* * *
It was a horridly dull day, with sleet and snow lashing the house. Denied any chance of a walk to clear her head, Catriona set herself to review the stillroom. Which appeared not to have been reviewed since last she’d visited. The task proved so consuming, she got no chance to devote any sensible thought to the problem she’d seen looming on her horizon.
She hadn’t seen it until that morning, when she’d rushed into the breakfast parlor. Not that she could have foreseen it, given she hadn’t foreseen the depth of her involvement with Richard.
He who was to father her child.
But she got no chance to think on that, to dwell on how her view of him had changed, and on whether that meant she could, or should, change her plan, or even whether her plan was now safer, or more dangerous.
He’d been confused this morning—and that she hadn’t expected. She’d seen it in his eyes as he’d looked at her—a remembrance of the night. Given what had happened, she wasn’t surprised; she hadn’t expected him to be even partially awake, much less in that peculiar state of a waking dream.
It wasn’t, therefore, surprising that he remembered something; his confusion told her he hadn’t remembered enough. Enough to be sure it hadn’t been a dream.
She was safe, but he was disturbed. She needed to think about that.
“Tie all these up in bunches and hang them properly. And when you’ve finished with that, you can throw all this away.” “All this” was a pile of ancient herbs that had long ago lost their efficacy. Hands on hips, Catriona surveyed the much-improved stillroom, then nodded briskly. “We’ll make a start on the oils in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the housekeeper and two maids chorused.
Catriona left them to their labors and headed back to the family parlor. Her route lay through a labyrinth of corridors giving onto a narrow gallery overlooking the side drive.
The gallery led to the main wing of the house. She’d started along it before she looked up and saw the large figure standing before one of the long windows looking out at the wintry day. He heard her and turned his head, then turned fully, not precisely blocking her path, but giving the impression he would like to.
Head high, Catriona’s steps did not falter. But she slowed as she neared him, suddenly aware of a changed presence in the air, of some blatantly sexual reaction. On his part—and on hers.
She stopped a full yard away, not daring to venture closer, unsure just what the sudden searing impulse to touch him might lead her to do. Keeping her expression mild and uninformative, she lifted her chin and raised a questioning brow.
He looked down at her, his expression as unreadable as hers.
And the hot attraction between them grew stronger, more intense.
It stole her breath and fanned heat over her body. Her nipples crinkled tight; she held her ground and prayed he wouldn’t notice.
“I wondered,” he eventually said, “if you’d like to stroll.” His tone made it clear he wanted her alone, somewhere private so he could investigate what he was feeling. “The conservatory as we have no other choice.”
The fact that—even knowing the truth—she actually considered the possibility truly scared her. “Ahh . . . I think not.” Prudence reasserted itself in a rush; Catriona softened her refusal with a smile. “I must tend to Meg—she’s unwell.”
“Can’t Algaria tend Meg?”
His irritation nearly made her grin; his mask was slipping—the warrior was showing. “No—Meg prefers me.”
His lips thinned. “So do I.”
Catriona couldn’t stop her grin. “She’s ill—you’re not.”
“Much you know.” Thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets, he turned and sauntered beside her as she resumed her progress into the main wing.
Catriona shot him a careful glance. “You’re not sick.”
He raised an arrogant brow. “You can tell just by looking?”
“Generally, yes.” She trapped his gaze. “In your case, your aura is very strong, and there’s no hint of any illness.”
He searched her eyes, then humphed. “When you’ve finished with Meg, you can come and examine my strength in greater detail.”
Catriona fought to keep her lips straight enough to frown. “You’re just feeling a trifle under the weather. Perfectly understandable.” They’d reached the bottom of the main stairs; with a nod, she indicated the bleak scene beyond the hall windows.
He looked, but didn’t seem to see. He stopped before the stairs; she halted on the bottom step and faced him.
“I’d be perfectly all right,” he said, meeting her eyes, “if I could just . . .”
His words died; desire swept over them, tangible and hot as a desert wind. He stared at her; Catriona held tight to the banister and struggled not to respond, to keep her own mask in place as his wavered.
Then he blinked, frowned, and shook his head. “Never mind.”
More shaken than she could allow him to see, Catriona smiled weakly. “Later, perhaps.”
He looked at her again, then nodded. “Later.”
There was to be no later—not that day. Despite her best intentions, Catriona found herself in constant demand, with Meg, with the children, even with Mary, who was usually as hale as a horse. The tensions in the house, generated by Seamus’s iniquitous will, were taking their toll.
The only time she had to herself was the half-hour while she dressed for dinner. Hardly enough time to consider the implications of the unexpected turn her straightforward plan had taken. As she scrambled into her gown, then shook out her hair, brushed it and re-braided it, she swiftly reevaluated her position.
If things had gone as she’d planned, she would have steadfastly avoided Richard during the days, done nothing to give him the slightest reason to change his mind. She had planned to hold aloof until he’d refused Seamus’s edict, seen him on the road to London, then headed for the vale. Carrying his child.
Such had been her plan.
