Scandals Bride

Chapter 2

Richard rose early the next morning. He shaved and dressed, conscious of a familiar excitement-the excitement of the hunt. Creasing the last fold of his cravat, he reached for his diamond pin-a rough shout reached his ears. He stilled-and heard, muffled by the windows tight shut against the winter chill, the unmistakable clack of hooves on cobbles.

Three swift strides had him at the window, looking down through the frosted pane. A heavy travelling carriage stood before the inn door, ostlers holding a pair of strong horses, breaths fogging as they stamped. Boys from the inn wrestled a trunk onto the carriage roof, the innkeeper directing them.

Then a lady emerged from the porch, directly below Richard. The innkeeper sprang to open the carriage door. His bow was respectful, which did not surprise Richard-the lady was his acquaintance of the churchyard.

"Damn!" Eyes on her long tresses, flame bright in the morning, clipped together so they rippled like a river down her back, he swore beneath his breath.

With a regal nod, the lady entered the carriage without a backward glance; she was followed by the older woman Richard had seen in the inn. Just before ascending the carriage steps, the old woman looked back-and up-straight at Richard. He resisted the urge to step back; an instant later, the woman turned and followed her companion into the carriage.

The innkeeper closed the door, the coachman clicked the reins and the carriage lumbered out of the yard. Richard swore some more-his prey was escaping. The carriage reached the end of the village street and turned, not left, toward Crieff, but right-up the road to Keltyhead.

Richard frowned. According to Jessup, his groom and coachman, the narrow, winding Keltyhead road led to McEnery House, and nowhere else.

A discreet tap fell on the door; Worboys entered. Shutting the door, he announced: "The lady after whom you were inquiring has just departed the inn, sir."

"I know that." Richard turned from the window; the carriage was out of sight "Who is she?"

"A Miss Catriona Hennessy, sir. A connection of the late Mr. McEnery." Worboys's expression turned supercilious. "The innkeep, an ignorant heathen, maintains the lady is a witch, sir."

Richard snorted and turned back to his mirror. Witchy, yes. A witch? It hadn't been any exotic spell that had bewitched him in the night, in the cusp cold of the kirk yard. Memories of sleek, warm, feminine curves, of soft, luscious lips, of an intoxicating kiss, returned…

Setting his pin into his cravat, he reached for his coat. "We'll leave as soon as I've breakfasted."

His first sight of McEnery House colored Richard's vision of Seamus McEnery and his mother's last years. Clinging to the wind whipped side of the mountain, the two-story structure seemed hewn from the rock behind it and weathered in similar fashion, totally uninviting as a suitable habitat for humans. Live ones, anyway-the place could have qualified as a mausoleum. The prevailing impression of hard and cold was emphasized by the lack of any vestige of a garden-even the trees, which might have softened the severe lines, stopped well back from the house as if fearing to draw nearer.

Descending from his carriage, Richard could detect no sign of warmth or life, no light burning in defiance of the dull day, no rich curtains draped elegantly about the sashes. Indeed, the windows were narrow and few, presumably from necessity. It had been cold in Keltyburn, at the foot of the mountain-up here, it was freezing.

The front door opened to Worboys's peremptory knock; Richard ascended the steps, leaving Worboys and two foot men to deal with his luggage. An old butler stood waiting just inside the door.

"Richard Cynster," Richard drawled, and handed him his cane. "Here at the behest of the late Mr. McEnery."

The butler bowed. "The family are in the parlor, sir."

He relieved Richard of his heavy coat, then led the way. Richard followed; the impression of a tomb intensified as they travelled down uncarpeted flagged corridors, through stone archways flanked by columns of solid granite, past door after door shut tight against the world. The chill was pervasive, Richard was contemplating asking for his coat back when the butler halted and opened a door.

Announced, Richard entered.

"Oh! I say." A ruddy complexioned gentleman with a shock of reddish hair struggled to his feet-he'd been engaged in a game of spillikins with a boy and a girl on the rug before the fire.

It was a scene so much like the ones Richard was accustomed to, his cool expression relaxed. "Don't let me interrupt."

