Scandals Bride

Chapter 13

He wasn't, in fact, a patient man. Ever since receiving the information from Montague, he'd been watching for-waiting for-an opportunity to discuss the matter with his wife. To banish the shadows that seemed to grow, day by day, in her eyes.

Instead, four days later, he'd yet to discover a suitable moment to speak to her. Lounging in an archway not far from her office door, Richard, brooding darkly, kept his gaze on the oak panel and waited some more.

He had a bone-deep aversion to discussing business in their bed. There she remained her usual self, warmly wanton, sweetly taking him in and holding him tight, still insisting on trying to muffle her pleasured screams-he was conscious of a deep reluctance to do anything that might alter the openness that had grown between them there.

But her days were busy; she seemed constantly involved in meetings, or discussions, or in overseeing the household. And if she wasn't actually engaged in the above, she was surrounded by others-by McArdle, Mrs. Broom, or, worse still, Algaria. Even in the odd moments when he would come upon her alone, she was always rushing to be somewhere else.

Worse yet, he was starting to become seriously worried about her health. He was too well attuned to her not to sense the tension, the fragility, she hid beneath her cloak of serenity. He couldn't help but wonder if her pregnancy, which she'd yet to mention to him, was the cause of it-the sudden breathlessness that came upon her, and an emotional brittleness she tried hard to hide.

Those symptoms weren't there when she slid into his arms every night. He couldn't help wonder if, during the days, she was working herself too hard, rather than letting him ease the load so she could take better care of herself-and their child.

The office door opened; McArdle stumped out.

Richard straightened; he waited until McArdle disappeared down the corridor, then swiftly strolled to the office door. He hesitated for a moment, reminding himself that he couldn't demand, then opened the door-and strolled languidly in.

Seated behind her desk, Catriona looked up-Richard smiled easily, charmingly. And tried not to notice the clouds dimming her green eyes. "Are you busy?"

Catriona drew in a deep breath and looked down at the papers before her. "I am, actually. Henderson and Huggins-"

"I won't keep you above a moment."

The words were drawled, nonchalant-unthreatening. Acutely conscious of him, Catriona forced herself to sit back in her chair and wait while he strolled, all idle elegance, to the window.

"Actually, I wondered if I might help you out, as you seem so rushed these days."

Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Catriona turned her head and met his gaze. Swiftly-with a hope she could only just bear to acknowledge-she studied his face. It was an indolent mask of polite indifference; there was no hint of real commitment, real passion-of really wanting to help. No hint that the vale-and she-were seriously important to him.

He smiled, charming as ever, although she noticed the gesture didn't reach his eyes. A languid wave underscored his words: "There's nothing much for me to do here, so I've plenty of time free."

Catriona fought to keep her expression blank, and succeeded. He was bored and could see she was busy, so he'd done the gentlemanly thing and offered to help. She had no trouble shaking her head brusquely and looking back at her letters. "There's really no need. I'm quite capable of handling the vale's business on my own."

The words, uttered in a hard tone, were as much to convince herself of that tact as to decline his gentlemanly offer.

He hesitated, then said, a trace of steel in his tones: "As you wish." With a graceful inclination of his head, he strolled out and left her to it.

The thaw arrived.

Two mornings later, Richard lay late in bed, listening to the steady drip of water from the eaves. Catriona had slipped from his arms early, whispering about a confinement, assuring him that she wasn't going out but that the mother-to-be was sate inside the manor.

Staring up at the dark red canopy, Richard tried to keep his thoughts from her, from the leaden feeling that, two days ago, had settled in his gut.

And failed.

Inwardly grimacing, he irritably reminded himself that failure was not something Cynsters indulged in-much less on the scale he was presently wallowing in.

He was failing on all fronts.

The new life he'd envisaged for himself at Catriona's side, once so full of promise and possibilities, had turned into a disappointment. A deep, deadening disappointment-he'd never felt so disillusioned with life as he felt now.

There was nothing for him here-nothing for him to do, nothing for him to be. Boredom now haunted him; his old restlessness-something he'd hoped he'd lost for all time in the kirk at Keltyburn-was growing.

