Scandals Bride

Chapter 14

"Oh, no!" Catriona focused on the curtains shielding her window through which she could see light seeping, and groaned. It was morning-late morning.

Falling back on her pillows, she stared at the canopy; she had meant to go to the circle this morning, to atone for yesterday's absence, but it was too late now. Drawing in a tight breath, she glanced at the bed beside her. It was a disaster of tangled sheets and rumpled covers-just as it had been the morning before. The cause, however, was quite different.

She hadn't been able to sleep; only as night was fading had she fallen into a restless doze. Which hadn't refreshed her in the least, hadn't prepared her for the day ahead.

Yesterday had dragged; nothing had gone right. She was still as far from finding good breeding cattle as she had been two weeks ago. Two months ago, and more. She needed to find some reasonable stock soon, or miss the chance of improving the herd through the coming season's breeding-an opportunity the vale could ill afford to miss.

But that wasn't what had kept her awake.

The empty space beside her had done that.

Forced her into a neverending round of thinking if, perhaps, she'd done something different, he might still be here, a warm weight beside her-the comfort of her heart. Senseless, useless repetition of their words, her thoughts, her conclusions.

It changed nothing-he was gone.

She sighed, then grimaced, recalling the transparent joy that had transformed Algaria. Ever since Richard had appeared on their horizon, Algaria had been worried, then withdrawn. His departure had more than pleased her-yesterday, she'd been reborn. Yet Catriona was sure he had done nothing to deserve Algaria's censure, or even to rattle her, or confirm her in her views. Other than to be himself.

That, apparently, was enough. Hardly a rational response. Algaria's attitude to Richard now worried her even more than it had. Perhaps there was some deeper purpose behind his leaving, one only The Lady could know.

The possibility didn't make his absence any easier to bear.

The emptiness around her weighed heavily on her heart, making breathing difficult. Dragging in some air, she sat up-and wished she hadn't. For one long instant the room spun, then slowly settled.

Forcing herself to breathe evenly, to concentrate on that, she waited, absolutely still, for the queasiness to pass. She had, it seemed, more misery in store for her than a simple broken heart. When the room had steadied and the hot flush had died, she slowly, carefully stood.

"Wonderful," she muttered, as she crossed to the wash-stand. "Morning sickness as well."

But she was still the lady of the vale-she had a role to fill, decisions to make, orders to give. She dressed with as much speed as she could muster, then, detouring via the stillroom for some soothing herbs, headed for the dining hall.

Herbal tea and plain toast was the most she could manage-the aromas rising from the plates of others nearly made her gag. She nibbled and sipped, grateful for the warmth of the tea, and tried to ignore, blot out, the smells and sounds around her.

Algaria, of course, noticed. "You're pale," she said, beaming brightly.

"I'm wretched," Catriona replied through clenched teeth.

"It's only to be expected."

Catriona turned and met Algaria's black gaze, then realized Algaria was referring, solely, to the consequences of her pregnancy. Algaria wouldn't accept-or even recognize-that Richard's departure was her principal woe. Looking back at her cup, Catriona gritted her teeth. "Don't tell anyone-not until I make the announcement."

"Good heavens-why?" Algaria gestured about them. "It's important news for the vale and the manor-everyone will be delighted."

"Everyone will be unbearable." Catriona pressed her lips together, waited for three heartbeats, then, in a more reasonable but still cold tone stated: "The news is important to me, too. I'll make the announcement when I'm ready. I don't want people fussing over me for any longer than necessary." In her present state, her temper wouldn't stand it. "I just want to be left alone to get on with the vale's business."

Algaria raised a shoulder. "As you wish. Now, about those decoctions…

She hadn't thought it possible to miss him more than she had last night-but she was wrong.

By the end of the day, as the light faded from the world, Catriona huddled at her desk, fretfully tugging two shawls about her shoulders.

She was cold to her bones-a cold that came from inside and spread insidiously through her. It was the cold of loneliness, a bone-deep chill. Throughout the day, she'd been rubbing her arms; at lunchtime she'd fetched the extra shawl. Nothing helped.

Worse, she was finding it hard to concentrate, finding it hard to keep her usual serene mask-the face she habitually wore in public as the lady of the vale-in place. Summoning the brightness to put into her smile when she greeted McArdle and the others was very nearly beyond her. Energy was something she no longer had, not in any quantity.

And she needed energy to make her lips curve, to disguise the deadness inside, but supporting her usual sunny disposition was more than she could do. Unfortunately, being the lady of the vale, she couldn't even invent a fictitious malady to account for her state-she was never ill, not in the general way.

Pushing aside the ledgers she'd been studying-the breeding records for the past three years-she sighed. Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes. How was she going to cope?

She lay in the chair in the darkened room and opened her senses. But no help came-no suggestion of how she might manage popped into her tired mind.

When she finally opened her eyes and sat up, the one thing she did feel sure of was that the situation was going to get worse.

Dragging herself to her feet, feeling as if the child she carried was seven months older than it was, she straightened, stacked the ledgers neatly, then, setting her shoulders back, lifting her head high, she headed for the door.

While washing and changing for dinner, she grasped the opportunity to lie down-just for a minute.

