The hard body beneath her stiffened fractionally, then, after a second, eased. His chest swelled.

"Well," he said, his tone light but grating, "I suppose there really isn't anything more you need from me, now-at least, not for some time."

He paused; when, bewildered, she said nothing, he continued. "Now you have the child The Lady told you to get from me."

His bitterness rang clearly; bowing her head, biting her lower lip, Catriona accepted it.

She should have told him.

"I… " How to tell him it had slipped her mind? "Forgot." She rushed on "It's just that I've been so…"

"Busy?"

So caught up with him. Her temper flashed-a weak flame, but enough to sour her. She'd been so focused on him, she'd totally forgotten the one thing, the one being, that should have been at the center of her consciousness. If she'd needed any proof of how totally obsessed with him she was, how he completely overshadowed everything else in her life, she had it now.

She couldn't think of any response to his rejoinder, so she let it pass. Slowly, she drew her limbs from his and turned away.

Only to be swept by a desolate bleakness, a bone-deep sense of loss. They'd been cheated. A moment that should have been so special, so joyful and filled with love, had instead been soured by hurt and bitterness.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep; beside her, Richard did the same.

Disillusionment followed them into troubled dreams.

The next day dawned clear, with a brisk breeze scudding clouds over a pale blue sky-a morning bright with the promise of a new season. Perfect for traveling.

Catriona noted the signs from the top of the manor steps and struggled to reconcile them with the heaviness in her heart.

She would normally have gone to pray this morning, but had changed her mind. It was the first time in her life she'd put something else higher than her devotions to The Lady, but she couldn't deny herself her last sight of Richard. It would have to tide her over, probably for months. Possibly until their child was born. And maybe even longer.

Before her, her people scurried to secure the last of Richard's trunks to the carriage roof-he'd left some things behind, for which she was more pathetically grateful than she would ever let anyone know. They would be her only physical link with him in the coming months.

Blinking back the prickling heat behind her lids, she watched the horses-Richard's handsome greys-led up. Her people, unaware of any undercurrents-not, indeed, the sort of folk who were at all susceptible to such subtleties-threw themselves into the final preparations with innocent energy. They simply imagined this was how it was supposed to be, their trust in The Lady-and in her-was complete. The only member of staff who seemed at all put out was, of all people, Worboys. Catriona studied his long face, and wondered, but could reach no conclusion.

Then Richard appeared from the direction of the stables, where he'd gone to bid Thunderer good-bye. He strode across the cobbles, his greatcoat flapping about his gleaming Hessians. He was immaculately dressed as always, as he paused to give orders to the grooms harnessing his greys, Catriona drank in the sight.

Drank in the faintly bored, distant expression on his face, the easy air of ineffable superiority that was so innate a part of him.

He turned and saw her, hesitated, then strode toward her; Catriona looked her fill. To her, he was, quite simply, gorgeous-the most fascinating man she'd ever met.

He was also the epitome of a bored and restless rake shaking the dust of a too quiet backwater and an unwanted wife from his highly polished boots. That fact was declared in the hard planes of his face as his eyes met hers, in the cynical set of his lips. Bravely, desperately, holding her cloak of regal assurance in place, Catriona smiled distantly.

"I'll bid you adieu, then. I hope you reach London without mishap."

She lifted her head and met his hard blue gaze directly, that had been the most difficult speech she d ever made.

Richard studied her eyes, searched them, for some sign all this was a dream. It felt unreal to him-couldn't she sense it? But even more strong than the sense of unreality was the feeling-the compulsion-of inevitability.

It had seemed inevitable they would marry-he'd accepted that and hoped, in his heart, that from their marriage he would gain the stability he'd sought-he'd needed-for so long. Instead, now, it seemed inevitable he would be disappointed in their union, and would, once again, be footless, unanchored, drifting in life's stream. Unconnected to anyone.

He'd thought-hoped-that their marriage would be his salvation. It appeared he'd been wrong; it was therefore inevitable that he would leave.

Would walk away from his wife and leave her to manage on her own.

