"Yes, ma'am," the housekeeper and two maids chorused.

Catriona left them to their labors and headed back to the family parlor. Her route lay through a labyrinth of corridors giving onto a narrow gallery overlooking the side drive.

The gallery led to the main wing of the house. She'd started along it before she looked up and saw the large figure standing before one of the long windows looking out at the wintry day. He heard her and turned his head, then turned fully, not precisely blocking her path, but giving the impression he would like to.

Head high, Catriona's steps did not falter. But she slowed as she neared him, suddenly aware of a changed presence in the air, of some blatantly sexual reaction. On his part-and on hers.

She stopped a full yard away, not daring to venture closer, unsure just what the sudden searing impulse to touch him might lead her to do. Keeping her expression mild and uninformative, she lifted her chin and raised a questioning brow.

He looked down at her, his expression as unreadable as hers.

And the hot attraction between them grew stronger, more intense.

It stole her breath and fanned heat over her body. Her nipples crinkled tight, she held her ground and prayed he wouldn't notice.

"I wondered," he eventually said, "if you'd like to stroll." His tone made it clear he wanted her alone, some where private so he could investigate what he was feeling. "The conservatory as we have no other choice."

The fact that-even knowing the truth-she actually considered the possibility truly scared her. "Ahh… I think not." Prudence reasserted itself in a rush; Catriona softened her refusal with a smile. "I must tend to Meg-she's unwell."

"Can't Algaria tend Meg?"

His irritation nearly made her grin; his mask was slipping-the warrior was showing. "No-Meg prefers me."

His lips thinned. "So do I."

Catriona couldn't stop her grin. "She's ill-you're not."

"Much you know:" Thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets, he turned and sauntered beside her as she resumed her progress into the main wing.

Catriona shot him a careful glance. "You're not sick."

He raised an arrogant brow. "You can tell just by looking?"

"Generally, yes." She trapped his gaze. "In your case, your aura is very strong, and there's no hint of any illness."

He searched her eyes, then humphed. "When you've finished with Meg, you can come and examine my strength in greater detail."

Catriona fought to keep her lips straight enough to frown. "You're just feeling a trifle under the weather. Perfectly understandable." They'd reached the bottom of the main stairs, with a nod, she indicated the bleak scene beyond the hall windows.

He looked, but didn't seem to see. He stopped before the stairs; she halted on the bottom step and faced him.

"I'd be perfectly all right," he said, meeting her eyes, "it I could just…"

His words died; desire swept over them, tangible and hot as a desert wind. He stared at her; Catriona held tight to the banister and struggled not to respond, to keep her own mask in place as his wavered.

Then he blinked, frowned, and shook his head. "Never mind."

More shaken than she could allow him to see, Catriona smiled weakly. "Later, perhaps."

He looked at her again, then nodded. "Later."

There was to be no later-not that day. Despite her best intentions, Catriona found herself in constant demand, with Meg, with the children, even with Mary, who was usually as hale as a horse. The tensions in the house, generated by Seamus's iniquitous will, were taking their toll.

The only time she had to herself was the half-hour while she dressed for dinner. Hardly enough time to consider the implications of the unexpected turn her straightforward plan had taken. As she scrambled into her gown, then shook out her hair, brushed it and rebraided it, she swiftly reevaluated her position.

If things had gone as she'd planned, she would have steadfastly avoided Richard during the days, done nothing to give him the slightest reason to change his mind. She had planned to hold aloof until he'd refused Seamus's edict, seen him on the road to London, then headed for the vale Carrying his child.

Such had been her plan.

Now, however, one small element had gone awry. She needed to adjust. He'd remembered enough of the night to be seriously disturbed. The idea that he might be affected in some way as a result of her machinations was not one she could accept.

She'd have to do something about it.

The first thing she did, on her way down to dinner, last as ever, was to add to his fateful decanter a few drops of another potion, one that would prevent him from remembering any further "dreams".

The second thing she did was stand, rather than flee, when he reentered the drawing room after dinner and stalked straight to her side.

Algaria, beside her, stiffened. Catriona waved her away-she went, reluctantly. Richard barely nodded at her as he took her place.

"Where the devil have you been?"

Catriona opened her eyes wide. "Calming Meg, dosing the children-all six of them-then mixing Mary a potion, then checking the children, then helping Meg get up, then checking the children, then… " She waved. "My day flew, I'm afraid."

He eyed her narrowly. "I'd hoped to catch up with you after lunch."

Catriona threw him a helpless, apologetic look.

Richard inwardly snorted, and all but glowered at the rest of the company. He'd filled in what probably ranked as the dullest day of his life in the library and in the billiard room, praying that his sudden susceptibility would fade.

It hadn't.

Even now, just standing beside her, his body was literally remembering what hers had felt like pressed against him. Naked-skin to skin. The thought made him hot-hotter than he already was. If she'd been a problem yesterday, with her ability to arouse him, after last night's dream, she qualified as a full blown crisis. "I wanted to speak with you."

About what, he wasn't sure. But he definitely wanted to know if she felt what he did-if she could sense the sheer lust that scorched the air between them. He'd watched her carefully but had detected no especial awareness; he slanted a glance at her now, as, with less than a foot between them, she calmly considered his words. Not a glimmer of consciousness showed.

While all he could think of was how it had felt to slide inside her.

He bit back a groan; it was no use hardening his muscles against the remembered sensations-they were hard enough as it was. "We need to talk."

The glance she threw him was searching. "You're not sick-you don't need my professional advice."

She sounded positive-Richard wasn't so sure. He might not be physically ill, but… he knew his "dream" was a dream for the simple reason it could not have really happened. The chances of her turning up in his room like that, smiling and saying she'd come to go to bed with him, were, in his estimation, less than nil.

And if that hadn't happened, then the rest certainly hadn't.

But he'd never had memories like this, not even of real events. Real women-ones with whom he had shared a bed. Much as he hated to think it, he wasn't at all sure that all the long nights of his lenthy and lustfully successful rakish career weren't coming back to haunt him.

Because he was sure-to his bones-that he knew her in the biblical sense.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out through clenched teeth. "Do you know much about dreams?" He glanced at her. "Can you read them?"

She looked up and met his eyes; he sensed her hesitation. "Sometimes," she eventually replied. "Dreams often mean something, but that something often isn't clear." She considered, then quickly added: "And it's often not the thing it appears as in the dream."

He threw her an exasperated look. "That's a lot of help."