Scandals Bride (Cynster 3)

Mere seconds later, or so it seemed, she was stepping carefully along the path a full five yards past the comfortable tree, one hand on Richard's sleeve, the other holding her skirts as she stepped over a tree root, when firm footsteps approached from behind.

They both turned, with wholly false expressions of polite surprise, Catriona could only be thankful for the dappled shadows that hid her face as Algaria's black gaze found her.

Algaria frowned. "I thought you might have got lost."

Refraining from pointing out that she knew these woods better than her mentor, Catriona inclined her head. Carefully-it was still spinning. "I showed Mr. Cynster the lookout. We were on our way back." Via a tree.

She could only just summon enough breath to get the words out; Algaria merely humphed and waved them on.

"Don't wait for me-I'll just plod along slowly."

Catriona flicked a glance at her companion in time to see his lips twitch; she ignored the dangerous light in his eyes. "Very well."

Gracefully haughty, as befitted The Lady's senior disciple, she turned and allowed her nemesis to lead her on. She felt his gaze on her face, but kept her eyes fixed on the path and the scenery; she was still giddy, and flushed, with her senses clamoring. Insistently.

Steadfastly, she ignored them-and the question of what might have happened had Algaria not arrived. Such speculation was not calming, and right now, she needed calm.

Calm to deal with Richard Cynster-and calm to deal with herself. And she wasn't at all sure which would prove more difficult.

His attitude to family had intrigued her, so she'd tried to draw him out, driven by a compulsive need to know more about him, so she could interpret her visions in a more sensible light. Instead, what she'd learned had made her decision harder still-how could she not respond to a man who desired and actively sought to establish a real family?

Yet the rest-all she had learned since they'd left the lookout-had only hardened her resolve to resist him. His facade had slipped long enough to confirm her inner view of him-to confirm his emotional motivation. He was, indeed, a warrior without a cause-the cause he searched for, yearned for, was a family to defend and protect.

Which was all very well, but warriors, especially the hereditary sort, did not hang up their swords in the hall and become simple family men. Far from it. They remained warriors still, to the heart, to the soul.

And warriors ruled.

Inwardly she sighed, and saw the house looming ahead. All she had learned had confirmed her in her resistance, while increasing the temptation to give herself to him-to have him as her lord. But first and last, she was the lady of the vale- she couldn't, simply could not, let him into her life, couldn't let him think of her as part of his cause, no matter how tempting that might be.

And tempting it was. Just how tempting she hadn't understood, not until she'd stood pressed against him under that tree.

They stepped out of the woods and onto the lawn, spotted white with snow; Algaria followed close behind them. Calmer, more determined, Catriona drew a deep breath; she glanced briefly at Richard's face, then looked at the house.

Temptation incarnate was what he was-his attitudes were strongly attractive, his sensuality so compelling he engaged her senses to the exclusion of all else. But his very strength was what stood between them. He was too powerful a personality, too strong a male, to surrender his natural dominance to a wife. A witch-wife at that.

He was a powerfully attractive, family-oriented gentleman, but he was still a warrior to the core.

The house rose before them, cold and grey; she felt his gaze on her face.

"You look pale."

She glanced up and realized he thought she was still reeling. She let cool haughtiness infuse her eyes. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

She looked ahead; from the corner of her eye, she saw his lips twitch.

"Indeed? Perhaps you should take up the local custom of a dram of whiskey before climbing into bed. Jamie tells me the locals all swear by it."

Catriona humphed. "They'd swear by any 'custom' that means drinking whiskey."

He chuckled. "Understandable-it's good stuff. I hadn't really appreciated it before. I'm a rabid convert to the local custom."

"Converts are always the most rabid," Catriona observed. "But if you really are interested, you should visit the distillery in the valley."

They'd reached the side steps; describing the distillery, she led the way inside.

Chapter 5

"Ah-Richard?"