of Richard's child-a tiny speck of life slowly growing within her-shook her so much she couldn't yet bring herself to speak of it. Not until she was absolutely, beyond any doubt or early mishap, sure. And then the first person she would speak to was Richard. Lips firming, she ground up her herbs. 'I'll tell you when I am.'
'Humph! Well, whatever, it seems as if The Lady's prophesy will, despite all, come to pass. As it always does. I have to admit I didn't think you could be right in deciding you should go to him as you did-it's so transparently obvious that he must never rule here. But The Lady has her ways.' With a graceful, devotional gesture, Algaria moved to peer out of the high window. 'It all looks like turning out much as you planned.'
Grinding the pestle into the mortar, Catriona frowned. 'What do you mean-as I'd planned?'
'Why, that he'll get you with child, then leave.' Algaria turned from the window and met Catriona's puzzled gaze. 'The only thing you didn't foresee correctly is that he'd marry you as well. Really, it's all worked out for the best. This way, you not only get the child, but the formal protection of being a married lady. And all without the bother of a husband-a resident one, anyway.'
'But…' It took a full minute before Catriona fathomed Algaria's direction. When she did, the knowledge chilled her. 'Why do you imagine he's leaving?'
Algaria smiled and patted her hand reassuringly. 'You needn't think I have it wrong this time. His man has been with him for more than eight years and he's speaking very openly of their plans to return to London.'
'He is?' Catriona gave thanks for the dim light in the stillroom-because of the fumes, only one small lamp was burning. Carefully resting the heavy pestle in the mortar, she gripped the edge of the table. And forced herself to ask: 'What is he saying?'
'Oh, no specific details yet. Just that it's apparently their way to spend winter visiting the homes of friends and acquaintances, but that sometime in February, they always return to the capital. For the Season, I understand. Worboys has been regaling the staff with stories of the balls and parties, and all the other entertainments Mr. Cynster customarily enjoys. Without expressly
'I see.' Wiping her hands, suddenly cold, on her apron, Catriona picked up the pestle again. She kept her gaze on her preparation, avoiding Algaria's bright eyes. 'I'm sure The Lady will ensure all goes as it should.'
And arrangements that had not been expressly
That night, Catriona sat before her dressing table brushing her long hair for far longer than was her wont. Long enough for Richard to come in and, after throwing her a lustful smile, start to undress.
Calmly, Catriona brushed and watched him in her mirror. 'Your aunts, in their letters, spoke a lot of London. They seem to expect that we'll join them shortly-once the snows melt.' Serenely brushing, she watched his brows rise. 'For the balls, the parties-the Season.'
He grimaced. And dropped his trousers. And stepped out of them.
Then he turned and, stark naked, prowled toward her.
'You don't need to imagine I'll insist that we go.'
'You won't?'
'No.'
He stopped behind her-all she could see was his bare chest, crisp black hair adorning the heavy muscles. He lifted her hair, spreading it, fanning it over her shoulders, over her breasts. 'I'll never force you to leave the vale.'
His features had assumed an intent expression she now knew well; reaching out, he took the brush from her hand and laid it on the table.
Her heart thudding in her throat, and throbbing in her loins, she abruptly stood. His hands closed about her waist and held her still; his eyes locked on hers in the mirror.
'Open your nightgown.'
The nightgown she wore reached only to her knees; it was fastened down the front with tiny buttons. Barely able to breathe, incapable of taking her eyes from the vision before her, Catriona slowly obeyed.
One by one, the buttons slid free, all the way to her knees. She straightened, and the gown gaped. Revealing the ripe swells of her breasts, the smooth slope of her belly, the long lines of her thighs, the flaming curls between. She stared at the sight, then looked at his face.
And saw the hard planes shift, saw passion lock tight.
Hands tightening about her waist, he lifted her.
'Kneel on the stool.'
She did; he straddled her calves. And drew the nightgown from her.
Catriona's eyes flew wide; she couldn't help her shocked gasp.
Immediately he held her, his chest warm against her shoulders and back, his thighs hard, abrasive, against the sensitive skin of her bottom. 'Sssh.' Head bent, he nuzzled her ear, one dark hand splayed across her midriff, a powerful contrast against her ivory skin.
Shocked to her toes, Catriona felt her senses reel. They were bathed in light-as well as the two candlesticks burning on the dressing table, two candlestands stood on either side, both holding large candles, both lit. She could see the width of his shoulders, clearly visible above and beyond her own, could see the dark, hair-dusted columns of his legs on either side of hers.
Could feel the thick, ridged rod, so flagrantly male, pressed against the cleft between her buttocks.
And felt-and saw-his other hand slide from her hip, under the shimmering veil of her hair, to close firmly about one breast, long fingers curling about her soft flesh.
She moaned softly and let her head fall back against his shoulder. From beneath heavy lids, she watched his fingers flex. Swallowing, she moistened her lips, saw them already parted, already sheening. 'The bed?'
'No.' He breathed the word against the soft skin of her throat-he was watching his hand on her. 'Here.'
She shuddered, one small part of her mind desperate to protest, the rest awash with tingling anticipation. Anticipation that steadily built, then silvered into excitement. Into arousal that escalated with each slow sweep of his hands over her flickering skin, with each knowing caress, each expert touch.
He did nothing else but caress her bare body, worshipped it until her skin was flushed rose in the golden candle-glow, and she was quivering with need.
'Lean forward.' His voice was a deep, gravelly whisper in her ear. 'Place your hands palms down on the table.'
She did; he shifted behind her. From under weighted lids, she saw him steady her before him, then reach around her. Splaying one hand across her stomach, he angled her hips back; looking down, he fitted himself to her.
Then, with one slow thrust that threatened to lift her from her knees, he filled her. Stretched her. Completed her.
Fully embedded within her, he leaned forward; his lips brushing her nape, he filled his hands with her breasts. And fondled her swollen flesh as he rocked her. Rocked her slowly, languorously, to heaven.
Until she panted, and moaned, and tried to wriggle her hips-tried to urge him on. His slow rhythm was driving her insane-she wanted him deep, wanted him filling her more forcefully. More rapidly.
She wanted to rush on to the stars.
He straightened; his hands drifted from her breasts to lock about her hips. He anchored her before him, so she couldn't move-and pressed more deeply into her. But he still kept the rhythm slow-slower than she wanted.
So she could feel every inch of his repeated penetrations, was aware to her fingertips of the reined strength of his invasions. Was intimately conscious of the hard, hot rod with which he claimed her, of the slick softness with which she accepted him.
She shuddered and closed her eyes and clamped tightly about him. And sensed his chest swell, sensed his tension tighten. Felt his grip about her hips lock like iron and felt the brush of his thumb over her birthmark. It would be clearly visible in the light, contrasting against the ivory of her buttock, so taut, so tight.
Compulsion forced her to look, to crack open her lids and look at him behind her, his hard body flexing as he loved her. Forced her to study his face, to see the concentration and passion and sheer devotion etched therein, delineating the hard angles gilded by the candles' glow. Forced her to notice her own body, lushly wanton, her skin
