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  Catriona shook her head. “It’s confusing.” The face was even harder than she’d thought it; the essence of the man’s strength was there, clearly delineated for anyone to read. He was a man with no reason to hide his character—he bore the signs openly, arrogantly, like a chieftain.

  Like a warrior.

  Catriona frowned. She kept stumbling across that word, but she didn’t need a warrior—she needed a tame, complaisant, preferably readily besotted gentleman she could marry and so beget an heiress. This man fitted her prescription in only one respect—he was indisputably male. The Lady, She Who Knew All, couldn’t possibly mean this man for her.

  “But if not that, then what?” Pushing aside the silver bowl, she leaned on the table and cupped her chin in one hand. “I must be getting my messages crossed.” But she hadn’t done that since she was fourteen. “Perhaps there are two of them?”

  “Two of whom?” Algaria hovered near. “What was the vision?”

  Catriona shook her head. The matter was too personal—too sensitive—to divulge to anyone else, even Algaria, her mentor since her mother’s death. Not until she’d got to the truth of the matter herself and understood it fully.

  Whatever it was she was supposed to understand.

  “It’s no use.” Determinedly, she stood. “I must consult The Lady directly.”

  “What? Now?” Algaria stared. “It’s freezing outside.”

  “I’m only going to the circle at the end of the graveyard. I won’t be out long.” She hated uncertainty, not being sure of her road. And this time, uncertainty had brought an unusual tenseness, a sense of expectation, an unsettling presentiment of excitement. Not the sort of excitement she was accustomed to, either, but something more scintillating, more enticing. Swinging her cloak about her, she looped the ribbons at her throat.

  “There’s a gentleman downstairs.” Algaria’s black eyes flashed. “He’s one you should avoid.”

  “Oh?” Catriona hesitated. Could her man be here, under the same roof? The tension that gripped her hardened her resolve; she tied off her ribbons. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t see me. And everyone in the village knows me by sight—at least, this sight.” She released her knotted hair, letting it swish about her shoulders. “There’s no danger here.”

  Algaria sighed. “Very well—but don’t dally. I suppose you’ll tell me what this is all about when you can.”

  From the door, Catriona flashed her a smile. “I promise. Just as soon as I’m sure.”

  Halfway down the stairs, she saw the gentleman, short, rotund, and fastidiously dressed, checking the discarded news sheets in the inn’s main parlor. His face was as circular as his form; he was definitely not her warrior. Catriona slipped silently down the hall. It was the work of a minute to ease open the heavy door, not yet latched for the night.

  And then she was outside.

  Pausing on the inn’s stone step, she breathed in the crisp, chilly air, and felt the cold reach her head. Invigorated, she pulled her cloak close and stepped out, watching her feet, careful not to slip on the icing snow.

  In the graveyard, in the lee of one wall, Richard looked down at his mother’s grave. The inscription on the headstone was brief: Lady Eleanor McEnery, wife of Seamus McEnery, Laird of Keltyhead. That, and nothing more. No affectionate remembrance; no mention of the bastard son she’d left behind.

  Richard’s expression didn’t change; he’d come to terms with his status long ago. When he’d been abandoned on his father’s doorstep, Helena, Devil’s mother, had stunned everyone by claiming him as her own. In doing so, she’d given him his place in the ton—no one, even now, would risk her displeasure, or that of the entire Cynster clan, by so much as hinting he was not who she claimed he was. His father’s legitimate son. Instinctively shrewd, ebulliently generous, Helena had secured for him his position in society’s elite, for which, in his heart, he had never ceased to thank her.

  The woman whose bones lay beneath this cold stone had, however, given him life—and he could do nothing to thank her.

  Except, perhaps, to live life fully.

  His only knowledge of his mother had come from his father; when, in all innocence, he’d asked if his father had loved his mother, Sebastian had ruffled his hair and said: “She was very lovely and very lonely—she deserved more than she got from her marriage.” He’d paused, then added: “I felt sorry for her.” He’d looked at him, and his slow smile had creased his face. “But I love you. I regret her death, but I can’t regret your birth.”

  He could understand how his father had felt—he was, after all, a Cynster to the bone. Family, children, home, and hearth—those were what mattered to Cynsters. Those were their quintessential warrior goals, for them the ultimate victories of life.

  For long, silent minutes, he stood before the grave, until the cold finally penetrated his boots. With a sigh, he shifted, then straightened and, after one last, long look, turned and retraced his steps.

