Eyes narrowing, she studied his face. "Of Norman descent?"
He smiled, proudly arrogant. "We came over with the Conqueror." His smile deepening, he let his gaze sweep her. "We still like to dabble, of course." Looking up, he trapped her gaze. "To keep our hand in with the occasional conquest."
Even in the weak light, he saw her glare, saw the sparks that flared in her eyes.
"I'll have you know this is all a very big mistake!"
With that, she whirled away. Snow crunched, louder than before, as, in a flurry of skirts and cloak, she stalked off. Brows rising, Richard watched her storm through the lychgate, saw the quick, frowning glance she threw him from the shadows beneath. Then, with a toss of her head, chin high, she marched up the road.
Toward the inn.
The ends of Richard's lips lifted. His brows rose another, more considering, notch. Mistake?
He watched until she disappeared from sight, then stirred, straightened his shoulders, and, lips curving in a wolfish smile, strolled unhurriedly in her wake.
Chapter 2
Richard rose early the next morning. He shaved and dressed, conscious of a familiar excitement-the excitement of the hunt. Creasing the last fold of his cravat, he reached for his diamond pin-a rough shout reached his ears. He stilled-and heard, muffled by the windows tight shut against the winter chill, the unmistakable clack of hooves on cobbles.
Three swift strides had him at the window, looking down through the frosted pane. A heavy travelling carriage stood before the inn door, ostlers holding a pair of strong horses, breaths fogging as they stamped. Boys from the inn wrestled a trunk onto the carriage roof, the innkeeper directing them.
Then a lady emerged from the porch, directly below Richard. The innkeeper sprang to open the carriage door. His bow was respectful, which did not surprise Richard-the lady was his acquaintance of the churchyard.
"Damn!" Eyes on her long tresses, flame bright in the morning, clipped together so they rippled like a river down her back, he swore beneath his breath.
With a regal nod, the lady entered the carriage without a backward glance; she was followed by the older woman Richard had seen in the inn. Just before ascending the carriage steps, the old woman looked back-and up-straight at Richard. He resisted the urge to step back; an instant later, the woman turned and followed her companion into the carriage.
The innkeeper closed the door, the coachman clicked the reins and the carriage lumbered out of the yard. Richard swore some more-his prey was escaping. The carriage reached the end of the village street and turned, not left, toward Crieff, but right-up the road to Keltyhead.
Richard frowned. According to Jessup, his groom and coachman, the narrow, winding Keltyhead road led to McEnery House, and nowhere else.
A discreet tap fell on the door; Worboys entered. Shutting the door, he announced: "The lady after whom you were inquiring has just departed the inn, sir."
"I know that." Richard turned from the window; the carriage was out of sight "Who is she?"
"A Miss Catriona Hennessy, sir. A connection of the late Mr. McEnery." Worboys's expression turned supercilious. "The innkeep, an ignorant heathen, maintains the lady is a witch, sir."
Richard snorted and turned back to his mirror. Witchy, yes. A witch? It hadn't been any exotic spell that had bewitched him in the night, in the cusp cold of the kirk yard. Memories of sleek, warm, feminine curves, of soft, luscious lips, of an intoxicating kiss, returned…
Setting his pin into his cravat, he reached for his coat. "We'll leave as soon as I've breakfasted."
His first sight of McEnery House colored Richard's vision of Seamus McEnery and his mother's last years. Clinging to the wind whipped side of the mountain, the two-story structure seemed hewn from the rock behind it and weathered in similar fashion, totally uninviting as a suitable habitat for humans. Live ones, anyway-the place could have qualified as a mausoleum. The prevailing impression of hard and cold was emphasized by the lack of any vestige of a garden-even the trees, which might have softened the severe lines, stopped well back from the house as if fearing to draw nearer.
Descending from his carriage, Richard could detect no sign of warmth or life, no light burning in defiance of the dull day, no rich curtains draped elegantly about the sashes. Indeed, the windows were na
rrow and few, presumably from necessity. It had been cold in Keltyburn, at the foot of the mountain-up here, it was freezing.
The front door opened to Worboys's peremptory knock; Richard ascended the steps, leaving Worboys and two foot men to deal with his luggage. An old butler stood waiting just inside the door.
"Richard Cynster," Richard drawled, and handed him his cane. "Here at the behest of the late Mr. McEnery."
The butler bowed. "The family are in the parlor, sir."
He relieved Richard of his heavy coat, then led the way. Richard followed; the impression of a tomb intensified as they travelled down uncarpeted flagged corridors, through stone archways flanked by columns of solid granite, past door after door shut tight against the world. The chill was pervasive, Richard was contemplating asking for his coat back when the butler halted and opened a door.
Announced, Richard entered.
"Oh! I say." A ruddy complexioned gentleman with a shock of reddish hair struggled to his feet-he'd been engaged in a game of spillikins with a boy and a girl on the rug before the fire.