Scandal's Bride (5 page)

The look she sent him should have laid him out dead on the Aubusson rug; Richard merely lifted a brow, deliberately arrogant, deliberately provocative. And held onto her hand, and her gaze. “What Jamie is understandably hesitant over explaining, Miss Hennessy, is that Mr. McEnery's first wife was my mother.”

Still frowning, she glanced at Jamie, who colored. “Your . . . ?” Understanding dawned; she looked back at him. “Oh.” The veriest hint of pink tinged her ivory cheeks. “I see.”

There was, to Richard's surprise, no hint of condemnation, or consternation, in her voice—she didn't even yank her hand away, as he'd fully expected; her slim fingers lay quiescent in his grasp. Her eyes searched his, then she inclined her head, coldly gracious, the action clearly signifying her understanding, and a regal agreement to his right to be present. There was no suggestion in any element of her bearing that she was perturbed at learning he was a bastard.

In all his years, Richard had never met with such calm acceptance.

“Catriona is my father's—” Jamie broke off and cleared his throat. “Actually,
my
ward.”

“Ah.” Richard smiled urbanely at Catriona. “That explains her presence, then.”

He fielded another of her lethal glances, but before he could respond, Mary bustled up and claimed Jamie's arm.

“If you could lead Catriona in, Mr. Cynster?”

With Jamie in tow, Mary led the way; entirely content, Richard placed the intriguing Miss Hennessey's hand on his sleeve and elegantly steered her in their wake.

She glided beside him, a galleon fully armed, queenly detachment hanging about her like a cloak. As they left the drawing room, Richard noted that the older woman had also appeared; she had been standing near the door.

“The lady who accompanies you?”

There was a palpable hesitation, then she elected to answer. “Miss O'Rourke is my companion.”

The dining room lay across the cavernous hall; Richard led his fair charge to the chair beside Jamie, at the table's head, then, at Jamie's intimation, took the seat opposite, on Jamie's right. The rest of the family and Miss O'Rourke took their places. The room was large, the table long; the distance between the diners was enough to discourage those conversations not already dampened by the atmosphere. Despite the blaze roaring in the hearth, it was chilly; a sense of long-standing austerity hung over the room.

“Could you pass the condiments?”

With that the limit of conversation, as the courses came and went, Richard used the time to indulge his curiosity about Seamus McEnery. With no other avenue available, he studied Seamus's house, his household, his family, for what insights they could offer of the man.

A cursory inspection of those he'd met earlier told him little more; they were, one and all, meek, mild, self-effacing, their very timidity a comment on Seamus and how he'd reared his children. Miss O'Rourke had an interesting face, deeply lined and unusually weathered for a gentlewoman's; Richard didn't need to study it for long to know she distrusted him deeply. The fact did not perturb him; companions of beautiful ladies generally distrusted him on sight. Which left—Catriona Hennessy.

She was, without doubt, the most interesting body in the room. In a gown of deep lavender silk, with her lustrous locks—neither gold nor plain red, but true copper—piled high on her head, tendrils escaping to frame her face in flames, the round neckline of her gown scooped low enough to give a fair indication of the bounty beneath, her shoulders and arms sweetly turned and encased in skin like ivory satin, she was a sight designed for lecherous eyes.

Richard looked his fill. Her face was a delicate oval, with a straight, little nose and a smooth, wide brow. Her brows and lashes were light brown, framing eyes of vibrant green—something he hadn't been able to see in the moonlight, although he did recall how the gold flecks within the green had flared with indignation. He felt sure they would blaze in anger—and smolder with passion. Her only less-than-perfect feature was her chin; that, Richard considered, was a touch too firm, too determined. Too self-willed. She was of below average height, petite and slender, yet her figure, though sleek and supple, was not boyish. Indeed not. Her figure made his palms itch.

Unrestrained by the usual demands of polite dinner conversation, he surreptitiously let his gaze feast. Only when the desserts were set before them did he sit back and let his social senses take stock. Only then did he notice that while the others occasionally exchanged idle glances and the odd desultory comment, none looked at him, or at Catriona. Indeed, with the sole exception of the silent but watchful, and disapproving, Miss O'Rourke, they all kept their gazes carefully averted, as if fearful of drawing his attention. Only Jamie interacted with either Catriona or himself, and then only stiltedly, when need arose.

