Scandal's Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  So he hedged and said nothing—the gentlemanly course. “Well!” Jamie exhaled as he ground to a halt and somewhat dampeningly concluded: “The truth is, I suppose, that life in the Lowlands, married to a wild witch, would not measure on the same scale as the life of a London swell.”

  Lids lowered, Richard gravely inclined his head. “Indeed not.”

  Life with a wild witch was infinitely more alluring.

  Out of breath, Algaria reached the top of the stairs just as the office door opened. Silently, she slipped into the shadows of the gallery and headed for Catriona’s room.

  Her brief tap on the door went unanswered; frowning, she tapped again. When no sound came from within, she frowned even harder and opened the door.

  And saw Catriona slumped on the floor.

  Smothering a cry, Algaria quickly shut the door and rushed forward; the briefest glance at the items on the table beside which Catriona lay was sufficient to tell her all. Her erstwhile pupil had been scrying, and scrying deep, if her swoon was any guide.

  Even as Algaria straightened her limbs, Catriona stirred.

  A second later, as a wet cloth passed over her face, she regained full consciousness. Peeking through her lashes, she saw that her attendant was Algaria, and relaxed. “Oh, hell!”

  Algaria sat back. “Hell?”

  Struggling onto one elbow, Catriona waved. “Not you—this whole situation.” She’d gone further than mere scrying—she’d literally challenged the powers that be to reconsider, and demanded an unequivocal answer.

  The answer she’d received had been more than unequivocal—it had been emphatic.

  “Ah, well—the situation has just taken a turn for the better.”

  “It has?” Catriona frowned as Algaria helped her to her feet. Her mentor’s smug expression rang warning bells. “How?”

  “In a minute.” Algaria steered her to the bed. “Here—just lie back and rest, and I’ll tell you all I heard.”

  Still weak from her exertions—facing She Who Knew All was exceedingly draining—Catriona was very willing to lie down. Algaria sat beside her and proceeded to tell her tale—how she’d listened to Jamie’s discussion with Richard Cynster in the office.

  Algaria’s memory, perfected by the demands of her calling, was exceptional; Catriona had no doubt she was hearing exactly the words that had been said. Algaria’s veracity was beyond question, as was her devotion to her own welfare—Catriona knew that for fact. However, in this instance, Algaria’s tale gave her a headache.

  A massive one.

  “So!” Algaria triumphantly concluded. “It’s as I said—he’s only amusing himself—teasing you, if you like. But he’s absolutely certain to go back to London and leave you unwed—he made no attempt to deny it.”

  “Hmm.” Frowning direfully, Catriona massaged her temples.

  Studying her face, Algaria’s triumphant expression faded. “What is it?”

  Catriona glanced at her, then grimaced. “A complication.” She saw the questions gathering on Algaria’s lips; she stayed them with a raised hand. “I’m too tired to think, just now.” After a moment, she continued: “I need to rest, and consider—to see how what I’ve been told fits with the facts, and how the whole might come together.”

  Lifting her head, she smiled, a trifle wanly, at Algaria. “Let me rest for an hour or two—come back and wake me for dinner.”

  Algaria hesitated. “You’ll tell me what you learned then?”

  With swift understanding of the older woman’s fear of being left out, being redundant, Catriona smiled and squeezed her hand. “Before dinner, I’ll tell you all.”

  * * *

  Dinner time came around far too fast; it seemed to Catriona that she’d barely had time to marshal her thoughts before Algaria returned.

  Struggling up against the pillows, she waved Algaria forward. “Come sit and I’ll tell you all.”

  She did, starting from the first visions she’d had, through all her subsequent communcations with The Lady, culminating in the most recent.

  As she restated that last, emphatic dictate, Algaria stared. Then frowned. “Just that—no qualifications?”

  “Not a one. She could hardly put it more simply: He will father your children.” The words still rang in Catriona’s mind.

  Algaria’s frown mirrored her own. “But . . .”

  Together, they revisted the problem—concisely; Catriona had been over the same ground on her own so many times her head still hurt.

