Catriona chuckled, then sobered. “Incidentally, I remembered, and Algaria does, too, that Dougal Douglas used to visit the vale as a youth. Algaira says his family was keen on a match between him and me.”
“Is that so?” Despite his lazy drawl, Richard was already making plans to call on Dougal Douglas. Once he determined who had set the blacksmith’s cottage ablaze, he fully intended to exact retribution.
“Well.” With a sigh, Catriona straightened. “We’ll spend the night here, then start back early tomorrow. We should reach the vale before dusk.”
“Good.” Richard stood, suddenly eager to be home again, to get his witchy wife back where she belonged. Turning, he gathered Catriona in one arm and they started to stroll back to the cottage. “No one in London would ever believe this—me sitting down to dinner with not one, but two witches.”
“Not witches.” Mock-chidingly, Catriona poked him in the ribs. “Two disciples of The Lady, one of whom is bearing your child.”
Richard grinned. “I stand corrected.” Tipping up her face, he kissed her—a kiss she returned very sweetly. Then Algaria called from the cottage, and Catriona broke away.
His brows lightly rising, Richard took care to hide his sudden thoughts; when Catriona took his arm and towed him to the cottage, he didn’t resist.
The next morning, they left Algaria’s cottage at the crack of dawn, Catriona still sleepy, Algaria grouchy, Richard with a wide smile on his face. The attitudes of all three were connected; Algaria had given up her bed for Catriona’s use, casting dark looks Richard’s way when he’d bid her good night and joined Catriona upstairs. Algaria had slept on the old settle downstairs—that, however, was not the reason she’d slept poorly.
Richard had provided that—provided reason enough for his witchy wife, despite her disapproval, to moan and sob her pleasure for quite half the night.
He was, this morning, in a very good mood.
Keeping Thunderer to a lazy amble, he followed Catriona’s mare and Algaria’s old grey. The two women rode side by side, talking of herbs and potions.
Richard grinned—and wondered if witches ever talked of anything else.
Idly speculating, he ambled along in pleasant content, his gaze locked on his wife’s swinging hips—
Ph-whizz! Thwack!
Thunderer balked and whinnied; Richard abruptly drew rein. Ahead, Catriona and Algaria milled, their faces blanking in shock as they looked back and saw what he was staring at.
A crossbow bolt.
It had whizzed across, a mere inch before his chest, then struck a rock and glanced off. It now lay in the heather, glinting evilly, in the soft morning light.
Fists clenching about the reins, Richard jerked his head up and looked about. Algaria and Catriona followed his lead, visually scouring the slopes below them to their left.
“There!” Algaria pointed to a fleeing rider.
Catriona stood in her stirrups to look. “It’s that fiend Dougal Douglas!”
“That pestilential man!”
Calmly, Richard scanned the long valley below them. “Wait here!” With that curt order, he swung Thunderer about and tapped his heels to the horse’s sides. The huge grey surged, perfectly happy to thunder hell for leather over the heather, leaping small streams, jumping rocks. They descended to the valley on a direct course to intercept the fleeing Douglas like retribution falling from on high.
They met as Richard had planned, with him on Thunderer higher up the slope from Douglas on his black horse. Leaping from Thunderer’s saddle, he collected Douglas and rolled, making no attempt to hang on to his prey, more intent on landing safely himself. He managed to avoid hitting his head on any rocks; with only a bruise or two pending, he swung around. And saw Douglas, still prone some yards away, groggily shaking his head. Richard’s lips curled. Snarling, he surged to his feet.
Whether Douglas knew what hit him—either what had brought him from his saddle or who it was that hauled him to his feet by his collar, shook him like a rag, then buried a solid fist in his gut—Richard neither knew nor cared. Having a crossbow bolt fired at him gave him, he considered, a certain license.
They were much of a height, much of a size—it was no wonder the old hermit had thought Douglas was him. Richard had no compunction in treating Douglas to a little home-brewed—the way they brewed it south of the border. That first rush took the edge from his fury; grasping the downed Douglas by his collar yet again, he hauled him once more to his feet.
