The party on the steps simply stared.
“Got ’im!” The eldest farmhand pounced on the rope, then reeled it in, shortening it to lead the bull away. Looking the animal over, the lad glanced up at Catriona, his eyes shining. “He’s a prime ’un, ain’t he, mistress?”
“Indeed.” Catriona knew enough to know a prize bull when she saw one. “But where . . . ?” Looking up, her eyes widened as more cattle came into view. Two yearling bulls led the way, trotting happily along under Gabriel’s watchful eye. They were followed by a long line of cows and heifers, ambling contentedly, mooing and lowing; Catriona had lost count by the time three other riders came into view toward the end of the long procession.
Devil and Vane rode on either side of the stream of cattle, keeping them moving, watching for stragglers but even more watching out for the children now running alongside the beasts, hands out to fleetingly touch the soft hides as, heads swinging, the cows plodded on.
Right at the end rode Richard, McAlvie at his stirrup, McAlvie’s lads flanking them, striding along, eyes on the cattle, proud grins on their faces. McAlvie looked fit to burst with enthusiasm. He was talking animatedly to Richard, who, smiling, replied with an indulgent air.
From the instant he appeared, Catriona could look at nothing else; driven by the worry of the past three days, she scanned his tall figure critically, but could see no signs of exhaustion. He rode easily, long limbs relaxed, holding himself in the saddle with his usual indolent grace.
He was well. She knew that even before, reaching the courtyard, he looked up and saw her. The smile that lifted his lips, the light that lit his eyes as he viewed her—despite the distance between them she could feel it like a touch—assured her as little else could that his three days away had done nothing to harm him.
“McAlvie!” Gabriel hailed the herdsman. “Where do you want these two?” He indicated the yearling bulls, now coralled by the crowd to one side of the steps; with a word, McAlvie left Richard and hurried to take charge.
The courtyard was a sea of excitement, of ordered pandemonium, with cows mooing, shifting and stamping, surrounded by the household and farmhands, smiling and pointing, chattering and commenting, all waiting to assist in moving the new herd down to the new cattle barn.
Which, Catriona recalled, had been built large enough to hold them.
But first, by vale tradition, they had to be named. McArdle, by right of being the oldest man in the vale, named the bull Henry. Irons declared one of the yearlings was Rupert; Henderson named the other Oswald. The women deferred to their offspring, and thus were born Rose and Misty, Wobbles and Goldy. Tom frowned and bit his lip, then named his cow Checkers.
And so it went on; called on to approve each and every name, Catriona nodded and smiled and laughed. But her senses were elsewhere, trying, through the noise and bustle, to keep track of Richard. He’d dismounted, but she could no longer see his dark head.
To her right, she was distantly aware of Devil strolling up the steps and being pounced on by Honoria. In accents only a duchess could command, her sister-in-law inquired where they’d been. Devil merely grinned. His gaze intent, he turned her and, deftly blocking her attempts to do otherwise, herded her into the house—all further discussion to be undertaken in private. If he gave her an answer, Catriona didn’t hear it.
Behind her, to one side, the Dowager was in earnest discussion with McArdle, gesturing at the herd and asking questions. With a frustrated humph, Patience picked up her skirts and darted down the steps. Vane, handing his reins to one of the grooms, turned as she hurried up. Reaching out, he helped her forward when she would have stopped, one arm sliding around her as he turned her and smoothly guided her toward the gardens.
From her manner, Patience was scolding; from his, Vane wasn’t listening.
Brows lifting resignedly, Catriona straightened and scanned the courtyard again. With the cows all named, McAlvie was preparing to move them around the house and down to the barn. People were milling everywhere, but she could usually see Richard easily—he was taller than any of her people. But no dark head stood out. Hands rising to her hips, a frown forming in her eyes, an emptiness in her heart, Catriona reached out with her senses—a talent she rarely used as it disturbed those, like Cook, who had latent talent of their own.
