And that was the other reason he'd left London. The only important social event he was missing was his cousin Vane's belated wedding breakfast, an occasion he'd viewed with misgiving. He wasn't blind-he'd seen the gleam steadily glowing in the eyes of the older Cynster ladies. Like Helena, the Dowager, his much-loved step-mother, not to mention his fleet of aunts. If he'd attended Vane and Patience's celebration, they'd have set their sights on him. He wasn't yet bored enough, restless enough, to offer himself up, fodder for their matrimonial machinations. Not yet.
He knew himself well, perhaps too well. He wasn't an impulsive man. He liked his life well ordered, predictable-he liked to be in control. He'd seen war in his time but he was a man of peace. Of passion. Of home and hearth.
The phrase raised images in his mind-of Vane and his new bride, of his own half-brother, Devil, and his duchess, Honoria, and their son. Richard shifted and settled, conscious, too conscious, of what his brother and cousin now had. What he himself wanted. Yearned for. He was, after all, a Cynster; he was starting to suspect such plaguey thoughts were ingrained, an inherited susceptibility. They got under a man's skin and made him… edgy. Dissatisfied.
Restless.
Vulnerable.
A board creaked; Richard lifted his gaze, looking through the archway into the hall beyond. A woman emerged from the shadows. Wrapped in a drab cloak, she met his gaze directly, an older woman, her face heavily lined. She measured him swiftly; her gaze turned frosty. Richard suppressed a grin. Spine stiff, her pace unfaltering, the woman turned and climbed the stairs.
Sinking back in his chair, Richard let his lips curve. He was safe from temptation at the Keltyburn Arms.
He looked back at the flames; gradually, his smile died. He shifted once more, easing his shoulders; a minute later, he fluidly rose and crossed to the fogged window.
Rubbing a clear space, he looked out. A starry, moonlit scene met his eyes, a light covering of snow crisping on the ground. Squinting sideways, he could see the church. The kirk. Richard hesitated, then straightened. Collecting his coat from the stand by the door, he went outside.
Abovestairs, Catriona sat at a small wooden table, its surface bare except for a silver bowl, filled with pure spring water, into which she steadily gazed. Distantly, she heard her companion, Algaria, pace along the corridor and enter the room next door, but she was deep in the water, her senses merging with its surface, locked upon it.
And the image formed-the same strong features, the same arrogant eyes. The same aura of restlessness. She didn't probe further-she didn't dare. The image was sharp-he was near.
Dragging in a swift breath, Catriona blinked and pulled back. A knock fell on the door, it opened-Algaria stepped inside. And instantly saw what she'd been up to. She swiftly shut the door. "What did you see?"
Catriona shook her head. "It's confusing." The face was even harder than she'd thought it, the essence of the man's strength was there, clearly delineated for anyone to read. He was a man with no reason to hide his character-he bore the signs openly, arrogantly, like a chieftain.
Lik
e a warrior.
Catriona frowned. She kept stumbling across that word, but she didn't need a warrior-she needed a tame, complaisant, preferably readily besotted gentleman she could marry and so beget an heiress. This man fitted her prescription in only one respect-he was indisputably male. The Lady, She Who Knew All, couldn't possibly mean this man for her.
"But if not that, then what?" Pushing aside the silver bowl, she leaned on the table and cupped her chin in one hand. "I must be getting my messages crossed." But she hadn't done that since she was fourteen. "Perhaps there are two of them?"
"Two of whom?" Algaria hovered near. "What was the vision?"
Catriona shook her head. The matter was too personal-too sensitive-to divulge to anyone else, even Algaria, her mentor since her mother's death. Not until she'd got to the truth of the matter herself and understood it fully.
Whatever it was she was supposed to understand.
"It's no use." Determinedly, she stood. "I must consult The Lady directly."
"What? Now?" Algaria stared "It's freezing outside."
"I'm only going to the circle at the end of the graveyard. I won't be out long." She hated uncertainty, not being sure of her road. And this time, uncertainty had brought an unusual tenseness, a sense of expectation, an unsettling presentiment of excitement. Not the sort of excitement she was accustomed to, either, but something more scintillating, more enticing. Swinging her cloak about her, she looped the ribbons at her throat.
"There's a gentleman downstairs." Algaria's black eyes flashed. "He's one you should avoid."
"Oh?" Catriona hesitated. Could her man be here, under the same roof? The tension that gripped her hardened her resolve, she tied off her ribbons. "I'll make sure he doesn't see me. And everyone in the village knows me by sight-at least, this sight." She released her knotted hair, letting it swish about her shoulders. "There's no danger here."
Algaria sighed. "Very well-but don't dally. I suppose you'll tell me what this is all about when you can."
From the door, Catriona flashed her a smile. "I promise. Just as soon as I'm sure."
Halfway down the stairs, she saw the gentleman, short, rotund, and fastidiously dressed, checking the discarded news sheets in the inn's main parlor. His face was as circular as his form, he was definitely not her warrior. Catriona slipped silently down the hall. It was the work of a minute to ease open the heavy door, not yet latched for the night.
And then she was outside
Pausing on the inn's stone step, she breathed in the crisp, chilly air, and felt the cold reach her head. Invigorated, she pulled her cloak close and stepped out, watching her feet, careful not to slip on the icing snow.