The family followed them to the door, excited and garrulous. Because of Seamus’s death, the small private ceremony in the old kirk—all that either she or Richard had wanted—had been agreed to by all. Both the weather and Seamus’s death had mitigated against any further revelry. The snows had started in earnest; the passes were slowly filling. Richard and she had been in perfect accord that they should leave immediately after the ceremony, to ensure they weren’t snowed in for weeks.
Pausing in the porch, Catriona saw the steamy breaths of their carriage horses rising beyond the lychgate. She looked up at Richard; he was looking across the graveyard. She followed his gaze—and guessed his thoughts.
“Go!” Lightly, she pushed him. He looked down at her, his mask in place; she ignored it. “Go and say good-bye.” She looked inward and afar, then refocused on him. “I don’t think either of us will be here again.”
He hesitated for an instant more, then nodded and stepped off the porch. She watched him head for a simple grave by the wall, then swung around and gave her attention to Jamie, Meg and the rest.
Halting before his mother’s grave, Richard wondered what she would have thought of him marrying Catriona Hennessy. His mother had been from the Lowlands, too; perhaps she would approve. He gazed at the headstone, studied it carefully, letting the vision sink into his mind.
And recalled his thought, when he’d stood here in the moonlight just before he’d first met his witchy wife.
His wife. The words, even unuttered, sent a streak of unnerving sensation through him, powerful enough to shift the very bedrock of his foundations. Sensation and recollection mingled; eyes narrowing, he gazed at his mother’s grave and silently made another vow.
To live life fully.
Straightening, he drew a deep breath and turned. And discovered Catriona waiting a yard behind him. She met his eyes, then looked at the grave. Richard gestured her forward; she came to his side.
For a moment, side by side, they looked at the headstone; inwardly, Richard said good-bye. Then he took Catriona’s gloved hand. “Come. It’s freezing.”
He drew her away. It was she who, halfway down the path, glanced back, then looked at his face, before shifting her gaze forward to where their party waited in the protection of the lychgate.
They had two carriages—his and hers. Their leave-taking was foreshortened by the increasing snow; within minutes, Richard handed Catriona into his carriage, then followed her in. Jamie shut the door and stepped back. Through the glass, Richard met Jamie’s eyes, and, smiling, raised his hand in brief salute. Jamie grinned and saluted back.
“Good-bye!”
“Good luck!”
The carriage lurched; the wedding party, waving madly, fell behind. Sitting back, wrapped in his greatcoat, Richard stretched his legs out and settled his shoulders against the leather seat. Beside him, Catriona flicked out her skirts, then drew her cloak about her. Boots propped on a hot brick wrapped in flannel, she settled her head against the squabs and closed her eyes.
Silence, tinged with expectation, filled the carriage as it rumbled out of the Highlands.
Richard saw no reason to break it—as each mile of white landscape was replaced with the next, his mind was busy listing the various letters he needed to write. The first—a short note to Devil—had already been dispatched, along with Worboys, sent ahead to ensure the comfort of their first night. Informing Devil of his change of status had been easy; informing Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, would be much less so. Aside from anything else, he would need to break his news in such a way that his stepmother did not immediately appear on the manor’s doorstep, seeking to welcome Catriona into the Cynster family in the time-honored way. Oh, no—he wanted time—wanted them to have time—to find their own equilibrium.
To learn how to get on—for him to learn how to manage a witchy wife.
That definitely came first. Helena would have to wait.
“I hope we get to The Boar before nightfall.”
Catriona was peering into the whirling white outside. Richard studied her profile; his lips quirked. Straightening them, he looked ahead. “We’ll be staying at The Angel.”
“Oh?” Catriona turned. “But . . .” Her words died away.
Turning his head, Richard met her eyes, clear question in his.
“Well”—she gestured—“it’s simply that The Angel is a very superior house.”
“I know. That’s why I sent Worboys to secure rooms for us there.”
“You did?” She stared at him, then grimaced.