  “But he’s too strong,” Algaria insisted. “He’s not the sort of man you can marry—he’ll never be content to sit back in besotted bliss and let you make the decisions.” Bewildered, she shook her head. “But if The Lady says . . .”

  “Precisely.” Catriona waited patiently while Algaria examined the problem from every angle—her mentor’s view in large part mirrored her own.

  In the end, Algaria simply shook her head. “I can’t make head or tail of it—we’ll just have to wait for some sign of how we should proceed.”

  Catriona caught her eye. “I’ve just had the next sign. You brought it.”

  Algaria stared at her, then blinked. “The news that he’ll be leaving?”

  “Indeed—and if he leaves, just how is he to father a child on me? I can’t go chasing him to London, yet, as you say, he seems certain to leave at the end of the week—in all my discussions with him, I’ve had no indication otherwise.”

  Algaria shot her a quick glance. “He does seem taken with you, but many men are.”

  Catriona inclined her head. “As you say—physically, I’m attractive enough, but on further reflection . . .” She considered, then stated: “All he has said and done is consistent with what you overheard—he’s considering the possibility because there are various elements in the proposed situation that attract him, but, ultimately, there’s nothing I can offer him that he can’t, in reality, find in London, with a wife much more suited to his lifestyle.”

  She felt proud of that assessment—it had taken some soul-searching, and the exercise of brutal candor, to reach it. Richard Cynster was attracted to her for a number of reasons, but she would not, ultimately, be a suitable wife for him. He was too far-sighted not to see it.

  “So, what now?” Algaria asked. “If he leaves . . .”

  Catriona drew in a deep breath. “If he leaves, he leaves—we can do nothing to stop him. Which means . . .” She looked at Algaria, waiting for her to reach the same conclusion she had.

  This time, her mentor failed her. Totally bemused, Algaria stared at her. “Means what?”

  “It means,” Catriona declared, getting off the bed to pace, “that I’m to beget a child by him, but we won’t be married.” She waved aside Algaria’s frown. “That, if you think about it, is possibly the perfect solution for me—to have a child outside wedlock. The Lady, you’ll notice, does not mention marriage, only the fact that I’m to have a child by him. And you have to admit, if he’d been a stallion, he’d be a prize.”

  “Prize? You’re going to . . .” Algaria’s voice trailed away; aghast, she stared. Then: “How?”

  Catriona paced determinedly. “Presumably by going to his bed.”

  “Yes—but . . .” Clearly dumbfounded, Algaria drew a deep breath. “It’s not that simple.”

  Irritated by her lingering uncertainty, and her lack of experience, Catriona frowned. “It can’t be that hard. He’s a rake—the activity should come naturally. And it’s the right time of my cycle—all the signs are propitious.”

  Algaria shook her head. “But what if, after the deed, he changes his mind and decides to stay. You can’t be sure he’ll leave.”

  “I’ve thought of that.” Catriona paced before the fireplace, all that Richard had said of family still fresh in her mind. And although they hadn’t discussed it, she could guess what his stance over abandoning a bastard child would be. She felt some qualms over that, but . . . she had always obeyed The Lady, and always would. Besides, Richard’s child
would not be alone—it would be a much-loved child. Hers. “He won’t know.”

  Algaria simply stared. “He’ll father a child on you and he won’t know?” She got off the bed and laid a hand on Catriona’s forehead.

  Irritated, Catriona brushed it aside. “I’ve thought it through—it can be done—you know that as well as I. It’s tricky, admittedly—he must be asleep enough not to consciously remember, and yet his body and senses must be able to respond and perform. A sleeping potion will dull the brain, an aphrodisiac will prime the body. The doses will have to be perfectly judged, one against the other, but if I gauge the amounts correctly, all should go smoothly.”

  Algaria looked ill, but didn’t contradict her—she couldn’t; she’d taught her most of that lore herself. She could, however, protest. “You’re mad. This will simply not work—too many things can go wrong.”

  “Nonsense!”