One minute turned into thirty; by the time she reached the table, it was late. Out of breath, wanting nothing more than to crawl back into her bed, she smiled serenely about the hall and helped herself to lamb collops.

Then pushed them around and around on her plate.

She felt like slumping; only by maintaining a continuous inner lecture did she manage to preserve her facade. But she couldn't eat-she'd lost her appetite. In an effort to conceal her disinterest in the food, she caught Henderson's eye. "What have the children been up to today?" In spite of his dour demeanor, Henderson had a soft spot for the manor's brats.

"Seems like the master'd been teaching some of them to ride, so I took them out to the barn." He grimaced, a depressing sight. "I'm no great horseman, though. I'm thinking they'll have to wait on his return to polish up their skills."

"Hmm." Not wanting to dwell on how long the children might have to wait, Catriona looked along the table at Mrs. Broom and gestured to the steaming apple pie just placed before her, the fruity, spicy aroma much more to her liking than the cold collops a maid had whisked away. "I congratulate you on your new receipe-the spices add a pleasing tang."

Mrs. Broom beamed. "Twas the master suggested it-seems they cook it that way in London town, but it was easy enough to do. Pity he isn't here to enjoy it-he said it was one of his favorites. But we've apples aplenty in the store-I'll make it again when he gets back."

The smile on her face felt tight; Catriona inclined her head gracefully and turned to McArdle "Has Melchett-"

"Mistress!"

"Mister Henderson!"

"Come quickly!"

With those and other cries, the manor children burst into the hall. They were led, as always, by Tom, Cook's red-headed son. He rushed straight to the main table, his gaze locked on Catriona's face. "It's the blacksmith's house, mistress. It's burning!"

"Burning?" Rising, Catriona stared down at Tom. "But…" She frowned. "It can't be."

Tom bobbed his head urgently. "It is, mistress! Flames leaping into the sky, an' all."

Everyone rushed to see. Wide-eyed, Catriona halted on the back step and saw that Tom hadn't lied. The blacksmith's small house, wedged between the forge and the granary, was alight. Angry red flames licked over the wood and stone building, engulfing it from the rear. Beyond, out of sight behind the house, lay open pigpens, presently empty.

As they watched, the flames caught better hold and roared throwing red sparks high.

Within seconds, the stable yard was a scene of confusion. Pandemonium reigned. People ran this way, then that, bumping into each other and cursing, some running to fetch pails others had already grabbed.

Dragging in a breath, Catriona lifted her head. "Henderson-you and the stablelads to the pump. Huggins, check the stable. Irons, where are you?"

The big blacksmith, a dripping pail in his hand, raised his arm. "Here, ma'am."

"You and all the men start dousing the fire."

"Aye, ma'am."

"All the women-into the kitchens. Grab whatever will hold most water."

They streamed past her, she heard the clatter as the huge pots and pans were collected. They all helped, even Algaria-a deep jam pot gripped tightly, she flung water onto the burning building.

Down on the cobbles, her face lit by the garish glow. Catriona monitored their frantic efforts. Huggins came puffing up. "The horses and animals are well enough-I've left two lads with them."

Her eyes on the flames rising above the cottage, then fanning over to embrace it from behind, Catriona grabbed his arm; she had to scream for him to hear. "Take halt the men and start throwing water onto the back. That's where the source is."

Huggins nodded and went. Catriona coughed as billowing smoke gripped her throat. Turning, she surveyed the yard-there was a large crowd waiting, buckets, pails, pots and pans in hand around the pump. It wasn't hard to guess the problem. The roads had cleared, but it was a long way from spring-the main snows on Merrick had yet to melt, so the river was still at its winter ebb. Only a gentle gush came up through the pump, enough for daily needs, but not enough to fight a fire.

A hot roar at her back had Catriona whirling; she backed as heat hit her like a surging wave.

Sparks and cinders rained down-a real danger for those running close to throw their precious water on the fire. Then came a loud crack!- a beam exploded; flaming debris showered down, driving everyone back.

Gasping, Catriona found herself cowering protectively over Tom. "Blankets!" Tom looked up at her-she shook his shoulder. "We need blankets to beat out the sparks. Get the others and fetch the horse blankets from the tack room."

Tom nodded and fled, shrieking through the din for his cohorts to follow him. They did, an unruly band streaking for the stables. They returned in double time, staggering under the weight of the heavy blankets balanced across their arms. Catriona grabbed one and started beating out the flaming cinders. Other women saw and did the same.

Huggins and his band had reached the back of the house; Catriona heard them bellowing for more help. Brushing the back of her hand over her flushed forehead, she looked around. "Jem, Joshua!-take your pails to the back."

They nodded and changed course around the side of the forge.

In the yard, everyone redoubled their efforts, trying to fill the gaps left by those who'd gone to the other front. But the pump would yield only so much. Glancing back through the swirling smoke, Catriona saw Irons had stripped off his shirt and was now bending his back to the pump handle. Henderson was slumped, wheezing, on the water trough-now empty.

"Lady!"

Catriona turned at the tug on her sleeve. Huggins, doubled over and panting, struggling to catch his breath, grimaced up at her.

