He was perfectly right. Wide-eyed, lips parted, Catriona stared down at the necklace as it settled against the soft skin of her chest, the heavy pendant sliding into the valley between her breasts as if it belonged there.
Perhaps it did.
There were times when even she was stunned to silence by The Lady’s ways.
She knew her eyes were shining, knew her face glowed as she carefully took the pendant between her fingers and raised it to scan the tiny engravings.
“Do you know what this is?” Her words were hushed, tinged with awe.
She felt Richard’s gaze on her face, sensed he was intrigued by her reaction. Eventually, drawing the last lock of her hair free, he answered: “It’s my mother’s necklace—now yours.”
Catriona sucked in a huge breath—truer words he could not have spoken; it was as if The Lady had used him to voice her decision. “It’s a disciple’s necklace—the engravings say that. They’re the same as those on my crystal, committing the wearer to allegiance to The Lady and her teachings. But this necklace is from a very senior disciple—more senior than me, or any of the past ladies of the vale.” She had to stop, to fight for calm; her heart felt like it might burst with sheer joy. She moistened her lips. “This necklace is much older than mine.”
“I knew it was different but similar.” Reaching to the other table, Richard drew her necklace, which she left there every night, to him, then held it up between them. “I thought it was the same but with the stones inverted.”
Catriona looked at him, then drew in a deep breath and nodded; he was involved in this, he was her consort. She could tell him the facts. “On the surface, of course, it is. But there’s a deeper meaning.” She caught the pendant of her own necklace. “This is rose quartz, which signifies love, and these”—she pointed to the round purple stones embedded in the chain—“are amethyst, which signifies intelligence. So in this arrangement, the stones mean intelligence driving love, the rose quartz being the focus. However”—pausing, she licked her lips and looked back at the necklace now lying against her skin—“this is the way it was supposed to be—used to be—before the supplies of amethyst crystals large enough and fine enough to make the focus crystals ran out.”
“So,” frowning slightly, Richard followed her thoughts, “this necklace”—he placed his fingers on the necklace lying on her flesh and was surprised at how warm it felt—“signifies intelligence driven by love?”
Catriona nodded. “That was the original meaning. That’s The Lady’s message, the one every disciple must understand and learn to live by. Love is the principal force—the driving force—behind all; all intelligent acts should be governed by, directed by, love.”
After a moment’s pause, Richard shifted, and laid Catriona’s own necklace aside, then settled back beneath her, studying her rapt expression. Quite obviously, he could not possibly have given her a more meaningful gift. But . . . “How did my mother come to have such a necklace?”
Catriona lifted her head and met his gaze. “She must have been a disciple, too.” When Richard raised his brows, she nodded. “That’s possible. She came from the Lowlands, where there were once many followers of The Lady. It’s possible that she was descended from one of the oldest lines of disciples—that’s what the necklace suggests—but that she wasn’t trained, or, even if trained, had been forced to marry Seamus.”
Richard lay back on the pillows and stared at his witchy wife, stared deep into her green eyes. And wondered . . .
Her eyes widened slightly. “The ways of The Lady are often complex, far-sighted—too intricate for us to understand.” Slowly, her gaze locked mesmerizingly on his, she leaned forward. “Stop thinking about it.”
The soft command, enforced by an underlying compulsion, fell from her lips; the next instant they touched his in an achingly sweet kiss. Richard inwardly shuddered and decided, for once, to obey.
Decided to follow her lead as she wove her witchy wiles and drew them both deeper into desire, deeper into the heat spiralling upward between them.
Followed her as she shifted, lifted, and drew him deep into the shocking heat of her body, into the furnace of her need. He rose with her as she rode him, sweetly urgent, without guile, in undisguised abandon. Brushing aside her gown, he clamped his hands about her hips, then leaned forward and drew one turgid nipple into his mouth. He laved it—a muted cry was his reward.
He settled to feast on her bounty, pausing now and then to watch their bodies merge, to wonder, sensually dazed, as he gazed at his mother’s necklace, now gracing his wife’s flushed skin.