Along with a dark, compelling sense of worthlessness- at least, in this place. In this vale-her vale.

He couldn't understand her.

From night to cockcrow, they were as close as a man and woman could be, but when morning came and she slipped from his arms, it was as if, along with her clothes, she donned some invisible mantle and became "the lady of the vale"-a woman with a calling, a position and a purpose in life, from all of which he was excluded.

While gentlemen of his station did not customarily share their wives' lives, he, very definitely, had expected to share hers. Still wanted to share hers. The prospect of sharing her responsibilities, of sharing it all as a mutual endeavor, and thus having a strong and abiding connection on a daily basis-that was certainly a large part of the attraction he felt for her. She was, he had thought, a woman he could share goals with, share achievements with.

Their marriage hadn't, so far, turned out that way.

He'd been careful of her, careful of pressuring her-he'd given her every chance to ask him for help, for assistance. He'd tried hard not to force her hand-and got nowhere.

For long moments, his gaze locked on the dark red above him, he considered the obvious alternative-the action his Cynster self strongly urged. He could, very easily, take over the reins and steer their marriage into the paths he wanted it to follow. He was not a naturally passive person, he wouldn't normally endure a situation he didn't like. Normally, he'd simply change it.

But…

He could forsee two difficulties. The first was that, in taking the reins, he would risk damaging the very thing he most wanted to preserve. He wanted Catriona as a willing life-partner, not as one resenting his dominance.

That, however, while quite bad enough, ranked as the more minor of his difficulties.

The larger, most insurmountable problem, was his vow. The vow he'd made to her-twice-that he would not impinge on her independence, would never seek to override her authority. She'd taken him on trust-she trusted him to keep that vow no matter what. To wrest control from her would betray that trust, in the most damning and damaging way.

There were few things he was sure of in this marriage of theirs, but he knew to his soul that he could never endure the look in her green eyes if he ever betrayed her on that front.

Which meant…

He was on a narrow track, high up a mountainside, with unbroken rock to one side and a sheer precipice on the other. He could go forward, or retreat.

Heaving a deep sigh, Richard threw back the covers and got up.

Cynsters never retreated.

The concept was totally alien to him-the very thought offended him at some deep level. So he waited, and trapped her once more in her office, at a time when he knew he could wrest at least two minutes from her busy schedule.

After ambling idly in and exchanging a mild comment about the weather, he looked down at her and asked: "Tell me, my dear, do you have any need of me here?"

He wanted to ask the question brutally-wanted to show her how much she was hurting him by shutting him out of her life, by denying him the chance to give what he felt he could-but he couldn't do it, couldn't let her see how pathetically vulnerable he'd become. So he kept his social mask intact and asked the question lightly, coolly. As if the answer was of no great moment.

Which was how Catriona heard it-that and rather more. To her, it rang as the prelude to his informing her that he was leaving-the polite patter of the executioner before the axe fell.

So she held her own calm like a shield over her weeping heart and smiled, a little weakly, back up at him. "No. There's really nothing for you to do."

Looking down, she forced herself to go on, forced herself to play the role she'd spent hours rehearsing-the role of acquiescent wife. "I daresay you'll be heading to London soon-Huggins heard this morning that the roads to the south are all open, at least as far as Carlisle."

Her head throbbed, her stomach churned, but she continued in the same, lightly distant, tone: "You'll be anxious to see your family, I expect. Your stepmother must be waiting…" She nearly choked, but swallowed just in time. "And, of course, there'll be the balls and parties."

She continued to enter the figures she'd been transferring from scraps of paper into a ledger-and didn't look up. She didn't dare-if she did, the tears she was holding back would spill over, and then he would know.

Know what he mustn't. Know that she didn't want him to go-that she wanted him here, forever by her side.

But she'd thought it all through very carefully; she had to-absolutely had to-leave him free to leave her. There was no point in binding him to her-to the vale-with ties that would only be resented.

