strongly
attractive, his sensuality so compelling he engaged her senses to the exclusion
of all else. But his very strength was what stood between them. He was too
powerful a personality, too strong a male, to surrender his natural dominance
to a wife. A witch-wife at that.
He was a powerfully attractive, family-oriented gentleman, but he was
still a warrior to the core.
The house rose before them, cold and grey; she felt his gaze on her
face.
"You look pale."
She glanced up and realized he thought she was still reeling. She let
cool haughtiness infuse her eyes. "I haven't been sleeping well
lately."
She looked ahead; from the corner of her eye, she saw his lips twitch.
"Indeed? Perhaps you should take up the local custom of a dram of
whiskey before climbing into bed. Jamie tells me the locals all swear by
it."
Catriona humphed. "They'd swear by any 'custom' that means drinking
whiskey."
He chuckled. "Understandable—it's good stuff. I hadn't really
appreciated it before. I'm a rabid convert to the local custom."
"Converts are always the most rabid," Catriona observed.
"But if you really are interested, you should visit the distillery in the
valley."
They'd reached the side steps; describing the distillery, she led the
way inside.
----
Chapter 5
« ^ »
"Ah—Richard?"
Halfway across the front hall, Richard halted and swiveled—Jamie stood
uncertainly in a doorway.
"I… ah, wondered it you could spare me a moment of your time?"
As lunch had concluded half an hour ago, and as his witch had haughtily
declined his invitation to find another tree and, nose in the air, hips
seductively swaying, retired to her room, he'd been on his way to the billiards
room to while away the afternoon, Richard saw no reason not to smoothly incline
his head and stroll through the doorway through which Jamie waved him.
He knew what was coming.
Jamie didn't disappoint him. Closing the door, Jamie followed him into
the room and indicated a large chair angled before a desk. Richard sank into
the chair, lounging gracefully, balancing one boot on his knee.
His host, however, didn't settle in the chair behind the desk, but paced
nervously before the hearth—before Richard. Glancing about, Richard noted the
ledgers filling the shelves lining one wall, and the maps and diagrams of the
area scattered about the room. This was clearly the estate office, equally
clearly Jamie's domain. The room was small but comfortable, much more
comfortable than the library Seamus had inhabited.
"I wondered," Jamie eventually began, "whether you've
decided yet how you will answer the solicitor next week."
The look he bent on Richard was a plea—not to be saved, but to have the
worst told to him.
"I'm afraid," Richard replied in his London drawl, "that
I've not yet decided."
Jamie frowned and paced on. "But… well, it isn't all that likely,
is if?"
"As to that," Richard answered, "I really can't
say."
In the hall, hugging the shadows, Algaria pressed her ear to the oak
panels of the office door. She'd been traversing the gallery upstairs, on her
way to Catriona's room to inquire as to the reason for her unusual withdrawal,
when she'd heard Jamie speak to Richard in the hall. His intent had been
obvious; what she'd heard thus far confirmed it. She was not averse to a little
eavesdropping if it served to ease her mind. And Catriona's.
"But you normally reside in London, I understand. I'm afraid
Catriona will never live anywhere else but Casphairn Manor."
"So I apprehend."
"And, well, she really is a sort of a witch, you know. Not the sort
to change people into toads or eels or whatever she might say, but she really
does—can—do strange things—and make other people do strange things."
"Really?"
The tone of that response had Algaria gritting her teeth.
"And doubtless you're accustomed to balls and parties in London—a
constant stream of them, I imagine."
"Indeed—a never-ending stream of balls and parties."
The undertone sliding beneath
attractive, his sensuality so compelling he engaged her senses to the exclusion
of all else. But his very strength was what stood between them. He was too
powerful a personality, too strong a male, to surrender his natural dominance
to a wife. A witch-wife at that.
He was a powerfully attractive, family-oriented gentleman, but he was
still a warrior to the core.
The house rose before them, cold and grey; she felt his gaze on her
face.
"You look pale."
She glanced up and realized he thought she was still reeling. She let
cool haughtiness infuse her eyes. "I haven't been sleeping well
lately."
She looked ahead; from the corner of her eye, she saw his lips twitch.
"Indeed? Perhaps you should take up the local custom of a dram of
whiskey before climbing into bed. Jamie tells me the locals all swear by
it."
Catriona humphed. "They'd swear by any 'custom' that means drinking
whiskey."
He chuckled. "Understandable—it's good stuff. I hadn't really
appreciated it before. I'm a rabid convert to the local custom."
"Converts are always the most rabid," Catriona observed.
"But if you really are interested, you should visit the distillery in the
valley."
They'd reached the side steps; describing the distillery, she led the
way inside.
----
Chapter 5
« ^ »
"Ah—Richard?"
Halfway across the front hall, Richard halted and swiveled—Jamie stood
uncertainly in a doorway.
"I… ah, wondered it you could spare me a moment of your time?"
As lunch had concluded half an hour ago, and as his witch had haughtily
declined his invitation to find another tree and, nose in the air, hips
seductively swaying, retired to her room, he'd been on his way to the billiards
room to while away the afternoon, Richard saw no reason not to smoothly incline
his head and stroll through the doorway through which Jamie waved him.
He knew what was coming.
Jamie didn't disappoint him. Closing the door, Jamie followed him into
the room and indicated a large chair angled before a desk. Richard sank into
the chair, lounging gracefully, balancing one boot on his knee.
His host, however, didn't settle in the chair behind the desk, but paced
nervously before the hearth—before Richard. Glancing about, Richard noted the
ledgers filling the shelves lining one wall, and the maps and diagrams of the
area scattered about the room. This was clearly the estate office, equally
clearly Jamie's domain. The room was small but comfortable, much more
comfortable than the library Seamus had inhabited.
"I wondered," Jamie eventually began, "whether you've
decided yet how you will answer the solicitor next week."
The look he bent on Richard was a plea—not to be saved, but to have the
worst told to him.
"I'm afraid," Richard replied in his London drawl, "that
I've not yet decided."
Jamie frowned and paced on. "But… well, it isn't all that likely,
is if?"
"As to that," Richard answered, "I really can't
say."
In the hall, hugging the shadows, Algaria pressed her ear to the oak
panels of the office door. She'd been traversing the gallery upstairs, on her
way to Catriona's room to inquire as to the reason for her unusual withdrawal,
when she'd heard Jamie speak to Richard in the hall. His intent had been
obvious; what she'd heard thus far confirmed it. She was not averse to a little
eavesdropping if it served to ease her mind. And Catriona's.
"But you normally reside in London, I understand. I'm afraid
Catriona will never live anywhere else but Casphairn Manor."
"So I apprehend."
"And, well, she really is a sort of a witch, you know. Not the sort
to change people into toads or eels or whatever she might say, but she really
does—can—do strange things—and make other people do strange things."
"Really?"
The tone of that response had Algaria gritting her teeth.
"And doubtless you're accustomed to balls and parties in London—a
constant stream of them, I imagine."
"Indeed—a never-ending stream of balls and parties."
The undertone sliding beneath
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