Descending from his carriage, Richard could detect no sign of warmth or life, no light burning in defiance of the dull day, no rich curtains draped elegantly about the sashes. Indeed, the windows were narrow and few, presumably from necessity. It had been cold in Keltyburn, at the foot of the mountain—up here, it was freezing.
The front door opened to Worboys’s peremptory knock; Richard ascended the steps, leaving Worboys and two footmen to deal with his luggage. An old butler stood waiting just inside the door.
“Richard Cynster,” Richard drawled, and handed him his cane. “Here at the behest of the late Mr. McEnery.”
The butler bowed. “The family are in the parlor, sir.”
He relieved Richard of his heavy coat, then led the way. Richard followed; the impression of a tomb intensified as they travelled down uncarpeted flagged corridors, through stone archways flanked by columns of solid granite, past door after door shut tight against the world. The chill was pervasive; Richard was contemplating asking for his coat back when the butler halted and opened a door.
Announced, Richard entered.
“Oh! I say.” A ruddy-complexioned gentleman with a shock of reddish hair struggled to his feet—he’d been engaged in a game of spillikins with a boy and a girl on the rug before the fire.
It was a scene so much like the ones Richard was accustomed to, his cool expression relaxed. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“No, no! That is . . .” Abruptly drawing breath, the man thrust out his hand. “Jamie McEnery.” Then, as if recalling the matter with some surprise, he added: “Laird of Keltyhead.”
Richard gripped the hand offered him. About three years his junior, Jamie was a good head shorter than he, stocky, with a round face and the sort of expression that could only be called open.
“Did you have a good trip up?”
“Tolerably.” Richard glanced at the others seated about the room, a surprising number all garbed in dull mourning.
“Here! Let me introduce you.”
Jamie proceeded to do so; Richard smoothly acknowledged Mary, Jamie’s wife, a sweet-faced young woman too passive for his tastes, but, he suspected, quite right for Jamie, and their children, Martha and Alister, both of whom watched him through big, round eyes as if they’d never seen anyone like him before. And then there were Jamie’s siblings, two whey-faced sisters with their mild husbands and very young, rather sickly looking broods, and last, Jamie’s younger brother Malcolm, who appeared not only weak but peevish.
Accepting a chair, Richard had never before felt so much like a large, marauding predator unexpectedly welcomed into a roomful of scrawny chickens. But he hid his teeth and duly took tea to warm him after his journey. The weather provided instant conversation.
“Looks like more snow on the way,” Jamie remarked. “Good thing you got here before it.”
Richard murmured his assent and sipped his tea.
“It’s been particularly cold up here this year,” Mary nervously informed him. “But the cities—Edinburgh and Glasgow—are somewhat warmer.”
Her sisters-in-law murmured inaudible agreement.
Malcolm stirred, a dissatisfied frown on his face. “I don’t know why we can’t remove there for winter like our neighbors do. There’s nothing to do here.”
A tense silence ensued, then Jamie rushed into speech. “Do you shoot? There’s good game to be had—Da’ always insisted the coverts were kept up to scratch.”
With an easy smile, Richard picked up the conversational gauntlet and helped Jamie steer the talk away from the families’ obviously straitened circumstances. A quick glance confirmed that the gentlemen’s coats and boots were well worn, even patched, the ladies’ gowns a far cry from the latest fashions. The younger children’s clothes were clearly hand-me-downs, while the coat Malcolm hunched in was a size too big—one of Jamie’s doing double duty.
The answer to Malcolm’s question was transparent—Seamus’s children lived under his chilly roof because they had nowhere else to go. At least, Richard mused, they had this place as a refuge, and Seamus must have left them well provided for; there was no hint of poverty about the house itself, or its servants. Or the quality of the tea.
Finishing his, he set his cup down and wondered, not for the first time, where his witch was hiding. He’d detected no trace of her, or her older shadow, even in the others’ faces. He’d seen her witchy face clearly enough in the bright moonlight; the only resemblance she shared with Jamie and his siblings lay in their red hair. And, perhaps, he conceded, the freckles.
Jamie’s and Malcolm’s faces were a collage of freckles, their sisters’ only marginally less affected. His memory of the witch’s complexion was of ivory cream, unblemished except for a dusting of freckles over her pert nose. He’d have to check when next he saw her; despite his wish to hasten that event, he made no mention of her. With no idea who she was—where she stood in relation to the family—he was too wise to mention their meeting, or express any interest in others who might be present.
Languidly, he rose, causing a nervous flutter among the ladies.