Then her heat reached flashpoint and exploded; she clung to the peak, her face awash with sensation, then, with a long, soft, sob of joy, crumpled against him.
Burying his face in her hair, he held her close, anchored her hips against him, and drove into her molten softness, once, twice, and again, savoring to his marrow the sense of completeness that was always his when he was buried within her.
Between them, locked in the valley between her breasts, crushed to his chest, his mother’s pendant lay, pulsing with a force that was warm yet owed nothing to any fire’s heat.
Closing his eyes, his cheek hard against his wife’s fiery hair, Richard dragged in a huge breath and let sensation take him. Just as his mother’s necklace had always been destined to find it’s way here, to reside with his sweet witch in the vale, he, too, his mother’s only child, was destined to find his home, his haven, his salvation, here.
In his witch’s arms.
In her.
With a long, shuddering groan, he surrendered to fate.
“Master!”
Richard whirled to see one of the workers from the farm at the mouth of the vale come hurrying across the stable yard. “What is it, Kimpton?”
The man halted before him and touched his cap. “You asked that we should report anything not right, sir.”
“I did. What’s amiss?”
“The gate on the south paddock.” The man looked Richard in the eye. “ ’Twas fast last night when I did my rounds, but ’twas wide this morning, when my youngest went down that way.”
Richard’s gaze sharpened. “Did he close it?”
“Aye, sir.” The man nodded. “And I checked it, too. Nothing wrong with the latch.”
Richard smiled. “Very good. Let’s see what happens.”
Sir Olwyn Glean arrived just after lunch.
He brusquely thrust his hat at Henderson and charged straight for Catriona’s office.
He started blustering the instant he flung open the door. “Miss Hennessey! I really must protest—”
“To whom are you referring, sir?”
Catriona’s chill tones brought Sir Olwyn up short; he struggled for an instant to breathe, then drew in a huge breath. And nodded in a belated attempt at polite form.
“Mrs. Cynster.”
After her exertions of that morning, let alone all the mornings before, Catriona was of the firm opinion she fully deserved the title. Regally, she inclined her head and folded her hands on her ledger. “To what do I owe this visit, sir?”
“As always,” Sir Olwyn declared with relish, “to your cattle! Having them scattered about foraging two and three to a field through winter means you can never keep a sufficiently good eye on them. Fence latches break, or get loose—and then what happens?”
“I have no idea”—Catriona looked at him serenely—“but whatever it is, if the matter concerns the vale’s livestock, you should speak with my husband.” She waved toward the door. “He’s in charge of the herds.”
“Much good that is,” Sir Olwyn retorted, “with him away in London.”
“Oh, no, Sir Olwyn—I’m much nearer than that.”
Sir Olwyn jumped and whirled. From just behind him, Richard smiled urbanely, every inch a wolf about to take a large chunk out of a marauding dog.
Catriona fought valiantly to keep a straight face; she nearly choked swallowing her giggle. As for McArdle, he looked down at
his closed ledger and didn’t look up again. The tips of his ears, however, grew redder and redder.
Smoothly continuing into the room, Richard drawled: “What’s this about the vale’s cattle?”
Red-faced, Sir Olwyn belligerently spluttered: “The vale’s cattle have strayed into my cabbages and ruined the crop.”
“Indeed?” Richard’s brows rose high. “And when did this happen?”
“Early this morning.”
“Ah.” Richard turned to Henderson, who stood in the doorway. “Please fetch McAlvie, Henderson.”
“Aye, sir.”
McAlvie must have been waiting, for he was back with Henderson before the silence in the office stretched too thin.
“Ah, McAlvie.” Richard smiled at the herdsman. “Are we missing any cattle this morning?”
McAlvie shook his shaggy head. “No, sir.”
“How would you know?” Sir Olwyn scornfully interjected. “The vale’s cattle wander all the time, especially in winter.”