Curious, Richard tried to catch Malcolm's eye, and failed; the youth seemed, if anything, to sink further into his chair. Glancing at Catriona, Richard saw her look up and scan the table; everyone took care not to meet her gaze. Unperturbed, she patted her lips with her napkin. Richard focused on the soft pink curves, and remembered, with startling clarity, precisely how they tasted.

Shaking aside the memory, he inwardly shook his head. Apparently Seamus's family were so trenchantly timid, they were moved to treat both Catriona and himself like potentially dangerous animals who might bite if provoked.

Which definitely said something about his witch.

Maybe she really was a witch?

That thought provoked others—like what a witch would be like in bed; he was deep in salacious imaginings when Jamie nervously cleared his throat and turned to Catriona.

“Actually, Catriona, I've been thinking that, now Da”s gone and you'll be my ward, that it really would be better—more fitting, I mean—if you were to come and live here.”

Caught in the act of swallowing a spoonful of trifle, Catriona stilled, then swallowed, laid down her spoon, and looked directly at Jamie.

“With us, the family,” he hurried on. “It must be very lonely at the vale all by yourself.”

Catriona's expression grew stern; her green eyes held Jamie's. “Your father thought the same, if you recall?”

It was immediately clear everyone at the table, bar Richard, did; a communal shudder passed around the room, even including the footmen, silent by the walls.

“Luckily,” Catriona went on, her gaze still locked with Jamie's, “Seamus thought better of it, and allowed me to live as The Lady wishes, at the manor.” She paused, eyes steady, giving everyone time to feel the weight behind her words. Then she raised her brows. “Do you truly wish to set your will against that of The Lady?”

Jamie blanched. “No, no! We just thought you might like to . . .” He gestured vaguely.

Catriona looked down and picked up her spoon. “I'm perfectly content at the manor.”

The matter was closed. Jamie exchanged a glance with Mary at the other end of the table; she shrugged lightly and grimaced. Other members of the family shot quick glances at Catriona, then rapidly looked away.

Richard didn't; he continued to study her. Her authority was remarkable; she used it like a shield. She'd put it up and Jamie, poor sod, had run headlong into it. Richard recognized the ploy; she'd tried the same with him with her “
Put me down
,” but he'd been too experienced to fall for it—she'd been all woman once he'd got his hands on her, soft, warm, and pliant. The thought of having his hands on her again, of having her warm, pliant, feminine flesh beneath him, made him shift in his seat.

And focused his mind even more. On why, exactly, he found her so . . . appealing. She wasn't, in fact, classically beautiful; she was more powerfully attractive than that. It was, he decided, noting the independent set of her too-determined chin, the underlying sense of wildness that caught him—caught and focused his hunter's instincts so forcefully. Her aura of mystery, of magic, of feminine forces too powerful for simple words, was an open challenge to a man like him.

A bored rake like him.

She would never have been acceptable within the ton; that hint of the wild was far too strong for society's palate. She was no meek miss; she was different, and used no guile to conceal it. Her confidence, her presence, her authority had led him to think her in her late twenties; now he could see her more clearly, he realized that wasn't so. Early twenties. Which made her assurance and self-confidence even more intriguing. More challenging.

Richard set down his goblet; he'd had enough of cold silence. “Have you lived at this manor long, Miss Hennessy?”

She looked up, faint surprise in her eyes. “All my life, Mr. Cynster.”

Richard raised his brows. “Where, exactly, is it?”

“In the Lowlands.” When he waited, patently wanting more, she added: “The manor stands in the Vale of Casphairn, which is a valley in the foothills of Merrick.” Licking trifle from her spoon, she considered him. “That's—”

“In the Galloway Hills,” he returned.

Her brows rose. “Indeed.”

“And who is your landlord?”

“No one.” When he again raised his brows, she explained: “I own the manor—I inherited it from my parents.”

Richard inclined his head. “And this lady you speak of?”

