Scandal's Bride (24 page)

They slipped free—abruptly, she lifted her head and stared at him. “What . . . ?”

The half-squeaked question was eloquent; Richard raised a suggestive brow.

“Here?”

He raised his brow higher. “Where else?”

“But . . .” Aghast, she stared at him. Then she looked up at the carriage roof. “Your coachman . . .”

“Is paid enough to feign deafness.” Ready, Richard reached for her.

She looked back at him and licked her lips, glanced at the seat beside them, then shook her head in disbelief. “How . . . ?”

He showed her, drawing her fully to him, then easing into her softness. As she fathomed his intention and felt him enter her, she spread her thighs, slid her knees along the cushions, and, with a soft sigh, sank down, impaling herself fully upon him.

As she closed, scalding hot, around him, Richard, watching her face and seeing the expression of sheer relief that washed over her fine features, got the distinct impression that she was as thankful to have him inside her again as he was to be there.

Wrapping his arms about her, one beneath her hips, he took her lips in a searing kiss, then lifted her. Rocked her.

She caught the rhythm quickly. Rising on her knees, she tried to increase the tempo.

“No.” Anchoring her hips, he drew her fully down, held her there for a moment, then picked up the rhythm again. “Keep in time with the horses.”

She blinked at him, but did; gradually, the steady, rolling rocking became so instinctive they no longer needed to think of it—but could think, instead, solely of the indescribable pleasure of their bodies merging intimately, again and again, in a journey of infinite delight.

Held firmly, closely, Catriona shuddered—with pure pleasure, with sharp excitement. With an unfurling sense of the illicit—of the wild, the unconventional—in her soul and his. Eyes closed, held close in his embrace, their fully dressed state contradicted, contrasted—focused her senses on—the area of their naked engagement. Along the bare inner face of her thighs, all she could feel was the fabric of his trousers, the smooth leather of the seat. Over her flanks and legs, over the curves of her bottom, all she could feel was the shift and glide of her lawn chemise and petticoats.

Only at the core of her, in the soft, swollen, heated flesh between her widespread thighs—only there could she feel him, only there did they touch with no barriers between. Only there did they merge, sweetly slick, powerfully smooth.

With heightened senses, she reveled in the power inherent in their joining, in the deeply compulsive repetition, in the burgeoning energy rising within them.

Senses wide open, awareness complete, she was deeply conscious that outside the carriage, the world, ice cold and blanketed in white, went on, committed to its own steady rhythm, the unquenchable rhythm of life. Under the snow, life still glowed, seeds warm, fecundity waiting to flower. Just as, beneath their heavy clothes, they—their bodies and their lives—were melding, seeds sown in darkness to flower later—in summer, when the sun returned.

With their own rhythm, the rhythm of their breathing, of their heartbeats, of the constant flexing of their bodies, locked to the rolling gait of the horses plodding through that wintry scene, they, too, became part of it. A natural part of the landscape, the act of their joining invested with the same, intrinsic force that breathed life into the world.

As the snow swirled and the light slowly faded and the horses plodded on, locked in each others arms, their bodies slowly tensing, straining toward shimmering release, they were a piece of the jigsaw of the world at that moment. An essential, necessary piece.

With that certainty investing her mind, her soul, Catriona dragged her lips from his. Laying her head on his shoulder, her forehead by his jaw, she breathed rapidly, raggedly. Her body moved incessantly without her direction, driven by a need she no longer needed to conceal. Didn't know how to conceal.

Caught in the moment, she clung to him, conscious to her toes of the steely strength of him, the hot hard length of him, sliding so effortlessly deep into her core, nudging her womb, soon to fill it, to provide the seed for her fruit.

Need built, then flooded her; she heard herself moan. He shifted and brushed a hot kiss to her temple, then tightened his arms about her and urged her on. Urged her deeper upon him.

She dragged in a desperate breath, and tightened about him, and drew him in—into her body, into her soul.

Into her heart.

