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never made any claim on the McEnerys.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œAh.” 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.
    â€œLet me help.” Richard collected the first two cups Mary poured. “I’ll take them to Miss Hennessy and . . .”
    â€œMeg,” Mary supplied with a smile. “If you would be so kind.”
    Richard smiled and moved away.
    â€œMeg? 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.
    â€œWell!” Brows high, Richard looked down at the tea. “Is it that bad?”
    â€œOf 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.”
    â€œIs that what you’ve been so earnestly discussing?”
    â€œYes.”
    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.”
    â€œDo 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.”
    â€œNot 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 hands in them.
    He blinked and forced himself to look away.
    â€œNaturally,