She was rather pleased with that tack; men like the Cynsters understood sacrifice and honor.
His black brows rose; silently he considered her. Then, “Who will inherit your manor, your position, if you do not marry and beget heirs?”
Inwardly, Catriona cursed; outwardly, she merely raised her brows back. “In time, I will, of course, marry for heirs, but I need not do so for many years yet.”
“Ah—so you don’t have a complete and absolute aversion to marriage?”
Head high, her eyes locked on his, Catriona drew a deep breath and held it. “No,” she eventually admitted, and started to pace. “But there are various caveats, conditions, and considerations involved.”
“Such as?”
“Such as my devotions to The Lady. And my duties as a healer. You may not realize it, but . . .”
Propped against the mantelpiece, Richard listened to her excuses—all revolved about the duties she saw as devolving to her through her ownership of the manor. She paced incessantly back and forth; he almost ordered her to sit, so he could sit, too, and not tower over her, forcing her to glance up every time she wanted to check his deliberately uninformative countenance, then he realized who her pacing reminded him of. Honoria, Devil’s duchess, also paced, in just the same way, skirts swishing in time with her temper. Catriona’s skirts were presently swinging with agitated tension; Richard inwardly sighed and leaned more heavily on the mantelpiece.
“So you see,” she concluded, swinging to face him, “at present, a husband is simply out of the question.”
“No, I don’t see.” He trapped her gaze. “All you’ve given me is a litany of your duties, which in no way that I can see preclude a husband.”
She had never in her adult life had to explain herself to anyone; that was clearly written in the astonished, slightly hoity expression that infused her green eyes. Then they flared. “I don’t have time for a husband!” Quick as a flash, she added: “For the arguments, like this one.”
“Why should you argue?”
“Why, indeed—but all men argue, and a husband certainly would. He would want me to do things his way, not my way—not The Lady’s way.”
“Ah—so your real concern is that a husband would interfere with your duties.”
“That he’d seek to interfere in how I perform my duties.” She paused in her pacing and eyed him narrowly. “Gentlemen such as you have a habit of expecting to have your own way in all things. I could not possibly marry such a man.”
“Because you want to have your own way in all things?”
Her eyes flashed. “Because I need to be free to perform my duties—free of any husbandly interference.”
Calmly, he considered her. “What if a husband didn’t interfere?”
She snorted derisively and resumed her pacing.
Richard’s lips twitched. “It is possible, you know.”
“That you would let your wife go her own way?” At the far end of her route, she turned and raked him with a dismissively contemptuous glance. “Not even in the vale do pigs fly.”
It was no effort not to smile; Richard felt her raking gaze pass over every inch of his body—he had to clamp an immediate hold over his instinctive reaction. Ravishing her wouldn’t serve his purpose—he had yet to decide just what his purpose was. Learning more of her would, however, greatly assist in clarifying that point.
“If we married, a man such as I,” his tone parodied her distinction, “might, given your position, agree to”—he gestured easily—“accommodate you and your duties.” She shot him a skeptical glance; he trapped her gaze. “There’s no reason some sort of agreement couldn’t be reached.”
She considered him, a frown slowly forming in her eyes, then she humphed and turned away.
Richard studied her back, the sweeping line of her spine from her nape to the ripe hemispheres of her bottom. The view was one designed to distract him, attract him—the stiffness of her stance, the sheer challenge of her reluctance, only deepened the magnetic tug.
“You’re not seriously considering marrying me.”
She made the statement, clear and absolute, to the darkness beyond the window.
Richard lowered his arm and leaned back against the mantlepiece. “Aren’t I?”
She continued to gaze into the gloaming. “You only claimed the week’s grace because we all took it for granted that you would refuse.” She paused, then added: “You don’t like being taken for granted.”
Richard felt his brows rise. “Actually, it was because you took me for granted. The others don’t count.”
The swift glance she shot him was scathing. “I might have known you’d say it was my fault.”
