Scandals Bride

Chapter 8

She had the touch of a goddess. He could feel her hands on him, on his back, on his flanks. On his-

Richard awoke with a start. He glanced at the bed beside him and realized he'd been dreaming. "Or rather," he murmured, lips thinning, "remembering."

He noted the bed's state-as neat and tidy as the morning before. Scanning the room, he saw not one sign of his witch's presence. Lying back on the pillows, he frowned. He wasn't a particularly heavy sleeper, but clearly she could slide from his arms, even straighten the sheet beside him, without awakening him. She moved smoothly-gliding rather than walking; her hands were used to soothing, her gestures always graceful.

He didn't want to think about her hands.

With an oath, he flung back the covers and stalked across the room to the bellpull. He was in hunter mode again; all he needed to do now was locate his prey.

He found her in the breakfast parlor, sunnily eating a boiled egg. She greeted him with a breezy smile.

And such transparent happiness he was momentarily thrown off-balance.

He hesitated, then nodded back and headed for the buffet. After making a selection of the various meats on offer, he returned to the table, to the chair opposite hers. Malcolm, morosely munching toast at the table's other end, and Algaria O'Rourke were the only others down yet.

Catriona's watchdog sat beside her, regarding him with her usual disapproval; Richard ignored her and ate-while watching Catriona do the same. Watched her lick egg yolk from her lower lip, then lick her spoon. Saw her lips sheening pink when she sipped her tea.

He shifted in his seat, looked down at his plate, and tried to remember how to fashion a trap.

"Did you have any disturbing dreams last night?"

He looked up; Catriona smiled at him, her green eyes openly studying him. He waited until her gaze reached his eyes. "No." He held her gaze steadily. "In fact, I don't believe I dreamed anything last night."

Her smile was glorious, as warming as the sun. "Good."

Richard blinked and inwardly shook himself. "I was wondering-"

"Catriona?"

All looked up, Mary hovered in the doorway, wringing her hands. "It you've finished, could you see to the children? They're so fractious."

"Of course." Laying her napkin by her plate, Catriona stood. "Are they still feverish?"

She bustled out with not even a last look for him; Richard eyed her departing rear through narrowing eyes.

Turning back to his plate, he returned to his plans-the first item on his agenda was a very long ride.

He rode late into the afternoon, until the light was almost gone. Returning to the house, he ordered a late tea to be eaten in his rooms. Worboys arrived with the tray.

And remained to shake out his greatcoat and put away his gloves. And interrogate him.

"Am I right in assuming we'll be departing on the heels of the solicitor, sir?"

"Hmm," Richard answered around a portion of roast beet.

"I must say," Worboys persisted, "that it's been a most instructive stay. Makes one appreciate the little joys of London."

Sunk in the armchair before the fire, Richard didn't reply.

"I take it we'll be returning to the capital directly? Or do you intend visiting in Leicestershire?"

"I haven't the faintest notion."

Worboys sniffed, clearly disapproving of such aimlessness. He opened the wardrobe door. While he shuffled coats and straightened sleeves, Richard munched steadily, his gaze on the flames.

And pondered the fate of one witch.

Some part of his mind-the Cynster part of his mind-had, from the first moment he'd set eyes on her, been considering making her his. Ever since the reading of the will, he'd been toying with the prospect. Trying to decide, one way or the other, whether he should seize the opportunity Seamus had created, bow to fate and take a wife-or drive away and leave her behind.

Such had been his state before she'd come to his bed.

Now long fingers tightening about the chased goblet, Richard stared at the leaping flames.

"Are you ready to dress for dinner sir?"

Richard looked up, his features set. "I am indeed"

Motive. She had to have some reason for coming to his bed.

Crossing the threshold of the drawing room, Richard instantly located Catriona, and strolled, apparently languid, in reality with fell intent, toward her.

She welcomed him with an open smile; he returned it with a wholly deceptive smile of his own.

