Scandal's Bride by Stephanie Laurens

to get on with his business. He looked up and blinked, then owlishly peered at the mantel clock. “Hurrumph! Yes.” He glanced around, clearly counting heads, matching faces against a list before laying it aside. “Well then, if we’re all assembled . . . ?”
    When no one contradicted him, he picked up a long parchment, cleared his throat, and commenced. “I read the words of our client, Seamus McEnery, Laird of Keltyhead, as dictated to our clerk on the fifth of September this year.”
    He cleared his throat again, and changed his voice; all understood that they were now hearing Seamus’s words verbatim.
    â€œ ‘This, my last will and testament, will not be what any of you, gathered here at my request, will be expecting. This is my last chance at influencing things on this earth—to put right what I did wrong, to rectify the omissions I made. With the hindsight of age, I’ve been moved to use this, my will, to that end.’ ”
    Not surprisingly, a nervous flutter did the rounds of the listeners. Catriona was immune, but even she frowned—what was the wily old badger up to now? Even Richard Cynster, she noticed, shifted slightly.
    Settling in his chair, Richard inwardly frowned and struggled to shake off the premonition Seamus’s opening paragraph had evoked. He was only a minor player in this scene; there was no reason to imagine those words were aimed at him.
    Yet, as the solicitor went on, it seemed he was wrong.
    â€œ ‘My first bequest will close a chapter of my life otherwise long completed. I wish to give into her son’s hands the necklace my first wife bequeathed to him. As I have stipulated that he, Richard Melville Cynster, must be here to receive it, it has now served its purpose.’ ” The solicitor fumbled on the desk, then rose and crossed to Richard.
    â€œThank you,” Richard murmured, lifting the delicate strands from the solicitor’s gnarled hands. Gently, he untangled the finely wrought gold links, interspersed with opaque rose pink stones. From the center of the necklace hung a long crystal of amethyst, etched with signs too small for him to make out.
    â€œIt was quite out of order for Mr. McEnery to keep it from you,” the solicitor whispered. “Please do believe it was entirely against our advice.”
    Studying the pendant, noting the curious warmth of the stones, Richard nodded absentmindedly. As the solicitor returned to the desk, Richard glanced up—from across the circle of seats, Catriona’s gaze was fixed on the pendant. Her absorption was complete; deliberately, he let the crystal hang, then moved it—her gaze remained riveted. The solicitor reseated himself; Richard closed his fist about the pendant. Catriona sighed and looked up; she met his gaze, then calmly looked away. Resisting an urge to raise his brows, Richard pocketed the necklace.
    â€œNow, where were we? Ah . . . yes.” The solicitor cleared his throat, then warbled: “ ‘As to all the wealth of which I die possessed, property, furniture, and funds, all is to be held in trust for a period of one week from today, the day on which my will is read.’ ” The man paused, drew breath, then went on in a rush: “ ‘If during that one week, Richard Melville Cynster agrees to marry Catriona Mary Hennessy, the estate will be divided amongst my surviving children, as described below. If, however, by the end of that week, Richard Cynster refuses to marry Catriona Hennessy, my entire estate is to be sold and the funds divided equally between the dioceses of Edinburgh and Glasgow.’ ”
    Shock—absolute and overpowering—held them all silent. For one minute, only the rustle of parchment and the odd crackle from the fire broke the stillness. Richard recovered, if that was the right word, first; he dragged in a huge breath, conscious of a sense of unreality, as if in a crazy dream. He