And, as Devil loved Honoria, and Vane loved Patience, so Richard loved her.
It was that simple.
Dragging in a tight breath into lungs suddenly parched, Catriona barely heard the flow of noise and chatter about her. Her sight was turned inward.
Richard had fulfilled his vow to play second fiddle to her—to honor and indulge her position as lady of the vale—which was a large concession from a man like him—a warrior like him. She’d realized that from the start—that without such a concession, their marriage could never work, could never be the success they both needed it to be.
He’d made that concession because he loved her.
The sudden clarity, the absolute certainty that filled her mind was dazzling, breathtaking.
She’d known that he needed her, that he now knew he belonged here, in his appointed place at her side. But she hadn’t, until that quivering instant, realized that he loved her as well.
Glancing at Devil, she saw him grin and flick a finger to Honoria’s cheek, then he turned to address Vane, but his hand closed over Honoria’s where it rested on the table. Vane was lounging in his chair, one hand on Patience’s back, his fingers idly toying with her curls.
Only by that light in his eyes, and, perhaps, if she had any experience by which to judge, his intensity in their bed, did Richard show his love for her. He was reserved—she’d known that before she’d met him; he always wore a mask in public. He didn’t display his love openly, as the others did so easily, apparently without thought. She needed instead to pay attention to his actions, and the motives behind them, to see what force was driving him.
She should, perhaps, have seen it before, but he yielded his secrets grudgingly. That he knew was beyond question; as Honoria had mentioned, Cynster males weren’t blind, although they sometimes pretended they were. He had, she recalled, been very definite that he wanted her as his cause.
Turning to speak to the twins, she hugged her newfound discovery to her heart and, throughout dinner, took it out now and then to ponder. To consider. Again and again, she observed that special something that flowed openly between Devil and Honoria, and Vane and Patience—and wanted it for her own.
Quite how she might bring it about—give Richard the confidence he needed to show his love openly, presumably by convincing him she returned it fullfold—was something she’d yet to determine.
But it was something she vowed she would do.
Smiling sunnily, she chatted with the twins—thanks to The Lady, she now had ample time to work on Richard.
The next morning, Richard lay in bed and tried to disguise his fretfulness. Lying in bed doing nothing was his least favorite pastime, but at the moment, that was all he could do. Nothing.
At least he’d managed to coax his wife into sleeping beside him once more; she’d apparently been sleeping in the room next door ever since his poisoning, so as not to disturb him. He had made it very plain that now he’d regained his senses, not having her beside him would disturb him even more. He’d won that round, but no other.
There was no point in arguing—he couldn’t stand on his own, much less walk. He’d tried, surreptitiously, in one of the few moments he’d been left alone. Luckily, he’d crashed back on the bed and not the floor. His muscles were not just weak but, as his witchy wife had warned him, still feeling the effects of the poison. Even holding his eyelids up was an effort.
Inwardly cursing she who had drugged him, he kept his face relaxed and listened to Vane’s news of shared friends. With his usual instinctive grasp, Devil had refrained from pressing the question of who had poisoned him, waiting until he’d recovered enough to inquire. While Richard and Catriona had not discussed the matter beyond their exchange before Helena, Richard had, with complete confidence, assured Devil that the poisoner was not a threat now, and that he and Catriona would deal with the matter once he’d fully recovered.
Devil had accepted that; Richard knew he could rely on his brother to quash any further interest in the matter. It was definitely a situation he and his witchy wife needed to deal with on their own.
Not, however, yet.
Stifling a sigh, Richard smiled at Vane’s description of a race held at Beuclaire Hall. Then he let his gaze drift past his cousin, to where Catriona sat on the window seat, industriously darning, her hair turned to a blaze of glory by the sunlight streaming in through the window.
At least there was nothing wrong with his eyes.
Five minutes later, heralded by the most peremptory of knocks, the door opened. A tall, broad-shouldered, ineffably elegant figure sauntered in.