“You might have noticed I haven’t. You were the reason I so promptly claimed the time, but . . . on reflection”—his gesture encompassed the woods through which he’d tramped—“I would have claimed it anyway.”
She frowned. “Why?”
He studied her and wondered if he could ever explain to anyone how he felt about family. “Let’s just say that I’ve a constitutional dislike of making rushed decisions, and Seamus laid his plans very carefully. He knew I wouldn’t appreciate being used as a pawn to disenfranchise his family.”
Her frown deepened. “Because of being a bastard?”
“No. Because of being a Cynster.”
Her frown grew more puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
Richard grimaced. “Nor do I. I’m not at all clear, for instance, on why Seamus went to such lengths—such machinations—to get me here, into this bizarre situation.”
She humphed and turned back to the window. “That’s because you didn’t know Seamus. He was forever plotting and scheming—like many men of wealth and position. Indeed, he often spent so much time making plans he never got around to the execution.”
Richard raised his brows. “No wonder my father was sent here.” Catriona looked her question; he met her gaze. “Cynsters are renowned for action. We might plan, just enough, but our talents lie in the execution. Never ones to drag our heels.”
She humphed softly and turned back to the night. After a moment, she raised a hand and started drawing spirals on the cold pane. “I was thinking . . .” She paused; he could hear the grimace in her voice. “Seamus may have envisioned marriage to me as a penance—a sort of deferred punishment—with you paying the price in place of your father.”
Richard frowned. “If he thought that, then the joke’s on him. It would be no hardship to be married to you.”
She turned her head; their gazes locked—everything else did as well. Time, their breathing, even their heartbeats. Desire shimmered, filling the air, heightening senses, tightening nerves.
She drew breath and looked away. “Be that as it may, you aren’t considering it.”
Richard sighed. When would she learn she couldn’t sway him with her tone? “Think what you will. But the solicitor’s left and won’t be back for a week. I won’t make my decision until then.” He wouldn’t be rushed, he wasn’t impulsive—and he needed to know more. Of her, and why Seamus had made such an iniquitous will.
She humphed and muttered something; he thought it might have been “stubborn as a mule.”
Pushing away from the mantlepiece, he strolled toward her, his footfalls muffled by the carpet. As he neared, she whirled, only just suppressing a gasp. She went to step back—and stopped herself. And tilted her chin instead.
Inwardly, he smiled—she looked deliciously ruffled, and it was he who’d done the ruffling. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to pounce.”
The gold flecks in her eyes flared. “I didn’t imagine—”
“Yes, you did.” He looked down at her, at her too-wide eyes, at the way her breasts rose and fell. Bringing his eyes back to hers, he grimaced. “If it eases your mind, as my host’s ward and a virtuous, unmarried lady, you are effectively removed from my list of potential seductees.”
He could follow her thoughts easily in her vibrant eyes.
> “Ah, no,” he murmured, “that doesn’t mean you’re safe with me.” He smiled. “Just that I won’t seduce you without marrying you.”
She glared—at this distance, he could feel the heat. It stopped abruptly; an arrested expression filled her eyes. Then she focused on him.
“I just realized . . . Seamus only required you to agree to marry me, not that I agree to marry you. He knew I wouldn’t agree; I’m under no compulsion to obey him.” She frowned. “What did he imagine he’d achieve?”
Looking down into her upturned face, at her eyes, wide and puzzled, at her lips, warm and slightly parted, Richard fought down an urge to kiss her. “I told you—Seamus made a very thorough study of the Cynsters.”
“So?” She searched his face, then his eyes.
“So he knew that, if I publically declare I’ll wed you, I will.”
Her eyes flew wide, then narrowed to green shards. “That’s ridiculous! You can’t simply declare we’ll wed—I have to agree. And I won’t!”
“If I decide to have you . . .”—he kept his words deliberate, pausing to let the qualification sink in—“I’ll have to change your mind.”