His memories of their first night were incomplete, yet he was prepared to swear she'd been a virgin. An enthusiastic, eager ready-to-be-wanton virgin, but a virgin nonetheless. She'd never lain with any man before him.

Which raised one very large question: Why him?

Or was that: Why now?

"I was wondering," he said, as he claimed his now customary place beside her, "where you intend going after we settle this business of the will."

She turned and met his eyes. "Why, to the vale, of course. I never stay away for long-usually not for more than a day."

"You never travel to Edinburgh or Glasgow?"

"Not even Carlisle, and that's closer."

"But you order things-you mentioned you did."

"I have agents call at the vale " She shrugged. "It seems wiser not to flaunt my existence-or that of the vale. We do very well in our anonymity."

"Hmmm." Richard studied her face. "Are there many other families of standing in the vale?"

"Standing?"

"Independent. Not your tenants."

She shook her head. "No-I own the whole vale." Fleetingly, she raised her brows. "We don't even have a curate, because there's no church, of course."

Richard humphed. "How did you escape that? Or did the initial incumbents simply disappear?"

She tried to straighten her lips, but didn't succeed. "The Lady doesn't approve of violence. But the answer to your question is geography. The vale is isolated-indeed, if you don't know it's there, it's not easy to find."

"You must at least have neighbors-the surrounding landowners."

She nodded. "But in the Hills the population is widely scattered." She looked up at him. "It's a lonely existence."

He had the impression she'd intended that last sentence one way, but it had come out another. She held his gaze for an instant, then seemed to draw back. She blinked and looked away, smiling quickly as she reached for one of the cups Mary carried.

Richard perforce smiled at Mary, too, and relieved her of the second cup.

"My deal, I can't thank you enough." Mary looked at Catriona with gratitude in her eyes "I don't know how we would have coped if you hadn't been here-the children would have driven us all insane. Instead, they listened to your stones for the whole afternoon-I don't know how you do it. You're so good with them, even the little ones."

Catriona smiled one of her "lady of the vale" smiles. "It's just part of the healer's art."

Behind his teacup, Richard raised a skeptical brow. The healers he knew often took delight in scaring children, and treated them as patients only grudgingly. Not all healers, any more than all adults, had the patience to bear with children's capriciousness.

"Whatever," Mary said, "we most sincerely appreciate your efforts." She looked hopefully at Catriona. "Are you sure you won't stay?" A shadow passed over her face, then she grimaced. "I don't know where we'll be, after next week"-she shot an apologetic glance at Richard-"but you'll always be welcome wherever we are."

Catriona squeezed her hand. "I know-and don't worry. Things will sort themselves out. But I must return to the vale-I've already been away far longer than I'd expected."

A slight frown, a shadow of concern, momentarily clouded her eyes. Richard noted it. Draining his cup, he inwardly reflected that, whatever else, Catriona Hennessey took her role as lady of the vale seriously.

Perhaps too seriously.

He wanted to know why she'd done it-put some potion in his whiskey, then climbed into his bed And given herself to him.

Was it simply for experience-or was there more to it than that?

Lying in his bed with the bed curtains drawn, Richard stared into the blackness and listened to the clock on the stairs announce the quarter hours.

And waited for her to come to him.

He didn't know what he felt-his reactions, even after a whole day on horseback in an empty world, were still too violently tangled for him to be sure of them, much less consider them. On the one hand, he felt honored she'd chosen him for whatever reason; on the other, he was furious that she'd dared. And there were other feelings that surged through him whenever he thought of her-and their nocturnal couplings-that went far beyond any rational response. Any response he could understand.

He wanted to know-needed to know-why.

He could, of course, ask-simply wait for her to appear, then put a simple question. If he did, he doubted he'd get an answer. He doubted she'd stay to spend the rest of the night in his arms, either.

On both the previous nights, she'd thought him asleep-drugged. Capable physically, but not compos mentis. On the first night, that had indeed been the case. He still couldn't remember all of it-snippets were crystal clear, while other parts were a phantasmagoria of remembered sensation, drowning out all other recollections. He knew he'd spoken, and she'd replied-which was why she hadn't reacted last night, when he'd spoken again. She'd thought he was speaking in his dreams.

