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  She had to leave him.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she reached out to brush back the errant lock of hair that made a habit of falling over his forehead—and stopped herself. For one instant, her hand hovered over the neatened covers, then she sighed and, with a sad grimace, drew it back.

  She couldn’t risk waking him.

  And she could sense the house stirring, tweenies waking in the attics, doors banging in the far distance.

  Hugging her robe about her against the morning chill, she took one last, long look—at the husband she couldn’t have—then slipped out through the bed curtains.

  The instant the curtains closed, Richard opened his eyes. He listened—and heard the faintest of clicks as the door closed. For an instant, he simply stared at the closed curtains, at the empty space beside him, then he drew a huge breath and turned on his back. Crossing his arms behind his head, he stared at the canopy.

  He still didn’t have his answer—at least, not all of it. But he had learned something through the night. Whatever it was that drove his lust for her—she felt it, too. When they were together, her feelings for him were the counterpart of his feelings for her.

  What his feelings for her were, however, was beyond his ability to describe. There was a sensual connection between them, something that invested their lovemaking with a deeper, stronger, more vibrant energy than the norm. He knew all about the norm—he’d had so many women, the difference was stark. Even in her innocence, she must be aware of it—that power that flared between them every time they touched, every time they kissed.

  In his case, it was now with him constantly, ready to rear its head every time he set eyes on her. He was even, heaven help him, getting used to it. It had very quickly become a part of him.

  Grimacing, he threw back the covers, sat up, and ran his hands over his face. He knew himself too well not to know, not to accept, that he wouldn’t readily give it up—cut himself off from that power, from the addictive surge of possessiveness that swept him every time he saw her.

  He still didn’t know why she’d given herself to him. In the depths of the night, when they’d stirred and untangled their limbs, and she’d wordlessly slid into his arms, he hadn’t had the heart to further interrogate her—he’d kissed her, soothed her into sleep, then tightened his arms about her and fallen into blissfully sated slumber himself.

  Standing, he stretched, then grimaced. He’d have it out with her tonight. Once she was in his arms. Today, especially after last night, there were other things he needed to do.

  The solicitor would return tomorrow.

  He waited at the breakfast table until Jamie appeared. His host passed Algaria in the doorway. After waiting, and waiting, for Catriona to appear, Algaria had thrown him a black look that should have flayed him, then risen and gone to search out her erstwhile pupil.

  Richard watched her go—Algaria clearly knew where her erstwhile pupil had been spending her nights—then turned to Jamie.

  Who looked worried and drawn, obviously exercised by the difficulties of where the family would remove to, how they would cope after tomorrow. Jamie smiled wanly. “Not a particularly fine day, I fear.”

  Richard hadn’t noticed. “Actually, I was wondering if you might appease my curiosity.” Before Jamie could ask how, Richard waved languidly at Jamie’s plate and picked up his coffee mug. “Once you’ve finished breakfast.”

  Malcolm and one of Jamie’s nondescript brothers-in-law was present; Richard did not want his plans broadcast, especially not to the ears of his witch. He intended to inform her of his decision in person. Tonight. He was looking forward to it; he would allow no one to spoil his plans.

  Jamie ate quickly; together they left the breakfast parlor and strolled into the hall. Jamie paused and looked inquiringly at him. Richard waved toward Jamie’s office, and they strolled on, into the corridor.

  “I was curious,” Richard murmured, “about those letters you mentioned. The ones Seamus received about Catriona and her lands. I’ve been trying to fathom just why your father wanted me to marry Catriona—if I could see what he’d been handling in relation to her, it might clarify the matter.”

  Jamie’s brows rose. He blinked at Richard, rather owlishly. “I see.” He halted outside his office door; Richard halted, too. Jamie cleared his throat. “Are you . . . ah . . . considering . . . ?”

  Richard grimaced lightly. “Considering, yes. But . . .” He met Jamie’s eyes. “If even that gets to Catriona’s ears, life for all of us will be that much harder.”

