Scandals Bride

Chapter 4

That night, Catriona slept poorly, bedevilled by a vision of a warrior's face. Forced to view that same vision, in the flesh, over the breakfast table, she inwardly sniffed and decided to go for a long ride.

Heading upstairs to change, she met Algaria at the top of the stairs. Algaria's black gaze swept her, then fastened on her face.

"Where are you off to so early?"

"I need some fresh air-how can a place so cold be so stuffy?"

"Hmm." Looking down into the hall, Algaria sniffed disparagingly. "The atmosphere is certainly less than convivial"-she shot a shrewd glance at Catriona-"what with this unnecessary charade."

"Charade?"

"Aye. It's plain as a pikestaff that bastard from below has no real intention to wed-not you, nor, I'll warrant, any woman." Algaria's face was set, the lines deeply etched. "It's clear he's a wastrel and just enjoying himself at our expense. Even Mary holds no hope other than that he'll eventually decline to be a part of Seamus's wild scheme and go back to London. She thinks he's making a show of considering the issue out of politeness."

Catriona stiffened. "Indeed?"

Algaria's lips twitched; she patted Catriona's hand. "No need to take offense-it's what we want, after all." She started down the stairs "Him to go away and leave you alone."

Catriona stared at the back of Algaria's head; her answering "Hmm" was supposed to be approving-somehow, a hint of disappointment crept in. She shut her ears to it, swinging about, she marched purposefully to her room.

It was the work of a few minutes to don her riding habit, a snugly fitting jacket and full skirt in jewel green twill. Serviceable, it was not especially warm; she hunted through the wardrobe for her old fashioned fur-lined cloak. Her hair was a problem-in the end she braided it and looped the braids about her head.

"There"! Satisfied her hair would not come loose no matter how hard she rode, she swung the cloak about her shoulders and headed for the door.

The stables huddled between the main house and the mountain, sheltered from the incessant winds and, at present, the lightly flurrying snow. The day was overcast, but the clouds were too light to deter her; she was accustomed to riding in all weather, whenever her duties called. The views might be grey, but they were visible; the hovering clouds kept the temperature above freezing. While the snow on the bare fields was hoof-deep on the paths and tracks, the cover was less, and none of it was dangerously icy.

All in all, a perfectly acceptable winter's day to go riding in The Trossachs. That was Catriona's determined thought as, atop a strong chestnut, she clattered out of the stable yard and headed into the trees. She'd ridden often in the few weeks she'd previously spent here as an escape from the battleground of the house; she remembered the tracks well. The one she took wound its way through stands of birch girding the rocky mountainside, eventually meeting another bridle path leading to the summit. Looking forward to a brisk gallop across the clear top of Keltyhead, she urged her mount upward.

The Highlands spread out before her as she emerged from the trees onto the normally wind-swept mountaintop. The earlier breeze had died to nothing more than a whisper, threading sibilantly through the bare boughs. Even the fall of fine snow had ceased Catriona's spirits soared; scanning the wide views, she drew in a deep breath. Directly before her, an open area thinly covered with rough mountain grass beckoned-she waited for no more. A smile on her face, a "Whoop!" on her lips, she set the chestnut to a canter, then shifted fluidly into a gallop.

Cold, bitterly fresh, the air rushed to greet her. It whipped her cheeks and tugged at her braids. She welcomed it joyously-one of The Lady's simple pleasures. Exhilarated, at one with her mount, she journeyed across the empty space, immersed in the wide silence about her.

She was halfway across the treeless expanse when a heavy clop and a whinny broke the stillness. Glancing back, she saw a familiar tall figure, mounted, watching her from the skirts of the forest. As still and dark as the trees behind him, he studied her. Then he moved; the deep chested black beneath him stepped out powerfully, on a course to intercept her.

Her breath tangled in her throat; abruptly, Catriona looked forward and urged her mount on. Damn the man!Why couldn't he leave her alone? The thought was shrewish, the smile tugging at her lips much less so-that was instinctively feminine, a reflection of the frisson of excitement that had shot down her nerves.

Had he followed her?