"No, no! That is…" Abruptly drawing breath, the man thrust out his hand. "Jamie McEnery." Then, as if recalling the matter with some surprise, he added: "Laird of Keltyhead."

Richard gripped the hand offered him. About three years his junior, Jamie was a good head shorter than he, stocky, with a round face and the sort of expression that could only be called open.

"Did you have a good trip up?"

"Tolerably." Richard glanced at the others seated about the room, a surprising number all garbed in dull mourning.

"Here! Let me introduce you."

Jamie proceeded to do so, Richard smoothly acknowledged Mary, Jamie's wife, a sweet-faced young woman too passive for his tastes, but, he suspected, quite right for Jamie, and their children, Martha and Alister, both of whom watched him through big, round eyes as if they'd never seen anyone like him before. And then there were Jamie's siblings, two whey faced sisters with their mild husbands and very young, rather sickly looking broods, and last, Jamie's younger brother Malcolm, who appeared not only weak but peevish.

Accepting a chair, Richard had never before felt so much like a large, marauding predator unexpectedly welcomed into a roomful of scrawny chickens. But he hid his teeth and duly took tea to warm him after his journey. The weather provided instant conversation.

"Looks like more snow on the way," Jamie remarked. "Good thing you got here before it."

Richard murmured his assent and sipped his tea.

"It's been particularly cold up here this year," Mary nervously informed him. "But the cities-Edinburgh and Glasgow-are somewhat warmer."

Her sisters-in-law murmured inaudible agreement.

Malcolm stirred, a dissatisfied frown on his face. "I don't know why we can't remove there for winter like our neighbors do. There's nothing to do here."

A tense silence ensued, then Jamie rushed into speech. "Do you shoot? There's good game to be had-Da' always insisted the coverts were kept up to scratch."

With an easy smile, Richard picked up the conversational gauntlet and helped Jamie steer the talk away from the families' obviously straitened circumstances. A quick glance confirmed that the gentlemen's coats and boots were well worn, even patched, the ladies' gowns a far cry from the latest fashions. The younger children's clothes were clearly hand-me-downs, while the coat Malcolm hunched in was a size too big-one of Jamie's doing double duty.

The answer to Malcolm's question was transparent-Seamus's children lived under his chilly roof because they had nowhere else to go. At least, Richard mused, they had this place as a refuge, and Seamus must have left them well provided for, there was no hint of poverty about the house itself, or its servants. Or the quality of the tea.

Finishing his, he set his cup down and wondered, not for the first time, where his witch was hiding. He'd detected no trace of her, or her older shadow, even in the others' faces. He'd seen her witchy face clearly enough in the bright moonlight, the only resemblance she shared with Jamie and his siblings lay in their red hair. And, perhaps, he conceded, the freckles.

Jamie's and Malcolm's faces were a collage of freckles, their sisters' only marginally less affected. His memory of the witch's complexion was of ivory cream, unblemished except for a dusting of freckles over her pert nose. He'd have to check when next he saw her; despite his wish to hasten that event, he made no mention of her. With no idea who she was-where she stood in relation to the family-he was too wise to mention their meeting, or express any interest in others who might be present.

Languidly, he rose, causing a nervous flutter among the ladies.

Jamie immediately rose, too. "Is there anything we can get you? I mean-anything you might need?"

While struggling to strike the right note as head of the family, Jamie had an openness of which Richard approved; he smiled lazily down at him. "No, thank you. I have all I need:" Bar an elusive witch.

With an easy smile and his usual faultless grace, he excused himself and withdrew to his room to refresh himself before luncheon.

Richard did not set eyes on his witch until that evening, when she glided into the drawing room, immediately preceding the butler. As that venerable individual intoned the words "Dinner is served," she swept the gathering with a calm and distant smile-until she came to him, standing beside Mary's chair.

Her smile died-stunned astonishment took its place.

Slowly, with deliberate intent, Richard smiled back.

For one quivering instant, her stunned silence held sway, then Jamie stepped forward. "Ah… Catriona, this is Mr. Cynster. He's been summoned for the reading of the will."

