Like a warrior.

Catriona frowned. She kept stumbling across that word, but she didn't need a warrior-she needed a tame, complaisant, preferably readily besotted gentleman she could marry and so beget an heiress. This man fitted her prescription in only one respect-he was indisputably male. The Lady, She Who Knew All, couldn't possibly mean this man for her.

"But if not that, then what?" Pushing aside the silver bowl, she leaned on the table and cupped her chin in one hand. "I must be getting my messages crossed." But she hadn't done that since she was fourteen. "Perhaps there are two of them?"

"Two of whom?" Algaria hovered near. "What was the vision?"

Catriona shook her head. The matter was too personal-too sensitive-to divulge to anyone else, even Algaria, her mentor since her mother's death. Not until she'd got to the truth of the matter herself and understood it fully.

Whatever it was she was supposed to understand.

"It's no use." Determinedly, she stood. "I must consult The Lady directly."

"What? Now?" Algaria stared "It's freezing outside."

"I'm only going to the circle at the end of the graveyard. I won't be out long." She hated uncertainty, not being sure of her road. And this time, uncertainty had brought an unusual tenseness, a sense of expectation, an unsettling presentiment of excitement. Not the sort of excitement she was accustomed to, either, but something more scintillating, more enticing. Swinging her cloak about her, she looped the ribbons at her throat.

"There's a gentleman downstairs." Algaria's black eyes flashed. "He's one you should avoid."

"Oh?" Catriona hesitated. Could her man be here, under the same roof? The tension that gripped her hardened her resolve, she tied off her ribbons. "I'll make sure he doesn't see me. And everyone in the village knows me by sight-at least, this sight." She released her knotted hair, letting it swish about her shoulders. "There's no danger here."

Algaria sighed. "Very well-but don't dally. I suppose you'll tell me what this is all about when you can."

From the door, Catriona flashed her a smile. "I promise. Just as soon as I'm sure."

Halfway down the stairs, she saw the gentleman, short, rotund, and fastidiously dressed, checking the discarded news sheets in the inn's main parlor. His face was as circular as his form, he was definitely not her warrior. Catriona slipped silently down the hall. It was the work of a minute to ease open the heavy door, not yet latched for the night.

And then she was outside

Pausing on the inn's stone step, she breathed in the crisp, chilly air, and felt the cold reach her head. Invigorated, she pulled her cloak close and stepped out, watching her feet, careful not to slip on the icing snow.

In the graveyard, in the lee of one wall, Richard looked down at his mother's grave. The inscription on the headstone was brief: Lady Eleanor McEnery, wife of Seamus McEnery, Laird of Keltyhead. That, and nothing more. No affectionate remembrance; no mention of the bastard son she'd left behind.

Richard's expression didn't change; he'd come to terms with his status long ago. When he'd been abandoned on his father's doorstep, Helena, Devil's mother, had stunned everyone by claiming him as her own. In doing so, she'd given him his place in the ton-no one, even now, would risk her displeasure, or that of the entire Cynster clan, by so much as hinting he was not who she claimed he was. His father's legitimate son. Instinctively shrewd, ebulliently generous, Helena had secured for him his position in society's elite, for which, in his heart, he had never ceased to thank her.

The woman whose bones lay beneath this cold stone had, however, given him life-and he could do nothing to thank her.

Except, perhaps, to live life fully.

His only knowledge of his mother had come from his father, when, in all innocence, he'd asked if his father had loved his mother, Sebastian had ruffled his hair and said: "She was very lovely and very lonely-she deserved more than she got from her marriage." He'd paused, then added: "I felt sorry for her." He'd looked at him, and his slow smile had creased his face "But I love you. I regret her death, but I can't regret your birth."

He could understand how his father had felt-he was, after all, a Cynster to the bone. Family, children, home, and hearth-those were what mattered to Cynsters. Those were their quintessential warrior goals, for them the ultimate victories of life.

For long, silent minutes, he stood before the grave, until the cold finally penetrated his boots. With a sigh, he shifted, then straightened and, after one last, long look, turned and retraced his steps.

What was it his mother had left him? And why, having concealed her bequest all these years, had Seamus summoned him back now, after his own death? Richard rounded the kirk, his stride slow, the sound of his footfalls subsumed by the breeze softly whistling through snow-laden branches. He reached the main path and stepped onto it-and heard crisp, determined footsteps approaching horn beyond the kirk. Halting, he turned and beheld…

A creature of magic and moonlight.

A woman, her dark cloak billowing about her, her head bare. Over her shoulders and down her back spread the most glorious mane of thick, rippling, silken hair, sheening copper bright in the moonlight, a beacon against the wintering trees behind her. Her stride was definite, every footfall decisive; her eyes were cast down, but he would have sworn she wasn't watching her steps.

She came on without pause, heading directly for him. He couldn't see her face, or her figure beneath the full cloak, but well-honed instincts rarely lied. His senses stirred, stretched, then focused powerfully-a clear case of lust at first sight. Lips lifting in wolfish anticipation, Richard silently turned and prepared to make the lady's acquaintance.

Catriona strode briskly up the path, lips compressed, a frown knitting her brows. She'd been a disciple of The Lady too long not to know how to couch her requests for clarification; the question she'd asked had been succinct and to the point. She'd asked for the true significance of the man whose face haunted her. The Lady's reply, the words that had formed in her mind, had been brutally concise: He will father your children.

There were not, no matter how she twisted them, very many ways in which to interpret those words.

Which left her with a very large problem. Unprecedented though it might be, The Lady must have made a mistake. This man, whoever he was, was arrogant, ruthless-dominant. She needed a sweet, simple soul, one content to remain quietly supportive while she ruled their roost. She didn't need strength-she needed weakness. There was absolutely no point sending her a warrior without a cause.

Catriona humphed, her breath steamed before her face. Through the clearing wisps, she spied-the very last thing she expected to see-a pair of large, black, highly polished Hessians, directly in her path. She tried to stop, her soles found no grip on the icy path-her momentum sent her skidding on. She tried to flail her arms, they were trapped beneath her cloak. On a gasp, she looked up, just as she collided with the owner of the boots.

The impact knocked the air from her lungs, for one instant, she was sure she'd hit a tree. But her nose buried itself in a soft cravat, mid chest, just above the V of a silk waistcoat. His chin passed above her head, her scalp prickled as long hairs were gently brushed. And arms like steel slowly closed about her.

Instinct awoke in a flustered lush, raising her hands, she pushed against his chest.

Her feet slipped, then slid.

She gasped again-and clutched wildly instead of pushing. The steely arms tightened and suddenly only her toes touched the snow. Catriona dragged in a breath-one too shallow to steady her whirling head. Her lungs had seized, her senses skittered wildly, informing her, in breathless detail that she was pressed, breast to thigh, against a man.