She plunged on, determined to lose him-he rode much heavier than she. And she knew she rode well; as the end of the open area neared, she considered which of the three tracks ahead, each leading in a different direction over different terrain, would best serve her purpose. That depended on how close he was. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see him in the distance-and nearly lost her seat. Eyes widening, she gasped and swung forward. He was only two lengths away!

Lunging onto the nearest path she raced along it, through twists, around turns, over rocky ground screened by tall trees. She burst into the next clearing at a flat gallop, the chestnut eagerly answering the challenge. They flew across the snowy white ground-but she heard insistent, persistent, inexorably drawing nearer, the heavy thud of the black's hooves gradually gaming ground, moving along side.

A quick glance revealed her nemesis riding effortlessly, managing one of Seamus's big stallions with ease. He sat the horse like a god-the warrior of her dreams. The sight stole her breath; abruptly she looked ahead. Why on earth was she running?

And how, once he caught up with her, would she explain her reckless flight? What excuse could she give for fleeing so precipitously?

Catriona blinked, then, dragging in a breath, slowed the chestnut and wheeled away from the approaching trees. In a smooth arc she curved back into the clearing, the black followed on the chestnut's heels. She slowed to a walk as they neared a section where the trees fell away. Halting, she crossed her hands on the saddlebow; eyes fixed on the white mountains spread before her she breathed deeply, then exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax. "So exhilarating, a quick gallop in these climes." Her expression one of infinite calmness, she looked over her shoulder. "Don't you find it so?"

Blue, blue eyes met hers. One of his black brows slowly arched. "You ride like a hoyden."

His expression remained impassive; she felt sure he intended the remark as a reprimand. Her giddy senses, however, heard it as a compliment-one from a man who rode well; it was an effort to keep a silly grin from her lips. She met his blue gaze with regal assurance. "I ride as I wish."

Her emphasis was subtle, but he heard it; his brow quirked irritatingly higher. "Hell for leather, without fear for life or limb?"

She shrugged as haughtily as she could and returned to surveying the scenery.

"Hmm," he murmured. She could feel his gaze on her face. "I'm beginning to understand Seamus's reasoning."

"Indeed?" She tried to hold them back, but the words tumbled out. "And what do you mean by that?"

"That you've run wild for too long, without anyone to ride rein on you. You need someone to watch over you for your own protection."

"I've been managing my life for the past six years without anyone's help or interference. I haven't needed anyone's protection-why should I need it now?"

"Because…" And, quite suddenly, Richard saw it all-why, on his death, Seamus had trampled on custom to do all he could to put Catriona into the hands of a strong man, one he knew would protect her. His gaze distant, fixed unseeing on the white peaks before them, he continued: "As time goes on, you'll face different threats, ones you've not yet encountered."

Not yet, because while he'd been alive, Seamus had acted as her protector, albeit from a distance. They'd found the letters, but how many more advances had been made directly? And Jamie was no Seamus-he wouldn't be able to withstand the renewed offers, the guileful entreaties. He'd refer them to Catriona, and then she would have to deal with all the threats from which Seamus had shielded her.

That was why he, Richard, was here-why Seamus had couched his will as he had.

Frowning, Richard refocused to discover Catriona studying his face. She humphed, then haughtily turned away, pert nose in the air. "Don't let me keep you." With an airy wave, she gestured a dismissal. "I know this area well-I'm quite capable of finding my own way back."

Richard swallowed a laugh. "How reassuring." She slanted him a frowning glance, he responded with a charming smile. "I'm lost."

Her eyes narrowed as she clearly debated whether she dared call him a liar. Deciding against it, she shifted from defense to attack. "It's truly unconscionable of you to raise the family's hopes."

"By considering whether it's possible to help them?" He raised his brows haughtily. "It would be unconscionable of me to do otherwise."

She frowned at him. "They're not your family."

"No-but they are a family, and as such, command my respect. And my consideration."

They do? She didn't speak them, but the words were clear in her eyes. Richard held her gaze. "I'd vaguely imagined that families lay at the heart of your doctrine, too."

She blinked. "They do."

"Then shouldn't you be considering what you can do to help them? They're weaker, less able, than you or I. And none of this is their doing."

It was a scramble to get back behind her defenses, she accomplished it with a frown and a fictitious shiver. "It's cold to be standing." She looked up. "And there's more snow coming. We'd better return to the house."

