He closed his hand over one firm breast and recognized it. Felt it swell, found the tight pebble of her nipple. And recognized that, too. He swept his hand down, tracing curve after curve, of breast, waist, hip and thigh; the globes of her bottom, smooth and perfect, filled his hand. As they had last night.
And she was with him, as she had been last night—hot and urgent, her mouth, her lips, melding with his, her tongue dueling with his. With her arms still anchored above her head, her body arched beneath him, caressing him as he caressed her.
Caught in her heat, driven by wild compulsion, he wedged her thighs wide. And touched her. She was wet, scorchingly hot—she rose to his touch, mutely begging for more. He slid one finger deep and she gasped.
His name.
He drank it from her lips as he pushed her thighs wide, positioned himself between. And slid home.
Braced above her, he let his head fall back as she closed, scalding velvet, about him. He moved within her and she answered, matching him stroke for stroke, taking him deep into her heat, and holding him.
Freed, her hands rose to caress his chest, then strayed to his flexing flanks. She held him lightly, then repositioned her hips and guided him deeper.
He gasped, and came down on his elbows, framed her face and kissed her. Voraciously. The friction between their bodies was driving them both insane—demented with desire.
But he kept them there, held them there, in the heat of the furnace, in the eye of the storm. He prolonged their joining for as long as he could, addicted to the sheer joy of filling her.
Beneath him, Catriona gloried in the exquisite intimacy, in the clear, shining knowledge that this was how it was meant to be. Their bodies moved in a dance older than time, his hard, driving, hers soft, accepting.
Both loving.
The thought came to her on a fractured sigh and a guttural groan; bodies locked, they climbed higher, and higher, both focused totally on sensation—on sensation that went further than the physical, that breached some other plane.
Some plane where each touch became laden with meaning, with feeling, with emotion, where they asked and answered through each caress, through each deep thrust that linked them.
It was a plane where their heartbeats joined and swelled, where bodies ceased to exist and souls, freed, could touch. And be touched.
It was a plane of unlimited joy, unlimited ecstasy. Freed, together, they explored—and lived for every precious moment.
Their fusion, when it came, was all heat, glorious heat, molten rivers pouring through their bodies, down their veins. Bodies locked, they climaxed together, melted together, fused, then, as one, slowly cooled.
Richard returned from the dead first, but was too deeply sated, too shaken, to move. His mind was still in limbo, reeling between truth, reality, and an even greater truth. Her body beneath him, around him, was his anchor; her arms tight about him, she seemed as disinclined to move as he.
It seemed like hours before they could bear to part, slowly, reluctantly, disengaging their limbs. Even then, she turned to him, slipping into his arms as if she belonged there.
Richard held her—and tried to hold back his thoughts, tried not to recognize that greater truth. Tried instead to focus on the far less unnerving fact that it had indeed been she last night—it hadn’t been a dream. He wasn’t going insane. At least, not in the way he’d thought.
The clock on the stairs struck one. He glanced down at her face and realized she was awake. He hesitated, then said: “Sometimes, dreams don’t turn out as you expect.”
He felt her exhale slowly, then she whispered, “No.” Lifting her head, she stretched up and kissed him, long and lingeringly, then sank back, settling in his arms. “No.”
She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, leaving him frowning into the dark.
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. “If 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 beef.
“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.
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“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 dear, 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 stories 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 soft, distinctly witchy smile that had him stiffening. Lifting her hands to her shoulders, she slid her robe off and let it fall. 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 feve
red, 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 heat-wave; 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.