And that, after a whole day of planning, was the only avenue he could see that might get him the answer he wanted. If he put the question to her while she was in his arms, and thought him asleep, she would be far less inhibited in answering. She might even tell him the truth.

Not straight away, perhaps, but…

One thing he did remember from that first night was the way he'd teased her-parts of that burned, beacon bright, in his brain. She'd crumpled very quickly. Which, now he knew her in the biblical sense, wasn't a surprise. She'd bottled up all her hot heat for too long-new to the game, she didn't have the ability to stave off completion for long, to hold back all that suppressed energy.

He'd only just started to torture her-there was a lot more he could do in that vein. And he'd enjoy the doing. As long as she thought him asleep, she'd talk-eventually, he was sure of that. And the longer she resisted, the more he'd enjoy it. And so would she.

Tonight, he'd have his answer. Which was why the bed curtains were drawn.

And why he didn't hear her enter, why he didn't know she was there until the curtains parted. He'd left a gap at the foot of the bed, admitting a weak beam from the fire, just enough so he, with excellent night vision, could see her clearly.

She checked that he was there, lying relaxed beneath the covers, then she looked wonderingly at the curtains all but enclosing the bed.

Her lips lifted in a sort, distinctly witchy smile that had him stiffening. Lifting her hands to her shoulders, she slid her robe off and let it tall. Beneath it, she was naked, all ivory limbs and flaming red hair

Richard fought the urge to reach for her; he couldn't stop his gaze from devouring her. She sensed it, and looked at him, and smiled.

And, lifting the covers, slid in beside him.

He turned and drew her into his arms before she could touch him. She sighed softly and sank against him, then lifted her face to his.

He kissed her gently, unhurriedly, content to savor the soft warmth of her body pressed freely against his, content to explore the soft warmth of her mouth, his to claim as he willed.

As was she. He held the thought back, channeled his aggression into anticipation, and kept every touch languid. He was supposed to be asleep, making love to her in his dreams.

So he held himself back and let her urgency build, let her grow hot, her skin fevered, her kisses increasingly demanding. He sank back on the pillows and let her take the lead-or at least, let her think she did. Half atop him, she kissed him wildly, and squirmed-heated, silk-encased flesh pressing caress after intimate caress upon him.

He gritted his teeth-and enjoyed every minute.

But he kept her hands high, lacing his fingers through hers to prevent her precipitating events-events he intended orchestrating to the full.

Wrapped in the warm dark, Catriona surrendered to the night, to her deepest desires, and gave herself to him. This was the last night they would share-she was determined to fill it with pleasure, on both the emotional and physical planes. The physical sensations were pure bliss, but for the emotional joy she found in their union, she would sell her very soul.

All but blind in the dense darkness, she could see him only as a deep shadow-closing her eyes, she could sense him more clearly. Dispensing with sight, she explored-by touch, by tactile impression as she lay on top of him. With her hands locked in his, she was acutely aware of the sensations felt through the soft skin of her breasts, midriff and belly. Drinking in the fascinating contrasts-of textures-hot, taut skin roughened by crisp hair-of the innate, readily discernible strength lying so lax, so amenable beneath her-she wriggled, slowly, sensuously. Filling her mind, her memories.

Between them, heat welled, swelled, and hot became hotter.

He seemed content to wallow in the heatwave; with a mental snort, she tugged her fingers from his, framed his face, and kissed him voraciously. Rapaciously.

She sank into the kiss, caught in a sudden flare like a sunspot, her limbs heated still more until she melted against him. Wanted to melt beneath him-have him fuse with her. Sliding her fingers into his hair, she let her lips, her tongue, taunt him, challenge him. Incite him.

Despite responding ardently, he remained supine beneath her. Inwardly cursing the effects of her potion, she avoided his hands and set hers to trace the ridges and hollows of his chest, the heavy bones of his shoulders, the tensed muscles of his upper arms.