“Was it you,” Richard inquired, recalling several incidents that hadn’t, to his mind, been sufficiently explained, “who left the paddock gates opened and broke branches in the orchard?”
Gasping and wheezing, Douglas spat out a tooth. “Damn it, mon—she had to be brought to see she needed a mon about the place.”
“Ah, well,” Richard said, drawing back his fist. “Now she has me.” He steadied Douglas, then knocked him down again.
He gave him a moment, then hauled him to his feet again. And shook him until his teeth—those he still had left—rattled. Closing his fist about Douglas’s collar, he lifted him, just a little, and, very gently, inquired, “And the fire?”
Dangling and choking, Dougal Douglas rolled his eyes, flailed his arms weakly, then, forced to it, desperately gasped: “No one was supposed to get hurt.”
For one instant, Richard saw red—the red glow of the fire as he’d ridden into the courtyard—the red maw that had roared and gaped as he’d seen his wife, her hair bright as the flames, fling a blanket over her head and dash into the fury. “Catriona nearly got caught in the blaze.”
His tone sounded distant, even to him; refocusing on Dougals’s face, he saw real fear in the man’s eyes.
Douglas paled—he struggled frantically.
Catriona rode up to see Richard bury his fist in Dougal Douglas’s stomach. The fiend doubled over; Catriona winced as Richard’s fist swung up and, with his full weight behind it, crunched into Douglas’s jaw. Dougal Douglas fell backward into the heather. And didn’t move.
Richard watched, but saw no sign of returning life. Shaking out his fingers, he turned. To see Catriona. He sighed. “Damn it, woman—didn’t I tell you—”
Her eyes flew wide. “Richard!”
Richard whirled—just as Dougal Douglas came to his feet in a lunge, a knife in his fist. Swift as a thought, Richard sidestepped and caught Douglas’s wrist.
Snap!
“Aargh!” Dougal Douglas fell to his knees, cradling his broken wrist.
“You fiend!”
Abruptly, Richard found himself thrust aside; hands on her hips, green eyes blazing, Catriona interposed herself between Dougal Douglas and him.
“How dare you?” Green fire and fury poured over Dougal Douglas. “You were once welcomed as a friend of the vale and this is how you repay The Lady’s graciousness? You conspire against me and the vale—worse! you attempt to harm my chosen consort—the one The Lady finally sent for me. You’re an evil worm—a loathsome toad! I’ve half a mind to turn you into an eel and leave you here to gasp to death, or better yet, to be picked to death by the birds. That would be a suitable end for you—a just repayment for your unconscionable acts.”
She paused for breath; Douglas, on his knees before her, simply stared. “Damn it, ye daft woman—the man’s a damned Sassenach!”
“Sassenach? What does that have to do with it? He’s a man—far more of one than you’ll ever be.” She stepped forward; eyes locked on hers, Dougal Douglas cowered back.
Catriona pointed a finger directly at his nose. “Hear me well.” Her voice had changed to one of mezmerizing power. “If you ever again act against me, the vale or any of my people—and especially my consort—those jewels you hide beneath your sporran will shrivel, and shrink, until they’re the size of apricot kernels. Then they’ll fall off. And as for the rest of your apparatus, should you entertain so much as a black thought against any of The Lady’s people, it will grow black, too. And wither away. And if y
ou speak ill of anyone from the vale, or even connected with the vale, then for every ill word a boil will grow—on that part of you that has more will than your brain.”
She paused for breath; Richard reached out, closed his hands about her shoulders and lifted her aside. Setting her down just behind him, a little to the side, he leaned down so his face was level with hers and whispered: “I think he’s got your message. Any more, and he might faint.” He glanced at Dougal Douglas, who, aghast and pasty-faced, was watching them both like a trapped rabbit. Richard grinned and turned back to his wife. “Much as I enjoyed your performance, leave the rest to me.” He trapped her wide gaze. “It’s my job to protect you, remember?”