Richard kept his expression mild. “Don’t you like The Angel?”
“It’s not that. It’s just that superior also means expensive.”
“A fact you need not concern yourself over.”
She humphed. “That’s all very well, but—”
Richard knew the instant the penny dropped, saw her eyes widen as she finally noticed the luxurious appointments of his carriage—the fine, supple leather, the gleaming brass—finally remembered the lines and deep chests of the four greys between the shafts. Finally considered what she should have long before.
Her eyes, wide and startled, swung to his, her gaze arrested. She opened her lips on hasty words and nearly choked. Clearing her throat, she sat back against the seat and gestured airily. “Are you . . . ?”
“Very.” Enjoying himself, Richard leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
And felt the increasing intensity of her gaze. “How much is very?”
He considered, then said: “Enough to keep me, and you . . . and your vale if need be.”
She searched his face, then humphed and sank back. “I didn’t realize.”
“I know.”
“Are the Cynsters exceedingly wealthy?”
“Yes.” After a moment, he continued, his eyes still closed: “Within the family, my bastardry counts for nothing—my father made provision for me as his second son, which, to all intents and purposes, I am.”
She was silent for so long, he wondered what she was thinking.
“Jamie mentioned that you’re accepted socially.”
The murmured statement held no element of question; opening his eyes, Richard turned his head and looked at her—she was staring out at the snow.
“I expect that means you could have had your choice of all the young ladies from the very best families.” Compelled by the ensuing silence, he replied: “Yes.”
“So . . .” She sighed, and turned to meet his eyes. “What will your family think when they learn you’ve married a Scottish witch?”
He would have quipped that they’d either think he’d lost his senses, or that it served him right, but the shadows in her eyes held him. Compelled him to reach out, slowly, and slide one arm about her. And lift her, with an ease that sent a very definite shiver through her, onto his lap.
“The only thing they’ll care about,” he murmured, juggling her, “is that I’ve chosen you.”
He would have kissed her, but she stayed him, small hands braced against his chest. “But you haven’t.” Gratifyingly breathless, she searched his eyes, then blushed lightly. “Chosen me, I mean.”
He’d chosen her in the instant he’d first closed his arms about her, in the moonlight near his mother’s grave, but he wasn’t bewitched enough to admit it; his witch had enough powers as it was. Ignoring her hands, he bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. “You’re mine.” Breaths mingling, driven, their gazes locked—then, simultaneously, dropped to each other’s lips. Searching, hungry, their lips touched again—achingly gentle—then parted. “That’s all that matters.”
Her lashes fluttered up; for one instant, green eyes met blue, and the air about them shimmered.
She sucked in a quick, shallow breath; in the same instant, he tightened his arms about her, then lowered his head and kissed her.
And she kissed him. With a devastating sweetness, an innocence—as if this were the first time. Which, in some ways, for her, it was. The firs
t time she’d knowingly welcomed him as her lover—a lover fully conscious, wide awake. Richard realized and inwardly groaned, and harnessed his raging desires, savagely hungry after four days’ starvation.
He deepened the kiss by gradual degrees, letting them both sink into the caress, into the warmth and heat, into that pleasurable sea. Letting their embers slowly glow stronger, then flicker into flame; with an expert’s touch, he fanned the flames until they burned steadily.
She followed his lead readily, openly, without guile. As was her wont, she freely gave all he asked, accepting each intimacy as he offered it, surrendering her mouth to his conquest. He savored her thoroughly, then teased her into making her own demands, into meeting him and matching him, into returning the slow, languid thrusting of his tongue with clinging caresses equally evocative.
But their nerves remained curiously taut, their play curiously charged, as if their first encounter as a married couple was somehow different. Richard sensed it in her, in the tension that invested her slight frame, in the tightness of her breathing—sensed it in himself—an alertness, an awareness, heightened to exquisite sensitivity.
As if their nerves, their bodies, their very beings, thrummed to some magic in the air.