His gaze fell first on Catriona—and went no further.
The ends of his long lips lifting in a smile both Richard and Vane knew well, the gentleman advanced, then swept Catriona a bow.
“Gabriel Cynster, my dear.”
Catriona instinctively held out her hand; he took it and drew her effortlessly to her feet, into his arms, and kissed her. Raising his head, he smiled wolfishly down at her. “Richard’s cousin.”
“Another one,” Vane commented drily.
Smoothly releasing Catriona and gracefully reseating her with an irresistible smile, Gabriel turned to the bed and raised a languid brow. “You here, too? If I’d known, I wouldn’t have half-killed my horse getting here.”
Blinking, Catriona picked up her needle, but kept her gaze on the tableau about the bed.
“How the devil did you hear?” Richard asked. “Don’t tell me it’s common knowledge among the ton.”
Halting by the bed, Gabriel looked down at Richard. “Well, you’re obviously still alive—Mama must have got her skeins tangled. She was quite adamant I’d find you at death’s door.” Gracefully, he sat on the end of the bed. “As for the news being bruited about, I can’t say, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Mama wrote me a series of orders, couched in a manner to discourage disobedience, and bade me hie north at speed. I was at a very select gathering in a hunting lodge in Leicestershire. How the devil she knew where to find me I really don’t like to think.”
Vane humphed.
Richard grinned sleepily.
Gabriel shook his head. “It’s a sad day when one can’t even escape to a select, supposedly secret orgy without having one’s mother summon one—without a verbal blink.”
Both Richard and Vane chuckled. Gabriel raised his brows resignedly.
Catriona shook out her mending and started to fold it. “I’ll certainly write to Lady Celia and thank her for her kind thoughts.”
A sudden hiatus gripped the three about the bed.
“And now,” Catriona declared, “Richard needs to rest.”
The three exchanged a meaningful look; Catriona stood and smiled at Vane and Gabriel. “If you would, gentlemen?”
She waved to the door; they left with smooth smiles and no argument. Bustling to the bed, she tucked Richard in. He wished he could frown, but he really was tired.
“Come and lie down with me.” He tried to catch her, but he was far too slow.
She whisked away, raised one finger to waggle at him, then changed her mind and smiled. A smile that softened her face and set his pulse racing, a smile that should have sealed her fate—if he’d been in any way up to it.
“Later,” she said. “When you’re well again.”
There was a softness in her eyes, an echo of something in her tone, that eased and soothed his irritation. She drew the curtains and left him; Richard drifted off, into dreams of a highly selected orgy, restricted to just two.
By the next morning, he had really had enough. He felt strong enough while lying relaxed on his back, but even lifting his arms was an effort. He couldn’t make love to his wife. He couldn’t get out of bed.
As far as he was concerned, he needed practice on both counts.
To that end, he persuaded Devil, so often his partner in crime in days past, now left to bear him company while their ladies took the air in the park, to help him up.
“If I can just get my
legs functioning properly . . .”
Ducking one shoulder beneath Richard’s arm, Devil helped him balance his weight as he rose from the side of the bed. “Let’s try it to the fireplace and back. We need to avoid the window—they might glance back and see us.”
Richard grabbed Devil’s shoulder and lifted his foot to take the first step—
The door opened. “It’s drizzling—” The Dowager, in advance of her daughters-in-law, halted and viewed her sons—caught in an act of disobedience—through narrowing eyes. “What is this?”
They both blushed. The degree of accent in Helena’s speech gave them warning she was not amused.
“I would ’ave thought you were both now old enough to ’ave more sense,” she declared.
“Sense?” Her expression mirroring her skeptical tone, Honoria stepped around the Dowager. Devil quickly slid Richard back down on the bed and straightened. Honoria marched up to him, met his gaze directly, then took his hand. “Come—I believe you’ve been relieved of duty here. Permanently.” With that, she towed him to the door.
