And felt the shudder that racked him, the bone deep groan she drew from him.
She loved him with abandon, with her heart, with her soul. Until he, his hands sunk in her hair, helplessly guiding her, suddenly clutched and drew her away. Suddenly sat up, suddenly swung behind her.
And entered her from behind.
Her gasp hung like spun silver in the dark; she arched, clamping tightly about him—he pushed her down, and thrust deeper.
Ultimately, he was stronger—much stronger—than she.
He held her down and raced her straight up the mountain and into earth-shattering delight. Then waited only until her senses were hers again before pressing her on, up the next slope.
Through the dark hours he loved her as he would, and she was his willing slave. She wanted to be everything to him, so she gave all he asked, and offered more.
And he took. He drank from her until she thought she would die, then filled her relentlessly until she did. Until her senses were consumed in a blaze of glory, and she shattered beneath him.
They came together again and again, until there was nothing between them. No space, no feeling, no sense of separate existence. They became, in the dead of that night, one soul melded from the fusion of two.
The final end, when it came, shattered them both, but not even the force of that implosion could undo what the night had wrought.
* * *
Richard’s return to life—to reality—was a slow, bitter journey.
He couldn’t conceive how she could be as she was—so totally abandoned in his arms, yet quite prepared, come the time, to smile sweetly and wave him good-bye.
Lips twisting in bitter self-deprecation, he accepted that he had to have been wrong—that despite his expertise in this theatre, she was an exception. A woman who could love with her heart and soul, without, in fact, loving at all.
He was, it seemed, just like Thunderer—a stud whose physical attributes she appreciated.
She was wrapped half-about him, lying in his arms; he lifted his head and looked at her face, only barely discernible in the dark. She was still on her way back from heaven—he could tell by the lack of tension in her limbs. Lying back again, he waited for her to return to the living. And him.
When she did, however, she simply murmured sleepily and snuggled down, her head on his shoulder, her arm over his chest, one thigh intimately wedged between his.
Richard frowned. “I’ll be leaving in the morning.”
Catriona heard the words—words she’d been expecting—and felt them in her heart. She’d already heard from her staff of the packing and carriage arrangements. She hesitated for as long as she dared, while frantically wondering what he expected her to say. “I know,” she eventually murmured.
The hard body beneath her stiffened fractionally, then, after a second, eased. His chest swelled.
“Well,” he said, his tone light but grating, “I suppose there really isn’t anything more you need from me, now—at least, not for some time.”
He paused; when, bewildered, she said nothing, he continued: “Now you have the child The Lady told you to get from me.”
His bitterness rang clearly; bowing her head, biting her lower lip, Catriona accepted it.
She should have told him.
“I . . .” How to tell him it had slipped her mind? “Forgot.” She rushed on. “It’s just that I’ve been so . . .”
“Busy?”
So caught up with him. Her temper flashed—a weak flame, but enough to sour her. She’d been so focused on him, she’d totally forgotten the one thing, the one being, that should have been at the center of her consciousness. If she’d needed any proof of how totally obsessed with him she was, how he completely overshadowed everything else in her life, she had it now.
She couldn’t think of any response to his rejoinder, so she let it pass. Slowly, she drew her limbs from his and turned away.
Only to be swept by a desolate bleakness, a bone-deep sense of loss. They’d been cheated. A moment that should have been so special, so joyful and filled with love, had instead been soured by hurt and bitterness.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep; beside her, Richard did the same.
Disillusionment followed them into troubled dreams.
The next day dawned clear, with a brisk breeze scudding clouds over a pale blue sky—a morning bright with the promise of a new season. Perfect for traveling.
Catriona noted the signs from the top of the manor steps and struggled to reconcile them with the heaviness in her heart.
She would normally have gone to pray this morning, but had changed her mind. It was the first time in her life she’d put something else higher than her devotions to The Lady, but she couldn’t deny herself her last sight of Richard. It would have to tide her over, probably for months. Possibly until their child was born. And maybe even longer.
Before her, her people scurried to secure the last of Richard’s trunks to the carriage roof—he’d left some things behind, for which she was more pathetically grateful than she would ever let anyone know. They would be her only physical link with him in the coming months.
Blinking back the prickling heat behind her lids, she watched the horses—Richard’s handsome greys—led up. Her people, unaware of any undercurrents—not, indeed, the sort of folk who were at all susceptible to such subtleties—threw themselves into the final preparations with innocent energy. They simply imagined this was how it was supposed to be; their trust in The Lady—and in her—was complete. The only member of staff who seemed at all put out was, of all people, Worboys. Catriona studied his long face, and wondered, but could reach no conclusion.
Then Richard appeared from the direction of the stables, where he’d gone to bid Thunderer good-bye. He strode across the cobbles, his greatcoat flapping about his gleaming Hessians. He was immaculately dressed as always; as he paused to give orders to the grooms harnessing his greys, Catriona drank in the sight.
Drank in the faintly bored, distant expression on his face, the easy air of ineffable superiority that was so innate a part of him.