" 'Twas the woodpile behind the house-that's where it started." He paused to drag in another breath, his eyes going to the fiercely burning cottage. "We can douse the pile, but it's almost ashes now. But that won't stop it. The flames have got a good hold on the back wall, particularly on those big lintel beams across the back."

Following his nod Catriona stared at the huge wooden beams that crossed the cottage, one above the door and window, separating the ground floor from the first, and the other above the first floor, supporting the roof timbers. Matching beams spanned the back.

"It's going to go." Huggins shook his head and slumped forward again. "We can't reach those big beams, and we haven't got enough water even if we could. It's an inferno, up there."

Catriona stared at the greedy flames, then dragged in a huge breath. She coughed and took a firm grip on her wits. And ignored the fright licking at her nerves. "All right." She squeezed Huggins's arm, sending him a little of her hard-won calm. "Tell your men to concentrate on saving the granary and the forge." She hesitated, then added: "The granary first if a choice has to be made."

They couldn't afford to lose the grain and other foodstuffs stored in the granary, their larder for the rest of the winter.

Huggins nodded his understanding and stumbled away to issue her orders. Catriona took one last look at the fiercely burning cottage and went to find Irons. She found him slumped by the pump; Henderson was manning it again. Grim-faced, his gaze on his burning home, Irons heard her out, then, with a pain-filled grimace, nodded.

"Aye." With an effort, he hauled himself to his feet. "You be right. Cottage can be replaced-granary, and what's in it, can't."

He started bellowing orders himself; Catriona rushed forward once more to take charge close to the house, instructing the waterbearers where to fling their loads.

Her voice hoarse and fading, she grabbed a pot from a maid hard of hearing and showed her where to throw it-at the junction between the walls of the cottage and the granary. Handing the empty pot back to the woman, she paused, wiping the sweat from her brow, trying not to notice the heat washing over her-

She heard a cry.

Not from the yard, but from the cottage.

She stared at the building, the rough stone between the burning beams glowing pink-and told herself she'd imagined it. Prayed she'd imagined it.

But it came again, a whimpering wail that died beneath the flames' roar.

"Oh, Lady!" Hand to her mouth, Catriona whirled and searched the host of scurrying women for the blacksmith's wife. And found her, frantically grabbing the older manor children, having to peer through the soot and grime covering their faces to recognize her own. As Catriona watched, the woman grabbed one girl close, hand gripping the slender shoulder like a claw-she saw the woman scream her question, saw the girl shake her head, her own features changing into a mirror of her mother's horror. Then both mother and daughter looked straight at the burning house.

Catriona didn't hesitate. She grabbed a horse blanket from one of the weary beaters and flung it over her head and shoulders. Then she lunged for the closed door of the cottage.

She forced it open, and stepped through-

The flames roared-a wall of heat beat her back.

She staggered and nearly fell; cries and screams from all around filled her ears. Sure of the whimper she'd heard under the roar, she tightened her grip on the blanket and gathered her courage to step forward once more.

Before she could, she was bodily lifted and unceremoniously dumped on her feet ten feet back from where she'd stood. "Damn, stupid woman!" was the mildest of the oaths that rang in her ears.

To her stunned amazement, Richard grabbed the singed blanket from her. Then threw it about his head and shoulders and plunged into the cottage himself.

"Richard!" Catriona heard her own scream, saw her hands reach out, grasping, trying to catch him to hold him back-but he was already gone.

Into the flames.

Others ran to her and gathered about, their eyes, like hers, glued to the open doorway. They waited, tense, on their toes, ready to dash closer at the slightest sign.

The heat held them were they were. Waiting. Hoping. Praying.

Catriona prayed the hardest-she'd seen the inside of the cottage. Raging inferno didn't come close to describing it-the whole back wall and the ceiling were a mass of hot, searing flames.

Everyone in the yard fell silent, all gripped by the drama. Into the sudden, unnatural silence came a loud, prolonged creak.

Then the main beam beneath the front of the roof exploded.

Before their horrified eyes, it cracked, once, then again, flames spitting victoriously through the gaps.

A second later, the lower beam, between the ground and upper floor, groaned mightily.

Then, in a vicious splurge, flames spat around the lintel of the door itself. In split seconds, the wood started to glow.

Richard lunged through the door, staggering-a wrapped bundle in his arms, clinging, crying weakly.

Everyone rushed forward-the blacksmith's wife grabbed her child, Irons grabbed both of them in his huge arms and lifted them away. Catriona, Henderson and two of the grooms grabbed Richard, gasping, coughing, struggling to breathe, and hauled him away from the cottage.

On that instant, with a deep, guttural groan like the dying gasp of a tortured animal, the cottage collapsed. Flames shot high; there was a deafening roar. Then the fire settled to crack and consume its prey.

Bare hands smothering the flames flickering in Richard's hair and along his collar and shoulders, Catriona had no time for the cottage.

Richard was not so distracted.

Staring at the furnace growing beside the forge, he finally managed to catch his breath-finally noticed what she was doing. With an oath, he spun and caught her hands-and saw the telltale burns.

"Damn it, woman-don't you have the sense you were born with!"

Stung, Catriona tried to tug her hands free. "You were alight!" She glared at him "What happened to the blanket?"