Richard made no demur as she turned her horse. He brought the black up alongside the chestnut, then gallantly drew back to amble behind her as she set the chestnut down a steep track. His gaze locked on her hips, swaying deliberately, first this way, then that, he spent the descent, not considering Seamus's family, but the mechanics of releasing them from his iniquitous will.

The behavior of Seamus's family in the drawing room, and over the dinner table, tried Catriona's temper sorely. While clearly of the opinion their cause was hopeless, they nevertheless endeavored to cast her in the most flattering light, to convince a reluctant suitor of her manifold charms. As they were self effacing, bumbling, and close to helpless, she was forced to rein in her temper-forced to smile tightly rather than annihilate them with a crushing retort, or cut them to ribbons with her saber tongue. Richard noted her simmering-reminiscent of a barely capped volcano-and bided his time.

When they returned to the drawing room, and the tea trolley arrived, no one challenged his suggestion that he take Catriona her cup. As she was, by then, standing stiff and straight, looking out of one of the uncurtained windows, it was doubtful anyone else would have dared. As he strolled up, two cups in his hands, he fixed his gaze, deliberately unreadable, on Algaria O'Rourke's face. Holding fast to her customary position beside Catriona, she returned his stare with a black, unfathomable one of her own.

"Oh, Algaria?"

From behind him, Richard heard Mary call, and saw consternation and indecision infuse Algaria's face.

Halting before her, a pace behind Catriona's back, Richard smiled, all teeth. "I don't bite-at least, not in drawing rooms."

The comment, or perhaps its tone, reached Catriona, she stirred and turned and took the situation in in one glance. Reaching for one of the cups, she grimaced at Algaria. "Oh, go! And you might check on Meg for me."

With one last, warning glance at Richard, Algaria inclined her head and went. Richard watched her retreat, her spine poker-stiff. "Does she bite?"

Catriona nearly choked on her tea. "She's a fully fledged disciple-she was my mentor after my mother died. So beware-she might turn you into a toad if you step too tar over the line."

Richard sipped, then turned and studied her. She was still simmering. "You can rip up at me, if you like."

The glance she shot him suggested she was seriously considering it. "This is all your fault. While they think there's an outside chance-the most distant possibility-they'll feel compelled to make a push to"-she gestured-"interest you in me."

"You could always explain they don't need to make the effort."

Catriona stiffened, she glanced up-and saw the lurking heat in his eyes. She frowned "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Stop thinking of that kiss in the graveyard."

"Why? It was a very enjoyable kiss, even in a graveyard."

She fought not to wriggle her shoulders, fought not to think of it herself. "It was a mistake."

"So you keep insisting."

"You could end this entire charade, this senseless agony of expectation, by simply stating your mind."

"How can I do that if I don't know it myself?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You know perfectly well you'll return to London in a week's time, unencumbered by a wife." He merely raised his brows, with that irritatingly arrogant confidence that never failed to get her goat. She looked away "You don't want to marry me, any more than I wish to marry you."

Turning his head, he looked down at her; she felt the sudden intensity of his gaze.

"Ah-but I do wish, very much, to bed you, as much, if not more, than you wish me to do so, which might well predispose us to wed."

Stunned, Catriona looked up; politely, he raised his brows, his eyes like blue flame. "Don't you think?"

She snapped her mouth shut. "I do not!" Her cheeks burned, she dragged in a breath and looked away, adding through clenched teeth: "I most certainly do not wish you to bed me."

He studied her profile, even without looking, she knew his brows rose higher "Now who's lying?"

She straightened, but couldn't meet his eyes. "You're only teasing me."

"Am I?"

The soft words set her nerves skittering. And his fingers settled on the sensitive skin of her nape. She lost her wits, lost her breath. His fingers shifted, in the lightest caress-

She hauled in a breath and whirled to face him. "Stop that!"

"Why?" His expression unreadable, he studied her frown. "You like it."

Biting her tongue against another lie, she forced herself to meet his gaze-to ignore the wild sensations crashing through her. "Given that you will not be bedding me, there will be no reason for us to wed, and you will go back to London, and Seamus's fortune will go to the Church. Why won't you admit it?"

