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his
hostess.
    Mary was easily flattered, easily flustered; Richard spent some time
calming her, until she could smile at him and answer his questions.
    "She doesn't seem to see any need for a husband." Her eyes
darted to Catriona, then returned to his face. "It seems odd, I know, but
she has been running the manor for six years now, and I gather everything goes
smoothly." Another darting glance lingered on Catriona's elegant dark
lavender gown. "She certainly seems to want for nothing, and she's never
made any claim on the McEnerys."
    "I'm surprised,"—Richard affected his most indolent
drawl—"that there are no local aspirants to her hand. Or does the valley
boast only a few souls?"
    "Oh, no. The population's quite considerable, I believe. But none
of the young men would look to Catriona, you know." Mary regarded him
earnestly. "She's their 'lady,' you see. The lady of the vale."
    "Ah." Richard nodded, although he didn't see at all, but there
was a limit to how far he could question even sweet Mary without raising
suspicions. But he wanted to understand who and what Catriona Hennessy was, and
how she'd come to be so. She was an intriguing "lady" on a number of
fronts; he'd been so bored, she was a breath of fresh air—a fresh taste to his
jaded palate.
    He glanced her way and saw her look sharply at Algaria O'Rourke as the
older woman struggled to suppress a yawn. The conversation that ensued was easy
to follow; Catriona, moved by concern, pulled rank and ordered her watchdog to
bed. Richard quickly looked away—and felt, a second later, the older woman's
suspicious glance. But she went, passing the tea trolley on her way. The butler
stationed the trolley before Mary.
    "Let me help." Richard collected the first two cups Mary
poured. "I'll take them to Miss Hennessy and…"
    "Meg," Mary supplied with a smile. "If you would be so
kind."
    Richard smiled and moved away.
    "Meg? Miss Hennessy?"
    Both turned in response to his drawl. Meg's eyes fixed on the cups in
his hands. "Oh! Ah…" She swallowed, and turned a delicate shade of
green. "I… don't think so." She cast a desperate glance at Catriona.
"If you'll excuse me?"
    With a helpless look at Richard, she hurried across the room and slipped
out of the door.
    "Well!" Brows high, Richard looked down at the tea. "Is
it that bad?"
    "Of course not." Catriona relieved him of one cup. "It's
just that Meg's increasing and a bit fragile at present. The most unexpected
things turn her stomach."
    "Is that what you've been so earnestly discussing?"
    "Yes."
    Richard met Catriona's gaze over the rim of her cup as she sipped; her
head barely topped his shoulder, yet her manner proclaimed her belief that she
was as powerful, if not more powerful, than he. There was no hint of feminine
weakness, or any acknowledgment of susceptibility.
    Lowering her cup, she eyed him evenly. "I'm a healer."
    The declaration was cool; Richard affected polite surprise.
"Oh?" He'd assumed as much, but better she think him an ignorant
southerner, a gullible Sassenach, if she were so disposed. "Eye of newt
and toe of frog?"
    The look she cast him was measuring. "I use herbs and roots, and
other lore."
    "Do you spend much time hovering over a bubbling cauldron, or is it
more like a well-stocked stillroom?"
    She drew a tight breath, her gaze on his steadfastly innocent
expression, then exhaled. "A stillroom. An
encyclopedic
one."
    "Not a cave, then." Bit by bit, Richard drew her out—and with
each factual answer, her fridigity melted a fraction more. He held to his
harmless, bantering pose, letting his gaze touch her face only briefly,
politely. Her hair drew his eyes more frequently, a magnetic beacon. Even among
all the redheads in the room, her crowning glory made her stand out. The soft
curls shimmered in the candlelight; those about her face and neck jiggled as
she moved, exerting the same mesmeric attraction as dancing flames. They held
the promise of heat—Richard felt an overwhelming urge to warm his