"The child needed the protection more than me." Grabbing a full saucepan from a passing waterbearer, Richard plunged Catriona's hands, gripped in one of his, into the cold water. His face like thunder, he dragged her, her wrists locked in one hand, the other holding the water-filled pan, across to the back doorstep.

He forced her to sit. "Stay here." Dumping the pan in her lap, he trapped her gaze. "Stay the hell out of this-leave it to me."

"But-"

He swore through his teeth. "Dammit-which do you think your people-or I-would rather lose-the granary, or you?" He held her gaze, then straightened. "Just stay here."

Without waiting for an answer, he strode away. Into the directionless melee about the pump.

Within seconds, the women were drifting away, pans and pots in hand, uncertain expressions on their faces, all headed to join Catriona. Among them was Algaria. In answer to Catriona's questioning glance, she coldly lifted a shoulder. "He said we were more distraction than help-that the men would do better fighting the fire without worrying if their women and children were safe."

Catriona grimaced; she'd seen more than one of the men stop and hunt through the crowd, or leave their post for a moment to shout orders at their children. The women, as they neared, collected their children as they came. The men, now all gathered about the pump, about Richard, taller than them all, were staring at the burning building, listening intently while Richard pointed and rapidly issued orders.

With a sigh, Catriona lifted her hands from the icy water and studied them. Then she grimaced and put them back into the pot. She looked up at Algaria. "Can you check the baby for me!?"

Algaria raised a brow. "Of course." She paused, looking down at Catriona. "That was a foolish thing to do. A few minor burns could hardly harm his black soul."

With that, she turned away and glided, like a black crow, into the house; stunned, her wits too shaken to respond quickly, Catriona stared, open-mouthed, after her.

Then she snapped her lips shut, glared briefly, and swung her gaze back to more important things.

As she looked, the group of men dispersed, breaking into teams which rapidly deployed as bucket lines, one to each side of the cottage, and another streaming into the barren gardens, ultimately linking the river with the back of the cottage. Peering through the dark, Catriona could see men filling buckets with snow, still piled in drifts through the gardens, and passing the buckets up the line, accepting empty buckets back. Some of the field workers came hurrying with shovels, the better to shift the snow.

In the yard, two pairs of grooms staggered along, each pair carrying one of the huge loft ladders. Others rushed to help steady the ladders against the walls of the forge and the granary; they were long enough to reach the roofs.

By the time the ladders were in place, the first filled bucket arrived and was quickly carried up the ladder to be poured down the wall between the granary and the cottage.

At the center of the yard, his face set, Richard viewed their combined efforts. He hoped his witch was praying to Her Lady-they were going to need all the help they could get. The main thrust of the flames through the cottage had been via the central beam running forward to back through the roof, supporting secondary beams which in turn had supported the roof struts. They'd all burned, but now the flames were spreading outward from the center of the cottage, in both directions, licking along the timbers and beams ultimately abutting the walls of the granary and forge.

Luckily, both granary and forge were significantly taller than the cottage wedged between; if that hadn't been so, both would have caught alight by now. They had a chance, a slim one, of saving both buildings, each, in different ways, essential to life at the manor.

Richard strode into the action before the cottage, now all but pulsing with flames. Time and again, he swore at grooms or laborers who sent their bucket loads too far from the vital walls. "We need it where it counts!" he roared up the ladder.

Grasping one bucket, he used his height to send its contents washing over one of the exposed beams in the granary wall. "That," he yelled, pointing to the area, "is where the danger lies."

One of the dangers.

He kept a sharp eye on the men on the ladders, stepping in to rotate them as they, most exposed to the heat rising from the fire, wilted. And when it seemed they were losing the battle for the forge, he went into the garden, grabbed a spade, strode down to the riverbank, and hacked through the softened ice to the water below, uncaring of the iced slush freezing his boots.

Within seconds, Henderson and one of the older grooms were beside him, helping to widen the hole. Then they were bucketing as fast as human hands could manage, sending pails filled with icy slurry up the gardens. Once the faster rate was established, chest heaving, Richard ran back up the slope, grabbing men as he went, positioning them bodily, too out of breath to speak.

As tired as he, but equally determined, they understood; nodding, they formed another bucketline from the river to the front of the forge.

Running back to the yard, Richard paused before the cottage only to rotate the men on the ladders again, then strode quickly to the pump. "Faster," he ordered, as he fetched up beside it. "We need more."

Two wilting farmhands looked at him in dismay. "The river's low-we can't," one of them stammered.

"Low or not," Richard growled, physically displacing them, "faster will still yield more."

He set a new pump rhythm, half again what it had been. "Here"-he passed the pump handle back to the farmhands-"keep it going like that."

They both looked at his face and didn't dare argue. They pumped. Faster. Richard waited to make sure it was fast enough, then nodded, and glanced at the other four men recovering from their shifts. "If you need to, rotate more often. But if you value your hides, don't slow down."

Quite what he meant by that, he neither knew nor cared, but the threat had the desired effect. The group manning the pump lifted their effort and sustained it-long enough to make the vital difference.

On the back step, leaning against the wall, her hands still in the pot of water, Catriona watched it all-the fight to save the manor's buildings. Watched Richard exhort the men to greater efforts, watched him instill his own determination into them. Watched him form them into a coherent force, then direct it at the enemy in the most effective way. Watched him whip them up when they were flagging, when the flames seemed poised to gain the upper hand. Saw them respond, meeting every demand he made of them.

