She could forgive him—but she wasn’t about to let her past misdemeanor combine with his drug-induced daze to set a wall between them.
She would talk until the wall fell down.
There was, however, a hurdle looming in her path—very likely a large hurdle; at least, she imagined his brother would be large. Large and forceful. Powerful. Used to being obeyed, to having his edicts complied with.
Grimacing, Catriona swung about and marched around the bed, just for a change of scenery. Of perspective.
She wasn’t now sure she’d done the right thing in encouraging Worboys to carry out Richard’s order and summon his brother the duke. At the time, she’d been of the mind that as she’d nothing to hide, there was no reason she couldn’t face the inquisition. Unfortunately, she hadn’t thought things through in that instance—thought about what might happen if Richard’s brother—a man known to everyone as Devil and presumably a potent source of authority—insisted on removing Richard from her care. Decreed that Richard, still unconscious, would be better tended in London.
Could she—would she be able to—refuse?
If he was taken away before she made sure he understood she hadn’t poisoned him, would she get the chance to right his mind later—would he return if he believed, for whatever twisted reasons, that she was behind his poisoning?
The thought went around and around as she paced up and down. And got nowhere. She couldn’t, in fact, concentrate on that point, too overwhelmed by the far more scarifying prospect raised by the possibility of Richard being taken from her care.
If he was, he might not live.
And she doubted she could explain that to his brother, or anyone not acquainted with the ways of The Lady.
Sighing, she halted and reached a hand to Richard’s wrist. His pulse was still steady, if far too weak. Once again, she mentally reviewed her treatment, searched for any options she had not yet tried. But she’d done all she could—without knowing the specific poison for certain, she couldn’t risk doing any more.
She knew, of course, who had poisoned him, but the culprit was no longer in the manor, in the vale, for her to question. It seemed Algaria had slipped the poison—a poison only she and Catriona had access to—into Richard’s mug, then left immediately, ostensibly to travel to her own cottage, which she sometimes did, but never without informing Catriona first.
The fact that Algaria hadn’t waited to gauge her potion’s effect suggested she’d been in no doubt it would work. Quelling a shudder, Catriona resumed her pacing and considered the three possible poisons—hemlock, henbane, and wolfsbane. All were deadly, but the last was the hardest to treat. She couldn’t, however, overlook the possiblity that a mixture had been used, so she’d had to combine remedies for all three.
She knew that wouldn’t be enough.
Which was why she was there by the bed, would always be there, every minute until he awakened. Until she knew he was safe. She had to be there to anchor him to this world if need be, if his connection with it grew too weak. She’d never done such a thing before, but she knew about the region she mentally dubbed “neither nor.” The region in which life ceased to have meaning, the threshold between the real world and that other.
She’d stood on that threshold once before, on the night after her parents had died. Her mother had come to her in her sleep—from the dream state to “neither nor” was no great step. Having died in the arms of a man who had loved her deeply, and who she had loved in return, her mother had had no real cause to linger—she’d held back only to bid her adieu.
So she knew the way to that region, knew it was cold, swirling with chill grey mists, treacherous in that it had no reality to which human senses could cling. Any who stepped into it had to rely on their other senses, and their link to any other in that void would only hold true if there was a strong connection between the two souls—like a mother and child, or a husband and wife bound by love.
If the connection wasn’t there, then in trying to reach Richard and hold him to life, she would risk losing herself.
She didn’t care—if he died, life wouldn’t be worth living, but she’d have to live it anyway, without him. The thought was guaranteed to stiffen her spine, to fire her determination. She would not lose him. Or herself. She had faith enough for both of them—faith in his need of her, as much as in her love for him.
The first trial came in the early watches of the morning, when his breathing slowed and he slipped into the greyness. On her knees beside the bed, Catriona drew in a deep breath and resolutely closed her eyes. With one fist clenched about the twin pendants between her breasts, with the other she held his hand and followed him, into the void beyond the world.