“And just how do you imagine doing that?”
The words were flung at him, a challenge, a taunt. Brows slowly rising, his gaze intent, locked on hers, Richard held her trapped—and raised one hand. And deliberately caressed the curl quivering by one ear.
Her ice shattered—she gasped, shivered, and stepped back. The blood drained from her face, then rushed back as she stiffened.
And threw him a sizzling glare. “Forget it!”
She whirled, skirts hissing; spine rigid, she stalked out.
And slammed the door behind her.
Chapter 4
That night, Catriona slept poorly, bedevilled by a vision of a warrior’s face. Forced to view that same vision, in the flesh, over the breakfast table, she inwardly sniffed and decided to go for a long ride.
Heading upstairs to change, she met Algaria at the top of the stairs. Algaria’s black gaze swept her, then fastened on her face.
“Where are you off to so early?”
“I need some fresh air—how can a place so cold be so stuffy?”
“Hmm.” Looking down into the hall, Algaria sniffed disparagingly. “The atmosphere is certainly less than convivial”—she shot a shrewd glance at Catriona—“what with this unnecessary charade.”
“Charade?”
“Aye. It’s plain as a pikestaff that bastard from below has no real intention to wed—not you, nor, I’ll warrant, any woman.” Algaria’s face was set, the lines deeply etched. “It’s clear he’s a wastrel and just enjoying himself at our expense. Even Mary holds no hope other than that he’ll eventually decline to be a part of Seamus’s wild scheme and go back to London. She thinks he’s making a show of considering the issue out of politeness.”
Catriona stiffened. “Indeed?”
Algaria’s lips twitched; she patted Catriona’s hand. “No need to take offense—it’s what we want, after all.” She started down the stairs. “Him to go away and leave you alone.”
Catriona stared at the back of Algaria’s head; her answering “Hmm” was supposed to be approving—somehow, a hint of disappointment crept in. She shut her ears to it; swinging about, she marched purposefully to her room.
It was the work of a few minutes to don her riding habit, a snugly fitting jacket and full skirt in jewel green twill. Serviceable, it was not especially warm; she hunted through the wardrobe for her old-fashioned fur-lined cloak. Her hair was a problem—in the end, she braided it and looped the braids about her head.
“There!” Satisfied her hair would not come loose no matter how hard she rode, she swung the cloak about her shoulders and headed for the door.
The stables huddled between the main house and the mountain, sheltered from the incessant winds and, at present, the lightly flurrying snow. The day was overcast, but the clouds were too light to deter her; she was accustomed to riding in all weather, whenever her duties called. The views might be grey, but they were visible; the hovering clouds kept the temperature above freezing. While the snow on the bare fields was hoof-deep, on the paths and tracks, the cover was less, and none of it was dangerously icy.
All in all, a perfectly acceptable winter’s day to go riding in The Trossachs. That was Catriona’s determined thought as, atop a strong chestnut, she clattered out of the stable yard and headed into the trees. She’d ridden often in the few weeks she’d previously spent here as an escape from the battleground of the house; she remembered the tracks well. The one she took wound its way through stands of birch girding the rocky mountainside, eventually meeting another bridle path leading to the summit. Looking forward to a brisk gallop across the clear top of Keltyhead, she urged her mount upward.
The Highlands spread out before her as she emerged from the trees onto the normally wind-swept mountaintop. The earlier breeze had died to nothing more than a whisper, threading sibilantly through the bare boughs. Even the fall of fine snow had ceased. Catriona’s spirits soared; scanning the wide views, she drew in a deep breath. Directly before her, an open area thinly covered with rough mountain grass beckoned—she waited for no more. A smile on her face, a “Whoop!” on her lips, she set the chestnut to a canter, then shifted fluidly into a gallop.
Cold, bitterly fresh, the air rushed to greet her. It whipped her cheeks and tugged at her braids. She welcomed it joyously—one of The Lady’s simple pleasures. Exhilarated, at one with her mount, she journeyed across the empty space, immersed in the wide silence about her.