Uncharacteristic rancor filled him when her eyes gave him no hope, no sign, no encouragement to change his mind and stay. "I'll leave you then."

The words echoed with the bitterness he couldn't hide.

She smiled and held out her hand. "Farewell."

He looked down, into her eyes, trying to fathom, at the last, what shimmered in the vibrant green depths; he took her hand-and felt her fingers slide into his. Felt the touch of her palm, felt her fingertips quiver. And felt-sensed-

"Here you are sir!"

They both turned to find Mrs. Broom standing beaming just behind them, virtually between them. She held up a packed basket. "Cook and me thought as how you'd be grateful of some real sustenance on the road. Better'n that terrible inn food."

Richard knew for a tact that neither Mrs. Broom nor Cook had ever been to an inn in their lives. It was a measure of how his mind was functioning that that was the only thought he could muster. He felt shaken-and torn-and turned inside out. Taking the basket from Mrs. Broom and summoning a weak smile for her from somewhere, he passed the basket straight to a groom and looked back at Catriona.

Only to see her smile evenly. "Good-bye."

For one instant, he hovered on the brink-of refusing to accept her dismissal, of hauling her into his arms and refusing to let her go, of telling her straitly how things would henceforth be between them-

Her steady smile, her steady eyes-and the black cloud of inevitability-stopped him.

Faultlessly correct, he inclined his head, then turned and strolled nonchalantly down the steps.

Catriona watched him go and felt her heart go with him. Knew to the depths of her soul that she would never be the same-be as strong-without him. He paused to speak to his coachman, then entered the carriage without a backward glance. He sat back and Worboys shut the door; the carriage lurched into motion and headed, gathering speed as it went, down the drive and into the park.

Raising a hand in farewell, one he couldn't see, Catriona murmured a benediction. She watched, silent and still at the top of the steps, ignoring the people trooping past her, until the carriage disappeared into the trees.

Then she went inside, but didn't join her household at breakfast. Instead, she climbed to her turret room, opened the window wide-and watched the carriage carrying her husband from her, until it had passed from the vale.

Chapter 14

"Oh, no!" Catriona focused on the curtains shielding her window through which she could see light seeping, and groaned. It was morning-late morning.

Falling back on her pillows, she stared at the canopy; she had meant to go to the circle this morning, to atone for yesterday's absence, but it was too late now. Drawing in a tight breath, she glanced at the bed beside her. It was a disaster of tangled sheets and rumpled covers-just as it had been the morning before. The cause, however, was quite different.

She hadn't been able to sleep; only as night was fading had she fallen into a restless doze. Which hadn't refreshed her in the least, hadn't prepared her for the day ahead.

Yesterday had dragged; nothing had gone right. She was still as far from finding good breeding cattle as she had been two weeks ago. Two months ago, and more. She needed to find some reasonable stock soon, or miss the chance of improving the herd through the coming season's breeding-an opportunity the vale could ill afford to miss.

But that wasn't what had kept her awake.

The empty space beside her had done that.

Forced her into a neverending round of thinking if, perhaps, she'd done something different, he might still be here, a warm weight beside her-the comfort of her heart. Senseless, useless repetition of their words, her thoughts, her conclusions.

It changed nothing-he was gone.

She sighed, then grimaced, recalling the transparent joy that had transformed Algaria. Ever since Richard had appeared on their horizon, Algaria had been worried, then withdrawn. His departure had more than pleased her-yesterday, she'd been reborn. Yet Catriona was sure he had done nothing to deserve Algaria's censure, or even to rattle her, or confirm her in her views. Other than to be himself.

That, apparently, was enough. Hardly a rational response. Algaria's attitude to Richard now worried her even more than it had. Perhaps there was some deeper purpose behind his leaving, one only The Lady could know.

The possibility didn't make his absence any easier to bear.

The emptiness around her weighed heavily on her heart, making breathing difficult. Dragging in some air, she sat up-and wished she hadn't. For one long instant the room spun, then slowly settled.