His arms locked around her, heavy and warm across her waist-denying her quest to reach lower.

Not that she needed to touch him there-he was already fully aroused. The steely length of him rode against her hip, hot and urgent. That much of him, at least, was cooperating. The rest of him was not.

Shifting, she lay fully atop him, settling his erection between her thighs. She rolled her hips, experimenting until she found the particular shifting slide that most evocatively stroked him.

And felt the muscles in his arms shift, tensing, relaxing, then tensing again, as if he couldn't make up his mind.

Swallowing a curse, she trapped his lips with hers-and put her heart and soul into a slow, deliberate undulation, breasts, hips and thighs-even the curls at the base of her belly-coming into play. Deliberately evocative, she called to him.

And he answered. She felt the wave of response building in his body, felt the need she baited flare and swell. Felt hard become harder, felt tense muscles turn taut.

With a gasp-of relief, of anticipation-she dragged her lips from his and half wriggled, half slid to the side. Puppetlike, his body followed; as she turned on her back, she grasped his upper arm, tugging him over her.

The reins of his lust locked in a grip of iron, Richard followed her lead-let her shift, let her tug-let her believe he was dazedly following her directions as she urged him over her. He complied, moving heavily, unhurriedly.

While she panted, in heat.

Consumed by heat. At his touch, her thighs parted. He swung heavily over her, then let himself down between, then took his time settling himself-and her. Impatient, she arched, and he felt her heat scald him, touch and cling to that most exquisitely sensitive part of him.

He caught his breath-and felt, in his chest, something shift, something lock. With a soft, desperate gasp, she arched again-and he eased into her.

Slowly. Savoring every inch of her hot softness as she stretched to accommodate him, savoring the subtle easing of her body as she accepted him.

She sighed as he sank home, then her hands, tensed on his arms, relaxed. And skimmed down his sides.

He caught them-first one, then the other-letting his weight down on her as he trapped them. And gently but firmly removed the reins from her grasp. Beneath him, she shifted, sinking deeper into the soft mattress, angling her hips to cradle him more effectively.

Tentatively, she lifted her legs, sliding them over his flanks.

"Yes." He breathed the word against her lips as he settled fully upon her. He found her lips with his and took them, took her mouth, then pressed deeper into her.

He drank her instinctive gasp-a gasp of pure pleasure. Inwardly smiling, he drew back, then sank deep again, and felt her flaring response. He set himself to feed it.

To stoke her fires, to drive her frantic. More frantic than she'd ever been.

With each slow, controlled thrust, the flames within her rose higher; he held to a steady, rolling rhythm until she was burning. Until, hot and heated, awash with desire, she rose beneath him, meeting every thrust, her body caressing him, clinging to him, cleaving to him. Until she was aflame, urgent in her wanting, desperate in her need.

Frantic.

Trapped in the heat, Catriona flexed her fingers, trying to slip them from his grasp, frantic to hold him, desperate to draw him to her-to reach the bright pinnacle of physical bliss that hovered on her horizon. Sunk deep in the mattress, she squirmed and panted, trying to get that last inch closer, trying to get him that last fraction of an inch deeper. His fingers, clamped about hers, didn't give, but, to her surging relief, surging expectation, he raised his chest slightly, just enough so her nipples, excruciatingly tight, brushed his chest.

So they were brushed by his chest.

A scream welled in her throat; struggling to lift her heavy lids, she swallowed it as he lifted higher, breaking their kiss. He was a dense shadow looming over her, shoulders and chest surging in a slow, powerful rhythm, a rhythm she could feel in her marrow. In her womb.

With her hands still anchored, one on either side of her head, she gripped his flanks with her thighs, gasping, arching, as he thrust harder, deeper.

Then he drew back farther; lips parted, senses whirling, she waited, quivering, for the next impaling stroke. Only to feel him rock lightly, penetrating her with just the tip of the hard length she wanted buried inside her.