Jamie immediately rose, too. “Is there anything we can get you? I mean—anything you might need?”
While struggling to strike the right note as head of the family, Jamie had an openness of which Richard approved; he smiled lazily down at him. “No, thank you. I have all I need.” Bar an elusive witch.
With an easy smile and his usual faultless grace, he excused himself and withdrew to his room to refresh himself before luncheon.
Richard did not set eyes on his witch until that evening, when she glided into the drawing room, immediately preceding the butler. As that venerable individual intoned the words “Dinner is served,” she swept the gathering with a calm and distant smile—until she came to him, standing beside Mary’s chair.
Her smile died—stunned astonishment took its place.
Slowly, with deliberate intent, Richard smiled back.
For one quivering instant, her stunned silence held sway, then Jamie stepped forward. “Ah . . . Catriona, this is Mr. Cynster. He’s been summoned for the reading of the will.”
Deserting his face, she fixed her gaze on Jamie’s. “He has?” Her tone conveyed much more than a simple question.
Jamie shuffled and shot an apologetic glance at Richard. “Da”s first wife made him a bequest. Da’ held it until now.”
Frowning, she opened her lips to quiz Jamie. Having silently prowled closer, Richard took her hand—she jumped and tried to snatch it back, but he didn’t let go.
“Good evening, Miss . . .” Richard slanted a questioning glance at Jamie.
Instead, his witch answered, in tones colder than ice. “Miss Hennessy.”
Again, she surreptitiously tugged, trying to free her hand; Richard unhurriedly brought his gaze to her face, waited until she looked up, trapped her eyes with his, then smoothly raised her hand. “A pleasure,” he purred. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed her knuckles with his lips—and felt the shiver of awareness that raced through her—the shiver she couldn’t hide. His smile deepened. “Miss Hennessy.”
The look she sent him should have laid him out dead on the Aubusson rug; Richard merely lifted a brow, deliberately arrogant, deliberately provocative. And held onto her hand, and her gaze. “What Jamie is understandably hesitant over explaining, Miss Hennessy, is that Mr. McEnery’s first wife was my mother.”
Still frowning, she glanced at Jamie, who colored. “Your . . . ?” Understanding dawned; she looked back at him. “Oh.” The veriest hint of pink tinged her ivory cheeks. “I see.”
There was, to Richard’s surprise, no hint of condemnation, or consternation, in her voice—she didn’t even yank her hand away, as he’d fully expected; her slim fingers lay quiescent in his grasp. Her eyes searched his, then she inclined her head, coldly gracious, the action clearly signifying her understanding, and a regal agreement to his right to be present. There was no suggestion in any element of her bearing that she was per
turbed at learning he was a bastard.
In all his years, Richard had never met with such calm acceptance.
“Catriona is my father’s—” Jamie broke off and cleared his throat. “Actually, my ward.”
“Ah.” Richard smiled urbanely at Catriona. “That explains her presence, then.”
He fielded another of her lethal glances, but before he could respond, Mary bustled up and claimed Jamie’s arm.
“If you could lead Catriona in, Mr. Cynster?”
With Jamie in tow, Mary led the way; entirely content, Richard placed the intriguing Miss Hennessey’s hand on his sleeve and elegantly steered her in their wake.
She glided beside him, a galleon fully armed, queenly detachment hanging about her like a cloak. As they left the drawing room, Richard noted that the older woman had also appeared; she had been standing near the door.
“The lady who accompanies you?”
There was a palpable hesitation, then she elected to answer. “Miss O’Rourke is my companion.”
The dining room lay across the cavernous hall; Richard led his fair charge to the chair beside Jamie, at the table’s head, then, at Jamie’s intimation, took the seat opposite, on Jamie’s right. The rest of the family and Miss O’Rourke took their places. The room was large, the table long; the distance between the diners was enough to discourage those conversations not already dampened by the atmosphere. Despite the blaze roaring in the hearth, it was chilly; a sense of long-standing austerity hung over the room.
“Could you pass the condiments?”
With that the limit of conversation, as the courses came and went, Richard used the time to indulge his curiosity about Seamus McEnery. With no other avenue available, he studied Seamus’s house, his household, his family, for what insights they could offer of the man.
A cursory inspection of those he’d met earlier told him little more; they were, one and all, meek, mild, self-effacing, their very timidity a comment on Seamus and how he’d reared his children. Miss O’Rourke had an interesting face, deeply lined and unusually weathered for a gentlewoman’s; Richard didn’t need to study it for long to know she distrusted him deeply. The fact did not perturb him; companions of beautiful ladies generally distrusted him on sight. Which left—Catriona Hennessy.