Now, however, one small element had gone awry. She needed to adjust. He’d remembered enough of the night to be seriously disturbed. The idea that he might be affected in some way as a result of her machinations was not one she could accept.
She’d have to do something about it.
The first thing she did, on her way down to dinner, last as ever, was to add to his fateful decanter a few drops of another potion, one that would prevent him from remembering any further “dreams.”
The second thing she did was stand, rather than flee, when he reentered the drawing room after dinner and stalked straight to her side.
Algaria, beside her, stiffened. Catriona waved her away—she went, reluctantly. Richard barely nodded at her as he took her place.
“Where the devil have you been?”
Catriona opened her eyes wide. “Calming Meg, dosing the children—all six of them—then mixing Mary a potion, then checking the children, then helping Meg get up, then checking the children, then . . .” She waved. “My day flew, I’m afraid.”
He eyed her narrowly. “I’d hoped to catch up with you after lunch.”
Catriona threw him a helpless, apologetic look.
Richard inwardly snorted, and all but glowered at the rest of the company. He’d filled in what probably ranked as the dullest day of his life in the library and in the billiard room, praying that his sudden susceptibility would fade.
It hadn’t.
Even now, just standing beside her, his body was literally remembering what hers had felt like pressed against him. Naked—skin to skin. The thought made him hot—hotter than he already was. If she’d been a problem yesterday, with her ability to arouse him, after last night’s dream, she qualified as a full blown crisis. “I wanted to speak with you.”
About what, he wasn’t sure. But he definitely wanted to know if she felt what he did—if she could sense the sheer lust that scorched the air between them. He’d watched her carefully but had detected no especial awareness; he slanted a glan
ce at her now, as, with less than a foot between them, she calmly considered his words. Not a glimmer of consciousness showed.
While all he could think of was how it had felt to slide inside her.
He bit back a groan; it was no use hardening his muscles against the remembered sensations—they were hard enough as it was. “We need to talk.”
The glance she threw him was searching. “You’re not sick—you don’t need my professional advice.”
She sounded positive—Richard wasn’t so sure. He might not be physically ill, but . . . he knew his “dream” was a dream for the simple reason it could not have really happened. The chances of her turning up in his room like that, smiling and saying she’d come to go to bed with him, were, in his estimation, less than nil.
And if that hadn’t happened, then the rest certainly hadn’t.
But he’d never had memories like this, not even of real events. Real women—ones with whom he had shared a bed. Much as he hated to think it, he wasn’t at all sure that all the long nights of his lenthy and lustfully successful rakish career weren’t coming back to haunt him.
Because he was sure—to his bones—that he knew her in the biblical sense.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth. “Do you know much about dreams?” He glanced at her. “Can you read them?”
She looked up and met his eyes; he sensed her hesitation. “Sometimes,” she eventually replied. “Dreams often mean something, but that something often isn’t clear.” She considered, then quickly added: “And it’s often not the thing it appears as in the dream.”
He threw her an exasperated look. “That’s a lot of help.”
She blinked and considered him. Rather carefully, he thought.
“If you’re troubled by some dream, then the best thing to do is set it aside for the moment, because if it is supposed to mean something, then that something will become apparent, usually in a few days. Or the dream will disappear.”
“Indeed?” Richard raised a brow, then reluctantly nodded. That was probably sound advice—he might as well put it into practice. But first, he needed to stop her from deserting him. He nodded to the tea trolley being stationed before Mary. “I’ll get our cups.”
Catriona graciously inclined her head and watched him cross the room. And swore she’d start carrying a fan. She was so hot, she was surprised she hadn’t spontaneously combusted—gone up in flames right here in Mary’s drawing room. The flushes that washed through her came in two forms—hot and hotter. Hot when he wasn’t looking directly at her, hotter when he was. The only reason she was still standing here, using every ounce of her will and experience to appear unaffected, was because she’d convinced herself this was the penance she had to pay for the way her plan had affected him—to bear with the counter-effect and bring him what ease she could. But . . .
She was desperately in need of her tea.
He returned and handed her her cup; she accepted it and sipped gratefully.
Richard sipped, too, for much the same reason, then set his cup back on its saucer. “Tell me about this role of yours—being the lady of the vale.”
Catriona blinked and looked up at him. “The lady of the vale?” When he simply waited, she asked: “You want to know what I do?”
Richard nodded. And saw wariness seep into her eyes.
“Why?”
“Because . . .” He paused, then continued, “I want to know what I’m turning down.” If she thought he was considering falling in with Seamus’s plan, she’d tell him nothing. He capped the words with one of his teasing smiles, and was rewarded with one of her humphs.
“You don’t need to know.”
“Where’s the harm?” He slanted her a glance—she’d tossed her pert nose in the air again and he was wretchedly uncomfortable. “You’re the local healer, but that can’t be the summation of your duties, not if you own the vale.”
“Of course not.”
“I assume you keep control over the rents and sales of produce, but what about the other areas? The livestock, for instance. Do you supervise the breeding yourself, or does someone else help?”
The glance she shot him was part irritation, part resignation. “There are others, of course. Most of the husbandry is dealt with by one of my staff, but the dairy is separate.”
