel on the stool."

  She did; he straddled her calves. And drew the nightgown from her.

  Catriona's eyes flew wide; she couldn't help her shocked gasp.

  Immediately he held her, his chest warm against her shoulders and back, his thighs hard, abrasive, against the sensitive skin of her bottom. "Sssh." Head bent, he nuzzled her ear, one dark hand splayed across her midriff, a powerful contrast against her ivory skin.

  Shocked to her toes, Catriona felt her senses reel. They were bathed in light-as well as the two candlesticks burning on the dressing table, two candlestands stood on either side, both holding large candles, both lit. She could see the width of his shoulders, clearly visible above and beyond her own, could see the dark, hair-dusted columns of his legs on either side of hers.

  Could feel the thick, ridged rod, so flagrantly male, pressed against the cleft between her buttocks.

  And felt-and saw-his other hand slide from her hip, under the shimmering veil of her hair, to close firmly about one breast, long fingers curling about her soft flesh.

  She moaned softly and let her head fall back against his shoulder. From beneath heavy lids, she watched his fingers flex. Swallowing, she moistened her lips, saw them already parted, already sheening. "The bed?"

  "No." He breathed the word against the soft skin of her throat-he was watching his hand on her. "Here."

  She shuddered, one small part of her mind desperate to protest, the rest awash with tingling anticipation. Anticipation that steadily built, then silvered into excitement. Into arousal that escalated with each slow sweep of his hands over her flickering skin, with each knowing caress, each expert touch.

  He did nothing else but caress her bare
body, worshipped it until her skin was flushed rose in the golden candle-glow, and she was quivering with need.

  "Lean forward." His voice was a deep, gravelly whisper in her ear. "Place your hands palms down on the table."

  She did; he shifted behind her. From under weighted lids, she saw him steady her before him, then reach around her. Splaying one hand across her stomach, he angled her hips back; looking down, he fitted himself to her.

  Then, with one slow thrust that threatened to lift her from her knees, he filled her. Stretched her. Completed her.

  Fully embedded within her, he leaned forward; his lips brushing her nape, he filled his hands with her breasts. And fondled her swollen flesh as he rocked her. Rocked her slowly, languorously, to heaven.

  Until she panted, and moaned, and tried to wriggle her hips-tried to urge him on. His slow rhythm was driving her insane-she wanted him deep, wanted him filling her more forcefully. More rapidly.

  She wanted to rush on to the stars.

  He straightened; his hands drifted from her breasts to lock about her hips. He anchored her before him, so she couldn't move-and pressed more deeply into her. But he still kept the rhythm slow-slower than she wanted.

  So she could feel every inch of his repeated penetrations, was aware to her fingertips of the reined strength of his invasions. Was intimately conscious of the hard, hot rod with which he claimed her, of the slick softness with which she accepted him.

  She shuddered and closed her eyes and clamped tightly about him. And sensed his chest swell, sensed his tension tighten. Felt his grip about her hips lock like iron and felt the brush of his thumb over her birthmark. It would be clearly visible in the light, contrasting against the ivory of her buttock, so taut, so tight.

  Compulsion forced her to look, to crack open her lids and look at him behind her, his hard body flexing as he loved her. Forced her to study his face, to see the concentration and passion and sheer devotion etched therein, delineating the hard angles gilded by the candles' glow. Forced her to notice her own body, lushly wanton, her skin flushed, her hair wild fire spread over her shoulders and arms, her breasts swollen and tipped with deep rose, her thighs clamped together, her hips rocking only slightly as he filled her. Forced her, at the last, to look at her face, at the expression of sensual abandon stamped on her features, her heavy-lidded eyes, her panting, parted lips.

  With a soft moan, she closed her eyes tightly and felt him lift the tempo, felt him start the long crescendo that would carry her to the stars.

  And when she reached them, he held her there for long, immeasurable minutes, caught on the cusp of delight-then he joined her, and her heaven was complete.

  A week later, Catriona pulled on her heavy cloak, picked up a basket lined with scraps of flannel, and headed out to the large barn. It was three o'clock, the light would soon fade. As she trudged across the yard whipped by lightly flurrying snow, the sun, hidden behind banks of grey cloud, cast the scene in a smoky, pale gold haze.

  Struggling against the flurries, she hauled open the single door set in the barn's main doors, then slipped inside. Setting her basket down, she latched the door, then turned, paused to let her eyes adjust to the dimness, then scooped up her basket and headed for the loft ladder.

  To find the kitchen cat, who, entirely out of synchrony with the seasons, had given birth somewhere up in the hay.

  Gaining the top of the ladder, Catriona swung her basket up, then surveyed the scene-the expanse of hay bales stacked almost to the roof all the way along the loft which stretched down one side of the long barn.

  She knew the cat and kittens were in the hay somewhere. She didn't know how she knew-she just did. She also knew that the kittens would die by morning if she didn't find them and take them into the warm kitchen.

  With a sigh, she clambered up onto the hay-strewn loft boards and started to search.

  The loft extended over the entire barn, over the three separate sections the large building housed. Mentally tossing a coin, she elected to start searching the section nearest, the one over the carriages, carts and ploughs.