If she could have, she would have stopped herself from falling in love with him, from being in love with him, but it was far too late for that. Even knowing he was leaving, she still couldn't help but wish that she had been the one to change him-the one to focus all his inherent, unconscious qualities-his innate care, his protectiveness, his absentminded kindness-so he became the man he could be.

Her consort.

The Lady had been right-he was made for the position-the real position-but no one could force him to take it. That was a decision he had to make himself, and she couldn't interfere. She had to let him go.

And hope, and pray, that one day he might want what she could give him.

"It must be quite grand," she said, determined to make it easy for him, and easier, therefore, for her, "being in London with all the swells, going to all the balls and parties."

She felt his gaze leave her; a moment of silence ensued. Then he shifted. "Indeed."

She looked up, but he merely inclined his head, his lips lightly curving, and didn't meet her eyes. "I daresay I'll enjoy the balls and parties."

He turned from her and strolled, languid as ever, from the room. Catriona stared at his back, then stated at the door when he closed it behind him. And wondered at his tone, wondered whether her own sensitivity had made her imagine a deep bleakness behind his words.

He'd tried a last throw of the dice-and lost. More than he'd known he had bet.

She had told him there was nothing for him here-and he had to accept her decision. And if he'd needed any urging to leave the held of his defeat, her lightly distant tone as she'd dismissed him and all but wished him on his way had provided it.

Richard didn't know how they had come to this-to this brittle state where it took effort to remain in each other's company. He didn't know-he couldn't imagine-he couldn't even think straight. He couldn't even breathe freely, there was an iron vise locked about his lower chest-every breath was a battle.

How they would get through the night, he hadn't any idea. For the first time since they had married, she was later to bed than he. He waited in the dimness, lit only by the dying fire, and wondered if she really was tending the recently born child and its mother or- avoiding him.

It was nearly midnight before the door opened; she glanced at the bed only fleetingly, then went to the fire. Richard nearly spoke-nearly called to her-but couldn't think of what to say.

Then he realized she didn't intend sleeping in the armchair, she was simply undressing before the fire.

He watched her-hungrily. Let his eyes feast on her neatly rounded limbs, her skin pearlescent in the fire's flickering light. Drank in the sight of her back, the sleek planes achingly familiar, the globes of her bottom a remembered delight. He stared at her long fire-gold mane as she shook it out, spreading it over her shoulders, as if he could burn the sight into his mind.

Then lost what little breath he had when she turned and, naked-with that glorious unconsciousness she'd displayed from the first-walked to the bed. To where he lay waiting in the dark.

He tensed-expecting her to be tense, too-expecting her to hold herself distantly as she had all day. Instead, she lifted the covers, slid beneath-and slid farther, straight into his arms.

For one moment, his heart stood still, then his arms closed about her. She lifted her lips-he hesitated for only a second before he took them.

Took her-took her mouth as she offered it, took her body as she freely gave it.

If he could have thought, he might have seized the opportunity to ruthlessly, calculatingly, tie her to him with passion-to make her burn so achingly long, so excruciatingly hot, that she would never be able to bid him adieu. Or if she did, would suffer tortures every night without him.

He didn't think-but yet he did. Loved her with such passion, such distilled, poignant force, that she cried. Cried tears of sheer delight, of bliss too great to contain.

All he wanted was to fill his mind, his senses, his heart and soul with her-so inside, she would always be with him.

As he, wherever he was, would, in his mind, always-ever more-be with her.

Beneath him, Catriona clung to him, opened her body and heart to him, knowing full well this might be the last time. If she could have held him with sheer lust she would have-she burned with her need of him and was too desperate to hide it. Desire, unleashed, gave her strength-strength to challenge him on a field that had hitherto been his. Stroked and caressed and loved to flashpoint, still she urged him on-pushed him back and pressed her own wild caresses on him, placed hot, open-mouthed kisses all over his hard body, then, driven by her wildness, took him into her mouth.

And felt the shudder that racked him, the bone deep groan she drew from him.

She loved him with abandon, with her heart, with her soul. Until he, his hands sunk in her hair, helplessly guiding her, suddenly clutched and drew her away. Suddenly sat up, suddenly swung behind her.

