Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

The words, uttered in a hard tone, were as much to convince herself of that tact as to decline his gentlemanly offer.

He hesitated, then said, a trace of steel in his tones: "As you wish." With a graceful inclination of his head, he strolled out and left her to it.

The thaw arrived.

Two mornings later, Richard lay late in bed, listening to the steady drip of water from the eaves. Catriona had slipped from his arms early, whispering about a confinement, assuring him that she wasn't going out but that the mother-to-be was sate inside the manor.

Staring up at the dark red canopy, Richard tried to keep his thoughts from her, from the leaden feeling that, two days ago, had settled in his gut.

And failed.

Inwardly grimacing, he irritably reminded himself that failure was not something Cynsters indulged in-much less on the scale he was presently wallowing in.

He was failing on all fronts.

The new life he'd envisaged for himself at Catriona's side, once so full of promise and possibilities, had turned into a disappointment. A deep, deadening disappointment-he'd never felt so disillusioned with life as he felt now.

There was nothing for him here-nothing for him to do, nothing for him to be. Boredom now haunted him; his old restlessness-something he'd hoped he'd lost for all time in the kirk at Keltyburn-was growing.

Along with a dark, compelling sense of worthlessness- at least, in this place. In this vale-her vale.

He couldn't understand her.

From night to cockcrow, they were as close as a man and woman could be, but when morning came and she slipped from his arms, it was as if, along with her clothes, she donned some invisible mantle and became "the lady of the vale"-a woman with a calling, a position and a purpose in life, from all of which he was excluded.

While gentlemen of his station did not customarily share their wives' lives, he, very definitely, had expected to share hers. Still wanted to share hers. The prospect of sharing her responsibilities, of sharing it all as a mutual endeavor, and thus having a strong and abiding connection on a daily basis-that was certainly a large part of the attraction he felt for her. She was, he had thought, a woman he could share goals with, share achievements with.

Their marriage hadn't, so far, turned out that way.

He'd been careful of her, careful of pressuring her-he'd given her every chance to ask him for help, for assistance. He'd tried hard not to force her hand-and got nowhere.

For long moments, his gaze locked on the dark red above him, he considered the obvious alternative-the action his Cynster self strongly urged. He could, very easily, take over the reins and steer their marriage into the paths he wanted it to follow. He was not a naturally passive person, he wouldn't normally endure a situation he didn't like. Normally, he'd simply change it.

But…

He could forsee two difficulties. The first was that, in taking the reins, he would risk damaging the very thing he most wanted to preserve. He wanted Catriona as a willing life-partner, not as one resenting his dominance.

That, however, while quite bad enough, ranked as the more minor of his difficulties.

The larger, most insurmountable problem, was his vow. The vow he'd made to her-twice-that he would not impinge on her independence, would never seek to override her authority. She'd taken him on trust-she trusted him to keep that vow no matter what. To wrest control

from her would betray that trust, in the most damning and damaging way.

There were few things he was sure of in this marriage of theirs, but he knew to his soul that he could never endure the look in her green eyes if he ever betrayed her on that front.

Which meant…

He was on a narrow track, high up a mountainside, with unbroken rock to one side and a sheer precipice on the other. He could go forward, or retreat.

Heaving a deep sigh, Richard threw back the covers and got up.

Cynsters never retreated.

The concept was totally alien to him-the very thought offended him at some deep level. So he waited, and trapped her once more in her office, at a time when he knew he could wrest at least two minutes from her busy schedule.

After ambling idly in and exchanging a mild comment about the weather, he looked down at her and asked: "Tell me, my dear, do you have any need of me here?"

He wanted to ask the question brutally-wanted to show her how much she was hurting him by shutting him out of her life, by denying him the chance to give what he felt he could-but he couldn't do it, couldn't let her see how pathetically vulnerable he'd become. So he kept his social mask intact and asked the question lightly, coolly. As if the answer was of no great moment.