back parlor, keeping watch over the snow-covered lawn across
which Richard Cynster would return to the house.
She could see it all now—what Seamus had intended with his iniquitous
will. His final attempt to interfere with her life, from beyond the grave, no
less. She wasn't having it, a Cynster or not, powerful bastard or otherwise.
If anything, Richard Cynster's antecedents sounded even worse than she'd
imagined. She knew little of the ways of the ton, but the fact that his
father's wife, indeed, the whole family, had apparently so readily accepted a
bastard into their midst, smacked of male dominance. At the very least, it
suggested Cynster wives were weak, mere cyphers to their powerful husbands.
Cynster males sounded like tyrants run amok, very likely domestic dictators,
accustomed to ruling ruthlessly.
But no man would ever rule her, ruthlessly or otherwise. She would never
allow that to happen, the fate of the vale and her people rested on her
shoulders. And to fulfill that fate, to achieve her aim on this earth, she
needed to remain free, independent, capable of exercising her will as required,
capable of acting as her people needed, without the constraint of a
conventional marriage. A conventional husband.
A conventional
powerful bastard
of a husband was simply not
possible for the lady of the vale.
The distant scrunch of a boot on snow had her peering out the window. It
was mid-afternoon; the light was rapidly fading. She saw the dark figure she'd
been waiting for emerge from the trees and stroll up the slope, his powerful
physique in no way disguised by a heavy, many-caped greatcoat.
Panic clutched her—it had to be panic. It cut off her breathing and left
her quivering. Suddenly, the room seemed far too dark. She grabbed a tinderbox
and raced around, lighting every candle she could reach. By the time he'd
gained the terrace, and she opened the long windows and waved him in, the room
was ablaze.
He entered, brushing snowflakes from his black hair, with nothing more
than a quirking brow to show he'd noticed her burst of activity. Catriona
ignored it. Pressing her hands together, she waited only until he'd shrugged
off his coat and turned to lay it aside before stating: "I don't know
what
is going on in your mind, but I
will not
agree to marry you."
The statement was as categorical and definite as she could make it. He
straightened and turned toward her.
The room shrank.
The walls pressed in on her; she couldn't breathe, she could barely
think. The compulsion to flee—to escape—was strong; stronger still was the
mesmeric attraction, the impulse to learn what power it was that set her pulse
pounding, her skin tingling, her nerves flickering.
Defiantly she held firm and tilted her chin.
His eyes met hers; there was clear consideration in the blue, but beyond
that, his expression told her nothing. Then he moved—toward her, toward the
fire—abruptly, Catriona scuttled aside to allow him to warm his hands. While he
did so, she struggled to breathe, to think—to suppress the skittering
sensations that frazzled her nerves, to prise open the vise that had laid seige
to her breathing. Why a large male should evoke such a reaction she did not
know—or rather, she didn't like to think. The blacksmith at the vale certainly
didn't have the same effect
He straightened, and she decided it was his movements, so smoothly
controlled, so reminiscent of leashed power, like a panther not yet ready to
pounce, that most unnerved her. Leaning one aim along the mantelpiece, he
looked down at her.
"Why?"
She frowned. "Why what?"
The very ends of his lips twitched. "Why won't you agree to marry
me?"
"Because I have no need of a husband "
Especially not a
husband like you
. She folded her arms beneath her breasts and focused,
solely, on his face. "My role within the vale does not permit the usual
relationships a woman of my station might expect to enjoy." She tilted her
chin. "I am unmarried by choice, not for lack of
which Richard Cynster would return to the house.
She could see it all now—what Seamus had intended with his iniquitous
will. His final attempt to interfere with her life, from beyond the grave, no
less. She wasn't having it, a Cynster or not, powerful bastard or otherwise.
If anything, Richard Cynster's antecedents sounded even worse than she'd
imagined. She knew little of the ways of the ton, but the fact that his
father's wife, indeed, the whole family, had apparently so readily accepted a
bastard into their midst, smacked of male dominance. At the very least, it
suggested Cynster wives were weak, mere cyphers to their powerful husbands.
Cynster males sounded like tyrants run amok, very likely domestic dictators,
accustomed to ruling ruthlessly.
But no man would ever rule her, ruthlessly or otherwise. She would never
allow that to happen, the fate of the vale and her people rested on her
shoulders. And to fulfill that fate, to achieve her aim on this earth, she
needed to remain free, independent, capable of exercising her will as required,
capable of acting as her people needed, without the constraint of a
conventional marriage. A conventional husband.
A conventional
powerful bastard
of a husband was simply not
possible for the lady of the vale.
The distant scrunch of a boot on snow had her peering out the window. It
was mid-afternoon; the light was rapidly fading. She saw the dark figure she'd
been waiting for emerge from the trees and stroll up the slope, his powerful
physique in no way disguised by a heavy, many-caped greatcoat.
Panic clutched her—it had to be panic. It cut off her breathing and left
her quivering. Suddenly, the room seemed far too dark. She grabbed a tinderbox
and raced around, lighting every candle she could reach. By the time he'd
gained the terrace, and she opened the long windows and waved him in, the room
was ablaze.
He entered, brushing snowflakes from his black hair, with nothing more
than a quirking brow to show he'd noticed her burst of activity. Catriona
ignored it. Pressing her hands together, she waited only until he'd shrugged
off his coat and turned to lay it aside before stating: "I don't know
what
is going on in your mind, but I
will not
agree to marry you."
The statement was as categorical and definite as she could make it. He
straightened and turned toward her.
The room shrank.
The walls pressed in on her; she couldn't breathe, she could barely
think. The compulsion to flee—to escape—was strong; stronger still was the
mesmeric attraction, the impulse to learn what power it was that set her pulse
pounding, her skin tingling, her nerves flickering.
Defiantly she held firm and tilted her chin.
His eyes met hers; there was clear consideration in the blue, but beyond
that, his expression told her nothing. Then he moved—toward her, toward the
fire—abruptly, Catriona scuttled aside to allow him to warm his hands. While he
did so, she struggled to breathe, to think—to suppress the skittering
sensations that frazzled her nerves, to prise open the vise that had laid seige
to her breathing. Why a large male should evoke such a reaction she did not
know—or rather, she didn't like to think. The blacksmith at the vale certainly
didn't have the same effect
He straightened, and she decided it was his movements, so smoothly
controlled, so reminiscent of leashed power, like a panther not yet ready to
pounce, that most unnerved her. Leaning one aim along the mantelpiece, he
looked down at her.
"Why?"
She frowned. "Why what?"
The very ends of his lips twitched. "Why won't you agree to marry
me?"
"Because I have no need of a husband "
Especially not a
husband like you
. She folded her arms beneath her breasts and focused,
solely, on his face. "My role within the vale does not permit the usual
relationships a woman of my station might expect to enjoy." She tilted her
chin. "I am unmarried by choice, not for lack of
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