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clothes were clearly hand-me-downs, while the coat Malcolm hunched in was a size too big—one of Jamie’s doing double duty.
    The answer to Malcolm’s question was transparent—Seamus’s children lived under his chilly roof because they had nowhere else to go. At least, Richard mused, they had this place as a refuge, and Seamus must have left them well provided for; there was no hint of poverty about the house itself, or its servants. Or the quality of the tea.
    Finishing his, he set his cup down and wondered, not for the first time, where his witch was hiding. He’d detected no trace of her, or her older shadow, even in the others’ faces. He’d seen her witchy face clearly enough in the bright moonlight; the only resemblance she shared with Jamie and his siblings lay in their red hair. And, perhaps, he conceded, the freckles.
    Jamie’s and Malcolm’s faces were a collage of freckles, their sisters’ only marginally less affected. His memory of the witch’s complexion was of ivory cream, unblemished except for a dusting of freckles over her pert nose. He’d have to check when next he saw her; despite his wish to hasten that event, he made no mention of her. With no idea who she was—where she stood in relation to the family—he was too wise to mention their meeting, or express any interest in others who might be present.
    Languidly, he rose, causing a nervous flutter among the ladies.
    Jamie immediately rose, too. “Is there anything we can get you? I mean—anything you might need?”
    While struggling to strike the right note as head of the family, Jamie had an openness of which Richard approved; he smiled lazily down at him. “No, thank you. I have all I need.” Bar an elusive witch.
    With an easy smile and his usual faultless grace, he excused himself and withdrew to his room to refresh himself before luncheon.
    Richard did not set eyes on his witch until that evening, when she glided into the drawing room, immediately preceding the butler. As that venerable individual intoned the words “Dinner is served,” she swept the gathering with a calm and distant smile—until she came to him, standing beside Mary’s chair.
    Her smile died—stunned astonishment took its place.
    Slowly, with deliberate intent, Richard smiled back.
    For one quivering instant, her stunned silence held sway, then Jamie stepped forward. “Ah . . . Catriona, this is Mr. Cynster. He’s been summoned for the reading of the will.”
    Deserting his face, she fixed her gaze on Jamie’s. “He has?” Her tone conveyed much more than a simple question.
    Jamie shuffled and shot an apologetic glance at Richard. “Da”s first wife made him a bequest. Da’ held it until now.”
    Frowning, she opened her lips to quiz Jamie. Having silently prowled closer, Richard took her hand—she jumped and tried to snatch it back, but he didn’t let go.
    â€œGood evening, Miss . . .” Richard slanted a questioning glance at Jamie.
    Instead, his witch answered, in tones colder than ice. “Miss Hennessy.”
    Again, she surreptitiously tugged, trying to free her hand; Richard unhurriedly brought his gaze to her face, waited until she looked up, trapped her eyes with his, then smoothly raised her hand. “A pleasure,” he purred. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed her knuckles with his lips—and felt the shiver of awareness that raced through her—the shiver she couldn’t hide. His smile deepened. “Miss Hennessy.”
    The look she sent him should have laid him out dead on the Aubusson rug; Richard merely lifted a brow, deliberately arrogant, deliberately provocative. And held onto her hand, and her gaze. “What Jamie is understandably hesitant over explaining, Miss Hennessy, is that Mr. McEnery’s first wife was my mother.”
    Still frowning, she glanced at Jamie, who colored.