Devil cast a glance back at Richard and shrugged helplessly.
Richard fell back on his pillows with a groan—as the two most important women in his life descended on him.
They lectured and fussed and lectured again, in between tucking him in tenderly. He bore it stoically—with a final sharp but concerned glance, Catriona had to leave him.
Helena pulled up the chair, picked up Catriona’s discarded mending, and settled down to watch over him.
Richard sighed. “I promise I won’t try to get up again—not until my wife gives her permission.”
“Be quiet. Go to sleep.”
Helena’s stern tone told him she had not forgiven him his indiscretion yet.
Richard swallowed a grunt. After a moment, he said: “You never fuss over Devil.”
“That’s because he never needed to be fussed over. You do—now be silent and sleep. And leave me to fuss.”
Thus adjured, he shut up and found himself, to his surprise, drifting into a doze. Before he succumbed, he asked: “What do you think of Catriona?”
“She’s the perfect wife for you. She will fuss very well in my stead.”
Richard felt his lips twitch resignedly; he took her advice, shut up and slept.
He awoke some hours later to discover the twins, one perched in a straight-backed chair to the left, the other in a matching chair to the right, bright blue eyes wide, watching over him.
Astonished, he stared at them. “What the devil are you doing here?”
They smiled. “Guarding you.”
Richard glowered; he looked them over, noting the full curves that filled out their bodices, the trim figures revealed by their muslin skirts—and glowered even more. “Your necklines are too low—you’ll catch your deaths.”
They bent identical disgusted looks on him.
“You’re as bad as Devil.
“And Vane.”
“Almost as bad as Demon—he’s been underfoot everywhere we go!”
“What is the matter with all of you?”
He humphed and shut his eyes—and refrained from telling them. “This is the Lowlands,” he stated incontrovertibly. “It’s colder up here.” He wondered if Catriona had some spare shawls they could pin over their shoulders, closed to the neck.
Still, at least they were up here, with him, Devil, Vane and Gabriel about, not gallivanting in the south, flaunting themselves like plump lambs before God knew how many hungry wolves, with only Helena for protection.
Keeping his eyes shut, he sank deeper into his bed. Perhaps there was some sense to this madness after all.
Chapter 18
The week passed slowly for Richard, confined to his bed, and in a whirl of unaccustomed gaiety for the other inhabitants of the vale.
They’d never encountered people like the Cynsters before.
Entering the stable yard four mornings later, Catriona was conscious of the smile on her face—it rarely dimmed these days, despite Richard’s posioning and what she would, once their guests left, have to face. For now, all was running smoothly, with a bubbling, effervescent sense of life. Thanks to their guests.
They were everywhere, helping with everything, yet they had, with a characteristic tact that was in itself overwhelming, managed to do so without stepping on anyone’s sensitivities.
A feat that commanded her respect.
On her way back to the house after checking the still slumbering gardens, she paused to take in the activity in the yard. Devil was there with McAlvie and his lads; beside them, Vane and Corby were mounted, about to ride out to check the orchards. Vane was looking down, Devil was looking up—all the other men seemed not just smaller, but somehow less alive. Then Devil nodded and stepped back. Vane wheeled his mount; with Corby at his heels, he clattered out of the yard. Turning away, Devil collected McAlvie; with the herdsman’s lads following close behind, they strode down the slope to the cattle barn.
Smiling to herself, Catriona resumed her progress to the house. Devil watched over the livestock, Vane the orchards. Without the slightest comment, they’d left the crops to her. They’d divided Richard’s responsibilities between them and were acting in his stead. As for Gabriel, he’d appointed himself Richard’s amanuensis; he was presently sitting with Richard and dealing with the accumulated correspondence concerning his business affairs. She hadn’t realized how extensive Richard’s investments were until Gabriel had found the pile of letters in the library and come storming upstairs, waving them and insisting Richard deal with them.
She was learning new things every day.