And entered her from behind.

Her gasp hung like spun silver in the dark; she arched, clamping tightly about him-he pushed her down, and thrust deeper.

Ultimately, he was stronger-much stronger-than she.

He held her down and raced her straight up the mountain and into earth-shattering delight. Then waited only until her senses were hers again before pressing her on, up the next slope.

Through the dark hours he loved her as he would, and she was his willing slave. She wanted to be everything to him, so she gave all he asked, and offered more.

And he took. He drank from her until she thought she would die, then filled her relentlessly until she did. Until her senses were consumed in a blaze of glory, and she shattered beneath him.

They came together again and again, until there was nothing between them. No space, no feeling, no sense of separate existence. They became, in the dead of that night, one soul melded from the fusion of two.

The final end, when it came, shattered them both, but not even the force of that implosion could undo what the night had wrought.

Richard's return to life-to reality-was a slow, bitter journey.

He couldn't conceive how she could be as she was-so totally abandoned in his arms, yet quite prepared, come the time, to smile sweetly and wave him good bye.

Lips twisting in bitter self deprecation, he accepted that he had to have been wrong-that despite his expertise in this theatre, she was an exception. A woman who could love with her heart and soul, without, in tact, loving at all.

He was, it seemed, just like Thunderer-a stud whose physical attributes she appreciated.

She was wrapped half-about him, lying in his arms; he lifted his head and looked at her face, only barely discernible in the dark. She was still on her way back from heaven-he could tell by the lack of tension in her limbs. Lying back again, he waited for her to return to the living. And him.

When she did, however, she simply murmured sleepily and snuggled down, her head on his shoulder, her arm over his chest, one thigh intimately wedged between his.

Richard frowned. "I'll be leaving in the morning."

Catriona heard the words-words she'd been expecting-and felt them in her heart. She'd already heard from her staff of the packing and carriage arrangements. She hesitated for as long as she dared, while frantically wondering what he expected her to say. "I know," she eventually murmured.

The hard body beneath her stiffened fractionally, then, after a second, eased. His chest swelled.

"Well," he said, his tone light but grating, "I suppose there really isn't anything more you need from me, now-at least, not for some time."

He paused; when, bewildered, she said nothing, he continued. "Now you have the child The Lady told you to get from me."

His bitterness rang clearly; bowing her head, biting her lower lip, Catriona accepted it.

She should have told him.

"I… " How to tell him it had slipped her mind? "Forgot." She rushed on "It's just that I've been so…"

"Busy?"

So caught up with him. Her temper flashed-a weak flame, but enough to sour her. She'd been so focused on him, she'd totally forgotten the one thing, the one being, that should have been at the center of her consciousness. If she'd needed any proof of how totally obsessed with him she was, how he completely overshadowed everything else in her life, she had it now.

She couldn't think of any response to his rejoinder, so she let it pass. Slowly, she drew her limbs from his and turned away.

Only to be swept by a desolate bleakness, a bone-deep sense of loss. They'd been cheated. A moment that should have been so special, so joyful and filled with love, had instead been soured by hurt and bitterness.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep; beside her, Richard did the same.

Disillusionment followed them into troubled dreams.

The next day dawned clear, with a brisk breeze scudding clouds over a pale blue sky-a morning bright with the promise of a new season. Perfect for traveling.

Catriona noted the signs from the top of the manor steps and struggled to reconcile them with the heaviness in her heart.

She would normally have gone to pray this morning, but had changed her mind. It was the first time in her life she'd put something else higher than her devotions to The Lady, but she couldn't deny herself her last sight of Richard. It would have to tide her over, probably for months. Possibly until their child was born. And maybe even longer.

Before her, her people scurried to secure the last of Richard's trunks to the carriage roof-he'd left some things behind, for which she was more pathetically grateful than she would ever let anyone know. They would be her only physical link with him in the coming months.

