The light had all but gone. Catriona stepped out of the barn into a twilight world. Richard pulled the door shut and fastened it, then tugged her cloak around her and anchored her against him, within one arm.

They followed in the children's wake.

"I hope the kittens will recover-they felt very cold. I suppose a little warm milk wouldn't hurt them. I'll have to ask Cook…"

She blathered on, not once looking up-not once meeting his eyes. Richard held her fast against the wind's tug and, smiling into the swirling snow, steered her toward the kitchen.

He didn't know what woke him-certainly not her footfalls, for she was as silent as a ghost. Perhaps it was the bone-deep knowledge that she was not there, in their bed beside him, where she was supposed to be.

Warm beneath the covers, his limbs heavy with satiation, he lifted his head and saw her, arms crossed tightly over her robe, pacing before the hearth.

The fire had died, leaving only embers to shed their glow upon the room; about them, the house lay silent, asleep.

She was frowning. He watched her pace and gnaw her lower lip, something he'd never seen her do.

"What's the matter?"

She halted; her eyes, widening, flew to his face.

And in that instant, that infinitesimal pause before she replied, he knew she wouldn't tell him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." She hesitated. When he remained propped on one elbow, watching her, she drifted back to the bed. "Go back to sleep."

He waited until she halted by the side of the bed. "I can't-not with you pacing." Not with her worrying. He could sense it strongly, now; some deep concern that was ruffling her normally unruffleable serenity. "What is it?"

Catriona sighed and shrugged out of her robe. "It's nothing." It was the breeding stock, or lack thereof. But…

She shouldn't involve him.

When she'd heard his voice, heard him ask, her instinctive impulse had been to tell him, to lay her growing problem on shoulders broader than hers-to share her burden with him. But… in the back of her mind lurked an un welcome notion that appealing to him was not the right thing to do. On a number of counts.

Asking him, inviting him to become more deeply involved with running the vale, might not, in the long run, be fair, either to him, or to her. There was a subtle line between offering advice and sage counsel, and making the decisions, determining the final outcome. She had always been taught that strong men, powerful men, had difficulty with that distinction.

Forcing him to face it might not be wise.

And, even if he hadn't said so yet, if he was considering leaving her and journeying to London for the Season, she would be wise to keep her own counsel. Wise to hold him at a distance, in that arena at least. She couldn't afford to start to rely on him only to find him bidding her adieu.

It hadn't escaped her that while he'd promised repeatedly not to force her to leave the vale, he'd never promised to stay. To remain by her side, to face the problems of the vale by her side.

Much as she might now feel a need for a strong shoulder to lean on, a strong arm to rely on, she couldn't afford to let herself develop that sort of vulnerability. Ultimately the vale was her responsibility.

So she summoned a smile and hoped it was reassuring. "It's just a minor vale problem." Dropping her robe, she slid under the covers. He hesitated, then drew her into his arms, settling her against him.

Snuggling her head on his chest, she forced herself to relax against him-forced herself to let her problems lie.

Until she could deal with them alone.

She was being silly. Overly sensitive.

The next morning, pacing before her office window, Catriona berated herself sternly. She still didn't know what she could, or should, do about the breeding stock-it was time she asked Richard for advice.

When viewed in the sane light of morning, the concerns that had prevented her from asking last night no longer seemed sufficient to stop her, excuse her, from taking the sensible course. Such silly sensitivity was unlike her.

She needed help-and she was reasonably sure he could give it. She recalled quite clearly how, at McEnery House, she'd been impressed with his knowledge of farming practices and estate management. It was senseless, in her time of need, not to avail herself of his expertise.

Frowning at the floor, she swung about and paced on.

He'd said nothing about leaving. It therefore behooved her to have faith, rather than credit him with making plans-plans he hadn't discussed with her. There was no reason at all for her to imagine he was leaving; she should assume that he was staying, that he would remain to support her as her consort and not hie off to enjoy himself-alone-in London. He'd always behaved with consideration-she should recognize that fact.

And it asking him for advice, inviting him to take a more direct interest in the running of the vale, served to bind him to it-and to her-so be it.

Straightening she drew in a deep breath, drew herself up that last inch, then glided to the door.

He was in the library; from her office, she took a minor corridor, rather than go around through the front hall. The corridor led to a secondary door set into the wall beside the library fireplace.

She reached it, confidence growing with every step, her heart lifting at the thought of asking him what she'd shied away from asking last night, of inviting him that next step deeper into her life. Grasping the doorknob, she turned it-as the door opened noiselessly, she heard voices.

Halting the door open only a crack, she hesitated, then recognized Richard's deep "humph."

"I imagine I'll start packing in a few days, sir. I don't like to rush things and it is very close to the end of January."

A pause ensued then Worboys spoke again. "According to Henderson, and Huggins, the thaw should set in any day now. I daresay it may take a week to clear the roads sufficiently, but, of course, the farther south we travel, the more the highways will improve."

"Hmm."

Frozen outside the door, her heart chilling, sinking Catriona listened as Worboys continued: "The rooms in Jermyn Street will need freshening, of course. I wondered… perhaps you're thinking of looking in on the Dowager and the duke and duchess? If that were so, I could continue on to town and open up the rooms, ready for your return."

