In the graveyard, in the lee of one wall, Richard looked down at his mother's grave. The inscription on the headstone was brief: Lady Eleanor McEnery, wife of Seamus McEnery, Laird of Keltyhead. That, and nothing more. No affectionate remembrance; no mention of the bastard son she'd left behind.
Richard's expression didn't change; he'd come to terms with his status long ago. When he'd been abandoned on his father's doorstep, Helena, Devil's mother, had stunned everyone by claiming him as her own. In doing so, she'd given him his place in the ton-no one, even now, would risk her displeasure, or that of the entire Cynster clan, by so much as hinting he was not who she claimed he was. His father's legitimate son. Instinctively shrewd, ebulliently generous, Helena had secured for him his position in society's elite, for which, in his heart, he had never ceased to thank her.
The woman whose bones lay beneath this cold stone had, however, given him life-and he could do nothing to thank her.
Except, perhaps, to live life fully.
His only knowledge of his mother had come from his father, when, in all innocence, he'd asked if his father had loved his mother, Sebastian had ruffled his hair and said: "She was very lovely and very lonely-she deserved more than she got from her marriage." He'd paused, then added: "I felt sorry for her." He'd looked at him, and his slow smile had creased his face "But I love you. I regret her death, but I can't regret your birth."
He could understand how his father had felt-he was, after all, a Cynster to the bone. Family, children, home, and hearth-those were what mattered to Cynsters. Those were their quintessential warrior goals, for them the ultimate victories of life.
For long, silent minutes, he stood before the grave, until the cold finally penetrated his boots. With a sigh, he shifted, then straightened and, after one last, long look, turned and retraced his steps.
What was it his mother had left him? And why, having concealed her bequest all these years, had Seamus summoned him back now, after his own death? Richard rounded the kirk, his stride slow, the sound of his footfalls subsumed by the breeze softly whistling through snow-laden branches. He reached the main path and stepped onto it-and heard crisp, determined footsteps approaching horn beyond the kirk. Halting, he turned and beheld…
A creature of magic and moonlight.
A woman, her dark cloak billowing about her, her head bare. Over her shoulders and down her back spread the most glorious mane of thick, rippling, silken hair, sheening copper bright in the moonlight, a beacon against the wintering trees behind her. Her stride was definite, every footfall decisive; her eyes were cast down, but he would have sworn she wasn't watching her steps.
She came on without pause, heading directly for him. He couldn't see her face, or her figure beneath the full cloak, but well-honed instincts rarely lied. His senses stirred, stretched, then focused powerfully-a clear case of lust at first sight. Lips lifting in wolfish anticipation, Richard silently turned and prepared to make the lady's acquaintance.
Catriona strode briskly up the path, lips compressed, a frown knitting her brows. She'd been a disciple of The Lady too long not to know how to couch her requests for clarification; the question she'd asked had been succinct and to the point. She'd asked for the true significance of the man whose face haunted her. The Lady's reply, the words that had formed in her mind, had been brutally concise: He will father your children.
There were not, no matter how she twisted them, very many ways in which to interpret those words.
Which left her with a very large problem. Unprecedented though it might be, The Lady must have made a mistake. This man, whoever he was, was arrogant, ruthless-dominant. She needed a sweet, simple soul, one content to remain quietly supportive while she ruled their roost. She didn't need strength-she needed weakness. There was absolutely no point sending her a warrior without a cause.
Catriona humphed, her breath steamed before her face. Through the clearing wisps, she spied-the very last thing she expected to see-a pair of large, black, highly polished Hessians, directly in her path. She tried to stop, her soles found no grip on the icy path-her momentum sent her skidding on. She tried to flail her arms, they were trapped beneath her cloak. On a gasp, she looked up, just as she collided with the owner of the boots.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs, for one instant, she was sure she'd hit a tree. But her nose buried itself in a soft cravat, mid chest, just above the V of a silk waistcoat. His chin passed above her head, her scalp prickled as long hairs were gently brushed. And arms like steel slowly closed about her.
Instinct awoke in a flustered lush, raising her hands, she pushed against his chest.
Her feet slipped, then slid.
She gasped again-and clutched wildly instead of pushing. The steely arms tightened and suddenly only her toes touched the snow. Catriona dragged in a breath-one too shallow to steady her whirling head. Her lungs had seized, her senses skittered wildly, informing her, in breathless detail that she was pressed, breast to thigh, against a man.
Not just any man-one with a body like warm, flexing steel. She had to lean back to look into his face.
Blue blue eyes met hers.
Catriona stilled: she stared. Then she blinked. It took half a second to check-arrogant mien decisive chin-it was he.
Narrowing her eyes, she fixed them on his; if The Lady had made no mistake, then it behooved her to begin as she meant to go on. "Put me down."
She'd learned the knack of commanding obedience at her mother's knee; her simple words held echoes of authority, undertones of compulsion.
He heard them; he angled his head, one black brow rising then the ends of his long lips lifted. "In a minute."
It was her turn to listen and hear the intent in his deep purr. Her eyes flew wide.
"But first…"
If she'd been able to think, she'd have screamed, but the shock of his touch, the intimate warmth of his palm as he framed her face, distracted her. His lips completed the conquest-they swooped, arrogantly confident, and settled over hers.
The first contact stunned her; she ceased to breathe. The very concept of breathing drifted from her mind as his lips moved lazily on hers. They were neither warm nor cool, yet heat lingered in their touch. They pressed close, then eased, sipped, supped, then returned. Firm and demanding, they impinged on her senses, reaching deep, stirring her.
She stirred in his encircling arm; it locked tight about her. Heat surrounded her-even through her thick cloak, it reached for her, enveloped her, then sank into her flesh. And grew, built, a crescendo of warmth seeking release. His hot hunger had infected her. Utterly distracted, she tried to hold it back, tried to deny its existence, tried vainly to dampen it down.