He raised his brows. "I will admit that if I'm involved at all, a wedding will certainly necessitate a bedding. In your case, to my mind, the two are inseparable-the one will beget the other."

"Very likely." Catriona spoke through gritted teeth. "However, as there will be no wedding-"

"What's this?"

Before she could focus, let alone gather her wits, he reached for the fine chain that hung about her throat, visible above the neckline of her gown. Before she could catch his hand, he drew the chain tree, lifting the pendant from its sanctuary in the valley between her breasts.

And clasped it in his hand, turned it between his long fingers. Catriona froze.

Squinting at the long crystal, he frowned. "It's carved, like the one on my mother's necklace, only of the other stone."

Drawing a shaky breath, Catriona lifted the pendant from his grasp. "Rose quartz." She wondered whether her voice sounded as strained as it felt. She dropped the pendant back into its haven-and nearly gasped in shock at its heat. It had been warm from her flesh, but the heat of his hand had raised its temperature much higher. With a herculean effort, she reassembled her scattered defenses, and retreated behind a haughty wall. "And now, if you've quite finished teasing me-"

The chuckle he gave was the definition of devilish. "Sweet witch, I haven't even started."

His blue eyes held hers; trapped for one instant too long, Catriona felt the hot flames sear her. And felt…

"You re a devil." She picked up her skirts. "And very definitely no gentleman!"

His lips twitched, just a little at the ends. "Naturally not. I'm a bastard."

He was that-and much more.

And he will father your children.

Catriona awoke with a start, with a gasp that hung quivering, in the empty dark. About her, the room lay still and silent the bedcovers lay over her, in tangled disarray. She lay on her back her heart racing to a beat she did not know, but recognized too well. Her arms lay tensed at her sides, her fingers gripping the sheets.

It took effort to straighten her fingers, to ease her locked muscles. Gradually, the tension holding her decreased, her breathing slowed.

Leaving behind confusion, consternation-and a compulsion that grew stronger by the day, by the hour. And even more by the night.

Night-when she need not-could not-hide from herself, when, in her dreams, her deepest yearnings and unvoiced needs held sway. Overridden, as always, by The Lady's will.

But that was not happening now. Instead, The Lady's will and her own deep yearnings were acting in concert, pushing her forward, into the arms of-

"A man I can't marry."

Rolling onto her elbow, Catriona reached for the glass of water on the table by the bed. She sipped, the cool water doused the lingering heat-heat that had flared at the dream of his lips on hers, of the touch of cool marble that incited flame Heat that had spread through her like forest fire in response to the hot hunger in his eyes, in his soul.

In response to his desire.

Alone in the night, there was no point in denying that, from the first, she had wanted him. Wanted him with a finality, a certainty, an absolute conviction that stunned her. She wanted him in her bed, wanted him to be the one to fill the empty space beside her, to dispel the private loneliness that was a part of her public persona. But from childhood she'd been taught to put her wants below the needs of her people in this instance, the choice had been clear.

Or so she had thought.

She was no longer so sure. Of anything.

Slumping back in the bed, she focused on the canopy. She had occasionally in the past, in her wild and willful youth, fought The Lady's will; she knew what it felt like. This was what it felt like. A draining combination of uncertainty, dissatisfaction, and an overwhelming confusion, from which, no matter how hard she tried, she could not break tree.

She was at odds with herself, because she was at odds with fate, with The Lady's will.

Muting a scream of keen frustration, she thumped her pillow, then turned on her side and snuggled down.

It had to be impossible. Had the Lady seen him? Did she know what-in this case-she was suggesting? Ordering?

Did she know what she was getting her senior disciple into?

Marriage to a masterful bastard.

The thought froze her mind, she stared, unseeing, into the dark, then shook herself, closed her eyes, and willed herself to sleep-without any more dreams.

She woke late the next morning-too late for breakfast. After taking tea and toast on a tray, she dressed warmly, dragged on her pelisse, and, avoiding Algaria's watchful eye, set out for a long walk. She needed to clear her head.

The day was brighter than the one before; only a sprinkling of snow remained on the paths. Pausing on the side steps, Catriona looked around, seeing no one, she walked briskly to the opening of one of the three paths leading downward, and slipped into the shadows beneath the trees.