She could feel her protective distance dissolving—feel her shields slide away—leaving her defenseless. At her feet, the hole she'd jumped into that first night yawned and beckoned anew—tempting her to recommit to it, to jump in as she had when she'd first given herself to him, when she'd first welcomed him—the warrior—into her body. The second night she'd gone to him had dug the hole deeper, the third night had sealed her fate.

Now, compelled by that same fate, drawn on by a force more powerful than any she'd known, she stepped forward gladly and slid into the dark.

And she was falling.

Through darkness hot with passion, sparking with desire, heated by their yearning bodies. The rush of need rose up and caught her, swept her up and on, a wave lifting her to blessed oblivion. She rode it, rode him, urgently—he met her, reflected her energy and pushed her on. Ever on.

To culmination, to the peak of joy that swelled and welled, then crashed about her, showering her body, her mind with wonder, with release so fragilely beautiful it shimmered in her veins and glowed beneath her skin.

Eyes shut, fingers clenched in his shirt, she muffled her scream against his warm chest. She clung, blissfully buoyed, to the peak for one long instant, then let go.

And floated, at peace.

He gathered her to him, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and filled her even more deeply, even more forcefully. Fully open, she received him joyfully, softly smiling at his deep groan of completion, at the warmth that flooded her womb.

She'd made her decision and stepped into the unknown, and there was nowhere to land but in his arms.

They closed about her, holding her tight.

Shutting her eyes against a sharp rush of emotion, Catriona surrendered and sank into his embrace.

“I take it,” Richard drawled, “that that's Merrick looming ahead?”

“Yes.” Nose all but pressed to the window, Catriona spared no more than a swift glance for the majestic peak towering over the head of the vale. The carriage rocked and raced on, swiftly pulled by Richard's powerful horses; they were almost home, and she had so many things to think of. “That's the Melchetts' farm.” She nodded to a huddle of low-roofed buildings hugging the protection of a rise. “The woods beyond yield most of our firelogs.”

She sensed Richard's nod; she kept her eyes glued to the scene beyond the window, as if cataloging all she saw. In reality, her mind was in an unaccustomed, but oddly pleasant whirl—due, of course, to him. They'd crossed into the vale ten minutes before, having left Ayr, on the coast, at first light, after only two nights on the road.

The first, spent at The Angel in Stirling, had opened her eyes to the benefits of traveling with a gentleman—a rich, powerful, protective one. Through Worboys, Richard had made his wishes—their requirements—known; all had happened as he'd decreed. Even Algaria, traveling behind them in the vale's carriage, had muted her unspoken disapproval. Even she had had to appreciate the ease of a private parlor and the quality of an excellent dinner.

Algaria had fallen silent; as the days passed, she'd become withdrawn. Inwardly sighing, Catriona accepted it and waited for her mentor to see the light.

For herself, revelation had already come.

As husband and wife, she and Richard had shared a room, shared a bed, for the past two nights. Time enough, opportunity enough, for her to see what the future might hold. Falling asleep in his arms had been heaven. Waking up there had proved a new delight.

Feeling heat in her cheeks, Catriona inwardly grinned. She avoided looking at the cause and kept her gaze on the white fields, her hot cheeks close to the cold window.

While her mind remembered all the details, and her wayward senses reveled in recollected sensation.

She'd woken that morning to find him wrapped around her, woken to the sensation of him sliding into her. She'd gasped and clutched the arm wrapped about her waist, only to have him tip her hips back so he could enter her more deeply.

He'd loved her as he always did—slowly, languorously, powerfully. Indefatigably. That seemed to be his style. It was one she found addictive. There was a depth to their intimacy, both physical and emotional, that she hadn't expected.

She'd closed her eyes and drunk it in, let it seep through her and nourish her soul.

Now, she was all but hanging out of the window in her excitement, her eagerness to be home. To start her new life—to have him there, a part of it.

“There!” Like a child, she pointed through the birches, a forest of trunks and bare branches. She glanced over her shoulder at Richard. “That's Casphairn Manor.”

He shifted and drew near to peer over her shoulder. “Grey stone?” Catriona nodded as a turret flashed into view.