“Do you make your own cheese?” By dint of a succession of careful questions, he dragged a reasonable outline of her holdings, and how she managed them, from her. As he’d expected, there were gaps in her management—important areas in which she relied on people who themselves had no real qualifications. She trusted too easily, despite, or perhaps because of, her beliefs.
He’d already proved that.
Catriona answered his questions because she couldn’t see any reason not to. And he surprised her—with his insight, his understanding, his experience. In the end, she asked: “How do you know to ask all this?” She frowned at him, grateful the heat between them had ebbed. Not disappeared, but eased. “Do you manage large estates in your spare time?”
He looked mildly bemused. “Spare time?”
“I gathered your conquests in London take up most of your time.”
“Ahh.” Her tart reply amused him. “You forget—I’m a Cynster.”
“So?”
His smile started off as teasing, but somewhere along the way turned intent. “You’ve forgotten,” he murmured, “the family motto.”
Catriona felt the air about her stir; she was surprised it didn’t crackle. She held his gaze and lifted a haughty brow. “Which is?”
“To have . . . and to hold.”
The words hung between them, layered with meaning; holding his gaze, Catriona prayed he couldn’t see through her mask as easily as she could see through his. She didn’t need to be told those words were not just a motto—they were a raison d’être. For them all, perhaps, but especially for him.
The bastard—the warrior without a cause.
Barely able to breathe, she reached for his empty cup. “If you’ll excuse me, I must check on Meg.”
He let her go without a word, which was just as well. How much longer she could have withstood the temptation to reach out to him—to let him have her as his cause—she didn’t like to think.
Nevertheless, later that night, when the last of the midnight chimes died, she once more stood before his closed door—and stared at it. While telling herself, in very plain terms, precisely why she was there.
First and foremost there were The Lady’s orders, orders she could not defy. And it was indisputable fact that three nights was the minimum she should spend with him—that was what she would advise any other woman in her place.
And lastly, but, she had to admit, very far from least, there was the simple fact she wanted him. Wanted to lie in his arms again, wanted to miss none of the short time fate had granted them. She wanted to hold him again, the vulnerable warrior, and give herself to him completely—give herself to fill the void in his soul. She couldn’t marry him, but that didn’t mean that he—and she—couldn’t have that.
Even if only in his dreams.
She drew a deep breath and reached for the door handle.
Lying back in his bed, wide awake, Richard stared moodily at the whiskey decanter. He’d gone without his usual nightcap. It had occurred to him that the whiskey—not his normal drop—might be to blame for his over-vivid dreams.
If it was, he’d avoid it. He couldn’t handle another day like this, with his body clamoring—reacting—as if something that hadn’t happened had. He’d go mad. Some held that the Scots were all insane—witness Seamus. Maybe whiskey was to blame.
The soft swoosh of air as the door opened had him turning his head. The door swung open—not tentatively—and Catriona walked in. She closed the door quietly, then scanned the room—and saw him. The fire had burned low, but he still saw her soft, peculiarly witchy smile.
Every muscle in his body locked; he couldn’t breathe. A condition that worsen
ed as, her smile still playing over her face, she walked toward the bed, slipping off her robe—a robe he remembered—as she came. She let the robe fall as she reached the side of the bed. Head on one side, she studied him—still smiling softly.
Absolutely rigid, he watched her, then realized she was searching his face. The light from the fire didn’t reach the head of the bed; she might be able to see his eyes were open, but she couldn’t possibly read them. If she did, she’d flee.
Instead, her smile deepened. She reached for the covers, then hesitated. Then she shrugged and straightened—and calmly unbuttoned the bodice of her nightgown, grasped the skirt, and drew it off over her head.
Richard sucked in a tortured breath; if he could have moved he’d have pinched himself. But he knew he wasn’t asleep.
He wasn’t dreaming. This was real.
Totally naked, her long tresses hanging free about her shoulders, over her back, her skin—smooth breasts, sleek flanks—gleaming like ivory in the weak light, she lifted the covers and slid in. The dipping of the mattress as she settled beside him triggered an instinctive, almost violent response. He only just managed to suppress it—the primitive urge to roll over, cover her, take her.
His mind was reeling, his wits in disarray, struggling to grasp the fact that this was real—that she was, in solid fact, here, in his bed—blissfully naked.
What in all hell was she up to?
He hadn’t moved—he didn’t dare; if he did, the reins would slip from his grasp, and God alone knew what would happen then. Every muscle quivering with restraint, he looked at her.
And she touched him.
Spread one small, warm hand over his chest, then swept it down to boldy cup him.
After that, hell, God—even her Lady—didn’t matter.
He closed his eyes on a long groan. Her fingers tightened; his reins snapped. He caught her hands, first one, then the other, locking them above her head in one of his. In the same movement, he lifted over her, found her lips, and plundered.
One thought burned in his fevered brain—to confirm, beyond all doubt, that she had been the woman in his dream. That she’d been the woman he’d brought to life the night before, the woman who’d begged him to take her, then writhed like a wanton in his arms.
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