Deserting his face, she fixed her gaze on Jamie's. "He has?" Her tone conveyed much more than a simple question.

Jamie shuffled and shot an apologetic glance at Richard. "Da''s first wife made him a bequest. Da' held it until now."

Frowning, she opened her lips to quiz Jamie. Having silently prowled closer, Richard took her hand-she jumped and tried to snatch it back, but he didn't let go.

"Good evening, Miss…" Richard slanted a questioning glance at Jamie.

Instead, his witch answered, in tones colder than ice. "Miss Hennessy."

Again, she surreptitiously tugged, trying to free her hand; Richard unhurriedly brought his gaze to her face, waited until she looked up, trapped her eyes with his, then smoothly raised her hand. "A pleasure," he purred. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed her knuckles with his lips-and felt the shiver of awareness that raced through her-the shiver she couldn't hide. His smile deepened. "Miss Hennessy."

The look she sent him should have laid him out dead on the Aubusson rug; Richard merely lifted a brow, deliberately arrogant, deliberately provocative. And held onto her hand, and her gaze. "What Jamie is understandably hesitant over explaining, Miss Hennessy, is that Mr. McEnery's first wife was my mother."

Still frowning, she glanced at Jamie, who colored. "Your…?" Understanding dawned; she looked back at him. "Oh." The veriest hint of pink tinged her ivory cheeks. "I see."

There was, to Richard's surprise, no hint of condemnation, or consternation, in her voice-she didn't even yank her hand away, as he'd fully expected; her slim fingers lay quiescent in his grasp. Her eyes searched his, then she inclined her head, coldly gracious, the action clearly signifying her understanding, and a regal agreement to his right to be present. There was no suggestion in any element of her bearing that she was perturbed at learning he was a bastard.

In all his years, Richard had never met with such calm acceptance.

"Catriona is my father's-" Jamie broke off and cleared his throat. "Actually, my ward."

"Ah." Richard smiled urbanely at Catriona. "That explains her presence, then."

He fielded another of her lethal glances, but before he could respond, Mary bustled up and claimed Jamie's arm.

"If you could lead Catriona in, Mr. Cynster?"

With Jamie in tow, Mary led the way; entirely content, Richard placed the intriguing Miss Hennessey's hand on his sleeve and elegantly steered her in their wake.

She glided beside him, a galleon fully armed, queenly detachment hanging about her like a cloak. As they left the drawing room, Richard noted that the older woman had also appeared; she had been standing near the door.

"The lady who accompanies you?"

There was a palpable hesitation, then she elected to answer. "Miss O'Rourke is my companion."

The dining room lay across the cavernous hall; Richard led his fair charge to the chair beside Jamie, at the table's head, then, at Jamie's intimation, took the seat opposite, on Jamie's right. The rest of the family and Miss O'Rourke took their places. The room was large, the table long; the distance between the diners was enough to discourage those conversations not already dampened by the atmosphere. Despite the blaze roaring in the hearth, it was chilly; a sense of long-standing austerity hung over the room.

"Could you pass the condiments?"

With that the limit of conversation, as the courses came and went, Richard used the time to indulge his curiosity about Seamus McEnery. With no other avenue available, he studied Seamus's house, his household, his family, for what insights they could offer of the man.

A cursory inspection of those he'd met earlier told him little more; they were, one and all, meek, mild, self-effacing, their very timidity a comment on Seamus and how he'd reared his children. Miss O'Rourke had an interesting face, deeply lined and unusually weathered for a gentlewoman's; Richard didn't need to study it for long to know she distrusted him deeply. The fact did not perturb him; companions of beautiful ladies generally distrusted him on sight. Which left-Catriona Hennessy.

She was, without doubt, the most interesting body in the room. In a gown of deep lavender silk, with her lustrous locks-neither gold nor plain red, but true copper-piled high on her head, tendrils escaping to frame her face in flames, the round neckline of her gown scooped low enough to give a fair indication of the bounty beneath, her shoulders and arms sweetly turned and encased in skin like ivory satin, she was a sight designed for lecherous eyes.