“The park looks extensive.”

“It is.” She glanced at him. “It's necessary to protect the manor from the winds and snows driving off Merrick.”

He nodded and sat back again; Catriona turned back to the window. “Another ten minutes and we'll be there.” Worry tinged her voice—directly attributable to the sudden, disconcerting thought of whether there was any potential problem she'd failed to foresee, any action she ought to be prepared to take to smooth his entry into the vale, into her life. Inwardly frowning, she stared out the window.

Richard noted her concern, as he'd noted her earlier absorption with her holdings. Her mind was clearly on her fields, on the vale—on her responsibilities, not on him.

His gaze on her profile, he inwardly grimaced. The last two days had gone his way—all his way. She was his on one level at least. But once they gained Casphairn Manor, he'd face new challenges—ones he'd never faced before.

Like keeping his promise not to interfere with her role, with how she ran the vale. Like learning to accept what he meant to her—whatever that was.

That last grated, on his temper, on his Cynster soul. He was not at all sure he appreciated the hand Her Lady had had in bringing about their marriage. Admittedly, if it hadn't been for such divine intervention, Catriona might not now be his—not on any level. Witch that she was, she was stubborn, willful, and not easily swayed, particularly when it came to matters affecting her calling.

His gaze locked on her face, he felt his features harden, felt determination swell.

It must, he reflected, be his week for making vows.

In this case—her case—he didn't even have to think of the wording, the statement simply rang in his mind. She would, he swore, come to want him on her own account, not because Her Lady had ordained it. She'd want him, all of him, for herself—for what he gave her.

That wasn't, he felt sure, how she felt about him now, how she saw him in relation to herself, but he was a hunter to his soul—he was perfectly prepared to play a waiting game. Prepared to lay snares, carefully camouflaged traps, to persist until she was his.

His in body, as she already was, and his in her mind as well.

His—freely. That was, he suddenly realized, the only way he'd truly have her—the only way he'd know that she truly was his.

As the carriage slowed, rocked, then rumbled through a pair of gateposts and on down a long avenue through the park, Richard watched his new bride—and idly speculated on just how she would tell him—how she would show him—when the time came, and she truly was his.

“Good morning, m'lady! And a good morning it is that brings you home safe and sound.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Broom.” Taking Richard's hand, Catriona descended the steps of his carriage, and, to her surprise, couldn't exactly place what her housekeeper was thinking. Mrs. Broom was usually easy to read, but the huge grin on her homely face as she beamed up at Richard, all handsomely elegant as usual, defied interpretation.

The sight of an unknown carriage leading her own up the long drive had brought the manor's people running. Maids and stablelads, grooms and workmen, all piled into the courtyard, gathering in a loose crowd about the main steps before which Richard's coachman had pulled up.

Richard had descended first; from the shadows of the carriage, Catriona had watched her people's eyes widen, seen the surprise, the speculation. She'd waited for the distrust, the defensiveness, ready to combat it—but it hadn't yet appeared.

Leaving one hand in Richard's, she gestured with the other, smiling as, with a wave, she gathered her people's attention, then directed it to Richard. “This is my husband, Mr. Richard Cynster. We were married two days ago.”

A wave of excitement, a murmur of clear approval, swept the crowd. Catriona smiled at Richard, then smoothly turned to the old man leaning heavily on a stick beside Mrs. Broom. “Allow me to present McArdle.” The old man bowed, slow and deep; when he straightened, a smile wider than any Catriona could recall wreathed his face.

“ 'Tis a pleasure to welcome you to Casphairn Manor, sir.”

Smiling back, Richard inclined his head urbanely. “It's a pleasure to be here, McArdle.”

As if some ritual—one
she
was unaware of—had been successfully completed, everyone—all those who had served her since birth, all those who were in her care—relaxed and welcomed Richard Cynster into their midst. Utterly bemused, Catriona felt their warm welcome enfold him. He responded; placing her hand on his sleeve, he turned her. With her at his side, he slowly circled the gathering, so he could meet all her household.