  Jamie blinked and straightened. “Indeed.” As Richard watched, Jamie’s face lost some of its unnatural pallor, as hope, however faint, replaced despondency.

  “Those letters?”

  “Oh! Yes.” Jamie shook himself. “I left them in the library.”

  The afternoon was dying beyond the library windows before he’d read them all. When Jamie had spoken of a pile of letters, Richard hadn’t imagined a pile literally two feet high. And in no order to speak of. He’d spent hours sorting them, then even more hours deciphering the scripts and the demands.

  For demands there’d been. Many of them.

  Of Seamus’s replies there was no record, but from the continuing correspondence, his attitude was clear. He’d done a stalwart job of defending Catriona and her vale.

  Heaving a sigh, Richard set the last of the letters back on the stack, then pushed back his chair, opened the large bottom drawer of the desk and set the stack, in two halves, back where Jamie had stored it. Then he sat back in the chair and stared at the three piles he’d separated from the stack and lined up on the blotter.

  Each little pile derived from one of Catriona’s nearest neighbors. He had earlier taken a break and wandered down the hall to Jamie’s office to check the maps. Her neighbors wanted her land. However, contrary to Jamie’s recollections, all three still offered marriage—Sir Olwyn Glean to himself, Sir Thomas Jenner to his son, Matthew, while Dougal Douglas had not specified.

  All three sets of correspondence were current—all three were at the stage of veiled threats on both sides. Seamus was less than subtle, Glean was patronizing, Jenner pompous, and Douglas the most disturbing, the most pointed.

  Richard lit the desk lamp, and reread the letters, every one, then stacked them together. His expression set, his lips a thin line, he considered the pile, then folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  In the distance, the dinner gong boomed. Pushing back his chair, Richard rose and headed upstairs to change.

  That night, Catriona tossed and turned. Wide awake, she stared at the canopy of her bed, then turned—and tossed—again.

  She couldn’t get to sleep.

  Some devil inside her informed her why—and prodded her. Pointed out it was only a short distance to Richard’s room. Richard’s bed. Richard’s arms.

  And all the rest of him.

  With a frustrated groan, Catriona shut her ears to the temptation. She had to—she couldn’t give into it.

  She’d known how it would be—that she would be tempted to go to him, that she would try to tell herself one more night wouldn’t matter. But her only justification for going to him as she had was The Lady’s orders—and they didn’t include extra nights purely for her own indulgence. At this time of her cycle, three nights were enough. The way he’d loved her, that should be more than enough. She couldn’t justify more.

  But she’d known she’d be tempted, so while, in the full light of day, her resolution had held firm, and he’d been ensconced in the library, she’d gone to his room and replaced the drugged brandy with untainted stock. So she couldn’t go to him, even if she weakened.

  She’d weakened long before the clock struck twelve.

  Now it was striking four, and she still hadn’t fallen asleep. She hadn’t settled in the least. First, she felt hot, then not hot enough. Her body was restless, her emotions disturbed. As for her thoughts . . . she would much rather be asleep.

  In the forefront of
her mind hung the fact that, after tomorrow, when the solitcitor left, she would never see Richard again.

  And he would never see his child.

  She didn’t know which thought made her feel worse.

  Chapter 9

  Morning eventually dawned. Weary, wrung-out, Catriona dragged herself from her uncomfortable bed. She washed and dressed, then paused before the door—and plastered on a bright, breezy smile before opening it.

  As had been her previous habit, she was early to the breakfast table. As the others appeared, she poured tea and helped herself to toast, all the while maintaining her glamor of morning cheer.

  Richard saw her smile, her bright eyes, the instant he stalked in. Sweetly sunny, her expression stated she did not have a care in the world.

  Little did she know.

  Her gaze flew to his face—he saw her eyes widen. Richard suppressed an impulse to snarl. He met her gaze—pinned her for one brief instant—then turned and stalked to the sideboard.