He turned and saw her, hesitated, then strode toward her; Catriona looked her fill. To her, he was, quite simply, gorgeous—the most fascinating man she’d ever met.
He was also the eptiome of a bored and restless rake shaking the dust of a too-quiet backwater and an unwanted wife from his highly polished boots. That fact was declared in the hard planes of his face as his eyes met hers, in the cynical set of his lips. Bravely, desperately, holding her cloak of regal assurance in place, Catriona smiled distantly.
“I’ll bid you adieu, then. I hope you reach London without mishap.”
She lifted her head and met his hard blue gaze directly; that had been the most difficult speech she’d ever made.
Richard studied her eyes, searched them, for some sign all this was a dream. It felt unreal to him—couldn’t she sense it? But even more strong than the sense of unreality was the feeling—the compulsion—of inevitability.
It had seemed inevitable they would marry—he’d accepted that and hoped, in his heart, that from their marriage he would gain the stability he’d sought—he’d needed—for so long. Instead, now, it seemed inevitable he would be disappointed in their union, and would, once again, be footless, unanchored, drifting in life’s stream. Unconnected to anyone.
He’d thought—hoped—that their marriage would be his salvation. It appeared he’d been wrong; it was therefore inevitable that he would leave.
Would walk away from his wife and leave her to manage on her own.
Uncharacteristic rancor filled him when her eyes gave him no hope, no sign, no encouragement to change his mind and stay. “I’ll leave you then.”
The words echoed with the bitterness he couldn’t hide.
She smiled and held out her hand. “Farewell.”
He looked down, into her eyes, trying to fathom, at the last, what shimmered in the vibrant green depths; he took her hand—and felt h
er fingers slide into his. Felt the touch of her palm, felt her fingertips quiver. And felt—sensed—
“Here you are, sir!”
They both turned to find Mrs. Broom standing beaming just behind them, virtually between them. She held up a packed basket. “Cook and me thought as how you’d be grateful of some real sustenance on the road. Better’n that terrible inn food.”
Richard knew for a fact that neither Mrs. Broom nor Cook had ever been to an inn in their lives. It was a measure of how his mind was functioning that that was the only thought he could muster. He felt shaken—and torn—and turned inside out. Taking the basket from Mrs. Broom and summoning a weak smile for her from somewhere, he passed the basket straight to a groom and looked back at Catriona.
Only to see her smile evenly. “Good-bye.”
For one instant, he hovered on the brink—of refusing to accept her dismissal, of hauling her into his arms and refusing to let her go, of telling her straitly how things would henceforth be between them—
Her steady smile, her steady eyes—and the black cloud of inevitability—stopped him.
Faultlessly correct, he inclined his head, then turned and strolled nonchalantly down the steps.
Catriona watched him go and felt her heart go with him. Knew to the depths of her soul that she would never be the same—be as strong—without him. He paused to speak to his coachman, then entered the carriage without a backward glance. He sat back and Worboys shut the door; the carriage lurched into motion and headed, gathering speed as it went, down the drive and into the park.
Raising a hand in farewell, one he couldn’t see, Catriona murmured a benediction. She watched, silent and still at the top of the steps, ignoring the people trooping past her, until the carriage disappeared into the trees.
Then she went inside, but didn’t join her household at breakfast. Instead, she climbed to her turret room, opened the window wide—and watched the carriage carrying her husband from her, until it had passed from the vale.
Chapter 14
“Oh, no!” Catriona focused on the curtains shielding her window through which she could see light seeping, and groaned. It was morning—late morning.
Falling back on her pillows, she stared at the canopy; she had meant to go to the circle this morning, to atone for yesterday’s absence, but it was too late now. Drawing in a tight breath, she glanced at the bed beside her. It was a disaster of tangled sheets and rumpled covers—just as it had been the morning before. The cause, however, was quite different.
She hadn’t been able to sleep; only as night was fading had she fallen into a restless doze. Which hadn’t refreshed her in the least, hadn’t prepared her for the day ahead.
Yesterday had dragged; nothing had gone right. She was still as far from finding good breeding cattle as she had been two weeks ago. Two months ago, and more. She needed to find some reasonable stock soon, or miss the chance of improving the herd through the coming season’s breeding—an opportunity the vale could ill afford to miss.
But that wasn’t what had kept her awake.
The empty space beside her had done that.
Forced her into a never ending round of thinking if, perhaps, she’d done something different, he might still be here, a warm weight beside her—the comfort of her heart. Senseless, useless repetition of their words, her thoughts, her conclusions.
It changed nothing—he was gone.
She sighed, then grimaced, recalling the transparent joy that had transformed Algaria. Ever since Richard had appeared on their horizon, Algaria had been worried, then withdrawn. His departure had more than pleased her—yesterday, she’d been reborn. Yet Catriona was sure he had done nothing to deserve Algaria’s censure, or even to rattle her, or confirm her in her views. Other than to be himself.
