Read Scandal's Bride for Free Online

independent set of her too-determined chin, the underlying sense of wildness that caught him—caught and focused his hunter’s instincts so forcefully. Her aura of mystery, of magic, of feminine forces too powerful for simple words, was an open challenge to a man like him.
    A bored rake like him.
    She would never have been acceptable within the ton; that hint of the wild was far too strong for society’s palate. She was no meek miss; she was different, and used no guile to conceal it. Her confidence, her presence, her authority had led him to think her in her late twenties; now he could see her more clearly, he realized that wasn’t so. Early twenties. Which made her assurance and self-confidence even more intriguing. More challenging.
    Richard set down his goblet; he’d had enough of cold silence. “Have you lived at this manor long, Miss Hennessy?”
    She looked up, faint surprise in her eyes. “All my life, Mr. Cynster.”
    Richard raised his brows. “Where, exactly, is it?”
    â€œIn the Lowlands.” When he waited, patently wanting more, she added: “The manor stands in the Vale of Casphairn, which is a valley in the foothills of Merrick.” Licking trifle from her spoon, she considered him. “That’s—”
    â€œIn the Galloway Hills,” he returned.
    Her brows rose. “Indeed.”
    â€œAnd who is your landlord?”
    â€œNo one.” When he again raised his brows, she explained: “I own the manor—I inherited it from my parents.”
    Richard inclined his head. “And this lady you speak of?”
    The smile she gave him was ageless. “The Lady.” The cadence of her voice changed, investing her words with reverence. “She Who Knows All.”
    â€œAh.” Richard blinked. “I see.” And he did. Christianity might rule in London and the towns, and in the Parliament, but the auld ways, the doctrines of days past, still held sway in the countryside. He had grown up in rural Cambridgeshire, in the fields and copses, seeing the old women gathering herbs, hearing of their balms and potions that could cure a large spectrum of mortal ills. He’d seen too much to be skeptical, and knew enough to treat any such practitioner with due respect.
    She’d held his gaze steadily; Richard saw the gleam of triumph, of victorious smugness in her eyes. She thought she’d successfully warned him off—scared him away. Inwardly, his grin was the very essence of predatory; outwardly, his expression said nothing at all.
    â€œCatriona?”
    They both turned to see Mary rising and beckoning; Catriona rose, too, and joined the female exodus to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.
    Which was, to Richard’s immense relief, excellent. Twirling his glass, he considered the ruby liquid within. “So,”—he flicked a glance at Jamie—“Catriona is now in your care?”
    Jamie’s sigh was heartfelt. “Yes—for another three years. Until she’s twenty-five.”
    â€œAre her parents long dead?”
    â€œSix years. They were killed in an accident in Glasgow while arranging to buy a cargo—a terrible shock it was.”
    Richard raised his brows. “An especially big shock for Catriona. She would have been—what? Seventeen?”
    â€œSixteen. Naturally, Da’ wanted her here—the vale’s an isolated spot, no place for a lone girl, you’d think.”
    â€œShe wouldn’t come?”
    Jamie’s face contorted. “Da’ made her. She came.” He shuddered, and took a long sip of his port. “It was horrific. The arguments—the shouting. I thought Da’ would have a seizure, she goaded him that much. I don’t think he’d ever had anyone argue back like she did— I wouldna dared.”
    As he drank more port, Jamie’s accent emerged; like many Scots of his age, he’d learned to suppress