She opened her lips on a protest-instead, she gasped anew as, bending his head, he took one ruched nipple into his mouth. Hips rocking gently, teasingly, he feasted on her swollen breasts, until she was awash on an endless sea. A sea of pure pleasure.

After laving her hot flesh, his lips burned when they again brushed hers.

"Why are you here?"

She wasn't, at first, sure whether he had spoken, or she'd simply heard the words in her head. But his hips stopped rocking; he lay, hot and hard as a brand, just parting the swollen folds about her entrance.

Leaving her empty.

"Because I want you."

After an instant's pause, he started rocking again, once, twice-then he slid into her anew. She sighed, then lost what breath she had left as he pushed deep, then nudged deeper, and let his weight down on her once more.

Richard rode her, just a little deeper, just a little harder, just a fraction more intimately. He was having a hard time clinging to his reins-only rock-hard determination, and his Cynster strength of will-of endurance-allowed him to do it-to see her panting beneath him, her hair a burning veil spread across the pillows, her thighs gripping him urgently as he loved her. She responded without guile, without reticence, without hesitation-with a complete lack of reserve, the strongest feminine spell he'd ever encountered.

Her welcome, every time he sank into her, was bone deep. The temptation to lose himself in her arms, in her body, grew with every passing second.

But he needed to know her reasons, as well as her.

Gradually, he slowed, letting the rhythm stretch-not die but slow to the point where her frantic need-a need he knew well how to manage-rose to the fore again.

When she whimpered, and squirmed, trying to urge him on, he brushed a kiss to her temple. "Why do you want me? Why me? Why now?"

A frown passed across her face like a breeze rippling corn, then she shook her head and it was gone. She lifted beneath him, wriggling more urgently; swallowing a curse, he impaled her fully again, then kissed her breathless.

And gave her a little more-rode her a little higher up the mountain of desire. Despite his weight, she undulated beneath him, hips rising, meeting him more fully. Letting go of her hands, he grabbed a pillow; releasing her from their kiss, he eased back, lifted her hips and stuffed the pillow beneath them.

Tilting her up so he could sink deeper-without stimulating her to completion. Her breath fractured when he thrust deep-an urgently evocative sound. He shut his ears to it. "Wrap your legs about me."

She did, immediately; arms braced, he held himself over her and drove her up, up, and on to the next level, the next plane of passion. Eagerly, she clung to him, her hands, now free, trailing over his chest and arms, then gripping tight as he delved deeper and pushed her on.

Fingers sinking into flexing sinews, Catriona let her head fall back, lips parted as she struggled to breathe. Senses aswirl, her wits long gone, she surrendered to the whirlpool of sensations he commanded, surrendered to the power she could feel in every thrust that joined them, in every synchronous beat of their hearts. A sense of beauty, of delight, of joy unimaginable hovered-just out of reach.

"Why are you here, with your legs spread wide, locked about my waist-with me buried to the hilt inside you?"

The question floated down to her, a whisper in the night. It was beyond her-eyes closed, she shook her head. And concentrated on the steely flex of his body as it melded with hers.

Powerfully, yet still slowly. In some dim corner of her mind, a hazy, rather acid thought formed: If this was his performance when asleep, what would he be like awake?

A soft moan surprised her-she bit her lip, determined to be quiet. Then gasped as he surged more powerfully, faster, deeper…

She caught her breath on a strangled gasp-then cried out, in shocked disbelief, when he pulled back and left her. Fighting to raise her lids, she saw him lift fully away from her. Stunned she reached for him, half-sitting-

Large hands caught her and flipped her over, then locked about her hips and pulled her back onto her knees.

And they were everywhere, those large, hard hands-kneading, stroking, squeezing, probing. Until her breasts ached, until her skin glowed, until her nerves were taut and tingling. Until the heat within her was a raging furnace and pure molten need filled her veins. And her loins.

Kneeling behind her, reaching over and around her, a dark, rampantly aroused presence in the night, he bent his head and nipped her ear lobe, then soothed it with his lips. "Lean farther forward."