Like the fact that, while in no way susceptible in the common sense, the other women in the vale were very definitely appreciative of men like the Cynsters. A group of them had gathered in the doorway of the dairy to enjoy the sight of Devil and Vane. All the Cynster men drew the same response—they were always so elegantly dressed and shod, yet thought nothing of picking up an axe and splitting logs, or helping with a fence, or herding cows. The local women had grown used to Richard, but . . . their wide smiles and their comments, drifting on the breeze—“And there are more of them yet, Cook says.” “Oh, my!” as, with smiling nods to her, they turned back into the dairy—suggested they were far from bored with the sight.
Her smile converting to a grin, Catriona climbed the steps and pushed through the heavy back door. Cynsters, she’d decided, were simply larger than life.
Two of them were baking bread. Up to their elbows in flour, Amelia and Amanda stood at the kitchen table, giggling with Cook’s girls as they all kneaded dough. All the girls were flushed, Amelia’s and Amanda’s ringlets were dancing, their huge cornflower blue eyes brilliant with laughter. Even with flour smudges over their pert noses, they were beauties.
Beautiful young English ladies from one of the very best of the old families.
They could still giggle with the best of them. While certainly not unconscious of their charms, neither twin seemed to have a “conscious” bone in her body—while neither would ever forget who they were, they were openly friendly and ready to be pleased.
Cook’s girls were in awe, but equally ready to join in the fun.
“Perhaps we could do the loaves in braids—like this.” Amelia created a distinctly skewed braid with her dough.
“Aunt Helena likes bread made like that,” Amanda explained, “but perhaps we should try some different shapes—braids might not be to the gentlemen’s taste.”
Smiling broadly, Catriona passed on, leaving them devising all manner of fancy loaves. Those sitting down to lunch would have a new interest.
Heading into the house, she passed the archway to the second kitchen, which housed the main ovens of the manor. And halted—arrested by the sight of two derrieres, side by side, one cloaked in serviceable drab, the other in fashionable twill.
“Hmm—I think it needs a touch more rosemary.” Bent over, peering into the dark cavern of the roasting oven, H
onoria passed the basting ladle to Cook.
Who nodded her grey head. “P’raps, p’raps. And maybe a pinch more tarragon and a clove or two. Just to pick it up a bit, like.”
Neither heard her, neither turned around; both continued to study the roast with absolute concentration. Smiling still, Catriona glided on.
“I have always found that a soupc¸on of lavender in the polish is the perfect touch. It freshens a room without overpowering.”
“I do so agree, madam. And it makes the beeswax just that bit softer, to go just that bit farther. Can I help you to a little bit more sherry, Your Grace?”
From the shadows of the corridor, Catriona watched Mrs. Broom refill the sherry glass clasped between the Dowager’s fine fingers. A ring of emeralds and diamonds flashed as the Dowager gestured her thanks.
“I have noticed,” she said, as Mrs. Broom returned to her chair, “that your silver has a very nice luster. What polish do you use?”
“Ah, well, now—that’s a bit of a vale secret, that is. Howsoever, seeing as you’re family now . . .”
Shaking her head, Catriona glided silently on, storing the moment in her memory to describe to Richard later. The Dowager could very well have sat in the drawing room and commanded Mrs. Broom’s presence; instead, she’d elected to take sherry with the housekeeper in her snug little parlor. The better to learn her secrets.
The Dowager was incorrigible.
Her smile wreathing her face, Catriona stepped into the hall—and remembered those she had not seen in her journey through the nether regions. The manor’s tribe of children. They’d been noticeably absent—not one small body had she seen, not one shrill shriek had she heard.
Which was not necessarily a good thing.
Where were they? And what were they up to?
She detoured via the games room—and found her answers. Patience was sitting on the rug before the hearth, her elegant skirts spread wide to accommodate the kittens, playing, rolling, batting at fingers and hands. The children were all gathered about, quietly enthralled.