He was there, but blind and weak, helpless as a day-old kitten; gently, she turned him around and brought him home.
Over the next days, and the next nights, she fought by his side, time and again stepping into that grey nothingness to lead him back, to give him her strength, her life, so he could continue to live.
The effort drained her. She could have done with Algaria beside her, but that, of course, was not to be. About them, the manor lay quiet, hushed, yet she was conscious of a soothing, steady stream of support, of prayers and wishes for his health and hers. Without him, life still went on, but it was as if, with his retreat from their world, the heightened sense of life he’d brought to them had sunk into hibernation.
Mrs. Broom and McArdle brought her food and drink; Worboys was in constant, surprisingly helpful, attendance. He knew his master’s state was serious, yet, after that first moment of weakness, he had remained the staunchest in his certainty that Richard would shortly wake hale and whole.
“Invincible, the lot of them,” he’d assured her when she’d commented on his unswerving confidence. He’d gone on to relate the Cynsters’ successes at Waterloo.
It had given her comfort, and some hope, for which she was grateful.
But she alone knew what harmful forces had been unleashed against him—what powerful poison had been fed to him—and only she could heal him and hold him fast to this world.
With a sickening jolt, Catriona awoke on the third morning after their ordeal had begun.
She’d fallen asleep on her knees by the side of the bed, her arms stretched across Richard. With a start, she jerked upright.
Her heart in her mouth, she stared at his face.
His color was that of one alive, pale, but still with her; she only breathed again after seeing his chest rise shallowly, then fall.
With an immense sigh of relief, she eased back on her knees. He hadn’t slipped away from her while she slept.
Thanking The Lady, she struggled to her feet, wincing as cramped muscles protested. She hobbled to a nearby chair and fell into it, her gaze locked on Richard.
He was still held fast by the poison; he still needed her as his anchor.
Catriona sighed, then painfully rose and hobbled to the bellpull. She was going to have to share the watches with others, others she could trust, and put her faith in them to call her the next time he started slipping away.
She couldn’t risk falling asleep and leaving him unwatched again.
Courtesy of Mrs. Broom and Cook, she slept the next night through—which was just as well as the morning brought with it a challenge she hadn’t expected to face for at least a few more days.
“How on earth did they get here this soon?” Standing beside McArdle on the front steps, she watched the huge black travelling carriage drawn by six powerful black horses come rolling up through the park. There was no need for her to see the crest worked in gold on the carriage’s doors to guess who was calling.
“They must ha’ traveled through the night—no way elsewise they’d be here now.” McArdle’s gruff tones held a hint of approval. “Must be right powerfully attached to his brother.”
That was Catriona’s unwelcome conclusion—dealing with Richard’s brother was shaping to be a battle, one she didn’t know if she had the stre
ngth to win. Suppressing the urge to clutch her pendants, she drew herself up; summoning every last weary ounce of her power, she lifted her chin and prepared to make the acquaintance of her brother-in-law.
As it happened, she was to meet her sister-in-law first. A tall, powerful figure uncurled long legs and stepped down from the carriage the instant it halted, but beyond throwing a hard, raking glance about the courtyard, he didn’t advance, but turned back to hand a lady from the carriage—he had to lift her as she was quite clearly not about to wait for the steps to be let down.
The instant her feet touched the cobbles, she glided forward, her gaze fixed on Catriona. The lady was severely but elegantly attired in a warm woolen cloak over a carriage dress of rich brown, chestnut hair escaping from a simple chignon. She was taller than Catriona; her features were fine and presently set in a noncommittal expression. Her gaze was direct, her whole bearing declared she was a lady used to command. Catriona braced as the woman looked down, lifting her hems as she negotiated the steps.
Reaching the top, she dropped her skirts and looked Catriona directly in the eye. “My poor dear.”
The next instant, Catriona was enveloped in a scented embrace.
“How dreadful for you! You must let us help in whatever way we can.”
Released, Catriona tried to steady her reeling head.