  What was it his mother had left him? And why, having concealed her bequest all these years, had Seamus summoned him back now, after his own death? Richard rounded the kirk, his stride slow, the sound of his footfalls subsumed by the breeze softly whistling through snow-laden branches. He reached the main path and stepped onto it—and heard crisp, determined footsteps approaching from beyond the kirk. Halting, he turned and beheld . . .

  A creature of magic and moonlight.

  A woman, her dark cloak billowing about her, her head bare. Over her shoulders and down her back spread the most glorious mane of thick, rippling, silken hair, sheening copper-bright in the moonlight, a beacon against the wintering trees behind her. Her stride was definite, every footfall decisive; her eyes were cast down, but he would have sworn she wasn’t watching her steps.

  She came on without pause, heading directly for him. He couldn’t see her face, or her figure beneath the full cloak, but well-honed instincts rarely lied. His senses stirred, stretched, then focused powerfully—a clear case of lust at first sight. Lips lifting in wolfish anticipation, Richard silently turned and prepared to make the lady’s acquaintance.

  Catriona strode briskly up the path, lips compressed, a frown knitting her brows. She’d been a disciple of The Lady too long not to know how to couch her requests for clarification; the question she’d asked had been succinct and to the point. She’d asked for the true significance of the man whose face haunted her. The Lady’s reply, the words that had formed in her mind, had been brutally concise: He will father your children.

  There were not, no matter how she twisted them, very many ways in which to interpret those words.

  Which left her with a very large problem. Unprecedented though it might be, The Lady must have made a mistake. This man, whoever he was, was arrogant, ruthless—dominant. She needed a sweet, simple soul, one content to remain quietly supportive while she ruled their roost. She didn’t need strength—she needed weakness. There was absolutely no point sending her a warrior without a cause.

  Catriona humphed; her breath steamed before her face. Through the clearing wisps, she spied—the very last thing she expected to see—a pair of large, black, highly polished Hessians, directly in her path. She tried to stop; her soles found no grip on the icy path—her momentum sent her skidding on. She tried to flail her arms; they were trapped beneath her cloak. On a gasp, she looked up, just as she collided with the owner of the boots.

  The impact knocked the air from her lungs; for one instant, she was sure she’d hit a tree. But her nose buried itself in a soft cravat, mid-chest, just above the V of a silk waistcoat. His chin passed above her head; her scalp prickled as long hairs were gently brushed. And arms like steel slowly closed about her.

  Instinct awoke in a flustered rush; raising her hands, she pushed against his chest.

  Her feet slipped, then slid.

  She gasped again—and clutched wildly instead of pushing. The steely arms tightened, and suddenly only her toes touched the snow. Catriona dragged in a breath—one too
shallow to steady her whirling head. Her lungs had seized; her senses skittered wildly, informing her, in breathless detail, that she was pressed, breast to thigh, against a man.

  Not just any man—one with a body like warm, flexing steel. She had to lean back to look into his face.

  Blue, blue eyes met hers.

  Catriona stilled; she stared. Then she blinked. It took half a second to check—arrogant mien, decisive chin—it was he.

  Narrowing her eyes, she fixed them on his; if The Lady had made no mistake, then it behooved her to begin as she meant to go on. “Put me down.”

  She’d learned the knack of commanding obedience at her mother’s knee; her simple words held echoes of authority, undertones of compulsion.

  He heard them; he angled his head, one black brow rising, then the ends of his long lips lifted. “In a minute.”

  It was her turn to listen and hear the intent in his deep purr. Her eyes flew wide.

  “But first . . .”

  If she’d been able to think, she’d have screamed, but the shock of his touch, the intimate warmth of his palm as he framed her face, distracted her. His lips completed the conquest—they swooped, arrogantly confident, and settled over hers.

  The first contact stunned her; she ceased to breathe. The very concept of breathing drifted from her mind as his lips moved lazily on hers. They were neither warm nor cool, yet heat lingered in their touch. They pressed close, then eased, sipped, supped, then returned. Firm and demanding, they impinged on her senses, reaching deep, stirring her.

  She stirred in his encirling arm; it locked tight about her. Heat surrounded her—even through her thick cloak, it reached for her, enveloped her, then sank into her flesh. And grew, built, a crescendo of warmth seeking release. His hot hunger had infected her. Utterly distracted, she tried to hold it back, tried to deny its existence, tried vainly to dampen it down.

  And couldn’t. She was facing ignominious defeat—with not a clue of what followed—when the hard hand tilting her face shifted. He altered his grip; one thumb pressed insistently in the center of her chin.

  Her jaw eased; her lips parted.

