Ultimately, he was stronger-much stronger-than she.
He held her down and raced her straight up the mountain and into earth-shattering delight. Then waited only until her senses were hers again before pressing her on, up the next slope.
Through the dark hours he loved her as he would, and she was his willing slave. She wanted to be everything to him, so she gave all he asked, and offered more.
And he took. He drank from her until she thought she would die, then filled her relentlessly until she did. Until her senses were consumed in a blaze of glory, and she shattered beneath him.
They came together again and again, until there was nothing between them. No space, no feeling, no sense of separate existence. They became, in the dead of that night, one soul melded from the fusion of two.
The final end, when it came, shattered them both, but not even the force of that implosion could undo what the night had wrought.
Richard's return to life-to reality-was a slow, bitter journey.
He couldn't conceive how she could be as she was-so totally abandoned in his arms, yet quite prepared, come the time, to smile sweetly and wave him good bye.
Lips twisting in bitter self deprecation, he accepted that he had to have been wrong-that despite his expertise in this theatre, she was an exception. A woman who could love with her heart and soul, without, in tact, loving at all.
He was, it seemed, just like Thunderer-a stud whose physical attributes she appreciated.
She was wrapped half-about him, lying in his arms; he lifted his head and looked at her face, only barely discernible in the dark. She was still on her way back from heaven-he could tell by the lack of tension in her limbs. Lying back again, he waited for her to return to the living. And him.
When she did, however, she simply murmured sleepily and snuggled down, her head on his shoulder, her arm over his chest, one thigh intimately wedged between his.
Richard frowned. 'I'll be leaving in the morning.'
Catriona heard the words-words she'd been expecting-and felt them in her heart. She'd already heard from her staff of the packing and carriage arrangements. She hesitated for as long as she dared, while frantically wondering what he expected her to say. 'I know,' she eventually murmured.
The hard body beneath her stiffened fractionally, then, after a second, eased. His chest swelled.
'Well,' he said, his tone light but grating, 'I suppose there really isn't anything more you need from me, now-at least, not for some time.'
He paused; when, bewildered, she said nothing, he continued. 'Now you have the child The Lady told you to get from me.'
His bitterness rang clearly; bowing her head, biting her lower lip, Catriona accepted it.
She should have told him.
'I… ' How to tell him it had slipped her mind? 'Forgot.' She rushed on 'It's just that I've been so…'
'Busy?'
So caught up with
She couldn't think of any response to his rejoinder, so she let it pass. Slowly, she drew her limbs from his and turned away.
Only to be swept by a desolate bleakness, a bone-deep sense of loss. They'd been cheated. A moment that should have been so special, so joyful and filled with love, had instead been soured by hurt and bitterness.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep; beside her, Richard did the same.
Disillusionment followed them into troubled dreams.
The next day dawned clear, with a brisk breeze scudding clouds over a pale blue sky-a morning bright with the promise of a new season. Perfect for traveling.
Catriona noted the signs from the top of the manor steps and struggled to reconcile them with the heaviness in her heart.
She would normally have gone to pray this morning, but had changed her mind. It was the first time in her life she'd put something else higher than her devotions to The Lady, but she couldn't deny herself her last sight of Richard. It would have to tide her over, probably for months. Possibly until their child was born. And maybe even longer.
Before her, her people scurried to secure the last of Richard's trunks to the carriage roof-he'd left some things behind, for which she was more pathetically grateful than she would ever let anyone know. They would be her only physical link with him in the coming months.
Blinking back the prickling heat behind her lids, she watched the horses-Richard's handsome greys-led up. Her people, unaware of any undercurrents-not, indeed, the sort of folk who were at all susceptible to such subtleties-threw themselves into the final preparations with innocent energy. They simply imagined this was how it was supposed to be, their trust in The Lady-and in her-was complete. The only member of staff who seemed at all put out was, of all people, Worboys. Catriona studied his long face, and wondered, but could reach no conclusion.
Then Richard appeared from the direction of the stables, where he'd gone to bid Thunderer good-bye. He strode across the cobbles, his greatcoat flapping about his gleaming Hessians. He was immaculately dressed as always, as he paused to give orders to the grooms harnessing his greys, Catriona drank in the sight.
Drank in the faintly bored, distant expression on his face, the easy air of ineffable superiority that was so innate a part of him.
He turned and saw her, hesitated, then strode toward her; Catriona looked her fill. To her, he was, quite simply, gorgeous-the most fascinating man she'd ever met.
He was also the epitome of a bored and restless rake shaking the dust of a too quiet backwater and an unwanted wife from his highly polished boots. That fact was declared in the hard planes of his face as his eyes met hers, in the cynical set of his lips. Bravely, desperately, holding her cloak of regal assurance in place, Catriona smiled distantly.
'I'll bid you adieu, then. I hope you reach London without mishap.'
She lifted her head and met his hard blue gaze directly, that had been the most difficult speech she d ever made.
Richard studied her eyes, searched them, for some sign all this was a dream. It felt unreal to him-couldn't she sense it? But even more strong than the sense of unreality was the feeling-the compulsion-of inevitability.
It had seemed inevitable they would marry-he'd accepted that and hoped, in his heart, that from their marriage he would gain the stability he'd sought-he'd needed-for so long. Instead, now, it seemed inevitable he would be disappointed in their union, and would, once again, be footless, unanchored, drifting in life's stream. Unconnected to anyone.
He'd thought-hoped-that their marriage would be his salvation. It appeared he'd been wrong; it was therefore inevitable that he would leave.
Would walk away from his wife and leave her to manage on her own.
Uncharacteristic rancor filled him when her eyes gave him no hope, no sign, no encouragement to change his mind and stay. 'I'll leave you then.'
The words echoed with the bitterness he couldn't hide.
She smiled and held out her hand. 'Farewell.'
He looked down, into her eyes, trying to fathom, at the last, what shimmered in the vibrant green depths; he took her hand-and felt her fingers slide into his. Felt the touch of her palm, felt her fingertips quiver. And felt- sensed-
'Here you are sir!'
They both turned to find Mrs. Broom standing beaming just behind them, virtually between them. She held up a packed basket. 'Cook and me thought as how you'd be grateful of some real sustenance on the road. Better'n that terrible inn food.'
Richard knew for a tact that neither Mrs. Broom nor Cook had ever been to an inn in their lives. It was a measure of how his mind was functioning that that was the only thought he could muster. He felt shaken-and