Richard looked his fill. Her face was a delicate oval, with a straight, little nose and a smooth, wide brow. Her brows and lashes were light brown, framing eyes of vibrant green-something he hadn't been able to see in the moonlight, although he did recall how the gold flecks within the green had flared with indignation. He felt sure they would blaze in anger-and smolder with passion. Her only less-than-perfect feature was her chin; that, Richard considered, was a touch too firm, too determined. Too self-willed. She was of below average height, petite and slender, yet her figure, though sleek and supple, was not boyish. Indeed not. Her figure made his palms itch.

Unrestrained by the usual demands of polite dinner conversation, he surreptitiously let his gaze feast. Only when the desserts were set before them did he sit back and let his social senses take stock. Only then did he notice that while the others occasionally exchanged idle glances and the odd desultory comment, none looked at him, or at Catriona. Indeed, with the sole exception of the silent but watchful, and disapproving, Miss O'Rourke, they all kept their gazes carefully averted, as if fearful of drawing his attention. Only Jamie interacted with either Catriona or himself, and then only stiltedly, when need arose.

Curious, Richard tried to catch Malcolm's eye, and failed; the youth seemed, if anything, to sink further into his chair. Glancing at Catriona, Richard saw her look up and scan the table; everyone took care not to meet her gaze. Unperturbed, she patted her lips with her napkin. Richard focused on the soft pink curves, and remembered, with startling clarity, precisely how they tasted.

Shaking aside the memory, he inwardly shook his head. Apparently Seamus's family were so trenchantly timid, they were moved to treat both Catriona and himself like potentially dangerous animals who might bite if provoked.

Which definitely said something about his witch.

Maybe she really was a witch?

That thought provoked others-like what a witch would be like in bed; he was deep in salacious imaginings when Jamie nervously cleared his throat and turned to Catriona.

"Actually, Catriona, I've been thinking that, now Da"s gone and you'll be my ward, that it really would be better-more fitting, I mean-if you were to come and live here."

Caught in the act of swallowing a spoonful of trifle, Catriona stilled, then swallowed, laid down her spoon, and looked directly at Jamie.

"With us, the family," he hurried on "It must be very lonely at the vale all by yourself."

Catriona's expression grew stern, her green eyes held Jamie's. "Your father thought the same, if you recall?"

It was immediately clear everyone at the table, bar Richard, did; a communal shudder passed around the room, even including the footmen, silent by the walls.

"Luckily," Catriona went on, her gaze still locked with Jamie's, "Seamus thought better of it, and allowed me to live as The Lady wishes, at the manor." She paused, eyes steady, giving everyone time to feel the weight behind her words. Then she raised her brows. "Do you truly wish to set your will against that of The Lady?"

Jamie blanched. "No, no! We just thought you might like to…"He gestured vaguely.

Catriona looked down and picked up her spoon. "I'm perfectly content at the manor."

The matter was closed. Jamie exchanged a glance with Mary at the other end of the table; she shrugged lightly and grimaced. Other members of the family shot quick glances at Catriona, then rapidly looked away.

Richard didn't; he continued to study her. Her authority was remarkable, she used it like a shield. She'd put it up and Jamie, poor sod, had run headlong into it. Richard recognized the ploy; she'd tried the same with him with her "Put me down," but he'd been too experienced to fall for it-she'd been all woman once he'd got his hands on her, soft, warm, and pliant. The thought of having his hands on her again, of having her warm, pliant, feminine flesh beneath him, made him shift in his seat.

And focused his mind even more. On why, exactly, he found her so… appealing. She wasn't, in fact, classically beautiful; she was more powerfully attractive than that. It was, he decided, noting the independent set of her too-determined chin, the underlying sense of wildness that caught him-caught and focused his hunter's instincts so forcefully. Her aura of mystery, of magic, of feminine forces too powerful for simple words, was an open challenge to a man like him.

A bored rake like him.

