e chair beside her. Catriona nodded to Mrs. Broom, who clapped her hands for the first course to be served. Maids hurried in, carting piled platters. Unlike the household of gentry elsewhere, at the manor, all the household ate together, as they had for centuries.
Lounging in the chair beside Catriona, Richard studied her people, studied the open and easy manners that pertained between mistress and staff. There was a warmth, a camaraderie present that he previously had encountered only among soldiers; given the vale's isolation, the trials of long winters and wild weather, it was perhaps a good thing-a necessary cohesiveness.
All in all, he approved.
Not so Worboys.
Seated at the table directly below the main one, poor Worboys looked stunned. Inwardly grimacing, Richard made a mental note to expect his resignation. Used to the strict observances pertaining among the best households in the ton, the situation at Casphairn Manor would not meet Worboys's high standards.
And God only knew what the blacking was like.
"Do you care for some wine?"
Turning his head, Richard saw Catriona lift a decanter. Reaching out, he took it from her and studied the golden liquid within. "What is it?"
"Dandelion wine. We make it ourselves."
"Oh" Richard hesitated, then, inwardly grimacing, poured himself a half glass. He passed the decanter to Mrs. Broom, who had slipped into the seat beside him.
"You must tell me," she said, "what your favorite dishes are." She flashed him a wide smile. "So we can see what we can do to accommodate your tastes."
Richard smiled his slow Cynster smile. "How kind of you. I'll give the matter some thought."
She beamed, then turned aside.
Richard turned back to Catriona, but she was absorbed in her meal. Lifting his wineglass, he sipped. Then blinked. Then sipped again, more slowly, savoring the tart taste, the complexities of the bouquet.
Liquid ambrosia.
Straightening, he set his glass down and picked up his soup spoon. "How much of that wine do you have?"
Catriona shot him a glance. "We make as many casks as we can every summer. But we always have some left year to year."
"What do you do with it? The stuff left over?"
Laying down her spoon, she shrugged. "I expect the old casks are still there, in the cellars. I told you they're extensive-they run all the way beneath the main building."
"You can show me tomorrow." When she looked at him suspiciously, he smiled. "Your cellars sound quite fascinating."
She humphed.
A clanging sounded throughout the large room. All turned to where McArdle stood at the end of the main table. When all had quieted, he raised his goblet high. "I propose a toast-to Casphairn Manor. Long may it thrive. To our lady of the vale-long may she reign. And to our lady's new consort, Mister Richard Cynster-a warm welcome to the vale, Sassenach though he might be."
Laughter greeted that last, McArdle grinned and turned to address Catriona and Richard directly. "To you, my lady-and the consort The Lady has sent you."
Wild cheering and clapping rose throughout the hall, echoing from the stone walls and high rafters. Smiling easily, fingers crooked about the stem of his glass, Richard turned his head and cocked a brow at Catriona.
His question was clear; Catriona hesitated, then nodded. She watched as, with nonchalant grace, Richard rose; cradling his goblet, he lifted it high and said, very simply: "To Casphairn Manor."
All drank, as did he. Lowering his glass, he scanned the room, but did not sit down. After a moment, when all attention was again focused on him, on his commanding figure dominating the main table, he said, his voice low but carrying readily through the room: "I make the same pledge to you, and the vale, that I have already made to your lady." A glance directed their attention to her, then he lifted his head and raised his glass. "As consort to your lady, I will honor the ways of the vale and protect you and the vale from all threats."
He drank off his wine, then lowered his glass as clapping erupted from all sides. Heartfelt, the sound rose and rolled over the room. Richard sat-instinctively, Catriona put out a hand to his sleeve. He looked at her-she met his gaze fleetingly, then smiled and looked away.
And wondered at herself-at what he'd made her feel-all of them feel-in those few brief moments, with those few simple words. Magnetic words-she'd felt the tug herself, seen the effect it had had on her household. Her people were very much his already, and he'd only crossed the threshold mere hours ago.
Through the rest of the meal, Catriona pondered that fact. She steadfastly avoided looking at Algaria, but could feel her black glare. And sense her thoughts.
Nevertheless… she knew, to her bones, that this was how it was meant to be. Quite how their marriage would work out was what she couldn't, at present, see. She'd known Richard for a potent force even before she had met him, which was why she'd believed he was no suitable consort for her. The Lady had deemed otherwise.