His smile started off as teasing, but somewhere along the way turned intent. "You've forgotten," he murmured, "the family motto."
Catriona felt the air about her stir; she was surprised it didn't crackle. She held his gaze and lifted a haughty brow. "Which is?"
"To have… and to hold."
The words hung between them, layered with meaning; holding his gaze, Catriona prayed he couldn't see through her mask as easily as she could see through his. She didn't need to be told those words were not just a motto-they were a raison d'etre. For them all, perhaps, but especially for him.
The bastard-the warrior without a cause.
Barely able to breathe, she reached for his empty cup. "If you'll excuse me, I must check on Meg."
He let her go without a word, which was just as well. How much longer she could have withstood the temptation to reach out to him-to let him have her as his cause-she didn't like to think.
Nevertheless, later that night, when the last of the midnight chimes died, she once more stood before his closed door-and stared at it. While telling herself, in very plain terms, precisely why she was there.
First and foremost there were The Lady's orders, orders she could not defy. And it was indisputable fact that three nights was the minimum she should spend with him-that was what she would advise any other woman in her place.
And lastly, but, she had to admit, very far from least, there was the simple fact she wanted him. Wanted to lie in his arms again, wanted to miss none of the short time fate had granted them. She wanted to hold him again, the vulnerable warrior, and give herself to him completely-give herself to fill the void in his soul. She couldn't marry him, but that didn't mean that he-and she-couldn't have that.
Even if only in his dreams.
She drew a deep breath and reached for the door handle.
Lying back in his bed, wide awake, Richard stared moodily at the whiskey decanter. He'd gone without his usual nightcap. It had occurred to him that the whiskey-not his normal drop-might be to blame for his over-vivid dreams.
If it was he'd avoid it. He couldn't handle another day like this, with his body clamoring-reacting-as if something that hadn't happened had. He'd go mad. Some held that the Scots were all insane-witness Seamus. Maybe whiskey was to blame.
The soft swoosh of air as the door opened had him turning his head. The door swung open-not tentatively-and Catriona walked in. She closed the door quietly, then scanned the room-and saw him. The fire had burned low, but he still saw her soft peculiarly witchy smile.
Every muscle in his body locked; he couldn't breathe. A condition that worsened as, her smile still playing over her face, she walked toward t
he bed slipping off her robe-a robe he remembered-as she came. She let the robe fall as she reached the side of the bed. Head on one side, she studied him-still smiling softly.
Absolutely rigid, he watched her, then realized she was searching his face. The light from the fire didn't reach the head of the bed, she might be able to see his eyes were open, but she couldn't possibly read them. If she did, she'd flee.
Instead, her smile deepened. She reached for the covers, then hesitated. Then she shrugged and straightened-and calmly unbuttoned the bodice of her nightgown, grasped the skirt, and drew it oft over her head.
Richard sucked in a tortured breath, if he could have moved he'd have pinched himself. But he knew he wasn't asleep.
He wasn't dreaming. This was real.
Totally naked, her long tresses hanging free about her shoulders, over her back, her skin-smooth breasts, sleek flanks-gleaming like ivory in the weak light, she lifted the covers and slid in. The dipping of the mattress as she settled beside him triggered an instinctive, almost violent response. He only just managed to suppress it-the primitive urge to roll over, cover her, take her.
His mind was reeling, his wits in disarray, struggling to grasp the tact that this was real-that she was, in solid fact, here, in his bed-blissfully naked.
What in all hell was she up to?
He hadn't moved-he didn't dare; if he did, the reins would slip from his grasp, and God alone knew what would happen then. Every muscle quivering with restraint, he looked at her.
And she touched him.
Spread one small, warm hand over his chest, then swept it down to boldly cup him.
After that, hell, God-even her Lady-didn't matter.
He closed his eyes on a long groan. Her fingers tightened, his reins snapped. He caught her hands, first one then the other, locking them above her head in one of his. In the same movement, he lifted over her, found her lips, and plundered.
One thought burned in his fevered brain-to confirm, beyond all doubt, that she had been the woman in his dream. That she'd been the woman he'd brought to life the night before, the woman who'd begged him to take her, then writhed like a wanton in his arms.