He trusted her. Yeah, Catherine decided, squaring her shoulders and absently rubbing her nose again. Robbie trusted her to keep his crazy secret.

She let out a sigh, picked up his jacket and boots and set them by the door, gathered up his shirts and socks and tossed them into the laundry room, then headed upstairs to find him some clean clothes.

When was the last time anyone, other than her children, had trusted her? Not since her parents had been alive.

She had forgotten how empowering it felt. And besides, this was her chance to show Robbie MacBain that even self-appointed guardian angels needed help once in a while.

Catherine came back downstairs carrying a clean change of clothes, wondering how tough her boss really was. The last time she’d put a needle to him, he’d been unconscious, but that wasn’t going to be the case this time. She snatched up her sewing kit as she passed through the living room and continued into the kitchen, dropping the kit on the table and going to the bathroom.

“I have clean clothes for you,” she called over the sound of the shower.

“Set them on the hamper.”

Catherine stood at the door, her hand on the knob, and tried to remember if the shower curtain was opaque or transparent.

Darn. It was both. Mostly opaque, but with clear plastic fish swimming through it. Well, shoot. She had seen every imposing inch of the man’s body six days ago. Surely she could handle another peek, couldn’t she?

Catherine slowly opened the door and, keeping her eyes glued to the floor, walked in and dropped the clothes on the hamper, then spun around to leave just as the shower shut off.

“Could you hand me a towel?”

She stopped in mid-stride, slowly turned back, and looked at the large hand reaching out past the curtain.

Breathe,she reminded herself, pulling the towel from the rack by the vanity. She stepped closer, the curtain moved, she looked up, and Robbie’s head emerged through the steam, along with one broad shoulder and half of his now clean, naked chest.

“Are there any leftovers from last night?” he asked, taking the towel and swiping it over his face and then down his chest, using both hands—which caused the curtain to fall away just enough to reveal his right hip and long, muscled right leg.

Catherine turned away. “Y—Yes. I threw together a barley soup with the leftover roast.”

He made a sound that was half groan and half anticipation. “Can you heat me up some?” he asked.

She could probably do that by holding it on her cheeks. Catherine headed out of the bathroom, but he stopped her again.

“Cat.”

“Yes?”

“Was Daniels your first?”

“M-my first husband?” she whispered.

She heard the shower curtain slide all the way open. “Your first man,” he softly clarified, standing directly behind her.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Mr. MacBain.”

“Aye, but I do,” he said, touching her shoulder with just enough pressure to turn her around to face him. “It’s important for two people entering a conspiracy to know a bit about each other. Have you ever been in a relationship that was good, Catherine?”

“It was good with Ron. At first,” she amended, keeping her eyes focused on his so she wouldn’t look down. “Things didn’t start going bad until after we moved to Arkansas.”

She suddenly frowned. “What do you mean, a conspiracy?”

“My nighttime adventures on the mountain and your helping me keep them a secret.”

He slowly reached out and touched her hair, lifting it off her shoulder, and held it between two fingers. “Was Daniels your first?” he repeated.

It was all she could do not to back away, though Catherine didn’t know if she stood her ground because she was determined to be brave or if her knees were just too weak to move.

“I-I had boyfriends in high school.”

“I think the operative word here isman, Catherine. Was Daniels your first lover?”

What in hell did he want from her? He was dripping water and blood all over the bathroom and… and making a pass!

“Yes,” she snapped, pulling away and grabbing up his clothes. She shoved them at his chest, which caused him to lift both hands to catch them—which caused the towel he’d been holding around his waist to drop to the floor.

Catherine spun around and ran out of the bathroom.

“Cat,” he growled, stopping her just outside the door.

“What?” she growled back, still facing away.

“Just so ya know, it’s my intention to see that he isn’t your last,” he whispered, softly closing the door behind her.

Catherine stood rooted in place.

His intention?Had he just made her a promise or a threat?

Robbie stared up at the ceiling, watching the shifting shadows mark the rise of the sun, and listened to the quiet stirring below as his household prepared itself for another day.

He’d slept nearly twenty-one hours straight.

Every muscle in his body urged him to just lie still, to not demand anything of them quite yet. He ached in places he’d forgotten he had. The small, neatly sutured cut on his right hand throbbed with the rhythm of his pulse, his mouth was dry, and his eyelids felt as if they passed through sand every time he blinked.

Aye. A complaining body and a growing sense of unease was all he had to show for his second attempt to find Cùram’s tree. He didn’t even have Mary. He’d caught sight of the snowy several times, but his independent-minded pet had remained well out of reach and stubbornly silent.

He’d stayed there seven full days this time, searching both the MacKeage and the MacBain villages for Cùram de Gairn, but he might as well have been hunting a ghost.

At least the MacKeage camp had heard of Cùram, once Robbie had actually dared to mention the man by name. But the last anyone remembered seeing him had been a month ago. To the MacKeages, Cùram was a warrior known mostly for his unusual tactics on the fighting field and for his jeweled sword that he claimed had been a gift from the fairies. He was a young, handsome, rather quiet man, who was said to rise as eagerly to the call of war as he did to the call of the ladies.

As for the tree itself, Robbie was sure it was there; he couldfeel the hum of its powerful energy when he walked the woods north of the MacKeage village. But he had seen no tree with any sort of markings or any oak larger than one he could wrap his arms around.

He was certainly honing his skills with a sword, though. First on the training field with several MacKeage warriors and again with a chase through the forest by five MacBain idiots.

His ancestors were sorely trying his patience. He had hoped to avoid actually killing anyone, but by God, the next MacBain who cut him was getting his soul dispatched to hell.

With a groan pulled from the deepest regions of his body, Robbie finally crawled out of bed. The house had grown quiet with one final bang of the porch door, and he limped over to the window, rested his arms on the sash, and watched Catherine and the four boys walk Nathan and Nora down the driveway.

Robbie found his first smile in eight days. Nora was perched on Gunter’s shoulders, her tiny hands waving excitedly as she talked nonstop. Nathan was walking between Cody and Peter, showing off one of his school papers. Rick was carrying two small backpacks as he followed, listening intently to Nora.

And bringing up the rear was his fourth andfinal housekeeper, her hands tucked in her pockets, her face bathed by the early-morning sun, and a contented smile on her sweet little mouth.

He had her, Robbie thought with a smile of his own. Certainly not in his bed yet, but he had the little cat almost eating out of his hand. He snorted. She should damn well be getting used to his body by now—she’d seen him naked enough times.

She was also getting used to his touch, albeit slowly, and seemed to be breathing easier whenever he got close. She had enrolled her kids in school, was amazing with the boys, and apparently didn’t mind telling a good fib. And she kept sewing him up without demanding to know how he kept getting hurt.