His eyes trapped hers-Catriona sucked in a quick breath. They were blue-burning blue-hot with passion and desire. As she stared into their heat, wariness-and expectation-washed over her. No one else was around, all the stable hands were at breakfast.
"Ah…" Eyes locked on his, she slid sideways, along the open door. He followed, slowly, as if stalking her. But the threat didn't come from him; the knowing lilt to his lips said he knew it. She should, she knew, draw herself up, find her haughty cloak and put it on without delay. Instead, his burning gaze drew forth the exhilaration she'd felt earlier, and sent it singing through her veins. "Breakfast?" she managed, her voice faint.
His eyes held hers, his lips lifted in a slow, slight, very intent smile. "Later."
She'd slid away from the door, reaching out, he swung it shut without looking and continued to follow her, herd her, into the next stall. Which was empty.
Wide eyed, still backing up, Catriona glanced wildly about. And came up against the wall. She put up her hands, far too weak to hold him back. Even had that been her intent "Richard?"
It was clearly a question. He answered with actions. And she discovered how useful a feed trough could be.
Chapter 12
December rolled on, and winter tightened its grip on the vale. Richard's boxes and trunks arrived, sent north by Devil, delivered by a carter anxious to turn his horses about and get home for Christmas.
Along with the boxes came letters-a whole sack of them. Letters for Richard from Devil, Vane and the Dowager, as well as a host of pithy billets from his aunts and female cousins, not amused by his distant wedding, and notes of commiseration from his uncles and ones of sympathy from his unmarried male cousins.
For Catriona came a long letter from Honoria, Devil's duchess, which Richard would have liked to read, but he was never offered the opportunity. After spending a full hour perusing the letter, Catriona folded it up and put it away. In her desk. In a locked drawer. Richard was tempted to pick the lock, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. What could Honoria have said anyway?
As well as Honoria's letter, Catriona received scented notes from all the Cynster ladies welcoming her into the family. She did not, however, receive any communication from the Dowager, a fact she seemed not to notice, but which Richard noted with some concern.
The only reason Helena would not to write to Catriona was because she was planning on talking to her instead.
It was, he supposed, fair warning.
But fate and the season were on his side; the snows blew hard – the passes were blocked the highways impassable.
He was safe until the thaw.
Then Christmas was upon them, and he had too much on his plate with the here and now-with absorbing traditions somewhat different from those he knew, with learning how the vale and all the manor celebrated yule-tide-to worry about what the future held.
And over and above, through all the merriment and laughter, all the joys and small sorrows, there remained what he considered his principal duty-his principal focus. Learning everything he could about his witchy wife.
Having her in his arms every morning and every night, and in between learning all her strengths, her weaknesses, her foibles, her needs. Learning how he could best support her, as he had vowed to do. Learning how to fit into her life. And how she fitted into his.
It was, he discovered, an absorbing task.
A temporary easing in the weather between Christmas and the New Year saw three travellers appear at the manor's gate. They proved to be a father and his two adult sons, agents for various produce, come to see the lady of the vale.
Catriona received them as old acquaintances. Introduced, Richard smiled politely, then lounged in a chair set back against the office wall and watched how his witchy wife conducted the vale's business.
She was, he learned, no easy mark.
"My dear Mr. Potts, your offer simply will not do. If, as you say, the market is so well supplied, perhaps we should store all our grain for the next year." Catriona glanced at McArdle, sitting at the end of her desk. "Could we do that, do you think?"
"Oh, aye, m'lady." Like a benighted gnome, McArdle nodded sagely. "There's space in the cellars, and we're high and dry here, so there's no fear of it going damp."
"Perhaps that would be best " Catriona turned back to Mr. Potts. "If that's the best offer you can manage?"
"Ah Well " Mr. Potts all but squirmed. "It's possible we might-considering the quality of the vale's grain, you understand-manage some concession on the price."
"Indeed?"
Fifteen minutes of haggling ensued, during which Potts made more than one concession.
"Done," Catriona finally declared. She smiled benignly on all three Pottses. "Perhaps you'd like a glass of our dandelion wine?"
"I don't mind if I do," Mr. Potts agreed. "Very partial to your dandelion wine."
Richard inwardly humphed and made a mental note to take a piece of chalk down to the cellars and inscribe all the remaining barrels of dandelion wine with an instruction that they were not to be broached without his express permission. Then he recalled that he really should gain his wife's approval for such an edict-which led to thoughts of taking her down to the cellars, which led to thoughts…
He frowned, and shifted in his seat. Accepting the wine one of the maids served, he directed his attention once more to the Pottses.
"Now, about those cattle you wanted." Potts the elder leaned forward. "I think I can get some young heifers from up Montrose way."
Catriona raised her brows. "None from any nearer? I don't like to have them transported so far."
"Aye, well. Cattle-good breeding stock-are in rare demand these days. Have to take what you can get."
Richard inwardly frowned. As he listened to the discussion-of sources of breeding stock, of prices, of the best breeds for the changing market-he shifted and inwardly frowned harder.
From all he'd heard, all he d already noted, he knew more about livestock than his witch. Not that she lacked knowledge in general, or an understanding of the vale's present needs-it was more that she lacked experience of what was available in the wider world-a world she, for good reason, eschewed.
The temptation to speak-to butt in and take over-grew; Richard ruthlessly squelched it. If he so much as said a word, all three Pottses would turn to him. From the first, the younger ones had eyed him expectantly-from the looks on their faces now, they would be much more comfortable continuing their discussion of the performance characteristics of breeding stock with him. Man to man.
Richard cared nothing for their sensitivities-he cared much more about his witch, and hers.
He'd sworn not to take the lead, not to take her role, not to interfere with how she ran the vale. He couldn't speak publically, not without her invitation. He couldn't even bring the matter up privately-even there, she might construe it as indicating somewhat less than complete commitment to adhering to his vow.
A vow that, indeed, required complete commitment, required real and constant effort from him to keep it. It was not, after all, a vow a man like him could easily abide by. But he would abide by it-for her.
So he couldn't say anything-not unless she asked. Not unless she invited his comment or sought his views.
And so he sat there, mum, and listened, and itched to set her-and the Pottses-right. To explain that there were other options they ought to consider. Should consider.
But his witch didn't look his way-not once.
He had never felt the constraint of his vow more than he did that day.
The year turned; the weather continued bitter and bleak. Within the manor's stone walls, the lamps burned throughout the dull days, and the fires leapt in every hearth. It was a quiet time, a peaceful time. The men gathered in the dining hall, whiling away the hours with chess and backgammon. The women still had chores-cooking, cleaning, mending-but there was no sense of urgency.