Scandal's Bride (52 page)

Richard inclined his head; Algaria went on: “On that side of the park lives an old man known to us all as Royce. You and he, now I've thought back on it, haven't yet met—he's something of a hermit in winter.”

“He's a marvel with animals, particularly with birthing lambs,” Catriona put in. “He lives in a small hut on the south side of the park.”

“I saw Royce that day when I went looking for the tansy—it was sunny and he was stretching his stiff limbs. He sat on a rock and talked—despite living so alone, he loves to talk to people, so I waited and listened.”

“He talked about the fire only in passing—he'd missed all the excitement. He couldn't see the smoke because of the park—he'd only heard about it later. What he
did
say, however, was that on the day when he came to the manor to fetch bones for broth, while returning home, he saw a stranger—a tall, dark-haired gentleman riding a dark horse. This man rode through the park, but not up to the manor. It was late afternoon, heading into evening—the stranger tethered his horse in the park, took something from his saddle pocket, then skirted the manor itself, and went around behind the forge. He didn't see Royce watching. Royce thought it strange, but . . .” Algaria grimaced. “He assumed the gentleman was you. Later the gentleman came back, mounted his horse, and rode down the vale—that time, Royce was close enough to see the man had blue eyes.” She paused and met Richard's undeniably blue eyes. “I knew Royce got his bones
on the day of the fire—I gave them to him myself. He didn't know about the timing of the fire, so he didn't know you didn't apparently arrive until black night.”

“You thought it was me?”

Lifting her chin, Algaria nodded. “I reasoned that in order to tighten your hold on Catriona, you'd been seen to leave, then you rode back, earlier than anyone thought, set the fire, waited until it was blazing, then rode in and rescued the situation.” She eyed Richard; her lips tightened. “If that had been your plan, from all I saw afterward, it worked.”

Richard considered, then nodded. “I can prove it wasn't me. Two of Melchett's lads saw me riding into the vale, and we spoke briefly—we could already see the smoke rising.” He could remember that moment of dread panic very well.

Algaria waved dismissively. “I accept without question that my interpretation was wrong—else you would have died. It wasn't you old Royce saw.”

“So who was it?” Catriona asked. Algaria lifted her shoulders; in the same instant, Catriona's face lit. “Dougal Douglas!” Swinging about, she looked at Richard. “It must be him.”

Richard grimaced. “He fits the general description, but tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed gentlemen aren't really all that rare, even in the Lowlands.” He paused, his gaze on Catriona's. “Algaria jumped to an erroneous conclusion—we shouldn't repeat the mistake.” He studied her face—he could almost see her intransigence, her witch's wiles working. Inwardly, he sighed. “
But
. . . I do know that Dougal Douglas knew I'd left the vale. He thought I was heading south, that I'd be well on the road to London by lunchtime that day.”

Her eyes narrowed, Catriona humphed. “I know it was Dougal Douglas.” Transferring her gaze to Algaria, she raised her brows. “So you poisoned Richard because you believed he was responsible for the fire?”

Algaria drew herself up. “Yes.”

Catriona considered—considered Algaria and her rigid discipline, her rigid pride. Considered Richard, a vital force beside her, his heartbeat as familiar to her as her own. They were both dear to her, both with so much to give. She and the vale needed both of them. Straightening, she turned to Richard. “You have heard all I've heard—you know as much as I know. It was your life Algaria sought to take—as my consort and protector, I give you the right to pass judgment and sentence upon her.”

She looked into Richard's eyes, then, without another glance at Algaria, turned and left the cottage.

Leaving Richard staring over the deal table at Algaria.

Who stiffened and lifted her chin proudly, her black gaze smoldering. She was still a potent force—he could sense it—but expecting the worst. Yet the old witch would never beg his pardon, or ask for mercy.

He wasn't inclined to be all that merciful but . . . he had survived—and he and his witchy wife were much closer, more one, than they had been. She'd trusted him enough to leave her mentor's fate in his hands.

And, despite the fact that he wasn't at all comfortable with Algaria, she'd behaved much as he, in the same situation, might have himself—although not with poison. A well-aimed fist would have been more his style.