  And piled his plate high. He would rather have followed up the threat in that one glance, but there were others present. There was a need for civility—for the cloak of sophisticated behavior he habitually wore. He reminded himself of that—even while he itched to throw the cloak aside.

  He was frustrated to the point of violence.

  Never in his life had he had to cope with this degree of sexual frustration. Of frustrated intent. As for the emotional side of the coin—he couldn’t even think of that. Not without a swirling haze of anger clouding his mind.

  His response was not rational—the realization didn’t help in the least. When it came to Catriona Hennessey, witch, his thoughts—his feelings—definitely didn’t qualify as rational. They were powerful. Strong. And very close to slipping their leash.

  Plunking his plate down at the place opposite hers, Richard sat. He met her wide gaze with a hard stare and saw her cheery smile waver. Belatedly remembering what the morning held, he gritted his teeth and looked down at his plate. And kept his gaze lowered as he ate.

  She’d fled from him before—he didn’t want to look out of the library window and see her carriage rolling down the drive. His plans were otherwise.

  “Miss? They be awaiting ye in the lib’ry.”

  Catriona whirled, straightening, her attention flying from the child she’d been tucking in. “Already?”

  Head poked around the nursery door, the maid nodded, wide-eyed. “Did hear as the s’licitor came early.”

  Catriona inwardly cursed. “Very well.” Turning to the children’s nurse, she gave brisk instructions, patted heads all around, then hurried down the long, cold corridors.

  She stopped in the front hall to check her reflection in the mirror—what she saw did not reassure her. Her hair was neat, but not as lustrous as usual; the curls at her nape hung limp. As for her eyes, they were overlarge and faded. Washed-out—just like she felt. Her morning gown of rich brown, normally a good color for her, did nothing to disguise her pallor. She was tired; she still felt drained. Not, in all honesty, up to handling the inevitable grief when the final blow finally fell and Seamus’s maltreated family learned they would have to quit the house. She’d intended to leave this afternoon, but had already revised her plans—she would be needed here for another day at least, to calm Meg and the children most of all.

  With a sigh, she braced herself and headed for the library.

  The butler opened the door for her; she glided through—and was instantly aware of a presence in the air. An unexpected presence. The hair on her nape lifted; she paused just inside the long room and took stock.

  The family—all of them!—she inwardly sighed—were gathered before the fireplace as before. Seated at the desk, the solicitor shuffled papers; he glanced at her fleetingly, then looked away.

  To where Richard stood, looking out one long window, his back to the room.

  Together with the solicitor, Catriona studied that back, elegantly clad in deep blue. Her earlier uneasiness returned—that edgy, nervous feeling that had overtaken her in the breakfast parlor when he’d looked at her so accusingly. As if he had a very large bone to pick with her.

  She didn’t know—couldn’t guess—what it was.

  Neither his back, straight and tall, nor his hands, clasped behind him, offered any clues.

  And now, on top of that uneasiness, came this other presentiment. A swirling, building sense of impending . . . something. Something momentous. The energy was strong, all-pervasive in the room; she couldn’t discern its focus. On guard, she glided forward and took the empty seat beside Mary.

  In that instant, Richard turned—and looked at her.

  She met his gaze—and instantly understood who was the source of that energy. And who its focus. Suddenly breathless, she glanced at the door, then back at him.

  Prowling forward to stand by the mantelpiece, he gazed at her steadily, his message transparent. He was now ten feet away, the door was thirty. No escape.

  His intention, however, remained unclear.

  Catriona dragged in a breath past the now familiar vise locked about her lungs and let haughtiness infuse her expression. Tilting her chin, she returned his regard, then pointedly switched her gaze to the solicitor. And willed him to get on with his business. To get this over and done with, so Richard Cynster could leave, and she could breathe again.

  The solicitor coughed, sent a shaggy browed look around the room, then peered at the papers in his hand. “As you are all aware . . .”