Richard was not in the courtyard in front of her.
“Do you approve of your wedding present?” The deep purr in her ear, the touch of his breath on the sensitive skin of her temple, came simultaneously with the possessive slide of his hand splaying across her waist and belly. She started, then stilled. He held her, and their child, against him for an instant; she felt his strength envelop her. For one blissful moment, she closed her eyes and let herself slide into it, then his hand slid to her hip and he turned her.
Her eyes snapped open. “Wedding present?”
He was grinning. “I didn’t give you one, remember?” The light in his eyes was victorious, triumphant. “I couldn’t think what to get you.” His gaze softened. “A witch who considers an escort to her prayers as precious as diamonds.” Smiling, he tapped her nose with one finger. “It was a challenge—to find something you’d truly appreciate.”
A shadow fell across his face; Catriona realized that, with his arm about her waist, he’d steered her back into the front hall.
“You bought me a bull as a wedding present?” She wasn’t at all sure she believed that—the herd he’d driven in was worth a small fortune, was probably worth even more than she estimated. The vale could not have afforded that sort of addition to its ailing herd. A fact her husband knew.
“Not just the bull—I bought the whole herd.” He looked at her innocently. “Don’t you like Henry?”
Catriona smothered a snort. “I daresay he’s a very good bull.”
“Oh, an excellent bull—I have guarantees and glowing references as to his performance.”
His lips were very definitely not straight. The front hall was empty—from outside, a cheer went up as the new herd started their last amble to their new home. Richard’s lips curved more definitely, more devilishly; his arm about her tightened. “Why don’t we adjourn to our room? I can explain the finer points of Henry’s reputation, and you can give me your opinion.”
“My opinion?” Arching one brow, Catriona met his glowing gaze. Her feet, of their own accord, were carrying her toward the stairs.
“Your opinion—and, perhaps, a token or two of your affection—your appreciation.” His smile had turned devilish with salacious anticipation. “Just to reassure me that you really do like Henry.”
Catriona looked into his eyes—the sounds of the crowd walking the new herd to the barn were fading in the distance. She could imagine how victorious their progress up the vale had been—she’d seen any number of workers from the farms among the crowd. And the manor folk had given them a rousing welcome—a hero’s welcome. The look in Richard’s eyes—the same look she’d glimpsed briefly in Devil’s and Vane’s—suggested they were expecting a similar welcome from their wives.
Her gaze locked on his, as they reached the top of the stairs, she smiled. Finding his hand, she twined her fingers with his, then, her own eyes alight, she slid her gaze from his and turned toward their chamber. “Come, then—and I’ll consider your reward.”
He deserved it.
Later, after having overseen his bath and shared a dinner fit for a conqueror which, to her amazement, had arrived without explanation on a tray, Catriona rewarded her husband thoroughly, an exercise that left her totally naked, totally drained, slumped, facedown and boneless, amid the rumpled sheets of their bed.
Much later, she mumbled: “Where did you go?”
Sprawled, similarly naked, beside her, Richard glanced at her face. She hadn’t yet opened her eyes, not since he’d shut them for her. He settled back on the pillows and enjoyed the sight—of her luscious ivory back and bottom delectably displayed alongside him. “Hexham.”
“Hexham?” A frown tan
gled Catriona’s brows. “That’s in England.”
“I know.”
“You mean those are English cattle?”
“The very best of English cattle. There’s a breeder who lives outside Hexham—we went to visit him.”
“Visit?”
Richard chuckled. “I have to admit it felt rather like olden times—raiders from the Lowlands sweeping south to steal cattle. Except, of course, that I paid for them.” He considered, then his brows quirked. “Mind you, I’m not sure Mr. Scroggs won’t decide we’ve stolen them anyway—we got them at a very good price.”
Catriona lifted her heavy head, and her heavy lids, and stared at him. “Why was that?”