The smile she gave him was ageless. “The Lady.” The cadence of her voice changed, investing her words with reverence. “She Who Knows All.”

“Ah.” Richard blinked. “I see.” And he did. Christianity might rule in London and the towns, and in the Parliament, but the auld ways, the doctrines of days past, still held sway in the countryside. He had grown up in rural Cambridgeshire, in the fields and copses, seeing the old women gathering herbs, hearing of their balms and potions that could cure a large spectrum of mortal ills. He'd seen too much to be skeptical, and knew enough to treat any such practitioner with due respect.

She'd held his gaze steadily; Richard saw the gleam of triumph, of victorious smugness in her eyes. She thought she'd successfully warned him off—scared him away. Inwardly, his grin was the very essence of predatory; outwardly, his expression said nothing at all.

“Catriona?”

They both turned to see Mary rising and beckoning; Catriona rose, too, and joined the female exodus to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.

Which was, to Richard's immense relief, excellent. Twirling his glass, he considered the ruby liquid within. “So,”—he flicked a glance at Jamie—“Catriona is now in your care?”

Jamie's sigh was heartfelt. “Yes—for another three years. Until she's twenty-five.”

“Are her parents long dead?”

“Six years. They were killed in an accident in Glasgow while arranging to buy a cargo—a terrible shock it was.”

Richard raised his brows. “An especially big shock for Catriona. She would have been—what? Seventeen?”

“Sixteen. Naturally, Da' wanted her here—the vale's an isolated spot, no place for a lone girl, you'd think.”

“She wouldn't come?”

Jamie's face contorted. “Da' made her. She came.” He shuddered, and took a long sip of his port. “It was horrific. The arguments—the shouting. I thought Da' would have a seizure, she goaded him that much. I don't think he'd ever had anyone argue back like she did—
I
wouldna dared.”

As he drank more port, Jamie's accent emerged; like many Scots of his age, he'd learned to suppress it.

“She didna want to stay—Da' wanted her here. He had plans afoot to marry her well—she needed someone to take care of her lands, he thought.”

“Her lands?”

“The vale.” Jamie drained his glass. “She owns the whole damned valley from head to mouth. But she wasn't having any of Da”s plans. Said she knew what she was doing, she had The Lady to guide her, and she would, on her mother's grave, obey The Lady, not Da'. She was dead set against marriage. Mind you, when those lairds who'd offered for her on the strength of her lands actually met her, they sang a different tune. All the offers dissolved like mist in a strong breeze.”

Richard frowned, wondering if Scottish notions of feminine attractions were so different.

“Of course, everyone o' them was imagining bedding her, until they spoke to her.” Jamie's lips quirked; he exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Richard. “She scared 'em silly—the beggars came from Edinburgh and Glasgow, or one of the cities, lairds in need of estates. They didna know about The Lady, and to hear Catriona tell it, if they displeased her at all, she wouldha' turned 'em into toads. Or eels. Or some such slimy creature.”

Richard grinned. “They believed her?”

“Aye, well—when she wants to be believed, she can be that persuasive.”

Recalling the power he'd heard her wield twice, Richard had no difficulty believing that.

“And that other one, Algaria—Miss O'Rourke—was there to help. So,”—Jamie reached for the decanter—“after that, there were no more offers. Da' was livid—Catriona was unmovable. The fighting raged for weeks.”

“And?”

“She won.” Jamie set down his glass. “She went back to the vale, an' that was that. Da' never spoke of her again. I didna think she'd agree to live here now, but Mary said we should at least ask. Especially after finding the letters.”

“Letters?”

“Offers for her lands, rather than her hand. Heaps of 'em. Some from the lairds who'd given up notions of bedding her, others from all over, some from her neighbors in the Lowlands. All, however, for a pittance.” Again Jamie drained his glass. “I found the pile in Da”s desk—he'd scrawled comments on many.” Jamie's lips twisted. “Like ‘Bah! Am I a fool?' ”

“The land's good?”

“Good?” Jamie set down his glass. “You won't find better in Scotland.” He met Richard's eye. “According to Catriona and her people, The Lady sees to that.”