It was there, written on his soul-and in that moment she'd been able to read the words. The truth. The reality of what he yearned for.

So she welcomed him to her, wrapping her arms about him as he covered her. Nudging her thighs wider, he settled between and fitted himself to her slick sheath. Turning his head, he took one pebbled nipple into his mouth and suckled fiercely; she arched, and he pressed inside her, stretching her.

She tensed and tried to force her muscles to ease. He reached down, between their bodies, and caressed the nubbin he'd earlier teased.

Sensation streaked-jagged lightning striking deep. It broke the banks and set the floodtide raging, molten passion, lava hot, surging, racing through her. And she was caught in the tide, swept up and whirled away, into the pure heat of the moment. She felt him retreat, then powerfully surge, and fill her.

Felt him ride deep to her core.

She melted about him and welcomed him in-into her body, into her heart. She knew it was dangerous-she saw the gaping hole yawning at her feet, but the desire that drove him, the raw need that now filled him, driving him into her again and again-as surely as it had caught him, it caught her. She jumped into the hole without a second thought.

And gave herself to him, opened her body and her senses, and let him fill both. Exquisitely vulnerable, spread beneath his hard strength, held immobile by it, impaled by it, she kissed him wildly, and urged him on.

But not even she could warp his true character; despite the force of the energy flowing so strongly between them, he harnessed it and set himself to please her Pleasure her.

In a wild and wonderful way.

His surging rhythm became hers, became her very heartbeat. He used his body to love her-she learned to use hers to love him back. He was no gentle teacher, yet he forced nothing but pleasure on her. She raised her knees and gripped his hips, and gave herself up to his loving.

To the joy, the heat, and the escalating pleasure. To the moment that came upon her unawares, and stole her mind, her senses, her very being from her.

And left her floating in a void of delight, anchored only by his heartbeat.

She only just managed to smother her scream; she wasn't even sure she succeeded. She wasn't even sure that she cared.

Richard felt her melt beneath him, felt the last of her contractions fade, sensed her final surrender. With a gasp and a groan, he thrust deep and shut his eyes, blocking out the sight of her, the blazing mane of her hair a frame for her ecstasy, for the expression of pure peace that filled her face.

Racking shudders swamped him; he felt her grip him tight.

He gasped again and surrendered, and followed her into the void.

Later, much later, he lifted from her and drew her into his arms. She turned and snuggled closer, warming him inside and out. He felt his lips lift-he couldn't understand why he felt so pleased. Why he felt so at ease. So complete.

Then he remembered.

But it was just a dream.

With a soft sigh, he closed his eyes and wished dreams could last forever.

Richard woke the next morning, very slowly. An age seemed to pass before he felt certain he was in this world, and not some other. He felt disoriented, lethargic. Drained.

If he hadn't known better, he would have said he felt sated.

The thought made him frown. The thoughts that followed made him frown even more.

"Rubbish." He looked at the bed beside him. The covers were straight, the pillow still plump. No hint of a bedmate. To prove the point, he lifted the covers and peered down. Beside him, the sheet was not rumpled in the least; it was, in fact, very neat.

Instead of lightning, his frown grew blacker. He shifted his gaze to that part of his anatomy that featured most prominently in his disturbing dream. He gazed at it as if it could answer the wild question in his mind; it simply lay there, in its customary semi-aroused morning state, and told him nothing. He checked, but there was no discernible evidence that it had engaged in any wild nocturnal coupling.

Dropping the covers, Richard lay back on the pillows; crossing his arms above his head, he gazed at the canopy. But the more he let his mind dwell on his dream, the more vivid it became, refusing to fade in the cold morning light. The more he thought of it, the more definite details became, the more intense the sensual memories.

"Ridiculous." Flinging back the covers, he sat up.

He washed and shaved, attended by Worboys, then dressed, shrugged into his coat and headed downstairs. Throughout his ablutions, his dream had refused to get out of his mind, had only grown more vivid. More detailed.

Lips compressed, he stepped off the stairs. Given his recent abstinence, given the witch presently under the same roof, given the fantasies he'd been consciously and unconsciously concocting about her, it probably wasn't surprising she'd started inhabiting his dreams,

He strolled into the breakfast parlor, knowing he was late. Exchanging mild nods with the rest of Seamus's dull household, he filled his plate and carried it to the table. The object of his lustful dreams was not present, but she'd proved to be an early riser.

At McEnery House, bright morning chatter was unheard of, which suited his mood. He ate in silence. He was devilishly hungry. He'd cleared half his plate when rushing footsteps sounded in the corridor. Everyone looked up.

Catriona hurried in.

Her gaze collided with his; she stopped as if she'd run into a wall. For one instant, she stared, her expression unreadable.

"Well! I wondered when you'd rouse."

Algaria's dry, disapproving comment broke the spell; Richard couldn't tell who'd thrown it-Catriona or him. Or some other force entirely.

Catriona glanced at Algaria, then approached the table. "I… ah, overslept."

"You were dead to the world when I looked in."

"Hmm." Without meeting anyone's eye, Catriona served herself a large portion of the kedgeree the butler offered. Instead of her customary tea and toast.

Richard frowned-first at her plate, then at his. And wondered if it was possible for people to share dreams.

It was a horridly dull day, with sleet and snow lashing the house. Denied any chance of a walk to clear her head, Catriona set herself to review the stillroom. Which appeared not to have been reviewed since last she'd visited. The task proved so consuming, she got no chance to devote any sensible thought to the problem she'd seen looming on her horizon.

She hadn't seen it until that morning, when she'd rushed into the breakfast parlor. Not that she could have foreseen it, given she hadn't foreseen the depth of her involvement with Richard.

He who was to father her child.

But she got no chance to think on that, to dwell on how her view of him had changed, and on whether that meant she could, or should, change her plan, or even whether her plan was now safer, or more dangerous.

He'd been confused this morning-and that she hadn't expected. She'd seen it in his eyes as he'd looked at her-a remembrance of the night. Given what had happened, she wasn't surprised; she hadn't expected him to be even partially awake, much less in that peculiar state of a waking dream.

It wasn't, therefore, surprising that he remembered something; his confusion told her he hadn't remembered enough. Enough to be sure it hadn't been a dream.

She was sate, but he was disturbed. She needed to think about that.

"Tie all these up in bunches and hang them properly. And when you've finished with that, you can throw all this away." "All this" was a pile of ancient herbs that had long ago lost their efficacy. Hands on hips, Catriona surveyed the much improved stillroom, then nodded briskly. "We'll make a start on the oils in the morning."