  Methodically pushing through hay stacks, pressing apart bales, sliding her hand, oh-so-trustingly, into possible dens, she tried to keep her mind on her search and away from its principal preoccupation.

  As usual, she failed.

  Her husband exerted an almost hypnotic attraction over her thoughts. Over her senses, he wielded absolute control-that, she accepted. But the degree to which she found herself dwelling on him-on his plans-on what his intentions really were-was disconcerting. She'd never before been that linked to anyone, never before felt her happiness dependent on someone else.

  She'd been her own mistress for years-being his was changing her in ways she hadn't expected.

  In ways she didn't entirely like-in ways she couldn't control.

  In moments of weakness, like the present, as she absentmindedly crooned for the cat, when her mind was caught, trapped, in senseless speculation, raising visions that were unnervingly depressing she'd fallen back on her old habit of lecturing herself. Telling herself, sternly, that what would be, would be.

  It only made her feel more helpless, more in the grip of some force beyond her control, as if her life was now tuned to some unknown piper.

  Reaching the end of the first section without any sign of the cat, she straightened, pressed out the kinks in her spine, then trailed back to the ladder to fetch her basket. And doggedly glided into the next section-the one over the quartered dairy herd.

  She was halfway through that section when she heard voices. Rocking back on her heels, she listened-and heard them again, low, almost murmuring. Curious, she rose and quietly walked into the last section of the loft.

  In the back of her mind ran the thought that she might stumble on some illicit assignation-such was her interpretation of the tone of those murmurs. Ready to retreat silently if that proved the case, she inched closer to the loft's edge.

  And heard Richard say: "Gently. Easy, sweetheart. Now-let's take it very slowly."

  An assenting murmur in a light female tone answered him.

  Catriona froze. She turned cold, then burned as temper seared her. What she felt in that instant was beyond her description-but betrayal was there, certainly as was a furious force she'd never before felt-every bit as green as her eyes. It was that force that fanned the flames of anger into a righteous blaze. Fists clenched quivering with rage, she marched to the top of the ladder leading down into the last section of the barn.

  They heard her footsteps-and looked up.

  For one fractured instant, Catriona stared down at her husband and the maid within his arms.

  The eight-year-old maid he held balanced on the back of a shaggy coated pony.

  Catriona's eyes widened from their angry slits, even while she mentally scrambled to keep her features unrevealing, her lips formed a telltale "Oh." Relief swept her; she teetered and had to take a quick step back from the loft's edge.

  Richard's gaze, locked on her face, intensified. He straightened, fluidly swinging the girl down. Only then did Catriona notice the others surrounding the improvised ring, all waiting, obediently silent, for their turn.

  "I, ah…" Weakly, she gestured to the hay-filled loft behind her. "The cat's had kittens."

  "Tabitha?" One of the boys broke from the circle and raced to the ladder. "Where?"

  "Well…" Flustered, Catriona stepped back as the whole riding school swarmed up the ladder. "That's the problem, you see."

  The pupils were followed by their teacher who, as was his wont, made the loft shrink as he stepped onto the boards. Catriona backed against the wall of hay and waved down the loft. "She's somewhere up here. We have to find her and take the kittens into the kitchen to keep warm, or they'll die."

  The children didn't wait for more. They enthusiastically clambered over the hay, calling the cat, a favorite of theirs.

  Leaving her with their teacher. Catriona flicked him a quick glance. "I've searched the f
irst section."

  Head tilted, he studied her. "They'll find her." A ferocious sneeze was echoed by two more. He raised his brows. "That, or die trying." He continued to study her; after a moment he asked: "Have you been up here long?"

  Catriona shrugged as nonchalantly as she could and avoided his gaze. "A few minutes." She waved along the loft. "I was at the other end."

  "Ah." Straightening, he strolled toward her. He stopped by her side, then, without warning, gathered her into his arms. And kissed her. Very warmly.

  Emerging, breathless, some moments later, Catriona blinked at him. "What was that for?"

  "Reassurance." He'd lifted his head only to change his hold; as he lowered his lips to hers again, she tried to hold him back.

  "The children," she hissed.

  "Are busy," he replied-and kissed her again.

  "Tabby! Tabby!"

  The shrill call had all the children running to one corner of the middle section. None looked back; none saw their lady, flustered and flushed, win free of her consort's arms. And none saw the knowing smile that lifted his lips.

  Catriona tried not to notice it either, blotting the sight from her mind, she hurried after the children.

  They found five tiny kittens, pathetically shivering huddling close to their weakened mother's flank. There were ready hands enough to lift the whole family together into the lined basket, which was then carried in procession along the loft, taken down the ladder by Richard as his contribution to the rescue, then entrusted to the care of the eight-year old maid. Surrounded by her absorbed fellows, she crossed the yard carefully, all the children huddling to protect the cat and her brood from the swirling snow.

  The light had all but gone. Catriona stepped out of the barn into a twilight world. Richard pulled the door shut and fastened it, then tugged her cloak around her and anchored her against him, within one arm.

  They followed in the children's wake.

  "I hope the kittens will recover-they felt very cold. I suppose a little warm milk wouldn't hurt them. I'll have to ask Cook…"

  She blathered on, not once looking up-not once meeting his eyes. Richard held her fast against the wind's tug and, smiling into the swirling snow, steered her toward the kitchen.