She'd sent the other women and all the children inside, given orders for food to be prepared, for water to be heated. Done all she could to support the effort he was making for her-for them.

Eventually, they won. The flames, denied any hold on the neighboring buildings, spluttered, faded, then died, leaving the cottage a smoldering ruin of glowing embers and charred wood.

They were exhausted.

Richard started sending the men in, the oldest and weakest first, keeping the strongest with him to finish damping down the scene. At the last, when only wisps of smoke and an acrid stench rose from the building, he and Irons hefted grappling hooks, swung them about the ends of the big beams-and brought the whole structure crashing down.

Henderson, Huggins and the handful of grooms still standing used pitchforks to drag, poke and prod the smoldering remains about the yard, spreading them to minimize any chance of fresh fire.

With heavy axes, Richard and Irons weighed into what was left of the cottage, one from either side. By the time they'd finished, there were no contacts remaining between what had been the cottage and either the forge or the granary.

The buildings were secure.

Heaving a huge sigh, Richard leaned on the axe and cast a long look over the scene. Irons came to stand beside him, his axe on his shoulder. Richard glanced at his face. "We'll build it again, although not, I think, just there."

"Aye." Irons scratched his chin. " 'Twasn't wise, seemingly. The woodpile at the back didn't help, neither."

"Indeed not." Richard sighed as he straightened. And made a mental note to check where the manor's main woodpile was located. He couldn't remember seeing it; it might well be against the back of the granary. Or the stables. "Seasoned wood should be stored away from farm buildings-we'll need to build another shelter farther back."

"Aye, 'twould be silly not to learn the lessons The Lady sends us." Irons straightened and looked directly at Richard as he held out his hamlike hand for the axe. "I'm in your debt."

Richard smiled wearily; he clapped Iron's broad shoulder as he handed over the axe. "Thank The Lady." He turned away. Lifting his head, he saw Catriona waiting-and murmured, "This is what I'm here for."

They gathered in the aftermath in the dining hall. All were weary, but too keyed up to rest; the effect of what they'd faced had yet to leave them.

Richard took his seat by Catriona's side at the main table and gratefully helped himself to the thick stew and fresh bread Cook and her helpers had labored to provide. A thirty-six-course meal at Prinny's Brighton monstrosity could not possibly have tasted better. Or been more appreciated. Conversation was minimal as both men and women ate, children-all safe-balanced in their laps.

It was Henderson who, as empty plates were cleared and maids hurried to place round cheeses on the tables, voiced the common thought.

"Odd thing, that fire."

Huggins, at the near end of one of the other tables, nodded. "Can't see how it started, myself."

They all looked at Richard. Lounging in his chair, pushed back from the table, with one hand idly resting, unconsciously possessive, on the back of Catriona's chair, he returned their gazes steadily. Then he looked around the room. "Does anyone know of any possible cause?"

Heads shook on all sides.

"Never seen anything like it in all my years," McArdle huffed.

"It was all well-seasoned wood-once lit, it would burn. What I can't understand," Richard said, "is how and why it caught alight."

"Aye, there's the mystery." Henderson nodded dourly. "Midwinter-admittedly it's been dry. And that wood was all under shelter. But…"

Richard met his eye. "Precisely. But… something must have touched spark to the tinder."

"Aye, but what?"

It was a question no one could answer. They batted it back and forth, until Richard, glancing at Catriona, caught her straightening, caught her in the act of drawing on her reserves to preserve her outward facade. Noting the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the incipient haggardness in her face, he swore beneath his breath and turned back to the others. "Enough. We're merely speculating. Let's sleep on it and see what tomorrow reveals."

All nodded. Many of the household had already dragged their weary bodies from the hall. Without waiting for the others, Richard placed a hand beneath Catriona's elbow and rose, lifting her to her feet beside him.

She blinked, dazed and weary, up at him; jaw setting, Richard denied the impulse to sweep her up in his arms and instead calmly supported her from the dais and into the front hall. Once out of sight of the others, he slid one arm around her; supporting her against him, he steered her up the stairs.

To their bedchamber. He halted before the door, for the first time in his life, not entirely certain of his footing. His welcome. He glanced down at Catriona; she met his gaze-when he didn't open the door, she frowned.

"What is it?"

The same question he'd asked her-the one she'd refused to answer. Richard held her gaze and fought against the compulsion to make the same mistake. "I…" He paused, then went on: "Perhaps I'd better find a bed elsewhere."

The frown in her eyes grew. "Why? This is our room." Her tone was entirely uncomprehending. Before he could say more, she set the door wide, then glided through; fingers clutching his sooty sleeve, she towed him, unresisting, behind her.

He shut the door. "Catriona-"

"Our clothes are ruined." She looked down at her filthy gown, then turned and looked at him. "And we both need a bath. And your hair needs cutting-it's badly singed at the back. Come on."

She tugged; inwardly sighing, Richard acquiesced. Her eyes were still wide, their expression dazed-he knew shock when he saw it, heard it.