Gently, he lifted her, rearranging her on his lap so that she sat across his legs facing him, one knee on either side of his hips. Locked in their kiss, she barely seemed to notice; pushing her hands up, over his shoulders, she slid her fingers into his hair and angled her lips beneath his.
She moaned when he closed his hands about her breasts. He kneaded and, through the thick fabric of her pelisse, felt the mounds firm and fill his hands. Even with the benefit of a number of hot bricks, even with the heat rising between them, it was too cold to contemplate baring her. Instead, he glided his hands over her in long, sweeping caresses—caresses designed to stir her to life. To love.
When she wriggled impatiently on his thighs, Richard reached between them, found the hem of her skirt, and slid his hand beneath.
He found her—startlingly hot in the cold air in the carriage. She would have pulled back from their kiss but he refused to let her; he kept her lips trapped, filled her mouth with slow, languid thrusts as he stroked her, parted her, penetrated her.
She melted about his fingers; he probed deeper, then stroked gently. She was hot and very ready.
He had to draw back from their kiss to deal with his own clothing. Her questing fingers had already pushed his great-coat aside and undone both coat and waistcoat. Fingers splayed across the fine linen of his shirt, breasts rising and falling dramatically, her lips swollen and parted, eyes jewel green under heavy lids, she stared dazedly down as he flicked his trouser buttons undone.
They slipped free—abruptly, she lifted her head and stared at him. “What . . . ?”
The half-squeaked question was eloquent; Richard raised a suggestive brow.
“Here?”
He raised his brow higher. “Where else?”
“But . . .” Aghast, she stared at him. Then she looked up at the carriage roof. “Your coachman . . .”
“Is paid enough to feign deafness.” Ready, Richard reached for her.
She looked back at him and licked her lips, glanced at the seat beside them, then shook her head in disbelief. “How . . . ?”
He showed her, drawing her fully to him, then easing into her softness. As she fathomed his intention and felt him enter her, she spread her thighs, slid her knees along the cushions, and, with a soft sigh, sank down, impaling herself fully upon him.
As she closed, scalding hot, around him, Richard, watching her face and seeing the expression of sheer relief that washed over her fine features, got the distinct impression that she was as thankful to have him inside her again as he was to be there.
Wrapping his arms about her, one beneath her hips, he took her lips in a searing kiss, then lifted her. Rocked her.
She caught the rhythm quickly. Rising on her knees, she tried to increase the tempo.
“No.” Anchoring her hips, he drew her fully down, held her there for a moment, then picked up the rhythm again. “Keep in time with the horses.”
She blinked at him, but did; gradually, the steady, rolling rocking became so instinctive they no longer needed to think of it—but could think, instead, solely of the indescribable pleasure of their bodies merging intimately, again and again, in a journey of infinite delight.
Held firmly, closely, Catriona shuddered—with pure pleasure, with sharp excitement. With an unfurling sense of the illicit—of the wild, the unconventional—in her soul and his. Eyes closed, held close in his embrace, their fully dressed state contradicted, contrasted—focused her senses on—the area of their naked engagement. Along the bare inner face of her thighs, all she could feel was the fabric of his trousers, the smooth leather of the seat. Over her flanks and legs, over the curves of her bottom, all she could feel was the shift and glide of her lawn chemise and petticoats.
Only at the core of her, in the soft, swollen, heated flesh between her widespread thighs—only there could she feel him, only there did they touch with no barriers between. Only there did they merge, sweetly slick, powerfully smooth.
With heightened senses, she reveled in the power inherent in their joining, in the deeply compulsive repetition, in the burgeoning energy rising within them.
Senses wide open, awareness complete, she was deeply conscious that outside the carriage, the world, ice cold and blanketed in white, went on, committed to its own steady rhythm, the unquenchable rhythm of life. Under the snow, life still glowed, seeds warm, fecundity waiting to flower. Just as, beneath their heavy clothes, they—their bodies and their lives—were melding, seeds sown in darkness to flower later—in summer, when the sun returned.