“Is this your steward?” The lady—presumably Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives—smiled kindly at McArdle.
“Yes,” Catriona managed. “McArdle.”
“A pleasure, Your Grace.”
McArdle tried to bend his arthritic spine into a bow of the required degree—Honoria put a hand on his arm. “Oh, no—don’t bother. We’re family, after all.” McArdle shot her a grateful look.
“If you wouldn’t mind, my dear . . . ?”
The deep, rumbling resigned tones had the duchess whirling. “Yes, of course. My dear”—she looked at Catriona and gestured to the presence that had followed her up the steps—“Sylvester—Devil to us all.”
Holding her calm before her like a shield, Catriona turned, a welcoming smile on her lips—and had to quell an impulse to take a large step back. She was used to Richard and his towering propensities—Devil was worse—about two inches worse.
She blinked into a hard face that was so much like Richard’s it made her heart stop, then she looked into his eyes—a lucent green quite unlike Richard’s burning blue. In color. The cast of his harsh features, until then severe, eased. As he smiled, she saw the likeness rise again—in the set of the lips, that untrustworthy glint in the eyes. They were, quite clearly, alike in many ways. She blinked again. “Ah . . .”
Despite his sobriety, his smile held a hint of the devil he must be. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear. I thought Richard must have lied but he hasn’t.” With effortless grace, he captured her hand, planted a kiss on her fingertips, then, his other arm having stolen about her shoulders, bent his head and brushed a perfectly chaste, oddly reassuring kiss on her cheek. “Welcome to the family.”
Catriona stared into his eyes. “Th . . . thank you.” She blinked, and looked at Honoria—who was waiting to catch her eye.
“Don’t let it bother you—they’re all like that.”
Imperiously waving her husband back, she linked arms with Catriona and turned to the door. “Quite clearly my feckless brother-in-law is still alive, or you wouldn’t be greeting us so calmly.”
“Indeed.” Finding herself back in her own hall, Catriona quickly introduced Henderson and Mrs. Broom. She grasped the moment while her overpowering relatives were divesting themselves of their coats to relocate and strengthen her habitual serenity. “Mrs. Broom has prepared a room for you—I’m afraid you’ll find the household not quite what you’re accustomed to. It’s a good deal smaller, of course, and we’re also much less formal.”
“Oh, good.” Handing her gloves to Mrs. Broom, Honoria looked up and smiled. “I’m afraid Cynsters aren’t much for formality within the family. And as for this”—with a graceful wave she indicated the house about them—“not being what we’re accustomed to, you must remember I was only a lowly governess until just over a year ago.”
Catriona blinked. “You were?”
Honoria studied her surprise. “Didn’t Richard tell you?” Shaking her head, she linked arms with Catriona; together they turned for the stairs. “Isn’t that just like a man—never tells one the important things. I’ll have to fill you in.”
From behind them, where Devil prowled in their wake, Catriona heard: “Lowly governess? Lowly? You’ve never been lowly in your life.”
Despite her woes, Catriona’s lips twitched; she couldn’t resist glancing at Honoria.
Who waved dismissively. “Don’t mind him—he’s the worst of them all.”
They halted at the foot of the stairs; sobering, Catriona drew her arm from Honoria’s and turned to face them both. “As Worboys informed you, Richard was poisoned—precisely with what I don’t know, but I’ve been treating him generally, and . . .” Her voice quavered; she broke off and drew in a breath. Lifting her chin, she fixed her gaze on Devil’s green eyes. “I want you to know that I had nothing to do with it—I did not poison Richard.”
They both looked at her, studied her, their expressions blank, their eyes filled with sharp intelligence. Then, just as Catriona was about to speak again—to say something to break the silence—Devil reached out, took her hand, and patted it. “Don’t worry—we’re here to help. You’re obviously overtired.”
“Have you been nursing him all by yourself?”
The tone of Honoria’s question demanded an answer.