He followed her into the small bathing chamber that gave off their room. A welcome surprise awaited them-some kind souls had slipped upstairs while they were discussing the fire and half-filled the large tub with hot water, now cooled to warm, and set metal pails of steaming water in the hearth where the blaze, stoked high, kept them hot.

"Oh." Catriona stopped and stared.

Richard glanced at her face, then drew up a bathing stool to one side of the fire and sat her upon it. Then he picked up a towel, wrapped it around the handle of one pail, and added it to the tub. After adding all the pails but two, he tested the water; it was perfect, hot but not scorching, just right for easing chilled and tired muscles.

Returning to Catriona, he took her hands and drew her to her feet. She immediately started to unbutton his waistcoat. He sighed and shrugged out of his ruined coats. Once she was absorbed with the buttons on his shirt, he reached around her and tugged her laces free. She didn't notice until he loosened the neckline and started to draw her gown down over her arms.

"No." She tried to tug it up again. "You first."

"No," Richard said, calmly, soothingly. "Both together."

She paused, then looked at the tub; he quickly drew her gown down and freed her hands. She sighed and stepped out of the puddled cambric and kicked it to join his coats. "I suppose we'll fit."

They did, very comfortably. Just before she joined him in the blissfully hot water, Catriona went to a shelf and selected a jar, then returned to sprinkle its contents into the tub. Richard, surfacing from rinsing his hair, tensed as crystals hissed in the water, then relaxed as a delicious herbal scent filled the room.

After returning the jar to the shelf, Catriona stepped into the tub and sank down opposite him, then picked up the flannel. "Turn around." She gestured with her hand. "I'll scrub your back."

Richard complied; he closed his eyes in bliss as she scrubbed and kneaded the stiff muscles. She worked over his shoulders and upper back, then reached below the water.

He heard her hiss-an indrawn hiss of pain. Swinging around, he saw her shake her hand; he caught it-and saw the burned palm. What he said made her wince more.

"Lie back! Rest your hands on the edge." He took the flannel from her and quickly finished his own ablutions, then found the bar of soap she preferred-a tantalizing mix of summer flowers, the scent she always bore-and lathered the flannel.

And proceeded, ignoring her weak complaints, to wash her.

Catriona tried to struggle, then surrendered. She was in shock and she knew it-the shock of the fire-the shock of his totally unexpected return. The shock of seeing him plunge into the burning building, relief at his safe return. The horror of seeing flames licking his hair, the pain of her burned palms. She didn't know what she thought-she didn't know how she should respond, how she should react to any of it.

All she could do was flow with the tide, close her eyes and accept his ministrations, the steady, unhurried sweep of the flannel over her skin.

He was very thorough. Setting her legs wide apart, he sat between; he started with her face, caressing it gently, then laved her neck, then moved on to her shoulders, then extended each arm to lovingly cleanse it, all the way to her fingertips, carefully avoiding her raw palms. Leaving her hands propped on the tub's edge, he reached around her and stroked her shoulders, then the long planes of her back, the curves of her hips, the globes of her bottom in long lazy sweeps, lifting her easily in the water. Setting her down again, he reached for the soap.

From under heavy lids, she studied his face; his expression was deeply calm, like the surface of a fathomless pool. Calm was usually her province, but in the fright and flurry of the evening, she'd misplaced her inherent serenity. She'd lost her calm-but he'd found his. Or, she silently amended, could show his. He wasn't wearing any mask, any social cloak-this was as he was. The warrior who was most at home on the battlefield, in the heart of the fury-that was where he was most at ease. Where he was calmest.

Opening her weary senses, she closed her eyes and shamelessly drank in his calm, and felt it ease her. Let him press calm on her with every smooth caress of the soapy flannel as he gently, lovingly, washed her breasts, her waist, her gently rounded stomach. He moved steadily down, slowly, soothingly, washing every inch of her; by the time he reached her toes, she was floating on a warm tide.

She felt the water shift as he discarded the flannel, then he gripped her wrists and drew her up. Drew her toward him, lifted her so she sat on his thighs, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. Her forearms sliding over his shoulders, she blinked her eyes wide as his arms closed around her and his lips found hers.

He kissed her gently, her wet breasts pressed to his wet chest, a thin layer of water sliding between their warmed bodies. Despite their aroused state, it was a soothing kiss. She kissed him back, in the same vein, simply grateful to feel his achingly familiar lips on hers.

Then he rose, Sifting her with him; her legs slid down and she was standing beside him. He reached for one of the pails left waiting and rinsed her, then repeated the performance on himself, using the last pail. She went to clamber out, but he was before her. He closed his hands about her waist and lifted her clear, setting her feet on the thick towel laid before the hearth. She accepted the towel he handed her gratefully, and ignored, as best she could, the flush that turned her skin a delicate rose, and the more pointed evidence of his arousal.

Revived, she quickly dried herself, then helped him mop his broad back. Standing behind him, she considered, then swiftly looped the towel around his hips and anchored it. "Sit," she said, prodding him toward the stool. "I want to neaten your hair."

He turned and looked at her with that unfathomable calm in his eyes, but consented to sit. She found a comb and scissors, and started snipping, removing the burnt and singed locks. Then she reached to brush the clipping from his shoulders, stopped, and peered. "You've got burns across your shoulders!"