With their own rhythm, the rhythm of their breathing, of their heartbeats, of the constant flexing of their bodies, locked to the rolling gait of the horses plodding through that wintry scene, they, too, became part of it. A natural part of the landscape, the act of their joining invested with the same, intrinsic force that breathed life into the world.
As the snow swirled and the light slowly faded and the horses plodded on, locked in each others arms, their bodies slowly tensing, straining toward shimmering release, they were a piece of the jigsaw of the world at that moment. An essential, necessary piece.
With that certainty investing her mind, her soul, Catriona dragged her lips from his. Laying her head on his shoulder, her forehead by his jaw, she breathed rapidly, raggedly. Her body moved incessantly without her direction, driven by a need she no longer needed to conceal. Didn’t know how to conceal.
Caught in the moment, she clung to him, conscious to her toes of the steely strength of him, the hot hard length of him, sliding so effortlessly deep into her core, nudging her womb, soon to fill it, to provide the seed for her fruit.
Need built, then flooded her; she heard herself moan. He shifted and brushed a hot kiss to her temple, then tightened his arms about her and urged her on. Urged her deeper upon him.
She dragged in a desperate breath, and tightened about him, and drew him in—into her body, into her soul.
Into her heart.
She could feel her protective distance dissolving—feel her shields slide away—leaving her defenseless. At her feet, the hole she’d jumped into that first night yawned and beckoned anew—tempting her to recommit to it, to jump in as she had when she’d first given herself to him, when she’d first welcomed him—the warrior—into her body. The second night she’d gone to him had dug the hole deeper, the third night had sealed her fate.
Now, compelled by that same fate, drawn on by a force more powerful than any she’d known, she stepped forward gladly and slid into the dark.
And she was falling.
Through darkness hot with passion, sparking with desire, heated by their yearning bodies. The rush of need rose up and caught her, swept her up and on, a wave lifting her to blessed oblivion. She rode it, rode him, urgently—he met
her, reflected her energy and pushed her on. Ever on.
To culmination, to the peak of joy that swelled and welled, then crashed about her, showering her body, her mind with wonder, with release so fragilely beautiful it shimmered in her veins and glowed beneath her skin.
Eyes shut, fingers clenched in his shirt, she muffled her scream against his warm chest. She clung, blissfully buoyed, to the peak for one long instant, then let go.
And floated, at peace.
He gathered her to him, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and filled her even more deeply, even more forcefully. Fully open, she received him joyfully, softly smiling at his deep groan of completion, at the warmth that flooded her womb.
She’d made her decision and stepped into the unknown, and there was nowhere to land but in his arms.
They closed about her, holding her tight.
Shutting her eyes against a sharp rush of emotion, Catriona surrendered and sank into his embrace.
“I take it,” Richard drawled, “that that’s Merrick looming ahead?”
“Yes.” Nose all but pressed to the window, Catriona spared no more than a swift glance for the majestic peak towering over the head of the vale. The carriage rocked and raced on, swiftly pulled by Richard’s powerful horses; they were almost home, and she had so many things to think of. “That’s the Melchetts’ farm.” She nodded to a huddle of low-roofed buildings hugging the protection of a rise. “The woods beyond yield most of our firelogs.”
She sensed Richard’s nod; she kept her eyes glued to the scene beyond the window, as if cataloging all she saw. In reality, her mind was in an unaccustomed, but oddly pleasant whirl—due, of course, to him. They’d crossed into the vale ten minutes before, having left Ayr, on the coast, at first light, after only two nights on the road.
The first, spent at The Angel in Stirling, had opened her eyes to the benefits of traveling with a gentleman—a rich, powerful, protective one. Through Worboys, Richard had made his wishes—their requirements—known; all had happened as he’d decreed. Even Algaria, traveling behind them in the vale’s carriage, had muted her unspoken disapproval. Even she had had to appreciate the ease of a private parlor and the quality of an excellent dinner.
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