Scandal's Bride Read Free Page A

and said: "She was very lovely and very lonely—she deserved more
than she got from her marriage." He'd paused, then added: "I felt
sorry for her." He'd looked at him, and his slow smile had creased his
face "But I love you. I regret her death, but I can't regret your
birth."
    He could understand how his father had felt—he was, after all, a Cynster
to the bone. Family, children, home, and hearth—those were what mattered to
Cynsters. Those were their quintessential warrior goals, for them the ultimate
victories of life.
    For long, silent minutes, he stood before the grave, until the cold
finally penetrated his boots. With a sigh, he shifted, then straightened and,
after one last, long look, turned and retraced his steps.
    What was it his mother had left him? And why, having concealed her
bequest all these years, had Seamus summoned him back now, after his own death?
Richard rounded the kirk, his stride slow, the sound of his footfalls subsumed
by the breeze softly whistling through snow-laden branches. He reached the main
path and stepped onto it—and heard crisp, determined footsteps approaching horn
beyond the kirk. Halting, he turned and beheld…
    A creature of magic and moonlight.
    A woman, her dark cloak billowing about her, her head bare. Over her
shoulders and down her back spread the most glorious mane of thick, rippling,
silken hair, sheening copper bright in the moonlight, a beacon against the
wintering trees behind her. Her stride was definite, every footfall decisive;
her eyes were cast down, but he would have sworn she wasn't watching her steps.
    She came on without pause, heading directly for him. He couldn't see her
face, or her figure beneath the full cloak, but well-honed instincts rarely
lied. His senses stirred, stretched, then focused powerfully—a clear case of
lust at first sight. Lips lifting in wolfish anticipation, Richard silently
turned and prepared to make the lady's acquaintance.
    Catriona strode briskly up the path, lips compressed, a frown knitting
her brows. She'd been a disciple of The Lady too long not to know how to couch
her requests for clarification; the question she'd asked had been succinct and
to the point. She'd asked for the true significance of the man whose face
haunted her. The Lady's reply, the words that had formed in her mind, had been
brutally concise:
He will father your children
.
    There were not, no matter how she twisted them, very many ways in which
to interpret those words.
    Which left her with a very large problem. Unprecedented though it might
be, The Lady
must
have made a mistake. This man, whoever he was, was
arrogant, ruthless—dominant.
She
needed a sweet, simple soul, one
content to remain quietly supportive while she ruled their roost. She didn't
need strength—she needed weakness. There was absolutely no point sending her a
warrior without a cause.
    Catriona humphed, her breath steamed before her face. Through the
clearing wisps, she spied—the very last thing she expected to see—a pair of
large, black, highly polished Hessians, directly in her path. She tried to
stop, her soles found no grip on the icy path—her momentum sent her skidding
on. She tried to flail her arms, they were trapped beneath her cloak. On a
gasp, she looked up, just as she collided with the owner of the boots.
    The impact knocked the air from her lungs, for one instant, she was sure
she'd hit a tree. But her nose buried itself in a soft cravat, mid chest, just
above the V of a silk waistcoat. His chin passed above her head, her scalp
prickled as long hairs were gently brushed. And arms like steel slowly closed
about her.
    Instinct awoke in a flustered lush, raising her hands, she pushed
against his chest.
    Her feet slipped, then slid.
    She gasped again—and clutched wildly instead of pushing. The steely arms
tightened and suddenly only her toes touched the snow. Catriona dragged in a
breath—one too shallow to steady her whirling head. Her lungs had seized, her
senses