She would never have been acceptable within the ton; that hint of the wild was far too strong for society's palate. She was no meek miss; she was different, and used no guile to conceal it. Her confidence, her presence, her authority had led him to think her in her late twenties; now he could see her more clearly, he realized that wasn't so. Early twenties. Which made her assurance and self confidence even more intriguing. More challenging.

Richard set down his goblet; he'd had enough of cold silence. "Have you lived at this manor long, Miss Hennessy?"

She looked up, faint surprise in her eyes. "All my life, Mr. Cynster."

Richard raised his brows. "Where, exactly, is it?"

"In the Lowlands." When he waited, patently wanting more, she added: "The manor stands in the Vale of Casphairn, which is a valley in the foothills of Merrick." Licking trifle from her spoon, she considered him. "That's-"

"In the Galloway Hills," he returned.

Her brows rose. "Indeed."

"And who is your landlord?"

"No one." When he again raised his brows, she explained: "I own the manor-I inherited it from my parents."

Richard inclined his head. "And this lady you speak of?"

The smile she gave him was ageless. "The Lady." The cadence of her voice changed, investing her words with reverence. "She Who Knows All."

"Ah." Richard blinked. "I see." And he did. Christianity might rule in London and the towns, and in the Parliament, but the auld ways, the doctrines of days past, still held sway in the countryside. He had grown up in rural Cambridgeshire, in the fields and copses seeing the old women gathering herbs, hearing of their balms and potions that could cure a large spectrum of mortal ills. He'd seen too much to be skeptical, and knew enough to treat any such practitioner with due respect.

She'd held his gaze steadily; Richard saw the gleam of triumph, of victorious smugness in her eyes. She thought she'd successfully warned him off-scared him away. Inwardly, his grin was the very essence of predatory; outwardly, his expression said nothing at all.

"Catriona?"

They both turned to see Mary rising and beckoning; Catriona rose, too, and joined the female exodus to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.

Which was, to Richard's immense relief, excellent. Twirling his glass, he considered the ruby liquid within. "So," -he flicked a glance at Jamie-"Catriona is now in your care?"

Jamie's sigh was heartfelt. "Yes-for another three years. Until she's twenty five."

"Are her parents long dead?"

"Six years. They were killed in an accident in Glasgow while arranging to buy a cargo-a terrible shock it was."

Richard raised his brows. "An especially big shock for Catriona. She would have been-what? Seventeen?"

"Sixteen. Naturally, Da' wanted her here-the vale's an isolated spot, no place for a lone girl, you'd think."

"She wouldn't come?"

Jamie's face contorted. "Da' made her. She came." He shuddered and took a long sip of his port. "It was horrific. The arguments-the shouting. I thought Da' would have a seizure, she goaded him that much. I don't think he'd ever had anyone argue back like she did-I wouldna dared."

As he drank more port, Jamie's accent emerged; like many Scots of his age, he'd learned to suppress it.

"She didna want to stay-Da' wanted her here. He had plans afoot to marry her well-she needed someone to take care of her lands, he thought."

"Her lands?"

"The vale." Jamie drained his glass. "She owns the whole damned valley from head to mouth. But she wasn't having any of Da''s plans. Said she knew what she was doing, she had The Lady to guide her, and she would, on her mother's grave, obey The Lady, not Da'. She was dead set against marriage. Mind you, when those lairds who'd offered for her on the strength of her lands actually met her, they sang a different tune. All the offers dissolved like mist in a strong breeze."

Richard frowned, wondering if Scottish notions of feminine attractions were so different.

"Of course, everyone o' them was imagining bedding her, until they spoke to her." Jamie's lips quirked; he exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Richard. "She scared 'em silly-the beggars came from Edinburgh and Glasgow, or one of the cities, lairds in need of estates. They didna know about The Lady, and to hear Catriona tell it, if they displeased her at all, she wouldha' turned 'em into toads. Or eels. Or some such slimy creature."

Richard grinned. "They believed her?"

"Aye, well-when she wants to be believed, she can be that persuasive."

Recalling the power he'd heard her wield twice, Richard had no difficulty believing that.