She humphed, and crossed her arms over her chest, and glowered at Dougal Douglas, but she consented to remain silent and still.
Richard turned back to survey their malefactor. “Might I suggest,” he said, “that before my wife further develops her theme, you might care to be on your way?” The relief on Douglas’s face was plain; he started to get to his feet. Richard stayed him with one raised finger. “However, do make sure that, henceforth, you stay out of our way, and out of the vale. On pain of The Lady’s wrath. Furthermore, just in case you’re inclined, once you’re well away from here, to forget how potentially violent The Lady can be, you would do well to dwell on this, more mortal threat.”
All hint of expression leaching from his face, Richard held Dougals’s gaze calmly. “All the details of your recent interference in the vale, all the facts plus witnesses’ accounts, will be forwarded to my brother, Devil Cynster, His Grace of St. Ives. Should any inexplicable harm subsequently befall anyone in the Vale of Casphairn, it will be laid at your door. And the Cynsters will come after you.” He paused, then added, his voice still even and low: “You should also bear in mind that we’ve centuries of experience in asking for no permissions, but exacting vengeance swiftly—and looking innocent later.”
Exactly which one of them Dougal Douglas found more intimidating would have been hard to say. With a dismissive gesture, Richard waved him away. Cradling his wrist, he stumbled to his feet, then lurched off to catch his horse, which was ambling off down the valley.
Richard heard an odd sound from beside him—something between a snort and a cough, crossed with a disgusted humph. He wondered whether his witchy wife was fixing her curse on Dougal Douglas, but decided he didn’t need to know—didn’t want to know.
He whistled, and Thunderer came ambling up, heartened by his brisk ride. Turning, Richard saw Algaria trotting up, leading Catriona’s mare. Draping an arm about Catriona’s shoulders, he steered her to the mare.
“It’s a great pity we can’t lay charges with the magistrate—but we can’t.” Catriona stopped and looked up, waiting for Richard to lift her to her saddle.
“Indeed not,” Algaria agreed. “The last thing we need is to draw official attention to the vale. But your combined threats should hold him.” She regarded Richard with real approval. “That last threat of yours was a masterstroke. No matter what curses Catriona levels, men always understand legal threats best.”
Richard smiled and lifted Catriona to the saddle—and forebore to point out that his threat was not precisely legal—rather the opposite, in fact—a distinction he felt sure Dougal Douglas had understood. But even more to the point, he could attest that Catriona’s curses would make any man think twice. Equipment shrinking, then dropping off, turning black, boils—what else she might have dreamed up he hadn’t wanted to hear.
The thought made him shudder as he swung up to his saddle; his wife noticed and looked her question—he smiled and shook his head.
Then he clicked the reins, and they headed home—back to the Vale of Casphairn.
Later that night, snug and safe in their bed, soothed and sated and quietly happy, Richard looked down at his wife’s red head, comfortably settled on his chest. Raising one hand, he lifted one fiery lock from her cheek. “Tell me,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice low so he wouldn’t break the spell, “when you were ranting at Dougal Douglas, were you angry on The Lady’s behalf, or your own?”
Catriona humphed and wriggled deeper into his arms, pressing herself to him, holding him tightly. “That was the third time I nearly lost you! If you must know, I didn’t even think of The Lady. Or her edicts. Although in this case, it’s really all the same thing. But just because she issues the directives, that doesn’t mean I don’t have my own opinions. She sent me to you—you were destined for me. But I agreed to have you. And now you’re here and you’re mine.” She tightened her arms about him. “I’m not letting you go. I want you beside me—and I have no intention of letting anyone interfere, not Sir Olwyn, Dougal Douglas, Algaria, or anyone else!”
Lying back on the pillows, Richard grinned into the dark. After a moment, he murmured: “Incidentally, I’m only half-Sassenach. The other half derives from the Lowlands.”
His witchy wife shifted, lifting away from him. “Hmmm . . . interesting.” A moment later, she asked: “Which half?”
A week later, Richard was shaken to life—literally—by his witchy wife.
“Wake up, do!”
Obligingly, he reached for her.
