"The option of staying cooped up in here, or of going for a long run with me on his back."
"I see. And so you simply put this option to him and he agreed?"
"As you saw." Tossing the brush aside, Richard checked the stallion's provisions, then joined her by the stall door.
Arms still crossed, she eyed him broodingly. He was still
breathing more rapidly than usual, his chest rising and falling-and he still wore that same, ridiculously pleased-with-himself smile.
He glanced back at Thunderer. "I'll take him for a run every now and then." He looked down at her. "Just to keep him in shape."
His eyes trapped hers-Catriona sucked in a quick breath. They were blue-burning blue-hot with passion and desire. As she stared into their heat, wariness-and expectation-washed over her. No one else was around, all the stable hands were at breakfast.
"Ah…" Eyes locked on his, she slid sideways, along the open door. He followed, slowly, as if stalking her. But the threat didn't come from him; the knowing lilt to his lips said he knew it. She should, she knew, draw herself up, find her haughty cloak and put it on without delay. Instead, his burning gaze drew forth the exhilaration she'd felt earlier, and sent it singing through her veins. "Breakfast?" she managed, her voice faint.
His eyes held hers, his lips lifted in a slow, slight, very intent smile. "Later."
She'd slid away from the door, reaching out, he swung it shut without looking and continued to follow her, herd her, into the next stall. Which was empty.
Wide eyed, still backing up, Catriona glanced wildly about. And came up against the wall. She put up her hands, far too weak to hold him back. Even had that been her intent "Richard?"
It was clearly a question. He answered with actions. And she discovered how useful a feed trough could be.
Chapter 12
December rolled on, and winter tightened its grip on the vale. Richard's boxes and trunks arrived, sent north by Devil, delivered by a carter anxious to turn his horses about and get home for Christmas.
Along with the boxes came letters-a whole sack of them. Letters for Richard from Devil, Vane and the Dowager, as well as a host of pithy billets from his aunts and female cousins, not amused by his distant wedding, and notes of commiseration from his uncles and ones of sympathy from his unmarried male cousins.
For Catriona came a long letter from Honoria, Devil's duchess, which Richard would have liked to read, but he was never offered the opportunity. After spending a full hour perusing the letter, Catriona folded it up and put it away. In her desk. In a locked drawer. Richard was tempted to pick the lock, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. What could Honoria have said anyway?
As well as Honoria's letter, Catriona received scented notes from all the Cynster ladies welcoming her into the family. She did not, however, receive any communication from the Dowager, a fact she seemed not to notice, but which Richard noted with some concern.
The only reason Helena would not to write to Catriona was because she was planning on talking to her instead.
It was, he supposed, fair warning.
But fate and the season were on his side; the snows blew hard – the passes were blocked the highways impassable.
He was safe until the thaw.
Then Christmas was upon them, and he had too much on his plate with the here and now-with absorbing traditions somewhat different from those he knew, with learning how the vale and all the manor celebrated yule-tide-to worry about what the future held.
And over and above, through all the merriment and laughter, all the joys and small sorrows, there remained what he considered his principal duty-his principal focus. Learning everything he could about his witchy wife.
Having her in his arms every morning and every night, and in between learning all her strengths, her weaknesses, her foibles, her needs. Learning how he could best support her, as he had vowed to do. Learning how to fit into her life. And how she fitted into his.
It was, he discovered, an absorbing task.
A temporary easing in the weather between Christmas and the New Year saw three travellers appear at the manor's gate. They proved to be a father and his two adult sons, agents for various produce, come to see the lady of the vale.
Catriona received them as old acquaintances. Introduced, Richard smiled politely, then lounged in a chair set 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."