Under the spreading branches, cool peace held sway. She swung along, the scrunch of her boots on the crisp, dead leaves the only sound she could hear. The air was fresh and clean; she drew it deep into her lungs. And felt better.

The path swung sharply, descending into a hollow, she rounded the bend-and saw him waiting, leaning negligently against the bole of a tall tree, his greatcoat protecting him against the light breeze that ruffled his black hair.

His eyes were on her, his attitude that of a man waiting for his lover at an assignation previously planned.

As she drew level with him, Catriona was tempted to reach out and lay her hand over his heart, to see if it was beating too quickly. He must have left the house behind her, he must have run down the other path to get here-be here-now. But touching him was out of the question. She raised her brows instead. "Lost again?"

His eyes held hers steadily. "No." He paused, then added. "I was waiting for you."

She returned his gaze consideringly, then humphed, and waved an acceptance of his escort. He fell in beside her as she strolled on, his stride a long prowl. He was so much larger, stronger, than she, his presence weighed heavily on her senses. Catriona drew a tight breath; she looked up at the patches of sky framed by the bare branches. "Do the Cynsters live in London?"

"Yes. Some all of the time, others some of the time."

"And you?"

"All of the time, these days " He scanned their surroundings. "But I grew up in Cambridgeshire, at Somersham Place, the ducal seat."

She threw him a quick glance. "Jamie said your father was a duke."

"Sebastian Sylvester Cynster, 5th Duke of St. Ives."

The affection in his tone was easily heard; she glanced at him again "You were brought up within the family?"

"Oh, yes."

"And you have an older brother?"

"Devil." When she raised her brows, he grinned and added: "Sylvester Sebastian to Maman-Devil to all others."

"I see."

"Devil has the title now. He lives at Somersham with his duchess, Honoria, and his heir."

"Is it a big family?"

"No, if you mean do I have other brothers and sisters, but yes, if you mean is the clan, as you might call it, large."

"There are lots of Cynsters?"

"More than enough, as any fond mama in the ton will tell you."

"I see." She was too interested to sound suitably reproving. "So you have-what? Lots of cousins?"

With an ease she hadn't expected, he described them-his uncles and aunts, and their children, led by his four male cousins. After a quick listing of the family's major connections, he enumerated his younger cousins. "Of course," he concluded, "about town, I tend to meet only Amanda and Amelia."

Catriona located them on the mental tree she'd been constructing. "The twins?"

"Hmm."

He frowned and looked down. When he said nothing more, she prompted: "Why are they a worry?"

He glanced at her. "I was just thinking… both Devil and Vane, who are recently married gentlemen, are unlikely to spend much time in town. And with me up here…" His frown deepened. "There's Demon, of course, but he might have to visit his stud farm, which leaves it all up to Gabriel and Lucifer." He grimaced "I just hope Demon remembers to jog their elbows before he leaves town."

"But why do they need to be 'jogged?' Surely, with all your relatives and connections, the twins will be closely watched over"

His expression hardened; he threw her another glance. "There are some dangers extant within the ton which are best dealt with by experts."

She opened her eyes wide. "I would have thought you rated more as one of the dangers."

His mask slipped; the warrior showed through. "That's precisely why I-and the others-are the sort of watchers the twins most need."

She could tell-from his eyes, his expression-that he was deadly serious. Nevertheless… looking ahead, she fought to keep her lips straight-and failed. A gurgle of laughter escaped her.

He shot her a narrow-eyed glance.

She waved placatingly. "It's just the thought of it-the vision of you and your cousins creeping around ballrooms keeping surreptitious watch over two young ladies."

"Cynster young ladies."

"Indeed." Tilting her head, she met his gaze. "But what if the twins don't want to be watched-what if, indeed, they possess the same inclinations as you? You come from the same stock-such inclinations aren't restricted to males."

He stopped stock-still and stared at her, then humphed, shook his shoulders, and started to pace once more. Frowning again. "They're too young," he finally stated.

Lips still not straight, Catriona looked away, across the snowy tops of the foothills. After a moment, she mused: "So the family's large, and you were brought up within it-and that's why you see family as important."