That, apparently, was enough. Hardly a rational response. Algaria’s attitude to Richard now worried her even more than it had. Perhaps there was some deeper purpose behind his leaving, one only The Lady could know.
The possibility didn’t make his absence any easier to bear.
The emptiness around her weighed heavily on her heart, making breathing difficult. Dragging in some air, she sat up—and wished she hadn’t. For one long instant the room spun, then slowly settled.
Forcing herself to breathe evenly, to concentrate on that, she waited, absolutely still, for the queasiness to pass. She had, it seemed, more misery in store for her than a simple broken heart. When the room had steadied and the hot flush had died, she slowly, carefully stood.
“Wonderful,” she muttered, as she crossed to the washstand. “Morning sickness as well.”
But she was still the lady of the vale—she had a role to fill, decisions to make, orders to give. She dressed with as much speed as she could muster, then, detouring via the stillroom for some soothing herbs, headed for the dining hall.
Herbal tea and plain toast was the most she could manage—the aromas rising from the plates of others nearly made her gag. She nibbled and sipped, grateful for the warmth of the tea, and tried to ignore, blot out, the smells and sounds around her.
Algaria, of course, noticed. “You’re pale,” she said, beaming brightly.
“I’m wretched,” Catriona replied through clenched teeth.
“It’s only to be expected.”
Catriona turned and met Algaria’s black gaze, then realized Algaria was referring, solely, to the consequences of her pregnancy. Algaria wouldn’t accept—or even recognize—that Richard’s departure was her principal woe. Looking back at her cup, Catriona gritted her teeth. “Don’t tell anyone—not until I make the announcement.”
“Good heavens—why?” Algaria gestured about them. “It’s important news for the vale and the manor—everyone will be delighted.”
“Everyone will be unbearable.” Catriona pressed her lips together, waited for three heartbeats, then, in a more reasonable but still cold tone stated: “The news is important to me, too. I’ll make the announcement when I’m ready. I don’t want people fussing over me for any longer than necessary.” In her present state, her temper wouldn’t stand it. “I just want to be left alone to get on with the vale’s business.”
Algaria raised a shoulder. “As you wish. Now, about those decoctions . . .
She hadn’t thought it possible to miss him more than she had last night—but she was wrong.
By the end of the day, as the light faded from the world, Catriona huddled at her desk, fretfully tugging two shawls about her shoulders.
She was cold to her bones—a cold that came from inside and spread insidiously through her. It was the cold of loneliness, a bone-deep chill. Throughout the day, she’d been rubbing her arms; at lunchtime she’d fetched the extra shawl. Nothing helped.
Worse, she was finding it hard to concentrate, finding it hard to keep her usual serene mask—the face she habitually wore in public as the lady of the vale—in place. Summoning the brightness to put into her smile when she greeted McArdle and the others was very nearly beyond her. Energy was something she no longer had, not in any quantity.
And she needed energy to make her lips curve, to disguise the deadness inside, but supporting her usual sunny disposition was more than she could do. Unfortunately, being the lady of the vale, she couldn’t even invent a fictitious malady to account for her state—she was never ill, not in the general way.
Pushing aside the ledgers she’d been studying—the breeding records for the past three years—she sighed. Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes. How was she going to cope?
She lay in the chair in the darkened room and opened her senses. But no help came—no suggestion of how she might manage popped into her tired mind.
When she finally opened her eyes and sat up, the one thing she did feel sure of was that the situation was going to get worse.
Dragging herself to her feet, feeling as if the child she carried was seven months older than it was, she straightened, stacked the ledgers neatly, then, setting her shoulders back, lifti
ng her head high, she headed for the door.
While washing and changing for dinner, she grasped the opportunity to lie down—just for a minute.
One minute turned into thirty; by the time she reached the table, it was late. Out of breath, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into her bed, she smiled serenely about the hall and helped herself to lamb collops.
Then pushed them around and around on her plate.
She felt like slumping; only by maintaining a continuous inner lecture did she manage to preserve her facade. But she couldn’t eat—she’d lost her appetite. In an effort to conceal her disinterest in the food, she caught Henderson’s eye. “What have the children been up to today?” In spite of his dour demeanor, Henderson had a soft spot for the manor’s brats.
“Seems like the master’d been teaching some of them to ride, so I took them out to the barn.” He grimaced, a depressing sight. “I’m no great horseman, though. I’m thinking they’ll have to wait on his return to polish up their skills.”
“Hmm.” Not wanting to dwell on how long the children might have to wait, Catriona looked along the table at Mrs. Broom and gestured to the steaming apple pie just placed before her, the fruity, spicy aroma much more to her liking than the cold collops a maid had whisked away. “I congratulate you on your new receipe—the spices add a pleasing tang.”
Mrs. Broom beamed. “Twas the master suggested it—seems they cook it that way in London town, but it was easy enough to do. Pity he isn’t here to enjoy it—he said it was one of his favorites. But we’ve apples aplenty in the store—I’ll make it again when he gets back.”
The smile on her face felt tight; Catriona inclined her head gracefully and turned to McArdle. “Has Melchett—”
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