Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

Squinting at the long crystal, he frowned. "It's carved, like the one on my mother's necklace, only of the other stone."

Drawing a shaky breath, Catriona lifted the pendant from his grasp. "Rose quartz." She wondered whether her voice sounded as strained as it felt. She dropped the pendant back into its haven-and nearly gasped in shock at its heat. It had been warm from her flesh, but the heat of his hand had raised its temperature much higher. With a herculean effort, she reassembled her scattered defenses, and retreated behind a haughty wall. "And now, if you've quite finished teasing me-"

The chuckle he gave was the definition of devilish. "Sweet witch, I haven't even started."

His blue eyes held hers; trapped for one instant too long, Catriona felt the hot flames sear her. And felt…

"You re a devil." She picked up her skirts. "And very definitely no gentleman!"

His lips twitched, just a little at the ends. "Naturally not. I'm a bastard."

He was that-and much more.

And he will father your children.

Catriona awoke with a start, with a gasp that hung quivering, in the empty dark. About her, the room lay still and silent the bedcovers lay over her, in tangled disarray. She lay on her back her heart racing to a beat she did not know, but recognized too well. Her arms lay tensed at her sides, her fingers gripping the sheets.

It took effort to straighten her fingers, to ease her locked muscles. Gradually, the tension holding her decreased, her breathing slowed.

Leaving behind confusion, consternation-and a compulsion that grew stronger by the day, by the hour. And even more by the night.

Night-when she need not-could not-hide from herself, when, in her dreams, her deepest yearnings and unvoiced needs held sway. Overridden, as always, by The Lady's will.

But that was not happening now. Instead, The Lady's will and her own deep yearnings were acting in concert, pushing her forward, into the arms of-

"A man I can't marry."

Rolling onto her elbow, Catriona reached for the glass of water on the table by the bed. She sipped, the cool water doused the lingering heat-heat that had flared at the dream of his lips on hers, of the touch of cool marble that incited flame Heat that had spread through her like forest fire in response to the hot hunger in his eyes, in his soul.

In response to his desire.

Alone in the night, there was no point in denying that, from the first, she had wanted him. Wanted him with a finality, a certainty, an absolute conviction that stunned her. She wanted him in her bed, wanted him to be the one to fill the empty space beside her, to dispel the private loneliness that was a part of her public persona. But from childhood she'd been taught to put her wants below the needs of her people in this instance, the choice had been clear.

Or so she had thought.

She was no longer so sure. Of anything.

Slumping back in the bed, she focused on the canopy. She had occasionally in the past, in her wild and willful youth, fought The Lady's will; she knew what it felt like. This was what it felt like. A draining combination of uncertainty, dissatisfaction, and an overwhelming confusion, from which, no matter how hard she tried, she could not break tree.

She was at odds with herself, because she was at odds with fate, with The Lady's will.

Muting a scream of keen frustration, she thumped her pillow, then turned on her side and snuggled down.

It had to be impossible. Had the Lady seen him? Did she know what-in this case-she was suggesting? Ordering?

Did she know what she was getting her senior disciple into?

Marriage to a masterful bastard.

The thought froze her mind, she stared, unseeing, into the dark, then shook herself, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep-without any more dreams.

She woke late the next morning-too late for breakfast. After taking tea and toast on a tray, she dressed warmly, dragged on her pelisse, and, avoiding Algaria's watchful eye, set out for a long walk. She needed to clear her head.

The day was brighter than the one before; only a sprinkling of snow remained on the paths. Pausing on the side steps, Catriona looked around, seeing no one, she walked briskly to the opening of one of the three paths leading downward, and slipped into the shadows beneath the trees.

Under the spreading branches, cool peace held sway. She swung along, the scrunch of her boots on the crisp, dead leaves the only sound she could hear. The air was fresh and clean; she drew it deep into her lungs. And felt better.

The path swung sharply, descending into a hollow, she rounded the bend-and saw him waiting, leaning negligently against the bole of a tall tree, his greatcoat protecting him against the light breeze that ruffled his black hair.