“No, no! Not that! We have to get up! Out of bed, I mean.”
She illustrated by leaping out from under the warm covers, letting in a blast of icy air.
Richard groaned feelingly and cracked open his lids. He blinked into deep gloom. “By The Lady! It’s pitch dark—what the devil’s got into you, you daft witch?”
“I’m not daft. Just get up! Please? It’s important.”
He groaned again, with even more feeling—and got up.
Catriona pushed and prodded him into his clothes and down the stairs. Clutching one sleeve, she dragged him into the dining hall, and up onto the dais, and around to the wall behind the main table. She stopped and pointed to a huge old broadsword hanging on the wall. “Can you lift it down?”
Richard looked at it, then at her, then reached for the sword.
It was heavy. As he lowered it and settled his hand about the pommel, he knew it was not just old but ancient. There was no scabbard. But he got no time to dwell on the weapon, because his wife was urging him on.
They went out to the stables and he saddled their sleepy mounts while she held the sword balanced before her. Then they mounted, and he hefted the sword; in the crisp chill of pre-dawn they set out for the circle.
“Tether the horses,” Catriona said as he lifted her to the ground. “Then bring the sword.”
Richard threw her a glance, but did as she asked. She was gripping and releasing her fingers, her gaze flicking again and again to the line of light slowly advancing up the vale. As far as he could see, she still had plenty of time, and yet . . . his witchy wife was nervous.
The instant he’d finished with the horses and hefted the sword, she gripped his other hand and towed him urgently toward the circle. She didn’t drop his hand as they came to the place where he usually sat and waited for her. She didn’t stop until they stood at the very entrance to the circle.
Only then did she release his hand and swing to face him.
Catriona looked down the vale, at the slowly advancing line of light; at her back, she could sense the power within the circle start to awaken, to unfurl in anticipation of the first touch of the sun. It was cold and frosty, but the day would be fine. Drawing a deep breath, feeling the age-old power in her veins, she looked up at Richard.
And smiled, unaware that the light of her love filled her face with a glow he found wondrous. Dazzling. A glow he, the warrior, would have moved heaven and earth just to see.
“There’s a great deal I have to give thanks for.” Her voice was clear, calm, yet vibrant. “As my chosen and accepted consort, as my husband and my lover, it’s your right to enter the sacred circle and watch over me while I pray. My father used to stand guard over my mother.” She paused, her eyes locked on the blue of his. “Will you perform that office for m
e?”
It was an offer she needed to make—it was her final acknowledgment that he belonged beside her—always beside her, even here, at the epicenter of her life. They belonged to each other, and nowhere more so than here, before The Lady.
They were one and always would be, both with each other and with the vale.
This, she knew beyond certainty, was how it was meant to be.
Richard stilled. Unable to think, all he could do was feel—sense—the power that held him. And her. He had no wish to break it—to reject it—to fight against its bonds; instead, he welcomed it with all his heart. He drew in a slow breath and wondered at the headiness in the air. “Aye, my lady.” Bending his head, he touched his lips to hers, then drew back. “My witchy wife.”
He held her sparkling gaze for an instant, then gestured with the sword. “Lead on.”
They entered the circle just as the sun reached them, bathing them in her golden glow. He followed her in, hers to the death, the far-sighted warrior who had found his cause.
Epilogue
March 1, 1820
Albemarle Street, London
“And so there you have it.” Leaning back in a chair drawn up to the table, Vane raised his ale mug in a toast. “Richard and Catriona—and all the London belles can bid Scandal good-bye.”
“Humph!” Languidly asprawl at the other end of the table, resplendent in a navy silk dressing gown embroidered with peacocks, Demon Harry eyed his elder brother with apparent equanimity—and underlying unease. “How’s Patience?”
Vane grinned. “Blooming.”
The sight of his brother’s transparent happiness made Demon shift in his seat.
“Mama, of course, is aux anges over the impending addition.”
“Hmm—she would be.” Demon wondered whether that would divert her attention from him—he doubted he could rely on it.
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