  He entered.

  The shock of the first touch of tongue against tongue literally curled her toes. She would have gasped, but that was impossible; all she could do was feel. Feel and follow, and sense the reality of that hot hunger, the surprisingly subtle, deeply evocative, seductively physical need. And hold hard against the temptation that streaked through her.

  Even while he took arrogance to new heights.

  She hadn’t thought it possible, but he gathered her more closely, imprinting her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Ruthlessly confident, he angled his head and tasted her—languorously, unhurriedly—as if he had all the time in the world.

  Then he settled to play.

  To advance and retreat, to artfully entice her into joining the game. The very idea shocked her to her toes—and sent shards of excitement flying down her nerves. They stretched, tightened. His lips and tongue continued their tantalizing dance.

  She responded—tentatively; instead of the aggressive response she expected, his lips softened fractionally, encouragingly. She dared more, returning the pressure of his lips, the sensuous caress of his tongue.

  Without even knowing it, she sank into the kiss.

  Triumph streaked through Richard; he mentally crowed. He’d laid waste her starchy resistance; she was soft and pliant, pure magic in his arms. She tasted like the sweetest summer wine. The heady sensation went straight to his head.

  And straight to his loins.

  Staving off the burgeoning ache, he feasted, careful not to startle her, to let her wits surface enough to recognize his liberties. He wasn’t fool enough to think she wouldn’t break away if he gave her sufficient cause. She was no simple country miss, no naive maid—her three words, her attitude, had reeked of authority. And she wasn’t young; no young lady would have had the confidence to command him, of all men, to “Put me down.” She was not girl, but woman—and she fitted very well, supple and curvaceous in his arms.

  How well she was fitting, how tempting her curves were, locked hard against him, registered, and raised his lust to new heights. The soft, silken sway of her heavy hair, a warm, living veil drifting over the backs of his hands, and the perfume—wildflowers, the promise of spring and the fecundity of growing things—that rose from the silky locks, converted lust to pain.

  It was he who pulled back and ended the kiss—it was that, or suffer worse agony. For he would have to let her go, untouched, unsampled, his lust unsated; a snowbound churchyard in the depths of a winter’s night was a challenge even he balked at.

  And, despite the intimate caresses they’d exchanged, he knew she wasn’t that sort of lady. He’d breached her walls by sheer brazen recklessness, evoked by her haughty command to put her down. Right now, he’d like to lay her down, but that, he knew, was not to be.

  He raised his head.

  Her eyes flew wide; she looked at him as if he was a ghost.

  “Lady preserve me.”

  Her words were a fervent whisper; condensed by the cold, they misted the air between them. She searched his face—for what, Richard could not guess; with his customary arrogance, he raised one brow.

  Lips, soft and rosy—much rosier now than before—firmed. “By the Lady’s veil! This is madness!”

  She shook her head and pushed against his chest; bemused, Richard set her down carefully, then released her. Frowning absentmindedly, she stepped around and past him, then whirled to face him. “Who are you?”

  “Richard Cynster.” He sketched her an elegant bow. Straightening, he trapped her gaze. “Entirely at your service.”

  Her eyes snapped. “Do you make a habit of accosting innocent women in graveyards?”

  “Only when they walk into my arms.”

  “I requested you to put me down.”

  “You ordered me to put you down—and I did. Eventually.”

  “Yes. But . . .” Her tirade—he was sure it would have been a tirade—died on her lips. She blinked at him. “You’re English!”

  An accusation rather than an observation. Richard arched a brow. “Cynsters are.”

  Eyes narrowing, she studied his face. “Of Norman descent?”

  He smiled, proudly arrogant. “We came over with the Conqueror.” His smile deepening, he let his gaze sweep her. “We still like to dabble, of course.” Looking up, he trapped her gaze. “To keep our hand in with the occasional conquest.”

  Even in the weak light, he saw her glare, saw the sparks that flared in her eyes.

  “I’ll have you know this is all a very big mistake!”

  With that, she whirled away. Snow crunched, louder than before, as, in a flurry of skirts and cloak, she stalked off. Brows rising, Richard watched her storm through the lychgate, saw the quick, frowning glance she threw him from the shadows beneath. Then, with a toss of her head, chin high, she marched up the road.

  Toward the inn.

  The ends of Richard’s lips lifted. His brows rose another, more considering, notch. Mistake?

  He watched until she disappeared from sight, then stirred, straightened his shoulders, and, lips curving in a wolfish smile, strolled unhurriedly in her wake.

  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 s
prang 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 crisp 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.