  Algaria grew stern, but her underlying fear and concern showed through. “I’ll have no part in it—this scheme is as mad as old Seamus’s.”

  “It’s what The Lady requires. She will guide me.”

  Tight-lipped, Algaria shook her head. “You must have misinterpreted.”

  Catriona drew herself up—she knew Algaria didn’t believe that; there was no possiblity she could have misinterpreted such a strong and repeated directive. Folding her arms, she returned her mentor’s black stare. “Give me an alternative and I’ll consider it—just as long as it results in Richard Melville Cynster being the father of my child.”

  Slowly, Algaria shook her head. “I’m against it—this can’t be right.”

  Aware of her mentor’s deep distrust of most men, and ones like Richard Cynster in particular, Catriona didn’t argue. “I have The Lady’s orders—I’m determined to obey them.” She paused, then asked, more gently: “Will you help me?

  Algaria met her gaze, and held it for a full minute. Then, slowly, she shook her head. “No—I cannot. I’ll have no part in this—no good will come of it, mark my words.” She spoke slowly; she had no alternative to offer and she knew it.

  Catriona sighed. “Very well. Leave me—I need to work up the mixture.” She had all she needed in her traveling kit, the kit she’d inherited from her mother. She’d religiously replaced each herb and specific as they aged without questioning why each was included in the selection. The aphrodisiac had always been there—it was there now, when she needed it. Along with a powerful sleeping potion.

  Algaria trailed to the door; hand on the knob, she paused and looked back.

  Sensing her gaze, Catriona looked up, and raised a brow.

  Algaria straightened and lifted her chin. “If you bear any love for me, I pray you, do not go to Richard Cynster.”

  Catriona held her black gaze steadily. “The Lady wills it—so I must.”

  The mechanics of drugging her nemesis proved much easier than she’d expected. Late that night, Catriona paced her bedchamber and waited for the moment of truth—when she would go to his room and discover how successful she had been.

  Mixing the potion had been merely a matter of making a series of estimations, all based on her extensive experience. She routinely held the health of the more than two hundred souls who inhabited the vale in her hands—she treated them from birth to death; she knew her herbs. Her only uncertainty lay in gauging her mark’s weight—in the end, she’d simply added an extra dash of both potions and prayed fervently to The Lady.

  As for getting him to down the drug, the vehicle had been ready to hand—she’d remembered his talk of the whiskey; it was perfect for her needs. The strong, smoky taste would disguise the tang of the herbs, at least to one who was not a connoisseur. She had gauged the amount to add to the decanter so that a good dram would hold enough drug to accomplish what she needed.

  Introducing the potion to his decanter had been simplicity itself. She was always the last down to dinner; she simply waited until her usual time, then stopped by his room on the way. Her one tense moment had occurred when she was almost at his door. It had opened, and his servant had come out. Standing still as a statue in the shadows, she had watched him depart, then, barely breathing, smoothly continued on and entered the room.

  It was one of the largest bedchambers in the house; the decanter stood on a sideboard beneath one window. It had been the work of a moment to gauge the volume in the decanter and add the required amount of her mixture. Then, stoppering the vial, she’d turned and glided out of the room and down to dinner.

  And had had the devil’s own time dampening her awareness, her consciousness of what she was up to, especially while under Richard’s blue gaze. He’d sensed that she was edgy, so she’d put on a haughty act and prayed he’d see her skittishness as a lingering effect of their morning’s kiss.

  Catriona humphed and swung about, the skirts of her dressing robe flaring about her. Beneath it, she wore a fine lawn nightgown—she supposed, for him, it should have been silk, but she didn’t possess any such apparel. The thought of his hands on her body shielded only by the thin gown made her shiver. She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece just as it chimed.

  Twelve solid bongs.

  It was time for her to go.

  Dragging in a breath past the vise locked about her lungs, she closed her eyes and uttered a brief prayer, then, clutching her robe about her, determinedly headed for the door.

  To keep her appointment with he who was to father her child.

