your hands as soon as possible, don’t you?”
He halted, looked down at her. “Madam — if it transpires I’ve already ruined one Cynster sister, I will consider our bargain fulfilled.” He searched her dark eyes, then quietly, but no less forcefully, stated, “Unless and until we learn otherwise, I will not make a move on any other Cynster girl.”
Barely managing not to curl his lip, he shook free of her hold, turned, and walked away.
As far as Heather Cynster was concerned, what would be would be. Meanwhile, he would use every hour of the necessary hiatus to scour the castle yet again for the goblet his mother had stolen away. Where the hell she’d hidden it. . neither he nor his most trusted retainers had any clue. It had to be here somewhere, but the castle was massive; an eight-inch-tall, five-inch-wide, jewel-encrusted ceremonial goblet could have been concealed in a thousand different places.
Getting it back had to remain his paramount focus. If he didn’t, he would lose the castle and all his lands — and all those dependent on him would lose everything. Their homes, their jobs, their heritage. They would be left truly destitute, and while he personally would have enough money to get by, he wouldn’t be in any position to help them — and seeing them disperse, seeing them leave this glen and loch, would destroy him as much as it would destroy them.
The castle was his home. His roots were here, sunk deep in the rich highland soil. To lose castle, land, people. . he might as well die trying to protect them, because losing them would be worse than any death.
Reaching his tower, he swung up the spiral stairs.
He was fairly certain that the only way he would avoid having to kidnap and attempt to ruin another Cynster girl was to find the damn goblet his mother was holding like Damocles’ sword over his head.
Chapter Nineteen
The skies over the Vale were shading into pinks and the soft violets of encroaching dusk. Catriona stood just back from the west-facing window in her turret sitting room and, arms folded, watched Heather walk slowly away from the manor.
She walked as if she was tired, as if the day had dragged her down.
“Something’s very wrong.” Beside Catriona, Algaria watched, too, her face set in disapproving lines. “It was all going so well. What the devil did they do?”
“A moot point. Whatever it is, they’ve done it. The question is, what now?”
They’d spoken quietly, well aware of the pair of overly sharp ears attached to Lucilla and Marcus, playing knucklebones on the floor some yards behind them.
Far below, Heather walked past the stables and out along the track between the paddocks.
Algaria sighed. “It never ceases to amaze me that intelligent people can be such fools when it comes to love, at least while they’re in the throes of it.”
Catriona humphed, remembering her own throes, her own fears. She watched as Heather paused beside the high-railed paddock fence, then, still moving like an old woman, climbed up to perch on the top rail and look back at the manor. Catriona shook her head. “Regardless of whatever’s happened between them, they must come around.”
Algaria glanced at her. “You’re sure? There’s no mistake?”
“None. I wasn’t
“You don’t know?”
“I haven’t received any instructions — not yet.”
Sitting on the rug ten paces behind the women, Lucilla and Marcus were engrossed in their game.
Marcus, seated comfortably cross-legged, took his turn, then held out the bones to his sister. When she didn’t scoop them from his palm, he looked up, into her face, then softly sighed.
Laying the bones down between them, he propped his elbows on his knees and slumped his chin into his palms.
And waited.
Kneeling, sitting back on her ankles facing him, Lucilla held utterly still. She had a faraway, strangely distant look in her eyes. A look Marcus recognized.
He wasn’t surprised when, a moment later, Lucilla blinked, snapped back into her usual vital state, then started to get up.
Tipping her head toward the door, she whispered, “Come on.” With a careful glance at their mother’s back, she added, “There’s something we’re supposed to do.”
Marcus didn’t argue. It wasn’t his role to argue. After their mother, Lucilla would be the next Lady of the Vale. Even though he was slated to take up the mantle of Guardian of the Lady, he knew his place.
Without making a sound, he followed Lucilla from the room and silently shut the door.
Heather balanced on the top rail of the empty cattle pen and stared, unseeing, at the manor.
She felt wretched. Beaten down, disheartened in every sense of the word. She’d woken with such hope flooding her heart, an expectation that their joint future was assured and brilliantly bright.
Now. . she felt dead and desolate inside.
What to do next? Were there any options?
Or was this truly the end?
He would leave, and she would remain here. They would part, and possibly never see each other again.
This time, it seemed, Catriona and the Lady had been wrong. Not even the necklace-charm had helped.
The thought of Catriona had her focusing on the manor. Hands spread to either side, lightly gripping the upper rail, she studied the fanciful gray stone building, honey tinted by the waning sunshine. It was a house filled with love, with an energy that was impossible to miss, a nurturing, caring atmosphere that embraced and infused all who lived within it.
That was the creation, the outcome, the outward expression of Richard and Catriona’s love. A home filled with that sustaining glow, with laughter and a vibrant, vital sense of life. Of life continuing, past, present, and future.
Of family, and joys, and duties shared.
That — exactly that — was what she’d wanted to create with Breckenridge. They’d discussed it, yes, but she hadn’t truly allowed the reality to take shape in her mind.
Now she had, now she had the manor as a solid example planted in front of her eyes, the resonance was too strong to be denied, as was the recognition, the realization that that future had always been her ultimate dream, a dream that had lived in her heart and her soul, that had always been so much a part of her she’d never bothered to examine it before, had never had reason to study it. Or acknowledge it.
She couldn’t shut her eyes to it now.
If she let Breckenridge leave alone, if she let him go, let him walk out of her life, she would never have even another chance at realizing her dream.
Because her dream could only come true, could only be made real, with the man she loved.
Without him in it, her future would be unrelentingly bleak, devoid of love, lacking that vital, living spark.
It was tempting to simply wallow in despair, to let go and sink into the mire of emotional gloom, yet somewhere deep in her mind she could hear — literally hear — a chiding chorus.
She could almost distinguish the voices: her aunt Helena, Lady Osbaldestone, her aunt Horatia, her mother, and at lower volume, all the rest.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the shocked expressions, the ready-to-be-astonished-and-disappointed-if- she-answered-the-wrong-way looks that would accompany the questions. The firming of the chins that would go