His hands clamped about her hips as she did, steadying her. Then he nudged her thighs wider, and caressed her-stroked her slick, swollen flesh until it was throbbing anew, until she sobbed his name.

He slid into her-smoothly, easily-filling her deeply, until she was so full of him she could sense him throughout her body. Eyes closed in rapturous delight, she pressed back and took him all.

Richard felt her clamp tight about him; features set, etched with passion, he couldn't smile, not even smugly. She needed him inside her now-if he was not there, she'd feel empty, hot and aching. This way, he could fill her without risking her willfullness getting the upper hand. She couldn't reach heaven this way, not without his active cooperation. Taking her from behind, with her on her knees, he could keep her locked for just a little longer in the web he'd woven-and try again to get the answer to his question.

But first…

He was going to love her until she couldn't think, until she had no will left to deny him.

So he caressed her inside and out using his body, hands, and lips in concert, consciously bringing the full force of his expertise and experience to bear.

He intended to be ruthless.

He filled his hands with her swollen breasts and kneaded, and she whimpered with desire; he shut his ears to the sound, and dotted kisses along her exposed nape. Locating her nipples, he teased and tweaked, until she moaned and sobbed. Nuzzling aside the heavy fall of her hair, he pressed hot open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder, then down her spine.

And all the while he filled her, to a slow, steady rhythm guaranteed to leave her both satisfied and wanting-glorying in what was, and ready to sell her soul-tell the truth-in order to get more.

He was going to be ruthless.

He had already studied her curves-he knew them well. Now, with her on her knees before him, he took in other aspects of her beauty-her delicate bones, the sleek, supple strength of her the very feminine curve of her spine. The sweet hollow between shoulder and throat, the long sweep of her neck.

Letting his gaze roam, he straightened, hands drifting back to close about her hips. The smooth planes of her back were exquisite, perfect ivory, unblemished, unmarred. Hands trailing farther, he traced the long muscles of her thighs, braced, lightly quivering, flexing slightly as he rode her. His gaze, however, had fixed-on the firm globes of her bottom, ivory hemispheres meeting his body with satisfying force every time he thrust into her, on his staff rigid and engorged, gleaming with her slickness, sliding effortlessly into her, deep into the embrace of her waiting willing sheath.

The sight held him entranced. She moaned softly then rotated her hips, clinging to him, closing like a burning glove about him as he pressed deep.

Richard gasped, he closed his eyes and tightened his death grip on his impulses.

Opening his eyes again, he drew a ragged breath-and leaned forward. And reminded himself to be ruthless.

But the instant his hands curved about her shoulders, then trailed down to cup her breasts, he knew the best he could hope to be-with her-was ruthlessly gentle.

Not even she could worship her Lady with the same devotion with which he worshipped her-felt compelled to worship her. She was his temple, he her priest, serving her. Lavishing attention on her. Helplessly in thrall, drawn deeper with every heated thrust, every caress he pressed on her-and she pressed on him-he was a victim of emotion that bound him to her through this act and yet more deeply, reaching to his soul. Demanding his obedience, his acceptance his surrender. It was as if some deeply buried part of him recognized her as his mate-and his salvation.

When next he straightened, his breathing was beyond ragged, his control badly frayed. He knew he had a question-it took a moment to recall what it was. With her on her knees before him, with his staff buried in her sweet heat, it was difficult to imagine anything else mattered.

But one thing did. Chest swelling, he set himself to take her up the last stretch of their road. Fingers tightening about her hips he looked down-and noticed a birthmark, just by his thumb on her right buttock-a strawberry mark in the shape of a butterfly in flight. The size of his thumbnail, the mark showed clearly against her pale skin.

Richard dragged in a deep breath; fingers sinking into her hips, he anchored her, and thrust deep. Again, and again-pushing her high, then higher swiftly taking her toward the shattering climax that he'd deliberately designed for her. On and on, higher and higher-she panted, then sobbed in her need.