"And that other one, Algaria-Miss O'Rourke-was there to help. So,"-Jamie reached for the decanter-"after that, there were no more offers. Da' was livid-Catriona was unmovable. The fighting raged for weeks."

"And?"

"She won." Jamie set down his glass. "She went back to the vale, an' that was that. Da' never spoke of her again. I didna think she'd agree to live here now, but Mary said we should at least ask. Especially after finding the letters."

"Letters?"

"Offers for her lands, rather than her hand. Heaps of 'em. Some from the lairds who'd given up notions of bedding her, others from all over, some from her neighbors in the Lowlands. All, however, for a pittance." Again Jamie drained his glass. "I found the pile in Da"s desk-he'd scrawled comments on many." Jamie's lips twisted. "Like 'Bah! Am I a fool?' "

"The land's good?"

"Good?" Jamie set down his glass. "You won't find better in Scotland." He met Richard's eye. "According to Catriona and her people, The Lady sees to that."

Richard raised his brows.

"Aye, well." With a rueful grimace, Jamie pushed back his chair. "We'd best get back to the drawing room."

Entering the long room beside Jamie, Richard paused just beyond the threshold. To one side, Catriona stood chatting to one of Jamie's colorless sisters. Perhaps chatting was the wrong word-from her gestures, lecturing might be nearer the mark. The ever watchful Miss O'Rourke stood silently, hands clasped, by Catriona's shoulder; her gaze, black and expressionless, was already fixed on him. Richard resisted the urge to grin wickedly at her; instead, with his usual grace, he crossed to pay his compliments to his hostess.

Mary was easily flattered, easily flustered; Richard spent some time calming her, until she could smile at him and answer his questions.

"She doesn't seem to see any need for a husband." Her eyes darted to Catriona, then returned to his face. "It seems odd, I know, but she has been running the manor for six years now, and I gather everything goes smoothly." Another darting glance lingered on Catriona's elegant dark lavender gown. "She certainly seems to want for nothing, and she's never made any claim on the McEnerys."

"I'm surprised,"-Richard affected his most indolent drawl-"that there are no local aspirants to her hand. Or does the valley boast only a few souls?"

"Oh, no. The population's quite considerable, I believe. But none of the young men would look to Catriona, you know." Mary regarded him earnestly. "She's their 'lady,' you see. The lady of the vale."

"Ah." Richard nodded, although he didn't see at all, but there was a limit to how far he could question even sweet Mary without raising suspicions. But he wanted to understand who and what Catriona Hennessy was, and how she'd come to be so. She was an intriguing "lady" on a number of fronts; he'd been so bored, she was a breath of fresh air-a fresh taste to his jaded palate.

He glanced her way and saw her look sharply at Algaria O'Rourke as the older woman struggled to suppress a yawn. The conversation that ensued was easy to follow; Catriona, moved by concern, pulled rank and ordered her watchdog to bed. Richard quickly looked away-and felt, a second later, the older woman's suspicious glance. But she went, passing the tea trolley on her way. The butler stationed the trolley before Mary.

"Let me help." Richard collected the first two cups Mary poured. "I'll take them to Miss Hennessy and…"

"Meg," Mary supplied with a smile. "If you would be so kind."

Richard smiled and moved away.

"Meg? Miss Hennessy?"

Both turned in response to his drawl. Meg's eyes fixed on the cups in his hands. "Oh! Ah…" She swallowed, and turned a delicate shade of green. "I… don't think so." She cast a desperate glance at Catriona. "If you'll excuse me?"

With a helpless look at Richard, she hurried across the room and slipped out of the door.

"Well!" Brows high, Richard looked down at the tea. "Is it that bad?"

"Of course not." Catriona relieved him of one cup. "It's just that Meg's increasing and a bit fragile at present. The most unexpected things turn her stomach."

"Is that what you've been so earnestly discussing?"

"Yes."

Richard met Catriona's gaze over the rim of her cup as she sipped; her head barely topped his shoulder, yet her manner proclaimed her belief that she was as powerful, if not more powerful, than he. There was no hint of feminine weakness, or any acknowledgment of susceptibility.