He wriggled them. "Only minor ones."

"Humph! Well you can sit there a minute more while I salve them." She fetched the right pot from her supplies on the shelf; luckily, her fingers weren't burned, only her palms. She could grip things, could spread and knead; she carefully worked the salve into his burns. Then she stood back and surveyed his back more carefully.

"If you've finished soothing those burns, I have another burning part of my anatomy awaiting your attention."

The gravelly comment jerked her upright. "Yes, well." Quickly, she replaced the pot on the shelf. Half turning, she gestured to the bedchamber. "Come to bed, then."

His gaze fastened on her hand as he stood. "One moment."

He caught her hand, and inspected the raw redness. He swore, glared at her, then towed her back to the shelf. "Where's that salve?"

"My hands will be all right."

"Ah-ha!"

Catriona frowned as he lifted the pot down. "What happened to your burning anatomy?"

"I can suffer a few minutes more. Hold out your hands."

Trapped between him and the door, she had to comply. "This is quite unnecessary."

He glanced at her briefly. "All healers are supposed to be terrible patients."

She humphed, but held her tongue, surprised to find how cool and soothing the salve felt on her scorched flesh. She studied her palms while he returned the pot to the shelf. His left hand appeared; he grasped her right wrist and tugged forward. She stepped forward and looked up-and stubbed her nose on his back. "What…?"

For answer, he clamped her right forearm beneath his right arm-tight as a vise. She pushed against his back; it was like pushing a mountain. "What are you doing?"

On the words, she felt the soft touch of gauze; she whipped her head around and scanned the shelf-the roll of gauze bandage she kept there was missing.

"Richard!" She tried to wriggle and accomplished nothing. The gauze wound steadily about her hand. She glared at his back. "Stop it!"

He didn't. He was surprisingly deft; when he released her hand, she found herself staling at a perfectly neat bandage, secured by a tight knot. He reached for her other hand-

"No!" She danced back, hiding it behind her.

"Yes!" He stepped forward.

"I'm the healer!"

"You're a stubborn witch."

He was unstoppable; despite her protests, despite her active resistance, her left hand, too, was carefully wrapped in gauze, so her fingers were locked together with only her fingertips protruding. Defeated, she stared, first at one mittened hand, then the other. "What…? How…?

"There's nothing you need do until morning-that'll give the salve a chance to sink in."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Come here. You have ashes in your hair."

He pulled her to the stool; resigned, she sank down and stared at the flames as, standing behind her, he pulled out her pins, searching through the wild mass her hair had become to find them. He shook the long tresses out, then fetched her brush from her dressing table and proceeded to brush out her hair.

"Thank God-or The Lady-there are no burned or singed locks. No thanks, however, to you."

Catriona wisely kept mum and concentrated on the tug of the brush through her long hair, on the soothing, repetitive rhythm. The flames in the hearth burned strongly; she closed her eyes and felt their warmth on her lids, on her naked breasts. With him behind her and the fire before her, she felt secure and warm. Her senses spread, sure and calm; about her, her world had steadied.

"I didn't expect you back-I thought I was dreaming when you appeared in the yard." She made the statement calmly, leaving it to him to respond if he would.

His eyes on the burnished flame of her hair, rippling and glowing beneath each stroke of the brush, Richard drew in a slow breath, then replied: "I got as far as Carlisle. We spent the night there, and I decided I'd made a mistake. I didn't want to go to London-I never did." There was nothing south of the border for him now. He paused, then brushed on. "And if I'd needed any prompting, discovering this morning that, after my arrival at the inn last night, Dougal Douglas had been inquiring after who I was and where I was headed, clarified the position nicely."

"Douglas?"

"Hmm. He lives near there and was in the town when I drove in. He quizzed the ostlers, then made the mistake of approaching Jessup late that night in the tap. Jessup reported his questioning to me this morning."

"And that brought you back?"

Lips compressing, Richard held back the impulse to agree. After three long strokes, he managed to get the truth out. "I'd already decided to return, but the notion that Douglas knew I'd left the vale, leaving you, in his terms, alone, made me hire a horse and ride. I left Worboys and Jessup to follow with the carriage."

"I didn't hear or see you ride in."

"No one did. You were all engrossed with the fire." He gave the lock he was holding an extra tug. "With running into a burning building."

She didn't respond. He brushed on, steadily removing flecks of ash from her bright mane. Under the brush, her hair came alive in his hands, like living fire. Warm, fragrant, gentle fire.

"Will you be staying?"

There were times, Richard decided, when he definitely did not appreciate being married to a witch. To a woman who could hold her demeanor to the calm and serene regardless of her true feelings. He never could tell what she really felt. Her question-surely one of the most vital facing them-had been couched as the most politely distant, totally innocent, query. Which, he decided, after all they'd shared, was too much to accept.

Frowning, he stared at the back of her glossy head. "That depends on you."

She clearly expected him to sleep with her-while in this house, he was still, quite obviously, to her, her husband. But what were the boundaries of his role in her eyes?-that was something he didn't know, something he needed to find out. Something they needed to discuss.

Abruptly, he stopped brushing. Grasping her shoulders, he drew her around on the stool, then hunkered down before her, so his eyes were level with hers. "Do you want me to stay?"