She was, without doubt, the most interesting body in the room. In a gown of deep lavender silk, with her lustrous locks—neither gold nor plain red, but true copper—piled high on her head, tendrils escaping to frame her face in flames, the round neckline of her gown scooped low enough to give a fair indication of the bounty beneath, her shoulders and arms sweetly turned and encased in skin like ivory satin, she was a sight designed for lecherous eyes.
Richard looked his fill. Her face was a delicate oval, with a straight, little nose and a smooth, wide brow. Her brows and lashes were light brown, framing eyes of vibrant green—something he hadn’t been able to see in the moonlight, although he did recall how the gold flecks within the green had flared with indignation. He felt sure they would blaze in anger—and smolder with passion. Her only less-than-perfect feature was her chin; that, Richard considered, was a touch too firm, too determined. Too self-willed. She was of below average height, petite and slender, yet her figure, though sleek and supple, was not boyish. Indeed not. Her figure made his palms itch.
Unrestrained by the usual demands of polite dinner conversation, he surreptitiously let his gaze feast. Only when the desserts were set before them did he sit back and let his social senses take stock. Only then did he notice that while the others occasionally exchanged idle glances and the odd desultory comment, none looked at him, or at Catriona. Indeed, with the sole exception of the silent but watchful, and disapproving, Miss O’Rourke, they all kept their gazes carefully averted, as if fearful of drawing his attention. Only Jamie interacted with either Catriona or himself, and then only stiltedly, when need arose.
Curious, Richard tried to catch Malcolm’s eye, and failed; the youth seemed, if anything, to sink further into his chair. Glancing at Catriona, Richard saw her look up and scan the table; everyone took care not to meet her gaze. Unperturbed, she patted her lips with her napkin. Richard focused on the soft pink curves, and remembered, with startling clarity, precisely how they tasted.
Shaking aside the memory, he inwardly shook his head. Apparently Seamus’s family were so trenchantly timid, they were moved to treat both Catriona and himself like potentially dangerous animals who might bite if provoked.
Which definitely said something about his witch.
Maybe she really was a witch?
That thought provoked others—like what a witch would be like in bed; he was deep in salacious imaginings when Jamie nervously cleared his throat and turned to Catriona.
“Actually, Catriona, I’ve been thinking that, now Da”s gone and you’ll be my ward, that it really would be better—more fitting, I mean—if you were to come and live here.”
Caught in the act of swallowing a spoonful of trifle, Catriona stilled, then swallowed, laid down her spoon, and looked directly at Jamie.
“With us, the family,” he hurried on. “It must be very lonely at the vale all by yourself.”
Catriona’s expression grew stern; her green eyes held Jamie’s. “Your father thought the same, if you recall?”
It was immediately clear everyone at the table, bar Richard, did; a communal shudder passed around the room, even including the footmen, silent by the walls.
“Luckily,” Catriona went on, her gaze still locked with Jamie’s, “Seamus thought better of it, and allowed me to live as The Lady wishes, at the manor.” She paused, eyes steady, giving everyone time to feel the weight behind her words. Then she raised her brows. “Do you truly wish to set your will against that of The Lady?”
Jamie blanched. “No, no! We just thought you might like to . . .” He gestured vaguely.
Catriona looked down and picked up her spoon. “I’m perfectly content at the manor.”
The matter was closed. Jamie exchanged a glance with Mary at the other end of the table; she shrugged lightly and grimaced. Other members of the family shot quick glances at Catriona, then rapidly looked away.
Richard didn’t; he continued to study her. Her authority was remarkable; she used it like a shield. She’d put it up and Jamie, poor sod, had run headlong into it. Richard recognized the ploy; she’d tried the same with him with her “Put me down,” but he’d been too experienced to fall for it—she’d been all woman once he’d got his hands on her, soft, warm, and pliant. The thought of having his hands on her again, of having her warm, pliant, feminine flesh beneath him, made him shift in his seat.
And focused his mind even more. On why, exactly, he found her so . . . appealing. She wasn’t, in fact, classically beautiful; she was more powerfully attractive than that. It was, he decided, noting the 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?”
“In 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—”
“In the Galloway Hills,” he returned.
Her brows rose. “Indeed.”
“And who is your landlord?”
“No 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.”
“Ah.” 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.
“Catriona?”
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.”
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