Richard grinned. “Devil’s inimitable ways. His presence here was too good an opportunity to pass up—he’s a master at negotiating. He doesn’t precisely lean on people—not physically—but they do tend to give ground. Rather unexpectedly, to them.”
Catriona humphed and lowered her head back onto the tangled covers. “We weren’t expecting you for another day—you said four in your note.”
“Ah, yes.” Noting the increasing strength in her voice, Richard’s interest in their adventure waned. “We expected to get back today—one day to ride to Hexham, two days to drive the cattle back, but”—he slid down the bed, then swung up and straddled her knees—“we thought if we said four days rather than three, you’d worry less.” Sliding his palms along her thighs, he gripped her hips and gently flipped her onto her back. “Or,” he said, sitting back on his ankles, his hot gaze roving her delectable nakedness, “at least, not yet have whipped yourselves into a righteous frenzy when we got back on the third day.”
So sated she could not tense a single muscle, Catriona lay on her back and stared up at him. “You purposely told us four days, so we wouldn’t be prepared to . . . to deal with you as you deserved—”
A swift grin cut off her words; he swooped down and kissed her. “We wanted to surprise you.”
For more reasons than one, Catriona knew, but as he kissed her lingeringly again, and eased his long body down over hers, she couldn’t summon enough temper to care. He lay on her as they kissed, then eased to one side, lying half over her, half beside her, one dark, hair-dusted thigh wedged between hers.
Propped on one elbow, he turned his head and splayed his hand over her belly. Gently, he stroked, gauged. “Have you told them yet?” Her gaze on his face, Catriona shook her head. “I . . . wanted to wait a little—we haven’t had time—”
“I haven’t said anything, either.” His hand resting heavy over where their child grew, secure within her womb, he turned his head and met her gaze. “I want to think about it—see how things settle—how it feels, if it . . . fits.”
He looked back at his hand; Catriona studied his face, dark planes gilded by the firelight. Then she raised a hand and gently smoothed back the lock of hair that always fell over his forehead. He looked back at her; she smiled into his eyes. “It fits.” Her heart swelling, she held his gaze. “You, me, our child, the manor, the vale—we all fit.”
For one long instant, she was lost in the blue—the blue of summer skies over Merrick’s high head. Then she smiled, mistily, and traced his cheek. “This is how it’s meant to be.”
Her gaze had dropped to his lips; half-lifting her head, she rose—he bent his head and their lips met, in a kiss so achingly tender, so honest, so vulnerable, there were tears in her eyes when it ended.
He looked down at her for a moment, then his lips kicked up at the ends. “Come show me.” Drawing back, he sat on his haunches and pulled her up to her knees.
“Show you what?” Turning her head, she looked over her shoulder as he swung her about so her back was to him.
His eyes burned, his grin grew wicked as he drew her back, sliding her knees outside of his, drawing her bottom against his ridged abdomen. “Show me how things fit.”
He needed little instruction on that point; hot and hard, he pressed into her. Her body flowered and opened for him; she gave a soft sigh as he slid fully home.
He settled her, her thighs over his, her bottom wedged against his hips. Impaled upon him, with his chest against her back and his steely arms around her, she was open and vulnerable; her breasts, her belly, the springy curls at its base, the soft inner surfaces of her thighs, already taut, were his to stroke and fondle, to caress as he willed.
And he willed.
Held almost upright, she couldn’t rise much upon him; instead, buried deep within her, he rocked. Slowly, languorously.
Catriona bit her lip against a groan as his fingers tightened about her budded nipples and she felt him surge slowly within her.
Then he chuckled; fingers gripping her hips, he lifted her a little, then slowly thrust upward and filled her. Catriona shivered.
“I was just thinking . . .” he murmured.
Flicking a glance over her shoulder, she saw him looking down as he lifted her slightly again.
“We can’t risk telling anyone our news yet.”