Lowering her cup, she eyed him evenly. "I'm a healer."

The declaration was cool; Richard affected polite surprise. "Oh?" He'd assumed as much, but better she think him an ignorant southerner, a gullible Sassenach, if she were so disposed. "Eye of newt and toe of frog?"

The look she cast him was measuring. "I use herbs and roots, and other lore."

"Do you spend much time hovering over a bubbling cauldron, or is it more like a well-stocked stillroom?"

She drew a tight breath, her gaze on his steadfastly innocent expression, then exhaled. "A stillroom. An encyclopedic one."

"Not a cave, then." Bit by bit, Richard drew her out-and with each factual answer, her fridigity melted a fraction more. He held to his harmless, bantering pose, letting his gaze touch her face only briefly, politely. Her hair drew his eyes more frequently, a magnetic beacon. Even among all the redheads in the room, her crowning glory made her stand out. The soft curls shimmered in the candlelight; those about her face and neck jiggled as she moved, exerting the same mesmeric attraction as dancing flames. They held the promise of heat-Richard felt an overwhelming urge to warm his hands in them.

He blinked and forced himself to look away.

"Naturally, there are some things not available locally, but we send out for them."

"Naturally," he murmured. Shifting so he stood beside her, supposedly scanning the room, he glanced swiftly at her profile. The ice had melted significantly; with her flaming tresses and those gold sparks in her eyes, he felt sure there'd be a volcano beneath. For the first time since joining her, he focused intently on her face. "Your lips taste of roses, did you know?"

She stiffened, but didn't disappoint him; the look she shot him over the rim of her cup held fire, not ice. "I thought you would be gentleman enough to forget that incident entirely. Wipe it from your mind."

There was compulsion in her last words; Richard let it flow past him. He smiled lazily down at her. "You have that twisted. I'm far too much a gentleman to forget that incident, not even its most minor detail."

"No gentleman would mention it."

"How many gentlemen do you know?"

She sniffed. "You shouldn't have grabbed me like that."

"My dear Miss Hennessy! You walked into my arms."

"You shouldn't have held me like that."

"If I hadn't held you, you would have slipped and fallen on your luscious-"

"And you certainly shouldn't have kissed me."

"That was unavoidable."

She blinked. "Unavoidable?"

Richard looked down, into her green eyes. "Utterly." He held her gaze, then raised his brows. "Of course, you didn't have to kiss me back."

Color rose in her cheeks; she looked back at her cup. "A moment of temporary insanity, immediately regretted."

"Oh?"

She glanced up, hearing danger in his tone, but wasn't quick enough to stop him from stroking, not the nape of her neck, so temptingly exposed, but the coppery curls that caressed her sensitive skin. Unobserved by the company, Richard caressed them.

And she shivered, quivered.

Then hauled in a breath and thrust her empty cup at him. "I find the company entirely too fatiguing-and the journey here was boring in the extreme." Her words were couched in sheet ice, her tone a chill wind blowing straight from the Arctic. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I shall retire."

"Now, that," Richard said, taking the cup, "I didn't expect."

She paused in the act of stepping away and shot him a suspicious glance. "What didn't you expect?"

"I didn't expect you to run away." He looked down at her as she studied him, and wondered how she did it. No hint of volcanic heat remained, not even a tiny glow of feminine warmth; she was encased in polar ice, colder than any iceberg. And the air had literally turned chill-the lady of the vale could give the ice-maidens of London lessons. He let the ends of his lips curve. "I'm only teasing you."

It came to him then-no other man had-no other man had ever dared.

She frowned, measuring him and his words. Eventually, she exhaled. "I won't go if you keep your hands to yourself and don't mention our previous encounter. As I told you, that was a complete and utter mistake."

Catriona imbued the last words with conviction, but, as before, it had little effect. He seemed immune, as if he could deflect her suggestive powers easily-an observation that did little to settle her skittish nerves.

