Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

How had they got onto this topic? She slanted her tormentor a sharp glance. "Just that-they're male."

"A sorry fact, but most women find there are compensations."

She humphed again, the sound eloquently disbelieving. "Such as?"

"Such as…"

His tone registered; she turned and met his eyes-and the glow that danced therein. Her breathing seized; her heartbeat suddenly sounded loud. With an effort, she found breath enough to warn: "No teasing."

His lips, untrustworthy things-she tried hard not to focus on them-lifted; his eyes glowed all the more. "A little teasing would do you good." His voice had dropped to a deep purr, sliding over her senses; Catriona detected the power in the words, although she hadn't met its like before. It was… beguiling; instinctively, she resisted. She felt like she was swaying, but knew she hadn't moved.

"You might even find you…"-his brows quirked-"enjoy it."

Behind her back, screened from the company, his hand rose; Catriona sensed it with every pore of her skin, every nerve in her body. An inch from her silk-encased form, it rose, slowly skimming without touching, until it reached her neckline and rose…

"Don't!" The word was a breathless command; his hand halted, hovering, close, very close, to her quivering curls. If he touched them again…

"Very well."

A seductive purr, with no hint of contrition; he was being triumphantly magnanimous now. But his hand didn't disappear-it reversed direction. Slowly, so slowly her skin had ample time to prickle and heat, his hand traced her back, down over her shoulder blades, over the slight indentation at her waist, then, even more slowly, over the curve of her hips.

Not once did he touch her, yet when his hand dropped away, she was shaking inside-so badly, as she stepped away and, half-turning, inclined her head in his direction, she could barely form the words: "If you'll excuse me, I should retire."

She left him without meeting his eyes, quite sure of the male triumph she would see there, unsure of her hold on her temper if she did.

Meg had returned; she was sitting, wan-faced, in an armchair. Catriona stopped before her. "Come to my room when you go up-I'll have that potion ready."

"Are you going up now?"

"Yes." Catriona bit off the word, then forced a smile. "I fear the journey here was more fatiguing than I'd thought."

With a regal nod, she swept from the room, conscious, to the very last, of a blue, blue gaze fixed unwaveringly on her back.

Chapter 3

A few minutes before eleven o'clock the next morning, Catriona made her way to the library, whence they'd been summoned to hear Seamus's last testament. She'd breakfasted in her room-because it was warmer there.

The attempt at self-deception worried her, as did its cause. She'd breakfasted privately so she wouldn't have to face Richard Cynster and the power he wielded. Whatever it was. She knew, of course, but she wasn't game to let herself contemplate it. At all. That way lay confusion.

A footman stood before the library door; he opened it and she glided through. And gave thanks that some sensible soul had given orders for the fire to be built up above its usual meager pile. The cavernous fireplace filled one end of the monstrous room, the largest in the house, stretching the length of one entire wing. As the walls were stone and the narrow windows uncurtained, the room was perpetually chill. She'd dressed appropriately in a dress of blue merino wool with long fitted sleeves, but was still grateful for the fire.

Jamie and Mary sat on the chaise; the others sat in armchairs on either side, all the seats arrayed in a semicircle facing the fire and, to one side, the huge old desk behind which Seamus had habitually sat. Now, a Perth solicitor sat in Seamus's chair and shuffled papers.

Subsiding into the one vacant armchair, between Meg and Malcolm, Catriona returned the solicitor's polite nod, then acknowledged the others present, only at the very last letting her eyes meet Richard Cynster's.

He sat on the other side of the chaise, beyond Mary, filling a chair with an indolent grace in stark contrast to the tentative postures of the other males present. He inclined his head, his expression impassive; Catriona inclined her head in return and forced her eyes elsewhere.

One glance had been enough to fill her mind with a vision far more powerful than the one that had brought her here. He was wearing a blue coat of a deeper hue than her dress, superbly tailored to hug his broad shoulders. A blue-and-black striped silk waistcoat covered a snowy white shirt topped by a beautifully tied cravat. His breeches, of the finest buckskin, clung to long, powerful thighs far too tightly for her comfort; his boots she already knew.

She wished him anywhere else but here; she had to fight to keep her eyes from him. Malcolm, beside her, was not so restrained; slumped in his chair, he gnawed on one knuckle and stared openly at the lounging elegance opposite. Catriona suppressed a waspish urge to tell him he'd never measure up, not while he slouched like that.

Instead, she breathed deeply, and determinedly settled, drawing calmness to her with every breath. Hands clasped in her lap, she reminded herself that she was here by The Lady's orders; perhaps she'd been sent here to meet Richard Cynster to learn what it was she should avoid.

Masterful men.

Denying the urge to glance at one, she fixed her gaze on the solicitor and willed him to get on with his business. He looked up and blinked, then owlishly peered at the mantel clock. "Hurrumph! Yes." He glanced around, clearly counting heads, matching faces against a list before laying it aside. "Well then, if we're all assembled…?"

When no one contradicted him, he picked up a long parchment, cleared his throat, and commenced. "I read the words of our client, Seamus McEnery, Laird of Keltyhead, as dictated to our clerk on the fifth of September this year."