He’d ordered their horses to be saddled. He led the way out of the house; as they crossed the courtyard toward the stables, he glanced at Minerva as, apparently unperturbed, she walked alongside. He’d steeled himself to deflect any comment about their exchange last night, but she’d yet to make one. To press her point that he didn’t have to be like his father in managing the dukedom.
That he should break with tradition and do what he felt was right.
Just as he had sixteen years ago.
Regardless of her silence, her opinion reached him clearly.
He felt as if she were manipulating him.
They reached the stable yard and found Henry holding a dancing Sword while Milbourne waited with her horse, a bay gelding, by the mounting block.
On her way to Milbourne, she glanced at the restless gray. “I see you tamed him.”
Taking the reins from Henry, Royce planted one boot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the broad back. “Yes.”
Just as he’d like to tame her.
Teeth gritted, he gathered the reins, holding Sword in as he watched her settle in her sidesaddle. Then she nodded her thanks to Milbourne, lifted the reins, and trotted forward.
He met her eyes, tipped his head toward the hills. “Lead the way.”
She did, at a pace that took some of the edge from his temper. She was an excellent horsewoman, with an excellent seat. Once he’d convinced himself she wasn’t likely to come to grief, he found somewhere else to fix his gaze. She led him over the bridge, then across the fields, jumping low stone walls as they headed north of the village. Sword kept pace easily; he had to rein the gray in to keep him from taking the lead.
But once they reached the track that meandered along the banks of Usway Burn, a tributary of the Coquet, they slowed, letting the horses find their own pace along the rocky and uneven ground. Less experienced than the gelding, Sword seemed content to follow in his wake. The track was barely wide enough for a farm cart; they followed its ruts up into the hills.
The cottages stood halfway along the burn, where the valley widened into reasonable-sized meadows. It was a small but fertile holding. As Royce recalled, it had always been prosperous. It was one of the few acreages on the estate given over to corn. With the uncertainty in supply of that staple, and the consequent increase in price, he could understand Kelso’s and Falwell’s push to increase the acreage, but…the estate had always grown enough corn to feed its people; that hadn’t changed. They didn’t need to grow more.
What they did need was to keep farmers like the Macgregors, who knew the soil they tilled, on the estate, working the land.
Three cottages—one large, two smaller—had been built in the lee of a west-facing hill. They splashed across the burn at a rough ford. As they neared the buildings, the door of the largest opened; an old man, bent and weathered, came out. Leaning on a stout walking stick, he watched without expression as Royce drew rein and dismounted.
Kicking free of her stirrups, Minerva slid to the ground; reins in one hand, she saluted the old man. “Good morning, Macgregor. His Grace has come to take a look at the cottages.”
Macgregor inclined his head politely to her. As she led her bay to a nearby fence, she reached for Royce’s reins, and he handed them over.
He walked forward, halting before Macgregor. Old eyes the color of stormy skies held his gaze with a calmness, a rooted certainty, that only age could bring.
Royce knew his father would have waited, silent and intimidating, for an acknowledgment of his station, then possibly nodded curtly before demanding Macgregor show him the cottages.
He offered his hand. “Macgregor.”
/> The old eyes blinked wide. Macgregor dropped his gaze to Royce’s hand; after an instant’s hesitation, he shifted his grip on the walking stick’s knobbed head, and grasped the proffered hand in a surprisingly strong grip.
Macgregor looked up as their hands parted. “Welcome home, Y’r Grace. And it’s right glad I am to see you.”
“I remember you—frankly, I’m amazed you’re still here.”
“Aye, well, some of us grow older than others. And I remember you, too—used to see you riding wild over yon hills.”
“I fear my days of wildness are past.”
Macgregor made a sound denoting abject disbelief.
Royce glanced at the buildings. “I understand there’s a problem with these cottages.”
Minerva found herself trailing the pair, entirely redundant, as Macgregor, famed crustiness in abeyance, showed Royce around, pointing out the gaps in the walls, and where the rafters and roof beams no longer met.
Exiting the larger middle cottage, they were crossing to the smaller one to the left when she heard distant hoof-beats. She halted in the yard. Royce would have heard the horse approaching, but he didn’t take his attention from Macgregor; the pair went into the smaller cottage. Raising a hand to shade her eyes, she waited in the yard.