When she'd walked into the drawing room and seen him there, his blue gaze direct, as if he'd been waiting for her, she had, for the first time in her life, literally felt faint. Dumbfounded. And… something else. Something more akin to searing excitement, something that had made her nervous, aware, set alive in a way she'd never been before.

For the first time in a long while, she wasn't sure she could control her world, her situation. She was not at all sure she could control him.

Which, first and last, was the crux of her problem.

She watched as he set their empty cups on a side table, and wished he'd been forced to keep them in his hands. Hands she'd already spent some time studying; long-fingered, elegantly made, they were the hands of an artist, not a warrior. At least, not a simple warrior. Standing beside him, she was all too aware that her bedevilled senses had reported accurately on the man who had stolen a kiss-several kisses-from her. He was large and strong-not the strength of sheer brawn, but a more supple, skillful strength, infinitely more dangerous. There was intelligence in his eyes, and something else besides-the embers of that hot, prowling hunger glowed behind the blue.

He straightened. And nodded to the rest of the company. "Is this all Seamus's family?"

"Yes." She scanned the room's occupants. "They all live here."

"All the time, I understand."

"They have little choice. Seamus was a miser in many ways." She glanced about the room. "You must have noticed the ambience-hopefully, once Jamie and Mary and the others finally realize it's theirs now, and they no longer need Seamus's approval for every penny spent, they'll make it more livable."

"More like a home? Amen to that."

Surprised by his acuity, Catriona glanced up; his polite mask told her nothing.

He trapped her gaze. "You clearly didn't like Seamus. If you won't consider moving here to live, why have you come?"

"I'm here to pay my final respects." She considered, then added, more truthfully: "He was a hard man, but he did as he deemed right. He might have been an adversary, but I did respect him."

"Magnanimous in victory?"

"There was no battle."

"That's not how the locals tell it."

She humphed. "He was misguided-I set him right."

"Misguided because he wanted you to wed?"

"Precisely."

"What have you got against the male of the species?"

How had they got onto this topic? She slanted her tormentor a sharp glance. "Just that-they're male."

"A sorry fact, but most women find there are compensations."

She humphed again, the sound eloquently disbelieving. "Such as?"

"Such as…"

His tone registered; she turned and met his eyes-and the glow that danced therein. Her breathing seized; her heartbeat suddenly sounded loud. With an effort, she found breath enough to warn: "No teasing."

His lips, untrustworthy things-she tried hard not to focus on them-lifted; his eyes glowed all the more. "A little teasing would do you good." His voice had dropped to a deep purr, sliding over her senses; Catriona detected the power in the words, although she hadn't met its like before. It was… beguiling; instinctively, she resisted. She felt like she was swaying, but knew she hadn't moved.

"You might even find you…"-his brows quirked-"enjoy it."

Behind her back, screened from the company, his hand rose; Catriona sensed it with every pore of her skin, every nerve in her body. An inch from her silk-encased form, it rose, slowly skimming without touching, until it reached her neckline and rose…

"Don't!" The word was a breathless command; his hand halted, hovering, close, very close, to her quivering curls. If he touched them again…

"Very well."

A seductive purr, with no hint of contrition; he was being triumphantly magnanimous now. But his hand didn't disappear-it reversed direction. Slowly, so slowly her skin had ample time to prickle and heat, his hand traced her back, down over her shoulder blades, over the slight indentation at her waist, then, even more slowly, over the curve of her hips.

Not once did he touch her, yet when his hand dropped away, she was shaking inside-so badly, as she stepped away and, half-turning, inclined her head in his direction, she could barely form the words: "If you'll excuse me, I should retire."

She left him without meeting his eyes, quite sure of the male triumph she would see there, unsure of her hold on her temper if she did.

Meg had returned; she was sitting, wan-faced, in an armchair. Catriona stopped before her. "Come to my room when you go up-I'll have that potion ready."

"Are you going up now?"

"Yes." Catriona bit off the word, then forced a smile. "I fear the journey here was more fatiguing than I'd thought."

With a regal nod, she swept from the room, conscious, to the very last, of a blue, blue gaze fixed unwaveringly on her back.