She did not look at him, but felt the swift touch of his gaze on her face. Although delivered as a statement, that was, in fact, her principal question why did a man like him have such strong feelings about family?

They strolled on for a full minute before he replied. "Actually, I think it's the other way around."

Puzzled, she looked up; he trapped her gaze. "The Cynsters are as they are because family is important to us." He looked down and they walked on. She didn't try to disguise her interest; she kept her gaze on his face, her mind on his words.

He grimaced lightly. "Cynsters are acquisitive by nature-we need possessions-the family motto, after all, is 'To Have and To Hold'. But even long ago, the motto was not-or not only-a material one." He paused; when he spoke again, he spoke slowly, clearly, his frowning gaze fixed on the snow. "We were always a warrior breed, but we don't fight solely for lands and material wealth. There's an understanding, drummed into us all from our earliest years, that success-true success-means capturing and holding something more. That something more is the future-to excel is very well, but one needs to excel and survive. To seize lands is well and good, but we want to hold them for all time. Which means creating and building a family-defending the family that is, and creating the next generation. Because it's the next generation that's our future. Without securing that future, material success is no real success at all."

It seemed as if he'd forgotten her; Catriona walked silently, careful not to disturb his mood. Then he looked up, squinting a little in the glare, his face exactly as she had seen it in her dreams-the far-sighted warrior.

"You could say," he murmured, "that a Cynster without a family is a Cynster who's failed."

They'd reached the end of the ridge, the path turned at the rocky point, which formed a small lookout, then wound back up the slope through the trees. They halted on the point, the wind blew fresh and chill from the white mountaintops before them.

As one, they viewed the majestic sight; unprompted, Catriona pointed out various peaks and landmarks, naming them, citing their significance. Richard listened attentively, blue eyes narrowed against the wind and glare. As he studied the landscape, Catriona surreptitiously studied him.

His expression, she had realized, was very rarely spontaneous, even though he sometimes appeared open and easy. He was, in reality, reserved, his feelings kept close behind his mask-that facade he showed to the world. Whatever reactions he displayed were those he wanted to show; even his glib and ready charm was a carefully cultivated skill.

But when he'd spoken of his family-and of family-his mask had slipped, and she'd seen the man behind, and a little of his vulnerability. The insight had touched her, stirred her-and made her clamp a firm hold over her own reactions before they could carry her away. Richard Cynster, she'd already realized, was temptation incarnate-this morning had added another dimension to his attractiveness.

Quite the last thing she needed.

With a half-suppressed sigh, she turned. "We'd better get back."

Richard turned, and, scanning the path upward, suppressed a sigh of his own. Tightening his grip on his rakish impulses, he gave Catriona his arm up the first section of path, made hazardous by melting snow. Pacing slowly beside her, aware through every pore of her soft warmth, gliding along beside him, and not making any advance whatsoever, had taken considerable effort; speaking of his family, explaining why he felt as he did, while maintaining the distance between them, had required superhuman resolution. But he wasn't yet sure how far he could push her-and he wasn't yet sure if he should.

As he'd foreseen, she slipped on the path; resigned, he caught her against him, unable to deaden the impact of her soft curves against him, let alone his instant reaction. Luckily, she was engrossed in regaining her footing, but when she tumbled against him again, one ripe breast pressing hard against his chest, one hip and sleek thigh riding against his hip, he had to bite his lip against a groan.

When they finally reached the place where the path leveled out, he'd given up hiding his scowl. She stopped to catch her breath, he stopped to let his body ease. Innocently, she regarded the scenery; annoyed, irritated, and mightily frustrated, he regarded her. And resumed his impassive mask. "You do understand why Seamus did as he did, don't you?"

She turned to face him. "Because he was mad?"

Richard let his lips thin. "No." He hesitated, studying her clear eyes. "You're an attractive proposition, both personally and for your lands. You can't be unaware of it. The offers for your hand have apparently been legion, most from men who would sell your vale from under you and treat you with far less respect than is your due. Seamus, more than anyone, was aware of that, so he tried a last throw, a last attempt to see you safe."

She half smiled, her expression, her eyes, full of a feminine superiority expressly designed to goad him-or any male. "Seamus was a tyrant in his own family-it would never have occurred to him that I'm well able to take care of myself."