“Mayhap they used to,” McAlvie stated, “all the other times when we’ve paid for your cabbages. Aye, and your corn. But not any more.”
Sir Olwyn glowered. “What do you mean—not any more?”
“Precisely that, Sir Olwyn.” Deliberately, Richard captured his gaze. “Not any more.” Then he smiled. “We’ve instituted a new procedure for managing our cattle through the winter. We have a new barn—the entire herd’s been confined there since before the last snowfall, so if any had won loose, the tracks would be easy to see. But they haven’t.” Richard smiled again. “No tracks. If you’d like to go with McAlvie, I’m sure he’d be happy to count the herd with you and show you about our new facilities.”
Sir Olwyn simply stared.
“However,” Richard drawled, “to return to your complaint, I’m afraid if any cattle have damaged your cabbages, they really must be your own.”
Sir Olwyn’s inner struggle showed on his surface—his face mottled, veins stood out on his forehead. He managed not to glare, but only just. All but visibly fuming, he swung on his heel, grabbed his hat from Henderson, went to jam it on his head, and remembered, just in time, to nod briefly to Catriona. Then he forced himself to nod, exceedingly stiffly, to Richard. “Your pardon,” he growled. Then he stumped out.
Henderson hurried after him to open and close the front door. Returning to the office, he gruffly declared: “Good riddance, I say!”
Doubled up with laughter, none of the others could speak.
Catriona came early to the dining hall that evening. Sliding into her seat at the main table, she watched as her household—her people—filed in and found their seats, chatting and laughing, faces bright and smiling.
The manor had always been a peaceful place, secure and stable; she was accustomed to the sense of calm serenity that had always hung a comforting blanket over this room. The serenity was still there, but, lately, another element had been added. A certain vigor, a joy in life, an eager confidence to see what tomorrow held.
It was, very definitely, a male quality, owing something to assured strength, to experience, and to sheer energy. At times, it almost sparked with rude vitality. To her heightened, experienced senses, the new force melded and merged with the serenity—primarily her contribution; the result was a household more joyfully alive, more happy and content in its peace, than had existed before.
She knew from whom that new force derived; she had to wonder if he knew he was responsible. On the thought, he entered, pausing to chat with Irons and two of McAlvie’s lads.
His hair black in the candlelight, his face so much harder, more angular than any others in sight, his tall figure so vital an amalgam of strength and grace that he threw every other male into the shade, he was the focus of her attention, her mind, her heart.
The focus of her love.
She raised a hand and touched the twin crystals that during the day rode between her breasts. At night, she wore only the older—she would never be without it. It was now a part of her, as it was meant to be. As he was meant to be.
Smiling serenely, she drew her eyes from him. Glancing around, she beckoned to a maid. “Hilda—slip up to our bedchamber and make sure the fire’s built high.” So the air would be warm when they retired to their bed.
The maid, one with sufficient years to read between the lines, smiled broadly. “Aye, mum—I’ll make sure it’s a right blaze.” Eyes twinkling, she hurried out.
Catriona smiled. Just another little detail married ladies had to deal with. Inwardly grinning, she turned back to survey her people—and enjoy the sight of her husband among them.
Chapter 16
Catriona was late down to breakfast the next morning, but not quite as late as had been her wont in recent times. While Richard’s morning demands hadn’t abated in the slightest, she felt less drained, less exhausted from fulfilling them. Perhaps she was growing used to waking up that way.
Whatever, her energy was at a high as she descended the stairs, her feet tripping, her heart light. Smiling brightly, she swept into the dining hall, beaming at all in sight. At the main table on the dais, Richard was looking down at his plate. Her heart buoyed on a wave of sheer joy, Catriona rounded the table and went to her place beside him.
He sensed her presence and tried to turn her way—tried to straighten his back, tried to lift his head and look at her.
Catriona slowed; horrified, she took in his slack features, the pallor of his skin.
Hunched, his heavy lids hooding his blue eyes, he made a heroic effort to lift his arm toward her.
