"Nonsense!"

Algaria grew stern, but her underlying fear and concern showed through. "I'll have no part in it-this scheme is as mad as old Seamus's."

"It's what The Lady requires. She will guide me."

Tight-lipped, Algaria shook her head. "You must have misinterpreted."

Catriona drew herself up-she knew Algaria didn't believe that; there was no possibility she could have misinterpreted such a strong and repeated directive. Folding her arms, she returned her mentor's black stare. "Give me an alternative and I'll consider it-just as long as it results in Richard Melville Cynster being the father of my child."

Slowly, Algaria shook her head. "I'm against it-this can't be right."

Aware of her mentor's deep distrust of most men, and ones like Richard Cynster in particular, Catriona didn't argue. "I have The Lady's orders-I'm determined to obey them." She paused, then asked, more gently: "Will you help me?"

Algaria met her gaze, and held it for a full minute. Then, slowly, she shook her head. "No-I cannot. I'll have no part in this-no good will come of it, mark my words." She spoke slowly; she had no alternative to offer and she knew it.

Catriona sighed. "Very well. Leave me-I need to work up the mixture." She had all she needed in her traveling kit, the kit she'd inherited from her mother. She'd religiously replaced each herb and specific as they aged without questioning why each was included in the selection. The aphrodisiac had always been there-it was there now, when she needed it. Along with a powerful sleeping potion.

Algaria trailed to the door; hand on the knob, she paused and looked back.

Sensing her gaze Catriona looked up, and raised a brow.

Algaria straightened and lifted her chin. "If you bear any love for me, I pray you, do not go to Richard Cynster."

Catriona held her black gaze steadily. "The Lady wills it-so I must."

The mechanics of drugging her nemesis proved much easier than she'd expected. Late that night, Catriona paced her bedchamber and waited for the moment of truth-when she would go to his room and discover how successful she had been.

Mixing the potion had been merely a matter of making a series of estimations, all based on her extensive experience. She routinely held the health of the more than two hundred souls who inhabited the vale in her hands-she treated them from birth to death; she knew her herbs. Her only uncertainty lay in gauging her mark's weight-in the end, she'd simply added an extra dash of both potions and prayed fervently to The Lady.

As for getting him to down the drug, the vehicle had been ready to hand-she'd remembered his talk of the whiskey; it was perfect for her needs. The strong, smoky taste would disguise the tang of the herbs, at least to one who was not a connoisseur. She had gauged the amount to add to the decanter so that a good dram would hold enough drug to accomplish what she needed.

Introducing the potion to his decanter had been simplicity itself. She was always the last down to dinner; she simply waited until her usual time, then stopped by his room on the way. Her one tense moment had occurred when she was almost at his door. It had opened, and his servant had come out. Standing still as a statue in the shadows, she had watched him depart, then, barely breathing, smoothly continued on and entered the room.

It was one of the largest bedchambers in the house; the decanter stood on a sideboard beneath one window. It had been the work of a moment to gauge the volume in the decanter and add the required amount of her mixture. Then, stoppering the vial, she'd turned and glided out of the room and down to dinner.

And had had the devil's own time dampening her awareness, her consciousness of what she was up to, especially while under Richard's blue gaze. He'd sensed that she was edgy, so she'd put on a haughty act and prayed he'd see her skittishness as a lingering effect of their morning's kiss.

Catriona humphed and swung about, the skirts of her dressing robe flaring about her Beneath it, she wore a fine lawn nightgown-she supposed, for him, it should have been silk, but she didn't possess any such apparel. The thought of his hands on her body shielded only by the thin gown made her shiver. She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece just as it chimed.

Twelve solid bongs.

It was time for her to go.

Dragging in a breath past the vise locked about her lungs, she closed her eyes and uttered a brief prayer, then, clutching her robe about her, determinedly headed for the door.

To keep her appointment with he who was to father her child.

Two minutes later, Catriona stood in the shadows before Richard's door and stared at the oak panels. An overwhelming sense of fatality weighed heavily upon her; she stood on the threshold of far more than just a room. In opening the door and stepping inside, she would take an irrevocable step into a future only dimly perceived.

Never before had she faced such a choice-such a crucial, life-changing decision.

Shifting, she drew her dressing robe closer and inwardly chided her hesitant self. Of course stepping over the threshold would change her life-getting with child was definitely irrevocable, but quite clearly part of her future. That future lay beyond the door-why was she hesitating?

Because it wasn't just a child who lay beyond the door.

Exasperated, she straightened and reached for the doorknob, simultaneously opening her senses-to detect any hint of warning, any last-minute premonition that her intent was wrong. All she sensed was peace and silence, a deep, quiet steadiness throughout the house.

Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door. It swung noiselessly wide; beyond, the room lay silent and still, lit only by the glow of the fire still flickering in the hearth.

Stepping quietly inside, Catriona closed the door, easing the lock back so it slid home without a sound. Eyes already adjusted to the dark, she scanned the room. The huge four-poster bed stood shrouded in shadows, its head against the corridor wall. The sight held her eyes, her senses. Slowly, on silent slippered feet, she approached the bed.

She was five paces from it when she realized it was empty, the coverlet flat, undisturbed. Eyes flying wide, her breath caught in her throat, she whirled and scanned the room again.

And, from her new position, saw an arm, clad in a dark coat sleeve, wide white cuff golden in the firelight, hanging over the side of the wing chair facing the fire. The arm hung limply, long, lax fingers almost reaching the floor. Between their tips hung a crystal tumbler, its base balanced on the polished boards.

It was empty.

Drawing a calming breath, Catriona waited for her heart to slow, then, carefully silent, glided forward and rounded the chair.

At least one part of her potion had worked-he was asleep. Asprawl in the chair, his long legs stretched before him, his waistcoat undone, his cravat untied, he still managed to look elegant. Elegantly dissolute, elegantly dangerous. His chest, covered by his fine linen shirt, rose and fell regularly.

Catriona's gaze roamed then lifted to his face; she studied the lean planes gilded by the firelight-a bronze mask more relaxed than she'd yet seen it. With his eyes shut, it was easier to concentrate on his face, on what it showed. Strength was still there, glaringly apparent even in repose; the hint of not sadness, but a lack of happiness that hung about his well shaped mouth was not something she'd noticed before.

Inwardly frowning, she committed the sight to memory, then shook herself, and turned her mind to her task. Step one had been accomplished-he was asleep.

Fully dressed.

In the chair before the fire.