Catriona searched his eyes-desperately. They viewed her steadily, but told her nothing. "Yes-if you wish to. I mean…" Dragging in a breath, her gaze locked with his, she rattled on: "If you wished to stay I would be pleased, but I don't want you to think that you must-that I'd be expecting you to remain here always… or, or… resenting…" She gestured vaguely.

Impatiently, lips thinning, Richard shook his head. "That's not what I asked." He trapped her gaze and held it ruthlessly. "Do you want me to stay?"

Wide-eyed, Catriona tried another gesture. "Well! We're man and wife… I thought… that is, I imagined it was customary-''

"No!" He closed his eyes; his jaw set. Through set teeth he said: "Catriona, please tell me-do you wish me to stay?"

He opened his eyes-his irate gaze pinned her.

Catriona glared. "Well, of course, I want you to stay!" Wildly, she waved her bandaged hands. "I can't even sleep when you're not here! I feel utterly wretched when you're not by. And how on earth I'm supposed to get on if you're not here I don't know-" She broke off as tears filled her eyes.

Richard saw them; the breath trapped in his chest abruptly released in a huge sigh of relief-he reached out, grabbed her, wrapped his arms about her, and buried his face in her hair. And breathed deeply, inhaling the scent he'd so missed the previous night. "Then I'll stay."

After a long, silent moment, she sniffed, and softened in his arms. "You will?"

"Forever." Lifting his head, he brushed her hair from her face and kissed her. Long and lingeringly. "Come to bed."

Her lids lifted; she met his gaze. "Bed?"

Richard grimaced. "Your hands are hurt, remember." He stood, simultaneously lifting her into his arms. He lost his towel in the process; neither of them cared. He carried her to the bed, laid her down gently, freeing her hair, spreading it over the pillows, then, holding her wrists so she wouldn't forget in her passion and harm them, he covered her.

She'd cooled, but when he pressed into her she arched, then arched again and took him in. He settled within her, then drank her soft gasp when he drew back and thrust deep. Three thrusts later, she wriggled beneath him, tilting her hips to better receive him, lifting her legs and clasping his flanks-welcoming him in, holding him to her. Loving him.

Richard slowed, wallowing in the glory, in the intimate caresses she pressed on him. He bent his head and kissed her-she drew him deep there as well.

And so they loved-now slow, then faster, then slow again when the compulsion to savor the moment came upon them. Their bodies shifted and flexed in a dance older than time, hard pressing soft, rough rasping smooth. They lost track of time, of the world about them, of the night beyond their bed. The only things that mattered were each other's pleasure and the soft murmurs of contentment they shared.

And when the spinning stars finally crashed down upon them and took them from the world, they were together, as one, much more deeply than before.

Much more wedded than before.

Sunk deep in her softness, collapsed upon her, Richard's last thought was: At long last, he'd found his home.

Later, in the untrammeled depths of the night, held securely in Richard's arms yet still drifting in a sated sea, Catriona recalled her first sensing of him, recalled his hot hunger-his lustful desire-and his restless longing. She remembered very well that restlessness in his soul, his deep-seated need to belong. She could, she now knew, satisfy his lustful hunger-she could fulfill his other need, too. And thus anchor him here, by her side, satisfied with what she could give him.

She could be his cause, become his life's purpose.

Her initial reading of him, that, quite aside from his strengths, he bore a wound which needed her healer's touch, had been accurate. He did have a deep need for something she could give him-herself, but not just physically, he needed much more than that. He needed her specifically, and that need, even once satisfied, would never die; it would always be a part of him. And if that was so, then if she gave freely, she had no reason to fear losing him.

The only question that remained was how much he understood-whether he would still fight fate-The Lady's will-or accept what she offered him.

She knew he was still awake, still floating in the warm afterglow. She drew in a slow breath, and took her courage in both hands. "Why did you decide to come back?"

The quiet question hung in the dark, a sweetly tolling bell exhorting the truth.

Richard heard and considered the many answers. He'd returned because of the loneliness that had wracked his soul when, last night, he'd slept without her. Tried to sleep without her-without her warmth beside him, without her silken limbs alongside his, the sound of her breathing, soft and low, echoing in his heart. Tried to sleep without the fragrance of her hair sinking through his senses, anchoring him through the night. He hadn't slept at all.

He'd returned even faster after learning of Dougal Douglas, because of the feeling that had churned in his gut, spurring him back from Carlisle. Because of the dread certainty that he should never have left her.

A certainty transmogrified to fact in that horror-filled moment when, clattering wildly into the yard having seen the flames and smoke through the trees, he'd seen his worst nightmare enacted before him-seen her rush into a burning building.

He wasn't about to deny what he felt for her-the depth of what he felt for her-not ever again. He would have to learn to deal with it, learn how to live with it-and so would she.

Not, however, tonight. They were both far too tired to face such a task.

So he searched for a way to answer, some phrase that encompassed the truth. "I came back because this is my place." Turning his head, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "This is where I belong. With you. By your side."

Catriona closed her eyes tight-against tears of relief, of joy, and something more besides. That last welled through her, poured through her, glowing brighter than spun gold.

This was where he belonged-here-by her side. She knew it-thank The Lady, he knew it, too.