Blinking back the prickling heat behind her lids, she watched the horses-Richard's handsome greys-led up. Her people, unaware of any undercurrents-not, indeed, the sort of folk who were at all susceptible to such subtleties-threw themselves into the final preparations with innocent energy. They simply imagined this was how it was supposed to be, their trust in The Lady-and in her-was complete. The only member of staff who seemed at all put out was, of all people, Worboys. Catriona studied his long face, and wondered, but could reach no conclusion.

Then Richard appeared from the direction of the stables, where he'd gone to bid Thunderer good-bye. He strode across the cobbles, his greatcoat flapping about his gleaming Hessians. He was immaculately dressed as always, as he paused to give orders to the grooms harnessing his greys, Catriona drank in the sight.

Drank in the faintly bored, distant expression on his face, the easy air of ineffable superiority that was so innate a part of him.

He turned and saw her, hesitated, then strode toward her; Catriona looked her fill. To her, he was, quite simply, gorgeous-the most fascinating man she'd ever met.

He was also the epitome of a bored and restless rake shaking the dust of a too quiet backwater and an unwanted wife from his highly polished boots. That fact was declared in the hard planes of his face as his eyes met hers, in the cynical set of his lips. Bravely, desperately, holding her cloak of regal assurance in place, Catriona smiled distantly.

"I'll bid you adieu, then. I hope you reach London without mishap."

She lifted her head and met his hard blue gaze directly, that had been the most difficult speech she d ever made.

Richard studied her eyes, searched them, for some sign all this was a dream. It felt unreal to him-couldn't she sense it? But even more strong than the sense of unreality was the feeling-the compulsion-of inevitability.

It had seemed inevitable they would marry-he'd accepted that and hoped, in his heart, that from their marriage he would gain the stability he'd sought-he'd needed-for so long. Instead, now, it seemed inevitable he would be disappointed in their union, and would, once again, be footless, unanchored, drifting in life's stream. Unconnected to anyone.

He'd thought-hoped-that their marriage would be his salvation. It appeared he'd been wrong; it was therefore inevitable that he would leave.

Would walk away from his wife and leave her to manage on her own.

Uncharacteristic rancor filled him when her eyes gave him no hope, no sign, no encouragement to change his mind and stay. "I'll leave you then."

The words echoed with the bitterness he couldn't hide.

She smiled and held out her hand. "Farewell."

He looked down, into her eyes, trying to fathom, at the last, what shimmered in the vibrant green depths; he took her hand-and felt her fingers slide into his. Felt the touch of her palm, felt her fingertips quiver. And felt-sensed-

"Here you are sir!"

They both turned to find Mrs. Broom standing beaming just behind them, virtually between them. She held up a packed basket. "Cook and me thought as how you'd be grateful of some real sustenance on the road. Better'n that terrible inn food."

Richard knew for a tact that neither Mrs. Broom nor Cook had ever been to an inn in their lives. It was a measure of how his mind was functioning that that was the only thought he could muster. He felt shaken-and torn-and turned inside out. Taking the basket from Mrs. Broom and summoning a weak smile for her from somewhere, he passed the basket straight to a groom and looked back at Catriona.

Only to see her smile evenly. "Good-bye."

For one instant, he hovered on the brink-of refusing to accept her dismissal, of hauling her into his arms and refusing to let her go, of telling her straitly how things would henceforth be between them-

Her steady smile, her steady eyes-and the black cloud of inevitability-stopped him.

Faultlessly correct, he inclined his head, then turned and strolled nonchalantly down the steps.

Catriona watched him go and felt her heart go with him. Knew to the depths of her soul that she would never be the same-be as strong-without him. He paused to speak to his coachman, then entered the carriage without a backward glance. He sat back and Worboys shut the door; the carriage lurched into motion and headed, gathering speed as it went, down the drive and into the park.

Raising a hand in farewell, one he couldn't see, Catriona murmured a benediction. She watched, silent and still at the top of the steps, ignoring the people trooping past her, until the carriage disappeared into the trees.

Then she went inside, but didn't join her household at breakfast. Instead, she climbed to her turret room, opened the window wide-and watched the carriage carrying her husband from her, until it had passed from the vale.