She could tell-from his eyes, his expression-that he was deadly serious. Nevertheless… looking ahead, she fought to keep her lips straight-and failed. A gurgle of laughter escaped her.
He shot her a narrow-eyed glance.
She waved placatingly. "It's just the thought of it-the vision of you and your cousins creeping around ballrooms keeping surreptitious watch over two young ladies."
"Cynster young ladies."
"Indeed." Tilting her head, she met his gaze. "But what if the twins don't want to be watched-what if, indeed, they possess the same inclinations as you? You come from the same stock-such inclinations aren't restricted to males."
He stopped stock-still and stared at her, then humphed, shook his shoulders, and started to pace once more. Frowning again. "They're too young," he finally stated.
Lips still not straight, Catriona looked away, across the snowy tops of the foothills. After a moment, she mused: "So the family's large, and you were brought up within it-and that's why you see family as important."
She did not look at him, but felt the swift touch of his gaze on her face. Although delivered as a statement, that was, in fact, her principal question why did a man like him have such strong feelings about family?
They strolled on for a full minute before he replied. "Actually, I think it's the other way around."
Puzzled, she looked up; he trapped her gaze. "The Cynsters are as they are because family is important to us." He looked down and they walked on. She didn't try to disguise her interest; she kept her gaze on his face, her mind on his words.
He grimaced lightly. "Cynsters are acquisitive by nature-we need possessions-the family motto, after all, is 'To Have and To Hold'. But even long ago, the motto was not-or not only-a material one." He paused; when he spoke again, he spoke slowly, clearly, his frowning gaze fixed on the snow. "We were always a warrior breed, but we don't fight solely for lands and material wealth. There's an understanding, drummed into us all from our earliest years, that success-true success-means capturing and holding something more. That something more is the future-to excel is very well, but one needs to excel and survive. To seize lands is well and good, but we want to hold them for all time. Which means creating and building a family-defending the family that is, and creating the next generation. Because it's the next generation that's our future. Without securing that future, material success is no real success at all."
It seemed as if he'd forgotten her; Catriona walked silently, careful not to disturb his mood. Then he looked up, squinting a little in the glare, his face exactly as she had seen it in her dreams-the far-sighted warrior.
"You could say," he murmured, "that a Cynster without a family is a Cynster who's failed."
They'd reached the end of the ridge, the path turned at the rocky point, which formed a small lookout, then wound back up the slope through the trees. They halted on the point, the wind blew fresh and chill from the white mountaintops before them.
As one, they viewed the majestic sight; unprompted, Catriona pointed out various peaks and landmarks, naming them, citing their significance. Richard listened attentively, blue eyes narrowed against the wind and glare. As he studied the landscape, Catriona surreptitiously studied him.
His expression, she had realized, was very rarely spontaneous, even though he sometimes appeared open and easy. He was, in reality, reserved, his feelings kept close behind his mask-that facade he showed to the world. Whatever reactions he displayed were those he wanted to show; even his glib and ready charm was a carefully cultivated skill.
But when he'd spoken of his family-and of family-his mask had slipped, and she'd seen the man behind, and a little of his vulnerability. The insight had touched her, stirred her-and made her clamp a firm hold over her own reactions before they could carry her away. Richard Cynster, she'd already realized, was temptation incarnate-this morning had added another dimension to his attractiveness.
Quite the last thing she needed.
With a half-suppressed sigh, she turned. "We'd better get back."
Richard turned, and, scanning the path upward, suppressed a sigh of his own. Tightening his grip on his rakish impulses, he gave Catriona his arm up the first section of path, made hazardous by melting snow. Pacing slowly beside her, aware through every pore of her soft warmth, gliding along beside him, and not making any advance whatsoever, had taken considerable effort; speaking of his family, explaining why he felt as he did, while maintaining the distance between them, had required superhuman resolution. But he wasn't yet sure how far he could push her-and he wasn't yet sure if he should.
As he'd foreseen, she slipped on the path; resigned, he caught her against him, unable to deaden the impact of her soft curves against him, let alone his instant reaction. Luckily, she was engrossed in regaining her footing, but when she tumbled against him again, one ripe breast pressing hard against his chest, one hip and sleek thigh riding against his hip, he had to bite his lip against a groan.
When they finally reached the place where the path leveled out, he'd given up hiding his scowl. She stopped to catch her breath, he stopped to let his body ease. Innocently, she regarded the scenery; annoyed, irritated, and mightily frustrated, he regarded her. And resumed his impassive mask. "You do understand why Seamus did as he did, don't you?"
She turned to face him. "Because he was mad?"
Richard let his lips thin. "No." He hesitated, studying her clear eyes. "You're an attractive proposition, both personally and for your lands. You can't be unaware of it. The offers for your hand have apparently been legion, most from men who would sell your vale from under you and treat you with far less respect than is your due. Seamus, more than anyone, was aware of that, so he tried a last throw, a last attempt to see you safe."
She half smiled, her expression, her eyes, full of a feminine superiority expressly designed to goad him-or any male. "Seamus was a tyrant in his own family-it would never have occurred to him that I'm well able to take care of myself."
If she had patted him on the hand and told him not to worry, it would have had the same effect; he didn't bother to suppress his aggravated sigh.
"Catriona, you are incapable of defending yourself against one determined callow youth, let alone a determined man."
Up went her pert nose. "Rubbish." Green eyes clashed with his. "Besides, The Lady protects me."
"Oh?"
"Indeed-men always think they have the winning hand, simply because they're bigger and stronger."