“Well, I . . . until yesterday.”
“Humph! Just as well we almost crippled the horses to get here. One member of the family in a sickbed is quite enough.” Taking Catriona’s arm again, Honoria took to the stairs. “Now show us where he is, then you can tell us what needs to be done.”
Swept up the stairs by an irresistible force, it was all Catriona could do to steady her whirling head. She’d expected censure, certainly a reserved stiffness, at least some degree of suspicion; instead, all she could sense from her new relatives was a warm tide of sympathy and support. She led them to the turret room, to where Richard lay, straight and still in the bed.
Standing at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on Richard’s face, she waited while Honoria and Devil greeted Worboys, who had been watching over his master. Then they joined her, one on either side, and looked down at Richard.
“He’s still breathing freely and his pulse is steady, but he hasn’t regained consciousness since he collapsed.”
Catriona heard the tiredness in her voice, and felt, again, Devil’s hand slide around hers. He squeezed her fingers gently, comfortingly. She felt Honoria’s sympathetic gaze on her face, then sensed an exchanged glance pass over her head.
“I’ll sit with him for the next few hours.” Devil released her hand.
“Perhaps,” Honoria said, “you could show me to our room?”
She didn’t really want to leave Richard, but . . . Catriona gripped her fingers tightly and lifted her gaze to Devil’s face. “If his breathing starts to slow, or grow weaker, you must promise to call me immediately. It’s important.” Her eyes locked on his, she reinforced that thought. “I might need to . . .” She gestured vaguely.
Devil nodded and looked at the bed. “I’ll send Worboys or one of the others for you at the slightest sign.” Then he looked back, a slight smile curving his long lips. “But if he hasn’t already died, the chances are he won’t.” His gaze drifted to Honoria; the look in his eyes deepened. “There are any number of people who can tell you that Cynsters lead charmed lives.”
His comforting gaze came back to her face as Honoria humphed.
“Indeed! Believe me,” she said, gently turning Catriona from the bed, “there’s little point worrying about them, although, of course, we do.” She steered Catriona to the door. “Now come and show me where I can wash—I’
ve been in that carriage for more hours than I care to count.”
Ten minutes later, sunk in an armchair in the room Mrs. Broom had readied for the ducal couple, Catriona knew that, far from taking care of her guests, her guests were taking care of her. She was too tired to resist, and they did it so well, so effortlessly. They made it so easy for her to just stop for a moment, to stop thinking and simply be. She needed the rest—so she took it, let the steady flow of Honoria’s description of their trip north flow past her, and waited for her guest to finish her ablutions.
That done, as she’d expected, Honoria sank gracefully into the chair beside hers, leaned forward and took one of her hands. “Now tell me—why did you imagine we’d imagine you’d had any hand in poisoning Richard?”
Meeting Honoria’s misty-blue gaze, Catriona hesitated, then sighed and closed her eyes. “I got a trifle in advance of myself.” Opening her eyes, she looked at Honoria. “You see, I think Richard believes I poisoned him—that might be what he believes when he awakes. I was trying to prepare you for that, trying to assure you he was wrong.”
“Well, quite obviously he’s wrong—but why would he think such a thing?”
Catriona grimaced. “Possibly because I drugged him once before.”
“You did?” Honoria regarded her with more interest than puzzlement. “Why? And how?”
Catriona colored. She tried to hedge, prevaricate, avoid the questions, but, she discovered, Her Grace of St. Ives could be ruthless. Honoria dragged the answers from her—then slumped back in her chair and regarded her with awe. “You’re very brave,” she eventually stated. “I don’t know of many women who would be game to feed an aphrodisiac to a Cynster—and then climb into bed with him.”
Catriona raised her brows in resignation. “Blame it on total innocence.”
Honoria’s lips had yet to return to straight; she shot her a measuring, not-at-all-discouraging, look. “You know, that’s really a very good story, but one I fear we’ll have to keep within the family—the female part of it, that is.”
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