But what to do with her—what possible sentence could he devise? The answer popped into his mind with such vigor, such force, he grinned.

Which made Algaria nervous; he grinned even more. “After much consideration,” he stated, “I've decided that the most appropriate penance, the most suitable punishment, will be for you to return to the vale, to act as overall nursemaid to our children.” Being responsible for a household of Cynster brats—oh, yes—that was perfect. And he'd so enjoy contributing to her punishment—and she'd so disapprove of the enjoyment he derived from the process. “And,” he added, “should you have any spare hours, you must devote them to easing
our
lady's burden by relieving her of some of her healer's chores.”

He smiled, rather pleased with himself.

Algaria raised her brows. “That's it?”

Richard nodded—she didn't know anything about Cynsters—she didn't know what she was destined for. When Algaria's face lit with relief, he quickly added: “Just as long as you're quite sure you won't again decide to make away with me.”

“What? Fly in the face of The Lady's expressed wishes?” Algaria waved derisively. “That's not a mistake I'm likely to make twice.”

“Good.” Richard waved himself, gesturing her to the door. “Then I'll leave you to make your peace with our lady.”

He was sitting, relaxing, on a stone at the back of the cottage, out of the wind, when Catriona came searching for him. She came up behind him and slid her arms about his shoulders and hugged him.

“Your sentence was inspired—she's so relieved. In fact, she's almost happy. I even saw her smile.”

Richard squeezed her arm. “If that pleases you, then I'm glad.” He looked out at the rugged hills before them. “Actually, I was thinking of inviting Helena to come for a visit, maybe in November. She can tell Algaria all the stories of what Devil and I and all the rest used to get up to—to prepare her for what's to come.”

Catriona chuckled, then sobered. “Incidentally, I remembered, and Algaria does, too, that Dougal Douglas used to visit the vale as a youth. Algaira says his family was keen on a match between him and me.”

“Is that so?” Despite his lazy drawl, Richard was already making plans to call on Dougal Douglas. Once he determined who had set the blacksmith's cottage ablaze, he fully intended to exact retribution.

“Well.” With a sigh, Catriona straightened. “We'll spend the night here, then start back early tomorrow. We should reach the vale before dusk.”

“Good.” Richard stood, suddenly eager to be home again, to get his witchy wife back where she belonged. Turning, he gathered Catriona in one arm and they started to stroll back to the cottage. “No one in London would ever believe this—me sitting down to dinner with not one, but two witches.”

“
Not
witches.” Mock-chidingly, Catriona poked him in the ribs. “Two disciples of The Lady, one of whom is bearing your child.”

Richard grinned. “I stand corrected.” Tipping up her face, he kissed her—a kiss she returned very sweetly. Then Algaria called from the cottage, and Catriona broke away.

His brows lightly rising, Richard took care to hide his sudden thoughts; when Catriona took his arm and towed him to the cottage, he didn't resist.

The next morning, they left Algaria's cottage at the crack of dawn, Catriona still sleepy, Algaria grouchy, Richard with a wide smile on his face. The attitudes of all three were connected; Algaria had given up her bed for Catriona's use, casting dark looks Richard's way when he'd bid her good night and joined Catriona upstairs. Algaria had slept on the old settle downstairs—that, however, was not the reason she'd slept poorly.

Richard had provided that—provided reason enough for his witchy wife, despite her disapproval, to moan and sob her pleasure for quite half the night.

He was, this morning, in a very good mood.

Keeping Thunderer to a lazy amble, he followed Catriona's mare and Algaria's old grey. The two women rode side by side, talking of herbs and potions.

Richard grinned—and wondered if witches ever talked of anything else.

Idly speculating, he ambled along in pleasant content, his gaze locked on his wife's swinging hips—

Ph-whizz! Thwack!

Thunderer balked and whinnied; Richard abruptly drew rein. Ahead, Catriona and Algaria milled, their faces blanking in shock as they looked back and saw what he was staring at.

A crossbow bolt.

It had whizzed across, a mere inch before his chest, then struck a rock and glanced off. It now lay in the heather, glinting evilly, in the soft morning light.

