“Stop worrying.” His gaze on her face, Richard heard the order in his tone, but made no effort to soften it. Maybe it was because she wasn’t trying to conceal her feelings from him anymore, but he could now see—and sense—how deeply concerned she’d become over the breeding stock. He knew he was reserved, but with her witchy cloak of seeming serenity, she was every bit as bad.
She smiled up at him; he was relieved to see the clouds gone from her eyes. “I have—now I can leave all that to you.” Tilting her head, she asked: “Do you have any sources or definite buys in mind?”
Richard hesitated, then grinned charmingly. “Not yet,” he lied.
He’d surprise her—it had suddenly occurred to him that she’d been carrying the problems of the vale on her slight shoulders for more than six years. She was due a pleasant surprise or two. Like an unusual wedding gift—one she couldn’t ask the price of, and so couldn’t worry how the vale would pay for it.
Still grinning, he twitched his missive to Mr. Potts from her fingers. “I’ll get this in the post.”
He ambled from the room, leaving her to rotate her crops, perfectly sure that Her Lady would, if not precisely approve, then at least turn a blind eye to lies born of good intent.
The next day saw him outdoors, marking out positions for large shelters for the cattle, both those presently in the vale and those he intended to add to the herd. Together with Irons, Henderson and McAlvie, the herdsman—excited to the point of garrulousness—he hammered short stakes into the ice-hard ground, outlining the buildings, then moved on to mark out a series of yards, pens and races, all linked to the buildings.
“I see, I see.” McAlvie nodded briskly. “We can move them in, then move them out, at will and without mixing the groups.”
“And we won’t need to get them all ’round to the one side, neither,” observed Irons.
“That’s the idea.” Taking a brief rest on the rising slope leading to the house, Richard looked down on their handiwork. “This will let us get the herd in quickly—they won’t lose condition as badly as they do at present if they’re properly protected. And we’ll also be able to get them back out as soon as the snow melts. We can keep them in the yards until there’s enough new growth in the pastures.”
“Which means they’ll be easier to feed, and it’ll protect the pastures from too-early grazing.” Henderson nodded in dour approval. “Sensible.”
“We’ll put gates inside, too,” Richard said, leading the way back down the slope to the field of their endeavor, “so that once in, you’ll be able to bring them out into whatever yard gives access to the fields you want to run them on.”
They tramped eagerly after him, McAlvie’s expression one of bliss.
In the ensuing days, the new cattle barn became the focus of vale interest. All the farmhands and laborers at the manor threw themselves into its construction with an enthusiasm that grew with it—as its realization revealed its possibilities. Others from the farms dropped by—and stayed to help. The children, of course, swarmed everywhere, fetching nails and tools, providing unsolicited opinions. Despite the hard ground and the difficulty of sinking foundations, the barn grew apace.
“Oooh!” McAlvie’s eyes gleamed as he surveyed the long loft running the length of the barn. “We’ll be able to feed by simply pushing half bales over the edge and into the stalls below.”
“Not this year,” Richard answered caustically, handing him a hammer and directing him to a brace waiting to be secured. “Let’s get this up, and the herd under cover, before you start to dream.”
The end walls of the main barn went up slowly, rock and stone filling the wooden frames. Meanwhile, the long side walls, wooden slats over a complex wooden frame allowing for doors, gates, shutters and runs, took shape. The sound of hammering rang over the vale; with every day the sense of shared purpose grew. Eventually, every man had contributed something—hammered in at least one nail—even old McArdle, who had hobbled down to view the enterprise and hadn’t been able to resist.
As a shared distraction in a season usually marked by doing nothing, the men, used to outdoor work, welcomed the chance of activity wholeheartedly, and happily immersed themselves in it. “Better ’n chess,” was the general opinion.
Eventually, the women came to see what was afoot.
“Mercy be!” exclaimed Mrs. Broom. “The cattle won’t know themselves.”
Cook humphed. “Get ideas above their station, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Catriona came down late in the afternoon, just before the light started to fade. Algaria, dressed, as usual, in unrelieved black, glided in her wake.