He crashed out of his chair.
With a pained cry, Catriona flung herself to her knees beside him. About them, shouts and exclamations rang; chairs scraped as everyone rose. Frantically searching for a pulse at his throat, Catriona barely heard.
Then Worboys pushed through and went heavily down on his knees on Richard’s other side. “Sir!”
The pain in his cry was echoed in Catriona’s heart. “He’s still alive.” A panic like nothing she’d ever known had locked a vise about her lungs. Dragging in what air she could, she framed Richard’s face in her hands; with her thumbs, she pried open his lids.
They rose, just enough to confirm her worst fears. He was drugged—heavily, heavily drugged.
She sensed him gather his strength—he blinked and looked directly at her, his eyes focused by sheer force of will. Then, with an even greater effort, he turned his head to Worboys. “Get Devil.” He licked his dry lips. “Immediately!”
“Yes, of course, sir. But . . .”
Worboys’ words faded as Richard, with such intense effort it was painful to watch, turned his head until, once more, he was looking at Catriona. Jaw clenching, he lifted one hand, fingers extended, to her, to her face—
A spasm twisted his features; he gave a choked gasp, and his lids fell.
His hand fell, too; his head lolled.
He was unconscious.
Only the slow beat of his heart beneath her palm stopped Catriona from wailing. Others did, believing the worst—she hushed them with a word.
“He still lives. Quickly—some wine! Then I’ll need to get him to our bed.”
That first night was not going to be the worst—Catriona knew it. Richard’s life hung by a thread—a steadily fraying one. Only the fact that she’d been there, on the spot when the poison first took hold, had saved him—if she’d been even five minutes later, it would have been too late.
Even now, she might have been too late.
Dragging in a breath, she wrapped her arms about her, and continued her slow pace beside the bed. Before the fire would be warmer, but she didn’t dare go so far away. She needed to be close, to do whatever she could quickly, when the time came. It hadn’t come yet, but soon, soon . . .
Outside the wind howled and sobbed; she fought not to do the same. She’d done all she could thus far.
Before letting them move him, she’d tipped two glasses of the light morning wine down his th
roat before his instinct to swallow had faded. All through the day and into the night, she’d painstakingly coaxed liquids into him. Garlic water, honey water, and goat’s milk mulled with mustard seed—all the standard remedies. Her efforts had been enough to hold him to life thus far, but it was only the beginning of his battle.
This time, his fate rested squarely in the lap of The Lady.
So she prayed, and paced, and waited—for the crisis she knew must come.
And tried not to think about the other crises looming—the ones to be faced when he regained consciousness, or even before.
The thought that he believed she’d drugged him again, this time with deadly intent, hurt beyond description, but she couldn’t interpret his movements, his words, in those instants before he’d lost consciousness in any other way. He’d looked at her so strangely, so intently, so deliberately, then he’d told Worboys to fetch his brother immediately. Then he’d tried to point to her.
Whether the pain that had crossed his face had been due to the drug, or to hurt at her supposed betrayal, she couldn’t decide.
But . . . dragging in a huge breath, she pressed her lips tight; kicking her skirts out of her way, she paced on. She was not going to let his temporary insanity get her down. She was not going to waste her time, diffuse her energies, in feeling hurt or insulted, nor in wringing her hands or indulging in tears.
The stupid man couldn’t afford it—he might die if she wasn’t at her best. At her strongest.
He might die anyway.
Thrusting that thought aside, she reiterated to herself her decision on how best to deal with her husband’s mental breakdown. Once his wits returned, she would simply hold him to his vow—and force him to talk to her, and she would talk to him. And keep talking until she had straightened out his wayward thinking. It was, of course, nonsensical to imagine she had poisoned him—no one else in the household, not even Worboys, believed that.
But only Richard knew that she’d drugged him before—she could appreciate that in that dizzy moment when the drug had fought to rip his wits from him, he might have remembered that fact and extrapolated without thinking things through.
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