If she had patted him on the hand and told him not to worry, it would have had the same effect; he didn't bother to suppress his aggravated sigh. "Catriona, you are incapable of defending yourself against one determined callow youth, let alone a determined man."

Up went her pert nose. "Rubbish." Green eyes clashed with his. "Besides, The Lady protects me."

"Oh?"

"Indeed-men always think they have the winning hand, simply because they're bigger and stronger."

"And they're wrong?"

"Completely. The Lady has ways of dealing with importunate suitors-and so do I."

Richard sighed and looked away-then abruptly swung back and stepped toward her. She half-shrieked and jumped back-plastering herself helpfully against the bole of a tall tree. He splayed one hand on the bole by her side; with his other hand, he trapped and framed her face. The base of the tree was higher than the path, making her relatively taller. Richard tilted her face to his; with her skirts brushing his boots, and a mere inch between them, he looked down into her wide eyes. "Show me."

Her eyes grew wider as they searched his. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, straining the fabric of her coat-and still she was breathless. "Show you… what?"

"These ways you and Your Lady have of dealing with importunate suitors." His gaze dropped to her lips; with his thumb, he brushed the lower.

And felt her quiver. Her heart was racing, and he hadn't even kissed her.

The thought prompted the deed; bending his head, he brushed his lips tantalizingly over hers, not sure who he was teasing the most.

"How had you planned to protect yourself against a man who accosts you and kisses you?" He whispered the taunt against her lips, then raised his head-her lips parted fractionally. He sucked in a breath, and went back for more-for a slow, leisurely exploration of her luscious lips, of the soft, warm cavern of her mouth.

And she melted for him-with no hint of a struggle, she welcomed him in, her tongue tangling tentatively with his.

He drew back only to drag in a breath, and, his voice deep and grating, ask: "Just how had you planned to stop a man ravishing you?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but ravished her mouth, taking all she offered, and demanding more. Commanding more. Which she gave.

Unstintingly.

The damned woman had no defenses to speak of.

Some small part of Catriona's mind knew what he was thinking-the rest of her mind didn't care. She'd never expected to have any defense against him; she could normally freeze any man with a mere glance, yet from the first, he'd been immune, both to such overt intimidation and to more subtle manipulations. But she certainly wasn't going to explain that-that with him, her defenses, those The Lady had gifted her with, would not, for some misbegotten reason, work.

Even with her head spinning, her wits' reeling, she wasn't that daft. She could normally tie men in mental or verbal knots, make them trip over their toes, stutter, wheeze-a whole host of simple difficulties that would send the most confident fleeing.

But not him.

With him, all she could do was run.

But at present, she couldn't run. All she could do was…

Enjoy her ravishment.

Not a difficult task. One her senses recommended.

Wholeheartedly.

At some point, she lifted her arms and wrapped them about his neck, and he moved closer, the pressure of his chest easing her aching breasts. She kissed him back with giddy abandon and felt him shift. Then his hand slid behind her, between the tree and her back, and slid down. Her willful senses leapt as he cradled her bottom, tilting her hips away from the tree. Then he pressed one hard thigh between hers.

She would have pulled back from their kiss and gasped, but he wouldn't let her go-their kiss continued with escalating urgency, an urgency she felt to her bones. Their lips fused, eased, then melded again-his were cool marble, hers burned. He leaned into her-she drew him closer. Her thick pelisse muted the sensation of body meeting body, yet heat still swept through her, wave after wave, increasing in intensity-they had to be melting the snow for yards.

But she didn't pull back-didn't struggle to escape-she returned his kisses with increasing fervor, undismayed by the intimacy he pressed on her, eagerly savoring every nuance, every facet-what else could she do? This was experience, one she might never again enjoy.

So she enjoyed-and encouraged, invited, incited.

And he responded. Ardently.

His desire, his fire, set her aflame. When his hand dropped from her face to close firmly about her breast, she gasped and swayed-her knees literally wobbled. His hand firmed beneath her bottom, supporting her as his long fingers closed and caressed, firming about her nipple, squeezing gently. She arched against him, driven by instinct, by a hot need that was the counterpart of his. His prowling hunger had never been so clear, so forcefully imprinted on her senses. She tasted it in his kiss, felt it in his locked muscles, in the ridge of rampant flesh riding against her belly.