“This way, mistress.” With a flourish, McAlvie conducted her around his charges’ new quarters. “I’m thinking, if they spend winters like this, they’ll regain their summer weight in weeks, rather than months.”
Nodding, Catriona slowly pivoted, taking in the size of the structure—rather larger than she had supposed. “How many will it hold?”
“Oh, it’ll take our present numbers easily.”
“Hmm.” Discovering a gate before her, Catriona opened it. “What are these for?”
“They,” Richard answered, strolling up, “are for channeling the occupants.” Taking Catriona’s hand, he led her to a ladder left leaning against the loft’s edge. “Go up a few steps and you’ll see the pattern more easily.”
Catriona climbed up, and he explained the flow of traffic through the barn.
“How very useful.” Looking down, she smiled at him.
Richard reached up and lifted her down. “Useful is what I do best.”
She smiled and pressed his hand; together they strolled to the main doors. Leaving him there with a lingering smile and a promise in her eyes, Catriona started back to the house.
Algaria trudged behind her.
Catriona stopped at the stable yard fence and looked back—at the useful structure her consort had fashioned from the materials and energy lying dormant in the vale. A soft smile curved her lips as she turned away and started across the cobbles.
Algaria, behind her, humphed disgustedly. “New-fangled nonsense!”
As often happened, winter refused to cede its authority without one last freeze. It came literally overnight, a storm that dumped feet of snow over the vale, followed by a cold snap, which froze it all in place.
The cattle barn, while far from finished, was complete enough to house the present herd. McAlvie, warned the day before by both Catriona and Cook’s aching joints, had sent his farmhands to all corners of the vale to bring the herd in.
Everyone, both from the manor and the farms, had been there to see the herd, shaggy and gaunt, come plodding and swaying, lowing and mooing, up to the manor. Then McAlvie and his lads turned them down the slope to their new quarters; they’d gone readily, filing in through the main doors, heads up, eyes wide. Those watching had waited, listening for any hint of problems; instead, all they heard was a murmur of contented moos.
That had been yesterday; now, standing by the stable yard fence, Catriona looked down on the snow-shrouded barn. The contented sound still rose from the building. The herd was safe and warm; she could see footsteps sunk deep in the snow leading to the barn and guessed McAlvie’s lads had already been out to feed them.
Turning, she surveyed the scene in the yard behind her. Irons was in charge of the team set to clear the pump of snow and ice. Richard was about somewhere; she could hear him issuing orders about sweeping some of the snow from the roofs of the forge and two of the smaller barns. The fall had been heavy; from what she could gather, certain eaves were in danger of snapping under the weight.
All the children had been sternly confined to the house; Catriona could see noses pressed to the window panes of the games room. But she agreed with the edict—every now and then, as the men worked to clear the eaves, a minor avalanche would ensue.
Even she was only there on sufferance. That much was obvious from the frown on Richard’s face as he rounded the b
arn and saw her. He strode up. “I’m sure you must have better things to do than freeze your witchy arse out here.”
Catriona grinned. “I’ll go inside in a minute. I was just wondering”—she glanced at the games room—“how to best to reward the children. They’ve been so very good, helping with the barn, among other things.”
Richard frowned at the fogged windows. “Why don’t you tell them that if they manage to remain good until after luncheon, I’ll give them another riding lesson?”
Catriona opened her eyes wide. “You will?”
Richard narrowed his eyes at her. “Any further orders, ma’am?”
Catriona giggled. Gripping his coat, she stretched up, kissed his cheek, then his lips fleetingly; then, smiling serenely, keeping her eyes on his to the very last, she drew her shawls about her, and headed back to the house.
Richard watched her go—watched her hips sway provocatively as she crossed the snow. Then he drew a deep breath, wrenched his mind back from where it had wandered, and returned to his task—that of being her right arm.
He had it all done—the eaves all checked, those in danger swept, all the stock checked and safe, paths to the buildings cleared—by lunchtime. Crossing the front hall on his way upstairs to change, he heard Catriona call his name.