Fists clenching about the reins, Richard jerked his head up and looked about. Algaria and Catriona followed his lead, visually scouring the slopes below them to their left.

“There!” Algaria pointed to a fleeing rider.

Catriona stood in her stirrups to look. “It's that
fiend
Dougal Douglas!”

“That pestilential man!”

Calmly, Richard scanned the long valley below them. “Wait here!” With that curt order, he swung Thunderer about and tapped his heels to the horse's sides. The huge grey surged, perfectly happy to thunder hell for leather over the heather, leaping small streams, jumping rocks. They descended to the valley on a direct course to intercept the fleeing Douglas like retribution falling from on high.

They met as Richard had planned, with him on Thunderer higher up the slope from Douglas on his black horse. Leaping from Thunderer's saddle, he collected Douglas and rolled, making no attempt to hang on to his prey, more intent on landing safely himself. He managed to avoid hitting his head on any rocks; with only a bruise or two pending, he swung around. And saw Douglas, still prone some yards away, groggily shaking his head. Richard's lips curled. Snarling, he surged to his feet.

Whether Douglas knew what hit him—either what had brought him from his saddle or who it was that hauled him to his feet by his collar, shook him like a rag, then buried a solid fist in his gut—Richard neither knew nor cared. Having a crossbow bolt fired at him gave him, he considered, a certain license.

They were much of a height, much of a size—it was no wonder the old hermit had thought Douglas was him. Richard had no compunction in treating Douglas to a little home-brewed—the way they brewed it south of the border. That first rush took the edge from his fury; grasping the downed Douglas by his collar yet again, he hauled him once more to his feet.

“Was it you,” Richard inquired, recalling several incidents that hadn't, to his mind, been sufficiently explained, “who left the paddock gates opened and broke branches in the orchard?”

Gasping and wheezing, Douglas spat out a tooth. “Damn it, mon—she had to be brought to see she needed a mon about the place.”

“Ah, well,” Richard said, drawing back his fist. “Now she has me.” He steadied Douglas, then knocked him down again.

He gave him a moment, then hauled him to his feet again. And shook him until his teeth—those he still had left—rattled. Closing his fist about Douglas's collar, he lifted him, just a little, and, very gently, inquired, “And the fire?”

Dangling and choking, Dougal Douglas rolled his eyes, flailed his arms weakly, then, forced to it, desperately gasped: “No one was supposed to get hurt.”

For one instant, Richard saw red—the red glow of the fire as he'd ridden into the courtyard—the red maw that had roared and gaped as he'd seen his wife, her hair bright as the flames, fling a blanket over her head and dash into the fury. “Catriona nearly got caught in the blaze.”

His tone sounded distant, even to him; refocusing on Dougals's face, he saw real fear in the man's eyes.

Douglas paled—he struggled frantically.

Catriona rode up to see Richard bury his fist in Dougal Douglas's stomach. The fiend doubled over; Catriona winced as Richard's fist swung up and, with his full weight behind it, crunched into Douglas's jaw. Dougal Douglas fell backward into the heather. And didn't move.

Richard watched, but saw no sign of returning life. Shaking out his fingers, he turned. To see Catriona. He sighed. “Damn it, woman—didn't I tell you—”

Her eyes flew wide. “
Richard!”

Richard whirled—just as Dougal Douglas came to his feet in a lunge, a knife in his fist. Swift as a thought, Richard sidestepped and caught Douglas's wrist.

Snap!

“
Aargh!”
Dougal Douglas fell to his knees, cradling his broken wrist.

“You
fiend!”

Abruptly, Richard found himself thrust aside; hands on her hips, green eyes blazing, Catriona interposed herself between Dougal Douglas and him.

“
How dare you?”
Green fire and fury poured over Dougal Douglas. “You were once welcomed as a friend of the vale and
this
is how you repay The Lady's graciousness? You conspire against me and the vale—
worse!
you attempt to harm my chosen consort—the one The Lady finally sent for me. You're an evil worm—a loathsome toad! I've half a mind to turn you into an eel and leave you here to gasp to death, or better yet, to be picked to death by the birds.
That
would be a suitable end for you—a just repayment for your unconscionable acts.”