  Chapter 6

  Two minutes later, Catriona stood in the shadows before Richard’s door and stared at the oak panels. An overwhelming sense of fatality weighed heavily upon her; she stood on the threshold of far more than just a room. In opening the door and stepping inside, she would take an irrevocable step into a future only dimly perceived.

  Never before had she faced such a choice—such a crucial, life-changing decision.

  Shifting, she drew her dressing robe closer and inwardly chided her hesitant self. Of course stepping over the threshold would change her life—getting with child was definitely irrevocable, but quite clearly part of her future. That future lay beyond the door—why was she hesitating?

  Because it wasn’t just a child who lay beyond the door.

  Exasperated, she straightened and reached for the doorknob, simultaneously opening her senses—to detect any hint of warning, any last-minute premonition that her intent was wrong. All she sensed was peace and silence, a deep, quiet steadiness throughout the house.

  Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door. It swung noiselessly wide; beyond, the room lay silent and still, lit only by the glow of the fire still flickering in the hearth.

  Stepping quietly inside, Catriona closed the door, easing the lock back so it slid home without a sound. Eyes already adjusted to the dark, she scanned the room. The huge four-poster bed stood shrouded in shadows, its head against the corridor wall. The sight held her eyes, her senses. Slowly, on silent slippered feet, she approached the bed.

  She was five paces from it when she realized it was empty, the coverlet flat, undisturbed. Eyes flying wide, her breath caught in her throat, she whirled and scanned the room again.

  And, from her new position, saw an arm, clad in a dark coat sleeve, wide white cuff golden in the firelight, hanging over the side of the wing chair facing the fire. The arm hung limply, long, lax fingers almost reaching the floor. Between their tips hung a crystal tumbler, its base balanced on the polished boards.

  It was empty.

  Drawing a calming breath, Catriona waited for her heart to slow, then, carefully silent, glided forward and rounded the chair.

  At least one part of her potion had worked—he was asleep. Asprawl in the chair, his long legs stretched before him, his waistcoat undone, his cravat untied, he still managed to look elegant. Elegantly dissolute, elegantly dangerous. His chest, covered by his fine linen shirt, rose and fell regularly.

  Catriona’s gaze roamed, then lifted to his face; she studied the lean planes gilded by the firelight—a br
onze mask more relaxed than she’d yet seen it. With his eyes shut, it was easier to concentrate on his face, on what it showed. Strength was still there, glaringly apparent even in repose; the hint of not sadness, but a lack of happiness that hung about his well-shaped mouth was not something she’d noticed before.

  Inwardly frowning, she committed the sight to memory, then shook herself, and turned her mind to her task. Step one had been accomplished—he was asleep.

  Fully dressed.

  In the chair before the fire.

  A good ten paces from the bed.

  Catriona frowned in earnest. “What now?” she muttered under her breath. Hands rising to her hips, she studied him—and considered—and studied him some more. Her head was shaking even before she reached her conclusion: with him asleep, she’d have to provide the lead in the upcoming proceedings, and for that, she definitely needed him on the bed. A chair might be possible, but her imagination boggled at the thought.

  She glared at her sleeping victim. “I might have known you’d find some way to be difficult,” she informed him in a hissed whisper. Bending, she retrieved the tumbler from his fingers before it fell, and turned to set it on a side table. The glass clicked on the polished table top.

  Catriona swung back, her eyes flying to Richard’s face. The black crescents of his lashes flickered. Then rose.

  He looked directly at her.

  She froze. Her mind seized; she stopped breathing.

  His lips curved, kicking up at the ends first, then curving fully into a beguiling smile. “I might have known you’d turn up in my dreams.”

  Daring to breathe—just a little—Catriona slowly straightened and finished turning to stand before him. His eyes followed her; as his lids lifted farther, it was clear he was drugged. Ringed by deep blue, his pupils were huge, his gaze unfocused, not sharp and intent as it usually was.

  His beguiling smile, both inviting and evocative, deepened. “Only fair, I suppose—the witch of my dreams haunting my dreams.”