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brushing snowflakes from his black hair, with nothing more than a quirking brow to show he’d noticed her burst of activity. Catriona ignored it. Pressing her hands together, she waited only until he’d shrugged off his coat and turned to lay it aside before stating: “I don’t know what is going on in your mind, but I will not agree to marry you.”
    The statement was as categorical and definite as she could make it. He straightened and turned toward her.
    The room shrank.
    The walls pressed in on her; she couldn’t breathe, she could barely think. The compulsion to flee—to escape—was strong; stronger still was the mesmeric attraction, the impulse to learn what power it was that set her pulse pounding, her skin tingling, her nerves flickering.
    Defiantly she held firm and tilted her chin.
    His eyes met hers; there was clear consideration in the blue, but beyond that, his expression told her nothing. Then he moved—toward her, toward the fire—abruptly, Catriona scuttled aside to allow him to warm his hands. While he did so, she struggled to breathe, to think—to suppress the skittering sensations that frazzled her nerves, to prise open the vise that had laid seige to her breathing. Why a large male should evoke such a reaction she did not know—or rather, she didn’t like to think. The blacksmith at the vale certainly didn’t have the same effect.
    He straightened, and she decided it was his movements, so smoothly controlled, so reminiscent of leashed power, like a panther not yet ready to pounce, that most unnerved her. Leaning one arm along the mantelpiece, he looked down at her.
    â€œWhy?”
    She frowned. “Why what?”
    The very ends of his lips twitched. “Why won’t you agree to marry me?”
    â€œBecause I have no need of a husband.” Especially not a husband like you . She folded her arms beneath her breasts and focused, solely, on his face. “My role within the vale does not permit the usual relationships a woman of my station might expect to enjoy.” She tilted her chin. “I am unmarried by choice, not for lack of offers. It’s a sacrifice I have made for my people.”
    She was rather pleased with that tack; men like the Cynsters understood sacrifice and honor.
    His black brows rose; silently he considered her. Then, “Who will inherit your manor, your position, if you do not marry and beget heirs?”
    Inwardly, Catriona cursed; outwardly, she merely raised her brows back. “In time, I will, of course, marry for heirs, but I need not do so for many years yet.”
    â€œAh—so you don’t have a complete and absolute aversion to marriage?”
    Head high, her eyes locked on his, Catriona drew a deep breath and held it. “No,” she eventually admitted, and started to pace. “But there are various caveats, conditions, and considerations involved.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œSuch as my devotions to The Lady. And my duties as a healer. You may not realize it, but . . .”
    Propped against the mantelpiece, Richard listened to her excuses—all revolved about the duties she saw as devolving to her through her ownership of the manor. She paced incessantly back and forth; he almost ordered her to sit, so he could sit, too, and not tower over her, forcing her to glance up every time she wanted to check his deliberately uninformative countenance, then he realized who her pacing reminded him of. Honoria, Devil’s duchess, also paced, in just the same way, skirts swishing in time with her temper. Catriona’s skirts were presently swinging with agitated tension; Richard inwardly sighed and leaned more heavily on the mantelpiece.
    â€œSo you see,” she concluded, swinging to face him, “at present, a husband is simply out of the question.”
    â€œNo, I don’t see.” He trapped her gaze. “All you’ve given me is a litany of your duties,