She humphed. "That's all very well, but-"
Richard knew the instant the penny dropped, saw her eyes widen as she finally noticed the luxurious appointments of his carriage-the fine, supple leather, the gleaming brass-finally remembered the lines and deep chests of the four greys between the shafts. Finally considered what she should have long before.
Her eyes, wide and startled, swung to his, her gaze arrested. She opened her lips on hasty words and nearly choked. Clearing her throat, she sat back against the seat and gestured airily. "Are you…?"
"Very." Enjoying himself, Richard leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
And felt the increasing intensity of her gaze. "How much is very?"
He considered, then said: "Enough to keep me, and you… and your vale if need be."
She searched his face, then humphed and sank back. "I didn't realize."
"I know."
"Are the Cynsters exceedingly wealthy?"
"Yes." After a moment, he continued, his eyes still closed: "Within the family, my bastardry counts for nothing-my father made provision for me as his second son, which, to all intents and purposes, I am."
She was silent for so long, he wondered what she was thinking.
"Jamie mentioned that you're accepted socially."
The murmured statement held no element of question; opening his eyes, Richard turned his head and looked at her-she was staring out at the snow.
"I expect that means you could have had your choice of all the young ladies from the very best families."
Compelled by the ensuing silence, he replied: "Yes."
"So…" She sighed, and turned to meet his eyes. "What will your family think when they learn you've married a Scottish witch?"
He would have quipped that they'd either think he'd lost his senses, or that it served him right, but the shadows in her eyes held him. Compelled him to reach out, slowly, and slide one arm about her. And lift her, with an ease that sent a very definite shiver through her, onto his lap.
"The only thing they'll care about," he murmured, juggling her, "is that I've chosen you."
He would have kissed her, but she stayed him small hands braced against his chest. "But you haven't." Gratifyingly breathless, she searched his eyes, then blushed lightly. "Chosen me, I mean."
He'd chosen her in the instant he'd first closed his arms about her, in the moonlight near his mother's grave, but he wasn't bewitched enough to admit it; his witch had enough powers as it was. Ignoring her hands, he bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. "You're mine." Breaths mingling, driven, their gazes locked-then, simultaneously, dropped to each other's lips. Searching, hungry, their lips touched again-achingly gentle-then parted. "That's all that matters."
Her lashes fluttered up; for one instant, green eyes met blue, and the air about them shimmered.
She sucked in a quick, shallow breath; in the same instant, he tightened his arms about her, then lowered his head and kissed her.
And she kissed him. With a devastating sweetness, an innocence-as if this were the first time. Which, in some ways, for her, it was. The first time she'd knowingly welcomed him as her love
r-a lover fully conscious, wide awake. Richard realized and inwardly groaned, and harnessed his raging desires, savagely hungry after tour days' starvation.
He deepened the kiss by gradual degrees, letting them both sink into the caress, into the warmth and heat, into that pleasurable sea. Letting their embers slowly glow stronger then flicker into flame; with an expert's touch, he fanned the flames until they burned steadily.
She followed his lead readily, openly without guile. As was her wont, she freely gave all he asked, accepting each intimacy as he offered it, surrendering her mouth to his conquest. He savored her thoroughly, then teased her into making her own demands, into meeting him and matching him, into returning the slow, languid thrusting of his tongue with clinging caresses equally evocative.
But their nerves remained curiously taut, their play curiously charged as if their first encounter as a married couple was somehow different. Richard sensed it in her, in the tension that invested her slight frame, in the tightness of her breathing-sensed it in himself-an alertness, an awareness, heightened to exquisite sensitivity.
As if their nerves, their bodies, their very beings, thrummed to some magic in the air.
Gently, he lifted her, rearranging her on his lap so that she sat across his legs facing him one knee on either side of his hips. Locked in their kiss, she barely seemed to notice; pushing her hands up, over his shoulders, she slid her fingers into his hair and angled her lips beneath his.
She moaned when he closed his hands about her breasts. He kneaded and, through the thick fabric of her pelisse, felt the mounds firm and fill his hands. Even with the benefit of a number of hot bricks, even with the heat rising between them, it was too cold to contemplate baring her. Instead, he glided his hands over her in long sweeping caresses-caresses designed to stir her to life. To love.