back against the office wall and watched how his witchy wife conducted the vale's business.
She was, he learned, no easy mark.
'My dear Mr. Potts, your offer simply will not do. If, as you say, the market is so well supplied, perhaps we should store all our grain for the next year.' Catriona glanced at McArdle, sitting at the end of her desk. 'Could we do that, do you think?'
'Oh, aye, m'lady.' Like a benighted gnome, McArdle nodded sagely. 'There's space in the cellars, and we're high and dry here, so there's no fear of it going damp.'
'Perhaps that would be best ' Catriona turned back to Mr. Potts. 'If that's the best offer you can manage?'
'Ah Well ' Mr. Potts all but squirmed. 'It's possible we
'Indeed?'
Fifteen minutes of haggling ensued, during which Potts made more than one concession.
'Done,' Catriona finally declared. She smiled benignly on all three Pottses. 'Perhaps you'd like a glass of our dandelion wine?'
'I don't mind if I do,' Mr. Potts agreed. 'Very partial to your dandelion wine.'
Richard inwardly humphed and made a mental note to take a piece of chalk down to the cellars and inscribe all the remaining barrels of dandelion wine with an instruction that they were not to be broached without his express permission. Then he recalled that he really should gain his wife's approval for such an edict-which led to thoughts of taking her down to the cellars, which led to thoughts…
He frowned, and shifted in his seat. Accepting the wine one of the maids served, he directed his attention once more to the Pottses.
'Now, about those cattle you wanted.' Potts the elder leaned forward. 'I think I can get some young heifers from up Montrose way.'
Catriona raised her brows. 'None from any nearer? I don't like to have them transported so far.'
'Aye, well. Cattle-good breeding stock-are in rare demand these days. Have to take what you can get.'
Richard inwardly frowned. As he listened to the discussion-of sources of breeding stock, of prices, of the best breeds for the changing market-he shifted and inwardly frowned harder.
From all he'd heard, all he d already noted, he knew more about livestock than his witch. Not that she lacked knowledge in general, or an understanding of the vale's present needs-it was more that she lacked experience of what was available in the wider world-a world she, for good reason, eschewed.
The temptation to speak-to butt in and take over-grew; Richard ruthlessly squelched it. If he so much as said a word, all three Pottses would turn to him. From the first, the younger ones had eyed him expectantly-from the looks on their faces now, they would be much more comfortable continuing their discussion of the performance characteristics of breeding stock with him. Man to man.
Richard cared nothing for their sensitivities-he cared much more about his witch, and hers.
He'd sworn not to take the lead, not to take her role, not to interfere with how she ran the vale. He couldn't speak publically, not without her invitation. He couldn't even bring the matter up privately-even there, she might construe it as indicating somewhat less than complete commitment to adhering to his vow.
A vow that, indeed, required complete commitment, required real and constant effort from him to keep it. It was not, after all, a vow a man like him could easily abide by. But he would abide by it-for her.
So he couldn't say anything-not unless she asked. Not unless she invited his comment or sought his views.
And so he sat there, mum, and listened, and itched to set her-and the Pottses-right. To explain that there were other options they ought to consider. Should consider.
But his witch didn't look his way-not once.
He had never felt the constraint of his vow more than he did that day.
The year turned; the weather continued bitter and bleak. Within the manor's stone walls, the lamps burned throughout the dull days, and the fires leapt in every hearth. It was a quiet time, a peaceful time. The men gathered in the dining hall, whiling away the hours with chess and backgammon. The women still had chores- cooking, cleaning, mending-but there was no sense of urgency.
Early in the new year, Catriona took advantage of the quiet and compiled an inventory of the curtains. Which resulted in a list of those she wanted mended or replaced. In search of a seamstress, she wandered into the maze of smaller rooms at the back of the ground floor, her attention focused on the list in her hand.
'Hee, hee, hee!'
The childish giggle stopped her; it was followed by a high-pitched trill of laughter. Curious, she turned from her path and followed the sound of continuing chortles. As she neared the source, she heard a deeper, intermittent rumble.
They were in the old games room. The manor children, of whom there were many, used it as their playroom, the place they spent most of the hard winter. Today, Catriona saw, as she paused in the shadows just outside the open door, that they had a visitor.
Then again, he might just be a hostage.
Trapped in the huge old armchair before the fire, Richard was surrounded by children. The two youngest had clambered onto his lap and cuddled close, one on either side, two others perched on his knees, while still others balanced on the wide arms of the chair. One was even sprawled across the chairback, almost draped over Richard's shoulders. The rest surrounded him, their faces upturned, alight as they hung on his words. His stories.
Folding her arms, Catriona leaned against the door frame and listened.
Listened to tales of boys running wild-a veritable tribe of them, it seemed. Listened to tales of youthful derring-do, of cheeky larks, of dangerous dragons vanquished, of genuine adventures that fate had sent to shape their lives.
The stories were of him and his cousins, she had not a doubt, although he never identified the heroes. The culprits. The demons in disguise.
Catriona wondered how many of his tales were true. She looked at him, so impressively large, his strength still apparent even relaxed as he was, and was tempted to think they all were. His stories were the adventures that had made him what he was.
For long moments, she stood still in the shadows, unremarked as she watched. Watched him, so large and strong, so deeply masculine, open the jewel box of his childhood memories and take them out, one by one, like delicate necklaces of bright gold and beaten silver, to awe, to entertain, to amuse the children.
They were enthralled-they were his. Just as their parents were. She'd noticed that from his first day here- his intrinsic ability to give of himself, and thus inspire devotion, loyalty-his ability to lead. She wasn't sure he recognized it in himself; it was simply an inherent part of him.
As she watched, one of the littlest two, thumb in mouth and almost asleep, started to tip. Without faltering in his recitation, without, apparently, even noticing what he did, Richard cradled the tot in one hand and resettled him more securely against his side.
Catriona stood in the shadows, her gaze on him, on them, her mind full of his stories, her heart full of him, for as long as she dared, then, misty-eyed, retreated without disturbing them.
'Well! I thought I might find you here.'
Catriona looked up as Algaria entered the stillroom, and blinked at the expression of joyful confidence that lit her erstwhile mentor's face. 'Are you all right?'
'Me?' Algaria smiled. 'I'm very well. But I came to ask you the same question.'
Catriona straightened. 'I'm well, too.'
Algaria eyed her straitly. Pointedly. When Catriona remained stubbornly silent, she elucidated: 'I wanted to ask it that'-she gestured back into the house; Catriona narrowed her eyes-'
Catriona looked down at the herbs she was pounding. 'I can't tell yet, can I?'
'Can't you?'
'Not for certain, no.'
She did know, of course, but the sheer power of the feelings that surged through her whenever she thought