She was in her office, seated at her desk with McArdle and a dour man he identified as the recalcitrant Melchett in attendance. Catriona looked up as he entered, and smiled, but a frown lurked in her eyes.
“We’ve been discussing the crop schedules.” With a wave, she indicated the papers and maps spread over her desk. “We were wondering if you had any suggestions to make?”
We who? Aware of a certain tension in the air, Richard frowned and looked down at the lists and field placements. “I suspect,” he said, “you’d know better than I.”
“We were thinking as how you’d done so much with the cattle, that you might have a few pointers, like, about the crops.” Melchett studied Richard unblinkingly.
Richard returned his stare, then glanced at McArdle, then looked back at the maps. “If you asked me about crops and rotation patterns in Cambridgeshire I could give you chapter and verse. But here? There’s too many variables in different parts of the country to make facile comparisons.
What we grow in the south won’t grow so well here. Livestock are different—the principles of sound stock managment are the same anywhere.”
“But you must have some ideas,” Melchett pressed. “Some principles, like you said.”
Resisting the urge to narrow his eyes and put the man firmly in his place, on Catriona’s behalf, Richard switched from his instinctive role as Catriona’s protector, to that of her champion. “The only real measure of effectiveness in crop farming is the yield per acre. If you had those figures”—he looked at McArdle and raised his brows—“I could tell you if you were doing well, or needed to do more.”
“Yields, yields.” McArdle flicked pages in a huge worn ledger sitting on the table before him. “Here they are.” He turned the ledger around so Richard could read it. “For the last five years.”
Richard looked, and looked again. He’d expected to see good figures—Jamie had told him the vale was fertile and did well. But what danced before his widening eyes were yields consistently more than fifty percent above the accepted best. And he’d been raised in some of the highest yielding country in England. He said as much—in tones edged with awe. “These are without doubt the best figures I’ve ever seen.” He returned the tome to McArdle, now grinning widely. Richard glanced at Melchett. “Whatever you’ve been doing, I’d strongly advise you to keep doing it.”
“Oh! Aye—” The big man straightened. “If that’s the way of things . . .”
Richard straightened and smiled down at Catriona. “I’ll leave you to get on with it.” Turning away, he added: “Incidentally, remind me to make sure my brother and my cousin Vane have a chance to quiz you when we meet.” From the door, Richard caught Catriona’s eye. “They’ll be very keen to learn the secrets of your agricultural success.”
With that, he left them, Catriona with her eyes wide, McArdle still grinning, and Melchett in a much more humble mood.
“Catriona.”
On her way through the kitchen to the barn to oversee the children’s riding lesson, currently in progress, Catriona halted and swung back to face Algaria, who had followed her down the corridor.
“Corby’s just come in.” With a graceful gesture, Algaria indicated the front hall. “He says the snow has snapped branches from at least five trees in the orchard. Do you want me to tell him to lop the branches off and seal the scars as usual?”
Catriona opened her mouth to agree, then hesitated. “Corby will be staying the night, won’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Catriona smiled. “I’ll discuss the matter with Richard—tell Corby we’ll speak to him this evening.”
With her customary regal nod, she whirled; eager to join the fun in the big barn, she hurried on through the kitchens, her smile radiant, happiness lighting her eyes.
Behind her, Algaria stood, silently contained, her black gaze fixed on Catriona as she hurried away. Her suppressed fury vibrated around her, an anger others could sense; the kitchen staff warily gave her a wide berth. Finally drawing in a slow breath, Algaria drew herself up, drew her anger in, and, lips tightly compressed, turned and quit the kitchens.
Leaving Cook, kneading dough, sighing and shaking her head.
“Thank you.” Catriona pressed a warm kiss to Richard’s lips the instant he settled beside her in their big bed.
“What was that for?”
“For your kind words on the crop yields.”