He took her to the last but one step-

And withdrew from her, drawing her up against him, his hands full of her breasts, his throbbing erection riding between the globes of her bottom. He held her upright on her knees against him, and delicately kissed one ear.

The change was so swift Catriona could barely take it in, barely heard, over the desperate thudding of her heart, his gravelly whisper.

"Why do you want me inside you?"

She couldn't see his face, she was so heated and urgent and needy she couldn't think-yet she heard the warrior's demand in his voice; she answered truthfully.

"Because I need you " The words came out on a sob-a sob of pure need Raising one hand, she reached back and traced his lean cheek "Please, Richard. Now.

His face was beside hers; she heard a soft hiss, then a smothered curse.

Then he reached around her, grabbing first one pillow, then another piling them before her, even as his other hand pressed on her back and guided her down. Swiftly, he drew her knees back, and she was lying on her stomach, the piled pillows beneath her hips.

And he was behind her, between her spread thighs, his hips pressing against her bottom. Against skin flickering with heightened nerves, her inner thighs excruciatingly sensitive to the brush of his hair-dusted limbs.

With one thrust, he surged into her.

She screamed with sheer delight. Horrified, she grabbed handfuls of the twisted sheets and held them to her face. And heard him groan-braced above her, his hands planted on either side of her, he drew back, and surged deep-so deep-again.

In bliss-and knowing there was more to come-Catriona closed her eyes, buried her face in the bedclothes, and surrendered-her wits, her senses, her body-to the glory that beckoned. Surrendered to the desire to take him deep and love him, hold him tight and caress him.

He rode her hard, filling her completely, driving her on-straight over a precipice and into the sun.

She screamed as it shattered about her.

Eyes closed tight, braced above her, Richard drank in the lovely sound. Half muffled by the sheets, it was still pure magic; the sound of her ecstasy was pure ecstasy to him. Sunk to the hilt inside her, he held still, rigid, tense as a coiled spring, and savored her contractions, the rippling caress of her body as release swept through her.

He waited, not patiently, but with steely determination, until she eased beneath him, then, gritting his teeth, he leaned forward, grabbed two more pillows, lifted her, and raised her hips still higher.

So he could ride her on, up the next peak-the one she hadn't even guessed existed. When she realized it was there, she joined him-eagerly, wantonly-as focused as he. Heated once more, flushed, her skin dewed, she writhed beneath him, urging him on not with words but with deeds, with the flagrant encouragement of her lush body.

And when he sent her tumbling through the stars again, the effect was cataclysmic. He heard it in her unrestrained scream. The sound caught him up-tugged at his heart, his loins, his soul. Closing his eyes, he filled her completely and swiftly followed her beyond the end of the world.

Catriona awoke, disoriented, not entirely sure she was awake. Sweet peace held her, warmth surrounded her-she didn't want to move, to disturb the spell.

But presentiment nagged her-reluctantly, she lifted her lids. And looked into gloomy darkness. Blinking rapidly improved her vision marginally, enough to realize where she still was-where she shouldn't be.

In Richard's bed.

The warmth around her was him. The fact she could see at all warned her that deepest night had passed-morning was not far away.

Wielding a mental whip, she drew a shallow breath-all she could manage with his arm over her waist-and started the process of carefully untangling her limbs from his. This was the third morning she'd had to ease from his arms, but the task wasn't getting any easier with practice.

Eventually, she managed to slide from the bed. Quickly donning her robe, she fastened it, then swiftly straightened the sheet, settled the covers and silently plumped the pillow.

Pausing, she looked down at her companion of the night. He slept sprawled on his stomach, the arm and leg that had been thrown over her now relaxed on the bed. She studied his face, what she could see of it. The harsh planes had eased, but still retained their hardness, the promise of strength; his lashes lay, black crescents on his cheekbones, his lips still firm, purposeful. Even in repose, his face told her little-beyond the fact that here lay a warrior without a cause.

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 solicitor left, she would never see Richard again.

And he would never see his child.

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