He tilted her hips, lifting her slightly-his thigh pressed deeper between hers, shifting suggestively.

The heat took her-a storm of fire and flame raced through her. She clutched his head wildly, threading her fingers through his thick locks as she angled her lips beneath his.

Crack!

Mere seconds later, or so it seemed, she was stepping carefully along the path a full five yards past the comfortable tree, one hand on Richard's sleeve, the other holding her skirts as she stepped over a tree root, when firm footsteps approached from behind.

They both turned, with wholly false expressions of polite surprise, Catriona could only be thankful for the dappled shadows that hid her face as Algaria's black gaze found her.

Algaria frowned. "I thought you might have got lost."

Refraining from pointing out that she knew these woods better than her mentor, Catriona inclined her head. Carefully-it was still spinning. "I showed Mr. Cynster the lookout. We were on our way back." Via a tree.

She could only just summon enough breath to get the words out; Algaria merely humphed and waved them on.

"Don't wait for me-I'll just plod along slowly."

Catriona flicked a glance at her companion in time to see his lips twitch; she ignored the dangerous light in his eyes. "Very well."

Gracefully haughty, as befitted The Lady's senior disciple, she turned and allowed her nemesis to lead her on. She felt his gaze on her face, but kept her eyes fixed on the path and the scenery; she was still giddy, and flushed, with her senses clamoring. Insistently.

Steadfastly, she ignored them-and the question of what might have happened had Algaria not arrived. Such speculation was not calming, and right now, she needed calm.

Calm to deal with Richard Cynster-and calm to deal with herself. And she wasn't at all sure which would prove more difficult.

His attitude to family had intrigued her, so she'd tried to draw him out, driven by a compulsive need to know more about him, so she could interpret her visions in a more sensible light. Instead, what she'd learned had made her decision harder still-how could she not respond to a man who desired and actively sought to establish a real family?

Yet the rest-all she had learned since they'd left the lookout-had only hardened her resolve to resist him. His facade had slipped long enough to confirm her inner view of him-to confirm his emotional motivation. He was, indeed, a warrior without a cause-the cause he searched for, yearned for, was a family to defend and protect.

Which was all very well, but warriors, especially the hereditary sort, did not hang up their swords in the hall and become simple family men. Far from it. They remained warriors still, to the heart, to the soul.

And warriors ruled.

Inwardly she sighed, and saw the house looming ahead. All she had learned had confirmed her in her resistance, while increasing the temptation to give herself to him-to have him as her lord. But first and last, she was the lady of the vale- she couldn't, simply could not, let him into her life, couldn't let him think of her as part of his cause, no matter how tempting that might be.

And tempting it was. Just how tempting she hadn't understood, not until she'd stood pressed against him under that tree.

They stepped out of the woods and onto the lawn, spotted white with snow; Algaria followed close behind them. Calmer, more determined, Catriona drew a deep breath; she glanced briefly at Richard's face, then looked at the house.

Temptation incarnate was what he was-his attitudes were strongly attractive, his sensuality so compelling he engaged her senses to the exclusion of all else. But his very strength was what stood between them. He was too powerful a personality, too strong a male, to surrender his natural dominance to a wife. A witch-wife at that.

He was a powerfully attractive, family-oriented gentleman, but he was still a warrior to the core.

The house rose before them, cold and grey; she felt his gaze on her face.

"You look pale."

She glanced up and realized he thought she was still reeling. She let cool haughtiness infuse her eyes. "I haven't been sleeping well lately."

She looked ahead; from the corner of her eye, she saw his lips twitch.

"Indeed? Perhaps you should take up the local custom of a dram of whiskey before climbing into bed. Jamie tells me the locals all swear by it."

Catriona humphed. "They'd swear by any 'custom' that means drinking whiskey."

He chuckled. "Understandable-it's good stuff. I hadn't really appreciated it before. I'm a rabid convert to the local custom."

"Converts are always the most rabid," Catriona observed. "But if you really are interested, you should visit the distillery in the valley."

They'd reached the side steps; describing the distillery, she led the way inside.