Leaving her with their teacher. Catriona flicked him a quick glance. "I've searched the first section."

Head tilted, he studied her. "They'll find her." A ferocious sneeze was echoed by two more. He raised his brows. "That, or die trying." He continued to study her; after a moment he asked: "Have you been up here long?"

Catriona shrugged as nonchalantly as she could and avoided his gaze. "A few minutes." She waved along the loft. "I was at the other end."

"Ah." Straightening, he strolled toward her. He stopped by her side, then, without warning, gathered her into his arms. And kissed her. Very warmly.

Emerging, breathless, some moments later, Catriona blinked at him. "What was that for?"

"Reassurance." He'd lifted his head only to change his hold; as he lowered his lips to hers again, she tried to hold him back.

"The children," she hissed.

"Are busy," he replied-and kissed her again.

"Tabby! Tabby!"

The shrill call had all the children running to one corner of the middle section. None looked back; none saw their lady, flustered and flushed, win free of her consort's arms. And none saw the knowing smile that lifted his lips.

Catriona tried not to notice it either, blotting the sight from her mind, she hurried after the children.

They found five tiny kittens, pathetically shivering huddling close to their weakened mother's flank. There were ready hands enough to lift the whole family together into the lined basket, which was then carried in procession along the loft, taken down the ladder by Richard as his contribution to the rescue, then entrusted to the care of the eight-year old maid. Surrounded by her absorbed fellows, she crossed the yard carefully, all the children huddling to protect the cat and her brood from the swirling snow.

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."