“Kind?” Richard snorted, and wrestled her atop him, sitting her upright, straddling his hips. “Cynsters do not know any kind words when it comes to land. That was the truth. Your yields are absolutely staggering.” He started to unbutton her nightgown. “And I was perfectly serious about Devil and Vane wanting to talk to you. They will. They’ll be excessively glad I’ve married you.”
“Will they?”
“Hmm.” Frowning, Richard struggled with the tiny button at her throat. “They both manage lots of acres. In Devil’s case, being Cambridgeshire, it’s mostly crops, but Vane farms in Kent—hops, fruit and nuts, mainly.”
“Mmm.”
The odd sound, one of surprised discovery, had Richard looking into her face. “Mmm what?”
She refocused on him. “Mmm, I’d envisaged your brother and cousins as “gentlemen about town,” more interested in assessing ladies’ contours than the contours of land.”
“Ah, well . . .” Richard popped the button located between her breasts. “I wouldn’t say Cynsters ever totally lose their interest in ladies’ contours.” He popped the next button and couldn’t imagine that being otherwise. “Land, however, is our other obsession—an equally abiding one.”
Her gaze abstracted, Catriona considered that. She opened her lips on a question—Richard distracted her by opening her gown. Lifting the sides wide, baring her to his gaze, but leaving it draped on her shoulders. Her hands resting for balance on his arms, she glanced down—a wild sensation of nakedness swept her, stronger, more titillating than if she’d been completely bare. Her skin flushed and prickled, all over. Even over her back and bottom, the backs of her thighs, all still cloaked in the soft lawn of her gown.
But she was naked to him, totally wantonly naked, bathed in the light of the two candles he’d left burning, one on each bedside table. His gaze feasted; she felt it sweep over her—down from her throat, over the full swells of her breasts, growing heavier by the day. Her nipples crinkled tight; his lips curved, too knowingly, then he continued his leisurely perusal, scanning her stomach, taut and quivering, to the bright curls between her widespread thighs—which quivered even more as the heat of his gaze touched her.
Closing his hands about her waist, Richard held her there, delectably displayed before him, while he
pondered his next move. He was in no hurry to make it; he knew, very well, what her present position—sitting astride him, displayed, exposed to him—was doing to his sweet witch. She was melting, heating—just behind her flaming curls, she was open and vulnerable, her knees held wide.
He was hardly immune himself. He could feel the silky pressure of her naked inner thighs pressing on either side of his hips, could feel the warm, heating weight of her across his lower stomach. Half an inch behind the taut globes of her bottom, he was achingly rigid.
Then he remembered. Turning, he looked at the beside table; reaching out, he snagged the knob of the drawer, tugged the drawer open, then dipped his fingers inside. “Worboys found this in the pocket of one of my coats.”
He drew out his mother’s necklace, the finely wrought gold chain interspersed with round, rose pink stones. The amethyst pendant slid from the drawer last, swinging heavily on the chain. Richard held the necklace in both hands, gently shaking the pendant free—and for one wild minute, considered using it to love her. Considered placing it—the heavy, slightly bulbous crystal with its edges smoothed, the numerous round, tumbled stones, each one carrying a certain weight—inside her, sliding it into her warm sheath, stone by stone, each pushing the wider, heavier crystal deeper, each pressing against her soft inner surfaces, drawing the necklace out, pushing it in, until she cried out, until she convulsed.
It was an attractive vision; with a mental sigh, he set it aside—for later. After he’d thought through all the possibilties, developed the idea to its fullest, made plans to extract every last ounce of sensuality from it. Then he’d break the news to her. But there was no need to rush, to miss anything. He had all his life to tease her.
With his Cynster smile curving his lips, he looked up and met Catriona’s wide gaze. “For you.” Raising his arms, he slipped the necklace over her head, then gently lifted her hair free. “A belated bridal gift.”
He’d teased her about giving her diamonds—he was rich enough to give her them and more, but . . . in his heart, he knew diamonds would mean nothing to her, not at the moment. But she’d been fascinated by the one sight she’d had of his mother’s necklace—she would, he felt, appreciate it far more than other jewelry.
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