He settled to feast on her bounty, pausing now and then to watch their bodies merge, to wonder, sensually dazed, as he gazed at his mother's necklace, now gracing his wife's flushed skin.
Then her heat reached flashpoint and exploded; she clung to the peak, her face awash with sensation, then, with a long, soft, sob of joy, crumpled against him.
Burying his face in her hair, he held her close, anchored her hips against him, and drove into her molten softness, once, twice, and again, savoring to his marrow the sense of completeness that was always his when he was buried within her.
Between them, locked in the valley between her breasts, crushed to his chest, his mother's pendant lay, pulsing with a force that was warm yet owed nothing to any fire's heat.
Closing his eyes, his cheek hard against his wife's fiery hair, Richard dragged in a huge breath and let sensation take him. Just as his mother's necklace had always been destined to find it's way here, to reside with his sweet witch in the vale, he, too, his mother's only child, was destined to find his home, his haven, his salvation, here.
In his witch's arms.
In her.
With a long, shuddering groan, he surrendered to fate.
"Master!"
Richard whirled to see one of the workers from the farm at the mouth of the vale come hurrying across the stable yard. "What is it, Kimpton?"
The man halted before him and touched his cap. "You asked that we should
report anything not right, sir."
"I did. What's amiss?"
"The gate on the south paddock." The man looked Richard in the eye. " 'Twas fast last night when I did my rounds, but 'twas wide this morning, when my youngest went down that way."
Richard's gaze sharpened. "Did he close it?"
"Aye, sir." The man nodded. "And I checked it, too. Nothing wrong with the latch."
Richard smiled. "Very good. Let's see what happens."
Sir Olwyn Glean arrived just after lunch.
He brusquely thrust his hat at Henderson and charged straight for Catriona's office.
He started blustering the instant he flung open the door. "Miss Hennessey! I really must protest-"
"To whom are you referring, sir?"
Catriona's chill tones brought Sir Olwyn up short; he struggled for an instant to breathe, then drew in a huge breath. And nodded in a belated attempt at polite form.
"Mrs. Cynster."
After her exertions of that morning, let alone all the mornings before, Catriona was of the firm opinion she fully deserved the title. Regally, she inclined her head and folded her hands on her ledger. "To what do I owe this visit, sir?"
"As always," Sir Olwyn declared with relish, "to your cattle! Having them scattered about foraging two and three to a field through winter means you can never keep a sufficiently good eye on them. Fence latches break, or get loose-and then what happens?"
"I have no idea"-Catriona looked at him serenely-"but whatever it is, if the matter concerns the vale's livestock, you should speak with my husband." She waved toward the door. "He's in charge of the herds."
"Much good that is," Sir Olwyn retorted, "with him away in London."
"Oh, no, Sir Olwyn-I'm much nearer than that."
Sir Olwyn jumped and whirled. From just behind him, Richard smiled urbanely, every inch a wolf about to take a large chunk out of a marauding dog.
Catriona fought valiantly to keep a straight face; she nearly choked swallowing her giggle. As for McArdle, he looked down at his closed ledger and didn't look up again. The tips of his ears, however, grew redder and redder.