  His preamble outlined the situation as they knew it; everyone shifted and shuffled and waited for him to get to the point. Eventually, he cleared his throat and looked directly at Richard. “My purpose here today is to ask you, Richard Melville Cynster, if you accept and agree to fulfill the terms of our client Seamus McEnery’s will.”

  “I do so accept and agree.”

  The words, so unexpected, were uttered so calmly Catriona did not—could not—take them in. Her mind refused to believe her ears.

  Apparently similarly afflicted, the solicitor blinked. He peered at his papers, adjusted his spectacles, drew breath, and looked again at Richard. “You declare that you will marry the late Mr. McEnery’s ward?”

  Richard met his gaze levelly, then looked at Catriona. Trapping her gaze, he spoke evenly, deliberately. “Yes. I will wed Catriona Mary Hennessey, ward of the late Seamus McEnery.”

  “Good-oh!”

  Malcolm’s gleeful shout led the cacophany; the room erupted with exclamations, heartfelt thanks, outpourings of profound relief.

  Catriona barely heard them—her gaze locked with Richard’s, she let the tide wash over her and sensed a none-too-subtle shift in the energy around her. Some trap was closing on her—and she couldn’t even see what it was.

  Despite Jamie thumping him on the back and pumping his hand, despite the questions of the solicitor, Richard’s blue gaze didn’t waver. Trapped in that steady beam, Catriona slowly rose, much less steadily, to her feet. Putting out one hand, she gripped the chairback and straightened to her full height, so much less than his; unable to help herself, she tilted her chin defiantly.

  Gradually, the clamor about them died, as the family belatedly sensed the clash of wills occurring beneath their noses.

  Catriona waited until silence reigned, then, in a cool, clear voice, stated: “I, however, will not marry you.”

  A shadow passed through his eyes; the planes of his face set. He shifted—the others stepped quickly from between them. He strolled toward her, his stride his customary prowl. While subtly intimidating, there was no overt threat in his approach. He stopped directly before her, looking down at her, still holding her gaze, then he glanced over his shoulder at the others. “If you’ll excuse us?”

  He waited for no yea or nay, not from them or her; he grasped her hand—before she could blink he was striding down the long room, towing her with him.

  Catriona stifled a vitriolic curse; she had to pace quickly to keep up. But she reined in her temp
er—there was a definite advantage in putting distance between themselves and the rest of the company.

  He didn’t stop until they reached the other end of the room, hard up against the wall of bookshelves and flanked by two heavy armchairs and a small table. The instant he released her, she swung to face him. “I will not marry you. I’ve told you why.”

  “Indeed.”

  The word was a lethal purr. She blinked and found herself pinned by a stare so hard she literally felt stunned.

  “But that was before you came to my bed.”

  Her world tilted. She could hear her heart thudding in her throat. She blinked again, slowly. And opened her lips on a denial—the look in his eyes, burning blue, changed her mind. She lifted her chin. “You’ll never get anyone to believe that.”

  His brows rose. “Oh?”

  To her surprise, he glanced around—Meg’s sketchbook and pencil lay on the small table. He picked both up; before her puzzled eyes, he opened the book to a blank page and sketched rapidly, then handed the book to her.

  “And just how do you plan explaining how I know about this?”

  She stared. He’d sketched her birthmark. Her world had already tipped; now it reeled.

  He shifted, leaning closer, simultaneously protective and threatening. “I’m sure you can recall the circumstances in which I saw it. You were in my bed, on your knees, totally naked, before me—and I was buried to the hilt in you.”

  The words, uttered low, forcefully and succinctly, from less than a foot away, battered at her defenses. Catriona felt them weaken, then crack—and felt the emotion, the sensations, all she’d felt at that moment when she’d been in his bed, seep through. And touch her.

  It took all her will to shut them out and seal up the break in her shields. She stared, unseeing, at the drawing until she’d regained some degree of calm, then, very slowly, lifted her gaze to his face. “You were awake.”

  “I was.” His face was a mask of hard angles and planes—determination incarnate.

  Catriona mentally girded her loins. “Completely awake?”