"As should concern me?" Catriona held his gaze mercilessly. "Let me be the judge of that. This group?"
She waited; eventually, Jamie capitulated. "Six of them-all cousins. The ton calls them the Bar Cynster."
"And what does this group do?"
Jamie squirmed. "They have reputations. And nicknames Like Devil, and Demon, and Lucifer."
"I see. And what nickname is Richard Cynster known by?"
Jamie's lips compressed mulishly, Catriona levelled her gaze at him.
"Scandal."
Catriona's lips thinned. "I might have guessed. And no, you need not explain how he came by the title."
Jamie looked relieved. "I dinna recall Da' saying much more-other than they were all right powerful bastards wi' the women, but he would say that, in the circumstances."
Catriona humphed. Right powerful bastards with women-so, thanks to her late guardian's misbegotten notions, here she was, faced with a right powerful bastard who on top of it all, was in truth a bastard. Did that make him more or less powerful? Somehow, she didn't think the answer was less. She looked at Jamie. "Seamus said nothing else?"
Jamie shook his head. "Other than that it's only fools think they can stand against a Cynster."
Right powerful bastards with women-that, Catriona thought, summed it up. Arms crossed, she paced before the windows of the 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 offers. It's a sacrifice I have made for my people."
She was rather pleased with that tack; men like the Cynsters understood sacrifice and honor.