She stirred in his encircling arm; it locked tight about her. Heat surrounded her-even through her thick cloak, it reached for her, enveloped her, then sank into her flesh. And grew, built, a crescendo of warmth seeking release. His hot hunger had infected her. Utterly distracted, she tried to hold it back, tried to deny its existence, tried vainly to dampen it down.

And couldn't. She was facing ignominious defeat-with not a clue of what followed-when the hard hand tilting her face shifted. He altered his grip, one thumb pressed insistently in the center of her chin.

Her jaw eased, her lips parted.

He entered.

The shock of the first touch of tongue against tongue literally curled her toes. She would have gasped, but that was impossible; all she could do was feel. Feel and follow, and sense the reality of that hot hunger, the surprisingly subtle, deeply evocative, seductively physical need. And hold hard against the temptation that streaked through her.

Even while he took arrogance to new heights.

She hadn't thought it possible, but he gathered her more closely, imprinting her soft flesh with the male hardness of his. Ruthlessly confident, he angled his head and tasted her-languorously, unhurriedly-as if he had all the time in the world.

Then he settled to play.

To advance and retreat, to artfully entice her into joining the game. The very idea shocked her to her toes-and sent shards of excitement flying down her nerves. They stretched, tightened. His lips and tongue continued their tantalizing dance.

She responded-tentatively; instead of the aggressive response she expected, his lips softened fractionally, encouragingly. She dared more, returning the pressure of his lips, the sensuous caress of his tongue.

Without even knowing it, she sank into the kiss.

Triumph streaked through Richard; he mentally crowed. He'd laid waste her starchy resistance; she was soft and pliant, pure magic in his arms. She tasted like the sweetest summer wine. The heady sensation went straight to his head.

And straight to his loins.

Staving off the burgeoning ache, he feasted, careful not to startle her, to let her wits surface enough to recognize his liberties. He wasn't fool enough to think she wouldn't break away if he gave her sufficient cause. She was no simple country miss, no naive maid-her three words, her attitude, had reeked of authority. And she wasn't young; no young lady would have had the confidence to command him, of all men, to "Put me down." She was not girl, but woman-and she fitted very well, supple and curvaceous in his arms.

How well she was fitting, how tempting her curves were, locked hard against him, registered, and raised his lust to new heights. The soft, silken sway of her heavy hair, a warm, living veil drifting over the backs of his hands, and the perfume-wildflowers, the promise of spring and the fecundity of growing things-that rose from the silky locks, converted lust to pain.

It was he who pulled back and ended the kiss-it was that, or suffer worse agony. For he would have to let her go, untouched, unsampled, his lust unsated; a snowbound churchyard in the depths of a winter's night was a challenge even he balked at.

And, despite the intimate caresses they'd exchanged, he knew she wasn't that sort of lady. He'd breached her walls by sheer brazen recklessness, evoked by her haughty command to put her down. Right now, he'd like to lay her down, but that, he knew, was not to be.

He raised his head.

Her eyes flew wide, she looked at him as if he was a ghost.

"Lady preserve me."

Her words were a fervent whisper, condensed by the cold, they misted the air between them She searched his face-tor what, Richard could not guess; with his customary arrogance, he raised one brow.

Lips, soft and rosy-much rosier now than before-firmed "By the Lady's veil! This is madness!"

She shook her head and pushed against his chest, bemused, Richard set her down carefully, then released her. Frowning absentmindedly, she stepped around and past him, then whirled to face him "Who are you?"

"Richard Cynster" He sketched her an elegant bow. Straightening, he trapped her gaze "Entirely at your service"

Her eyes snapped "Do you make a habit of accosting innocent women in graveyards?"

"Only when they walk into my arms."

"I requested you to put me down."

"You ordered me to put you down-and I did. Eventually."

"Yes. But…" Her tirade-he was sure it would have been a tirade-died on her lips She blinked at him "You're English!"

An accusation rather than an observation Richard arched a brow. "Cynsters are"

Eyes narrowing, she studied his face. "Of Norman descent?"

He smiled, proudly arrogant. "We came over with the Conqueror." His smile deepening, he let his gaze sweep her. "We still like to dabble, of course." Looking up, he trapped her gaze. "To keep our hand in with the occasional conquest."

Even in the weak light, he saw her glare, saw the sparks that flared in her eyes.

"I'll have you know this is all a very big mistake!"

With that, she whirled away. Snow crunched, louder than before, as, in a flurry of skirts and cloak, she stalked off. Brows rising, Richard watched her storm through the lychgate, saw the quick, frowning glance she threw him from the shadows beneath. Then, with a toss of her head, chin high, she marched up the road.

Toward the inn.

The ends of Richard's lips lifted. His brows rose another, more considering, notch. Mistake?

He watched until she disappeared from sight, then stirred, straightened his shoulders, and, lips curving in a wolfish smile, strolled unhurriedly in her wake.

Chapter 2

Richard rose early the next morning. He shaved and dressed, conscious of a familiar excitement-the excitement of the hunt. Creasing the last fold of his cravat, he reached for his diamond pin-a rough shout reached his ears. He stilled-and heard, muffled by the windows tight shut against the winter chill, the unmistakable clack of hooves on cobbles.

Three swift strides had him at the window, looking down through the frosted pane. A heavy travelling carriage stood before the inn door, ostlers holding a pair of strong horses, breaths fogging as they stamped. Boys from the inn wrestled a trunk onto the carriage roof, the innkeeper directing them.