"Hmm."

"You'll want to be well settled before the Richmonds' ball, naturally. If I might suggest… a few new coats might be in order. And your boots, of course-we'll need to make sure Hoby remembers not to attach those tassles. As for linen…"

Deep in a letter from Heathcote Montague, Richard let Worboys's monologue drift past him. After eight years, Worboys knew perfectly well when he wasn't attending to him-and he knew perfectly well when his henchman was in a quandary.

In Worboys's case the quandary was simple. He liked it here-and couldn't believe it. He was presently dusting the books on the shelves-in itself a most revealing act-and putting on a good show, trying to convince them both that they were shortly to up stakes and depart, when, in reality, he knew Richard had no such thoughts, and he, himself, did not want to go.

In what he viewed as a primitive backwater, Worboys had discovered heaven.

Not an inamorata in his case, but a household where he fitted in perfectly, like a missing link in a chain. The manor's household was unusual, without the lines of precedence Worboys had lived with all his professional life. Instead, it was a place that operated on friendship-a sort of kinship in serving their lady. It was a household where people had to rely on each other-have faith and confidence in each other-just to get through the yearly round of harsh weather and the short growing season, made even more difficult by their isolation.

It was a place where people felt valued for themselves; the household, in its rustic innocence, had welcomed Worboys to its bosom-and Worboys had fallen in love.

He was presently in deep denial-Richard recognized the signs. So he let Worboys ramble-he was really only talking to himself and convincing no one. Whenever Worboys paused and insisted on some response, he humphed or hmm'd and let it go at that. He saw no benefit in getting drawn into a discussion of things that were not going to happen.

His letter was far more interesting. Spurred by the Pottses' visit, he'd written to Montague, inquiring as to the current state of breeding stock, both in the southern and northern counties. He'd also asked Montague to locate the most highly regarded breeder in the Ridings, just south of the border, not too far from the vale.

"So, sir." Pausing, Worboys drew in a deep breath. "If you just let me know when you've decided on the date, I'll proceed as we've discussed."

Looking up, Richard met Worboys's gaze. "Indeed. When I decide to leave, you'll be the first to know."

Inclining his head gravely, doubtless feeling much better after having got all his useless plans off his chest, Worboys picked up his duster and a pot of wilting flowers, and headed for the door.

Richard waited until it closed before letting his lips curve. Returning to his letter, he read to its end, then, smiling even more, laid it down, and stretched.

And noticed a draft. He glanced around and saw a door, so well fitted in the paneling he hadn't noticed it before, left ajar. Rising, he rounded the desk and crossed to the panel. Opening it farther, he found a dim secondary corridor. Empty. Inwardly shrugging, Richard closed the door-it could have been ajar for a week for all he knew.

Recrossing to the desk, he sat and pulled out a map of the surrounding counties. A Mister Owen Scroggs, cattle breeder extraordinaire, lived at Hexham. How far, Richard wondered, was Hexham from the vale?

If-when-his wife finally trusted him enough to ask for his assistance, his support, he wanted to have all the answers. All the right answers, at his fingertips.

Chapter 13

He wasn't, in fact, a patient man. Ever since receiving the information from Montague, he'd been watching for-waiting for-an opportunity to discuss the matter with his wife. To banish the shadows that seemed to grow, day by day, in her eyes.

Instead, four days later, he'd yet to discover a suitable moment to speak to her. Lounging in an archway not far from her office door, Richard, brooding darkly, kept his gaze on the oak panel and waited some more.

He had a bone-deep aversion to discussing business in their bed. There she remained her usual self, warmly wanton, sweetly taking him in and holding him tight, still insisting on trying to muffle her pleasured screams-he was conscious of a deep reluctance to do anything that might alter the openness that had grown between them there.

But her days were busy; she seemed constantly involved in meetings, or discussions, or in overseeing the household. And if she wasn't actually engaged in the above, she was surrounded by others-by McArdle, Mrs. Broom, or, worse still, Algaria. Even in the odd moments when he would come upon her alone, she was always rushing to be somewhere else.

Worse yet, he was starting to become seriously worried about her health. He was too well attuned to her not to sense the tension, the fragility, she hid beneath her cloak of serenity. He couldn't help but wonder if her pregnancy, which she'd yet to mention to him, was the cause of it-the sudden breathlessness that came upon her, and an emotional brittleness she tried hard to hide.

Those symptoms weren't there when she slid into his arms every night. He couldn't help wonder if, during the days, she was working herself too hard, rather than letting him ease the load so she could take better care of herself-and their child.

The office door opened; McArdle stumped out.

Richard straightened; he waited until McArdle disappeared down the corridor, then swiftly strolled to the office door. He hesitated for a moment, reminding himself that he couldn't demand, then opened the door-and strolled languidly in.

Seated behind her desk, Catriona looked up-Richard smiled easily, charmingly. And tried not to notice the clouds dimming her green eyes. "Are you busy?"

Catriona drew in a deep breath and looked down at the papers before her. "I am, actually. Henderson and Huggins-"

"I won't keep you above a moment."