She was halfway across the treeless expanse when a heavy clop and a whinny broke the stillness. Glancing back, she saw a familiar tall figure, mounted, watching her from the skirts of the forest. As still and dark as the trees behind him, he studied her. Then he moved; the deep-chested black beneath him stepped out powerfully, on a course to intercept her.
Her breath tangled in her throat; abruptly, Catriona looked forward and urged her mount on. Damn the man! Why couldn’t he leave her alone? The thought was shrewish, the smile tugging at her lips much less so—that was instinctively feminine, a reflection of the frisson of excitement that had shot down her nerves.
Had he followed her?
She plunged on, determined to lose him—he rode much heavier than she. And she knew she rode well; as the end of the open area neared, she considered which of the three tracks ahead, each leading in a different direction over different terrain, would best serve her purpose. That depended on how close he was. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see him in the distance—and nearly lost her seat. Eyes widening, she gasped and swung forward. He was only two lengths away!
Lunging onto the nearest path, she raced along it, through twists, around turns, over rocky ground screened by tall trees. She burst into the next clearing at a flat gallop, the chestnut eagerly answering the challenge. They flew across the snowy white ground—but she heard, insistent, persistent, inexorably drawing nearer, the heavy thud of the black’s hooves gradually gaining ground, moving alongside.
A quick glance revealed her nemesis riding effortlessly, managing one of Seamus’s big stallions with ease. He sat the horse like a god—the warrior of her dreams. The sight stole her breath; abruptly, she looked ahead. Why on earth was she running?
And how, once he caught up with her, would she explain her reckless flight? What excuse could she give for fleeing so precipitously?
Catriona blinked, then, dragging in a breath, slowed the chestnut and wheeled away from the approaching trees. In a smooth arc, she curved back into the clearing; the black followed on the chestnut’s heels. She slowed to a walk as they neared a section where the trees fell away. Halting, she crossed her hands on the saddlebow; eyes fixed on the white mountains spread before her, she breathed deeply, then exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax. “So exhilarating, a quick gallop in these climes.” Her expression one of infinite calmness, she looked over her shoulder. “Don
’t you find it so?”
Blue, blue eyes met hers. One of his black brows slowly arched. “You ride like a hoyden.”
His expression remained impassive; she felt sure he intended the remark as a reprimand. Her giddy senses, however, heard it as a compliment—one from a man who rode well; it was an effort to keep a silly grin from her lips. She met his blue gaze with regal assurance. “I ride as I wish.”
Her emphasis was subtle, but he heard it; his brow quirked irritatingly higher. “Hell for leather, without fear for life or limb?”
She shrugged as haughtily as she could and returned to surveying the scenery.
“Hmm,” he murmured. She could feel his gaze on her face. “I’m beginning to understand Seamus’s reasoning.”
“Indeed?” She tried to hold them back, but the words tumbled out. “And what do you mean by that?”
“That you’ve run wild for too long, without anyone to ride rein on you. You need someone to watch over you for your own protection.”
“I’ve been managing my life for the past six years without anyone’s help or interference. I haven’t needed anyone’s protection—why should I need it now?”
“Because . . .” And, quite suddenly, Richard saw it all—why, on his death, Seamus had trampled on custom to do all he could to put Catriona into the hands of a strong man, one he knew would protect her. His gaze distant, fixed unseeing on the white peaks before them, he continued: “As time goes on, you’ll face different threats, ones you’ve not yet encountered.”
Not yet, because while he’d been alive, Seamus had acted as her protector, albeit from a distance. They’d found the letters, but how many more advances had been made directly? And Jamie was no Seamus—he wouldn’t be able to withstand the renewed offers, the guileful entreaties. He’d refer them to Catriona, and then she would have to deal with . . . all the threats from which Seamus had shielded her.
That was why he, Richard, was here—why Seamus had couched his will as he had.