He filled her; Catriona dragged in a desperate breath. “Why not?”
“Because if Maman finds out, she might not leave.” He drew her fully down and rolled his hips beneath her. He reached for her breasts. “And much as I love her, having Helena about for any appreciable time would try the patience of a saint.”
He filled his palms and kneaded.
“Devil seems to manage.”
“She doesn’t fuss about him.”
He started to rock her again, a tantalizingly slow ride. His hands drifted over her skin and she heated, and grew hotter. Grew wilder.
She hadn’t yet got used to his manner of loving, of the slow, relentless giving, the gradual, inexorable rise toward bliss. If she tried to run ahead, he would hold her back, prolong the delicious torture until she was all but beyond herself—until, when he let her fly free, she screamed.
She’d had trouble with those screams from the first. She’d tried to muffle them, tried to suppress them, tried to at least keep them within bounds—keep them from disturbing the household. He didn’t seem to care—but then, as Helena would say, he was a man.
The thought focused her mind on the evidence of that, on the thick, heavy, rigid reality filling her, stretching her, completing her—she felt excitement fuse, felt the thrill shimmer and grow.
Desperately, she opened her eyes and focused—on her dressing table across the room. In the mirror, lit only by the weak light of the fire, she saw him, a dark presence in the shadows behind her, saw her body lift rhythmically in his embrace, saw his body coil and flex, driving hers.
Upward. Onward. Into that realm of pleasure where the physical and emotional and spiritual merged.
But he kept their journey to a rigidly slow pace.
Dragging in a breath, her senses at full stretch, her wits all but scattered, she sought for some distraction—something to help her survive the slow disintegration of her senses. “Your nickname.”
“Hmm?” He wasn’t listening.
“Scandal,” she gasped. She’d heard Devil, Vane and Gabriel all use it to his face, although naturally, all the ladies called him Richard. Clutching the arm wrapped across her hips, she let her head fall back and licked her dry lips. “How did you come by it?”
She’d wanted to know since first she’d heard it.
“Why do you want to know?” There was a touch of amusement in his voice—a teasing lilt.
Why? “Because we might go to London. In the circumstances, I think I have a right to know.”
“You never leave the vale.”
“But you might have to go south for some reason.”
After a moment, he chuckled. His steady rocking penetration had not faltered. “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh?” She was clinging to sanity by her fingernails.
“Devil coined the tag—it wasn’t because I cause scandal, but because I was: ‘A Scandal That Never Was.’ ”
Her wits were reeling, her senses f
racturing—beneath her heated skin, her nerves had stretched taut. As if he understood, he nuzzled her ear. “Because of Helena’s actions in claiming me as hers, I was a scandal that never eventuated.”
“Oh.” She breathed the syllable—it shattered in the warm stillness as she gasped. And tightened, every muscle coiling.
He bent her forward, drove deeply into her—and sent her flying, tumbling over the edge of the world.
Richard held her before him, heard her scream—listened to it die to a sob. He held still—briefly—buried within her, savoring the strong ripples of her release, then let go his own reins, let his body have its way, and followed her into ecstasy.
By the time she joined the breakfast table the next morning, Catriona was a walking testament to the fact that three days spent primarily out of doors had completely restored Richard’s strength.
There was nothing wrong with his stamina; she could swear to that on The Lady’s name.
A fact apparently so obvious, no one needed to ask; all the Cynsters were busy with their preparations to leave.
If anything, their leaving created even more commotion than their arrival.
Two hours later, standing on the steps, ready to wave them off, Catriona turned as the Dowager came bustling out, lecturing McArdle to the last.
“Once down to the cattle barn and back at least once a day—I will check in my letters to see that you are doing it.”
McArdle’s assurance that he wouldn’t forget was lost in the clatter as Vane’s elegant carriage, drawn by matched greys, came rattling around the house to join the Dowager’s carriage and the ducal equipage, both already waiting on the cobbles.
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