The afternoon was dying beyond the library windows before he'd read them all. When Jamie had spoken of a pile of letters, Richard hadn't imagined a pile literally two feet high. And in no order to speak of. He'd spent hours sorting them, then even more hours deciphering the scripts and the demands.
For demands there'd been. Many of them.
Of Seamus's replies there was no record, but from the continuing correspondence his attitude was clear. He'd done a stalwart job of defending Catriona and her vale.
Heaving a sigh, Richard set the last of the letters back on the stack, then pushed back his chair, opened the large bottom drawer of the desk and set the stack, in two halves, back where Jamie had stored it. Then he sat back in the chair and stared at the three piles he'd separated from the stack and lined up on the blotter.
Each little pile derived from one of Catriona's nearest neighbors. He had earlier taken a break and wandered down the hall to Jamie's office to check the maps. Her neighbors wanted her land. However, contrary to Jamie's recollections, all three still offered marriage-Sir Olwyn Glean to himself, Sir Thomas Jenner to his son, Matthew, while Dougal Douglas had not specified.
All three sets of correspondence were current-all three were at the stage of veiled threats on both sides. Seamus was less than subtle, Glean was patronizing, Jenner pompous, and Douglas the most disturbing, the most pointed.
Richard lit the desk lamp, and reread the letters, every one, then stacked them together. His expression set, his lips a thin line, he considered the pile, then folded it and slipped it into his coat pocket.
In the distance, the dinner gong boomed. Pushing back his chair, Richard rose and headed upstairs to change.
That night, Catriona tossed and turned. Wide awake, she stared at the canopy of her bed, then turned-and tossed-again.
She couldn't get to sleep.
Some devil inside her informed her why-and prodded her. Pointed out it was only a short distance to Richard's room. Richard's bed. Richard's arms.
And all the rest of him.
With a frustrated groan, Catriona shut her ears to the temptation. She had to-she couldn't give into it.
> She'd known how it would be-that she would be tempted to go to him, that she would try to tell herself one more night wouldn't matter. But her only justification for going to him as she had was The Lady's orders-and they didn't include extra nights purely for her own indulgence. At this time of her cycle, three nights were enough. The way he'd loved her, that should be more than enough. She couldn't justify more.
But she'd known she'd be tempted, so while, in the full light of day, her resolution had held firm, and he'd been ensconced in the library, she'd gone to his room and replaced the drugged brandy with untainted stock. So she couldn't go to him, even if she weakened.
She'd weakened long before the clock struck twelve.
Now it was striking four, and she still hadn't fallen asleep. She hadn't settled in the least. First, she felt hot, then not hot enough. Her body was restless, her emotions disturbed. As for her thoughts… she would much rather be asleep.
In the forefront of her mind hung the fact that, after tomorrow, when the solicitor left, she would never see Richard again.
And he would never see his child.
She didn't know which thought made her feel worse.
Chapter 9
Morning eventually dawned. Weary, wrung-out, Catriona dragged herself from her uncomfortable bed. She washed and dressed, then paused before the door-and plastered on a bright, breezy smile before opening it.
As had been her previous habit, she was early to the breakfast table. As the others appeared, she poured tea and helped herself to toast, all the while maintaining her glamor of morning cheer.
Richard saw her smile, her bright eyes, the instant he stalked in. Sweetly sunny, her expression stated she did not have a care in the world.
Little did she know.
Her gaze flew to his face-he saw her eyes widen. Richard suppressed an impulse to snarl. He met her gaze-pinned her for one brief instant-then turned and stalked to the sideboard.
And piled his plate high. He would rather have followed up the threat in that one glance, but there were others present. There was a need for civility-for the cloak of sophisticated behavior he habitually wore. He reminded himself of that-even while he itched to throw the cloak aside.
He was frustrated to the point of violence.
Never in his life had he had to cope with this degree of sexual frustration. Of frustrated intent. As for the emotional side of the coin-he couldn't even think of that. Not with out a swirling haze of anger clouding his mind.
His response was not rational-the realization didn't help in the least. When it came to Catriona Hennessey, witch, his thoughts-his feelings-definitely didn't qualify as rational. They were powerful. Strong. And very close to slipping their leash.