Then a lady emerged from the porch, directly below Richard. The innkeeper sprang to open the carriage door. His bow was respectful, which did not surprise Richard-the lady was his acquaintance of the churchyard.

"Damn!" Eyes on her long tresses, flame bright in the morning, clipped together so they rippled like a river down her back, he swore beneath his breath.

With a regal nod, the lady entered the carriage without a backward glance; she was followed by the older woman Richard had seen in the inn. Just before ascending the carriage steps, the old woman looked back-and up-straight at Richard. He resisted the urge to step back; an instant later, the woman turned and followed her companion into the carriage.

The innkeeper closed the door, the coachman clicked the reins and the carriage lumbered out of the yard. Richard swore some more-his prey was escaping. The carriage reached the end of the village street and turned, not left, toward Crieff, but right-up the road to Keltyhead.

Richard frowned. According to Jessup, his groom and coachman, the narrow, winding Keltyhead road led to McEnery House, and nowhere else.

A discreet tap fell on the door; Worboys entered. Shutting the door, he announced: "The lady after whom you were inquiring has just departed the inn, sir."

"I know that." Richard turned from the window; the carriage was out of sight "Who is she?"

"A Miss Catriona Hennessy, sir. A connection of the late Mr. McEnery." Worboys's expression turned supercilious. "The innkeep, an ignorant heathen, maintains the lady is a witch, sir."

Richard snorted and turned back to his mirror. Witchy, yes. A witch? It hadn't been any exotic spell that had bewitched him in the night, in the cusp cold of the kirk yard. Memories of sleek, warm, feminine curves, of soft, luscious lips, of an intoxicating kiss, returned…

Setting his pin into his cravat, he reached for his coat. "We'll leave as soon as I've breakfasted."

His first sight of McEnery House colored Richard's vision of Seamus McEnery and his mother's last years. Clinging to the wind whipped side of the mountain, the two-story structure seemed hewn from the rock behind it and weathered in similar fashion, totally uninviting as a suitable habitat for humans. Live ones, anyway-the place could have qualified as a mausoleum. The prevailing impression of hard and cold was emphasized by the lack of any vestige of a garden-even the trees, which might have softened the severe lines, stopped well back from the house as if fearing to draw nearer.

Descending from his carriage, Richard could detect no sign of warmth or life, no light burning in defiance of the dull day, no rich curtains draped elegantly about the sashes. Indeed, the windows were narrow and few, presumably from necessity. It had been cold in Keltyburn, at the foot of the mountain-up here, it was freezing.

The front door opened to Worboys's peremptory knock; Richard ascended the steps, leaving Worboys and two foot men to deal with his luggage. An old butler stood waiting just inside the door.

"Richard Cynster," Richard drawled, and handed him his cane. "Here at the behest of the late Mr. McEnery."

The butler bowed. "The family are in the parlor, sir."

He relieved Richard of his heavy coat, then led the way. Richard followed; the impression of a tomb intensified as they travelled down uncarpeted flagged corridors, through stone archways flanked by columns of solid granite, past door after door shut tight against the world. The chill was pervasive, Richard was contemplating asking for his coat back when the butler halted and opened a door.

Announced, Richard entered.

"Oh! I say." A ruddy complexioned gentleman with a shock of reddish hair struggled to his feet-he'd been engaged in a game of spillikins with a boy and a girl on the rug before the fire.

It was a scene so much like the ones Richard was accustomed to, his cool expression relaxed. "Don't let me interrupt."

"No, no! That is…" Abruptly drawing breath, the man thrust out his hand. "Jamie McEnery." Then, as if recalling the matter with some surprise, he added: "Laird of Keltyhead."

Richard gripped the hand offered him. About three years his junior, Jamie was a good head shorter than he, stocky, with a round face and the sort of expression that could only be called open.

"Did you have a good trip up?"

"Tolerably." Richard glanced at the others seated about the room, a surprising number all garbed in dull mourning.

"Here! Let me introduce you."

Jamie proceeded to do so, Richard smoothly acknowledged Mary, Jamie's wife, a sweet-faced young woman too passive for his tastes, but, he suspected, quite right for Jamie, and their children, Martha and Alister, both of whom watched him through big, round eyes as if they'd never seen anyone like him before. And then there were Jamie's siblings, two whey faced sisters with their mild husbands and very young, rather sickly looking broods, and last, Jamie's younger brother Malcolm, who appeared not only weak but peevish.

Accepting a chair, Richard had never before felt so much like a large, marauding predator unexpectedly welcomed into a roomful of scrawny chickens. But he hid his teeth and duly took tea to warm him after his journey. The weather provided instant conversation.

"Looks like more snow on the way," Jamie remarked. "Good thing you got here before it."

Richard murmured his assent and sipped his tea.

"It's been particularly cold up here this year," Mary nervously informed him. "But the cities-Edinburgh and Glasgow-are somewhat warmer."

Her sisters-in-law murmured inaudible agreement.

Malcolm stirred, a dissatisfied frown on his face. "I don't know why we can't remove there for winter like our neighbors do. There's nothing to do here."

A tense silence ensued, then Jamie rushed into speech. "Do you shoot? There's good game to be had-Da' always insisted the coverts were kept up to scratch."

With an easy smile, Richard picked up the conversational gauntlet and helped Jamie steer the talk away from the families' obviously straitened circumstances. A quick glance confirmed that the gentlemen's coats and boots were well worn, even patched, the ladies' gowns a far cry from the latest fashions. The younger children's clothes were clearly hand-me-downs, while the coat Malcolm hunched in was a size too big-one of Jamie's doing double duty.