The thaw arrived.

Two mornings later, Richard lay late in bed, listening to the steady drip of water from the eaves. Catriona had slipped from his arms early, whispering about a confinement, assuring him that she wasn't going out but that the mother-to-be was sate inside the manor.

Staring up at the dark red canopy, Richard tried to keep his thoughts from her, from the leaden feeling that, two days ago, had settled in his gut.

And failed.

Inwardly grimacing, he irritably reminded himself that failure was not something Cynsters indulged in-much less on the scale he was presently wallowing in.

He was failing on all fronts.

The new life he'd envisaged for himself at Catriona's side, once so full of promise and possibilities, had turned into a disappointment. A deep, deadening disappointment-he'd never felt so disillusioned with life as he felt now.

There was nothing for him here-nothing for him to do, nothing for him to be. Boredom now haunted him; his old restlessness-something he'd hoped he'd lost for all time in the kirk at Keltyburn-was growing.

Along with a dark, compelling sense of worthlessness- at least, in this place. In this vale-her vale.

He couldn't understand her.

From night to cockcrow, they were as close as a man and woman could be, but when morning came and she slipped from his arms, it was as if, along with her clothes, she donned some invisible mantle and became "the lady of the vale"-a woman with a calling, a position and a purpose in life, from all of which he was excluded.

While gentlemen of his station did not customarily share their wives' lives, he, very definitely, had expected to share hers. Still wanted to share hers. The prospect of sharing her responsibilities, of sharing it all as a mutual endeavor, and thus having a strong and abiding connection on a daily basis-that was certainly a large part of the attraction he felt for her. She was, he had thought, a woman he could share goals with, share achievements with.

Their marriage hadn't, so far, turned out that way.

He'd been careful of her, careful of pressuring her-he'd given her every chance to ask him for help, for assistance. He'd tried hard not to force her hand-and got nowhere.

For long moments, his gaze locked on the dark red above him, he considered the obvious alternative-the action his Cynster self strongly urged. He could, very easily, take over the reins and steer their marriage into the paths he wanted it to follow. He was not a naturally passive person, he wouldn't normally endure a situation he didn't like. Normally, he'd simply change it.

But…

He could forsee two difficulties. The first was that, in taking the reins, he would risk damaging the very thing he most wanted to preserve. He wanted Catriona as a willing life-partner, not as one resenting his dominance.

That, however, while quite bad enough, ranked as the more minor of his difficulties.

The larger, most insurmountable problem, was his vow. The vow he'd made to her-twice-that he would not impinge on her independence, would never seek to override her authority. She'd taken him on trust-she trusted him to keep that vow no matter what. To wrest control from her would betray that trust, in the most damning and damaging way.

There were few things he was sure of in this marriage of theirs, but he knew to his soul that he could never endure the look in her green eyes if he ever betrayed her on that front.

Which meant…

He was on a narrow track, high up a mountainside, with unbroken rock to one side and a sheer precipice on the other. He could go forward, or retreat.

Heaving a deep sigh, Richard threw back the covers and got up.

Cynsters never retreated.

The concept was totally alien to him-the very thought offended him at some deep level. So he waited, and trapped her once more in her office, at a time when he knew he could wrest at least two minutes from her busy schedule.

After ambling idly in and exchanging a mild comment about the weather, he looked down at her and asked: "Tell me, my dear, do you have any need of me here?"

He wanted to ask the question brutally-wanted to show her how much she was hurting him by shutting him out of her life, by denying him the chance to give what he felt he could-but he couldn't do it, couldn't let her see how pathetically vulnerable he'd become. So he kept his social mask intact and asked the question lightly, coolly. As if the answer was of no great moment.

Which was how Catriona heard it-that and rather more. To her, it rang as the prelude to his informing her that he was leaving-the polite patter of the executioner before the axe fell.

So she held her own calm like a shield over her weeping heart and smiled, a little weakly, back up at him. "No. There's really nothing for you to do."

Looking down, she forced herself to go on, forced herself to play the role she'd spent hours rehearsing-the role of acquiescent wife. "I daresay you'll be heading to London soon-Huggins heard this morning that the roads to the south are all open, at least as far as Carlisle."

Her head throbbed, her stomach churned, but she continued in the same, lightly distant, tone: "You'll be anxious to see your family, I expect. Your stepmother must be waiting…" She nearly choked, but swallowed just in time. "And, of course, there'll be the balls and parties."

She continued to enter the figures she'd been transferring from scraps of paper into a ledger-and didn't look up. She didn't dare-if she did, the tears she was holding back would spill over, and then he would know.

Know what he mustn't. Know that she didn't want him to go-that she wanted him here, forever by her side.

But she'd thought it all through very carefully; she had to-absolutely had to-leave him free to leave her. There was no point in binding him to her-to the vale-with ties that would only be resented.

If she could have, she would have stopped herself from falling in love with him, from being in love with him, but it was far too late for that. Even knowing he was leaving, she still couldn't help but wish that she had been the one to change him-the one to focus all his inherent, unconscious qualities-his innate care, his protectiveness, his absentminded kindness-so he became the man he could be.

Her consort.

The Lady had been right-he was made for the position-the real position-but no one could force him to take it. That was a decision he had to make himself, and she couldn't interfere. She had to let him go.

And hope, and pray, that one day he might want what she could give him.

"It must be quite grand," she said, determined to make it easy for him, and easier, therefore, for her, "being in London with all the swells, going to all the balls and parties."

She felt his gaze leave her; a moment of silence ensued. Then he shifted. "Indeed."

She looked up, but he merely inclined his head, his lips lightly curving, and didn't meet her eyes. "I daresay I'll enjoy the balls and parties."

He turned from her and strolled, languid as ever, from the room. Catriona stared at his back, then stated at the door when he closed it behind him. And wondered at his tone, wondered whether her own sensitivity had made her imagine a deep bleakness behind his words.

He'd tried a last throw of the dice-and lost. More than he'd known he had bet.

She had told him there was nothing for him here-and he had to accept her decision. And if he'd needed any urging to leave the held of his defeat, her lightly distant tone as she'd dismissed him and all but wished him on his way had provided it.

Richard didn't know how they had come to this-to this brittle state where it took effort to remain in each other's company. He didn't know-he couldn't imagine-he couldn't even think straight. He couldn't even breathe freely, there was an iron vise locked about his lower chest-every breath was a battle.