Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

In Royce’s case it was widely known that his lovers never lasted long, that he inevitably moved on to another, then another, with no lingering attachment of any kind. He was a Varisey to his toes, and he’d never pretended otherwise.

To fall in love with such a man would be unjustifiably stupid. She strongly suspected that, for her, it would be akin to emotional self-immolation.

So she wasn’t going to—could not allow herself to—take the risk of falling in with his seduction, if it even could be called that—his highly charged sexual game.

And while she might be crossing swords with a master, she had a very good idea how to avoid his thrust—indeed, he’d told her himself.

Somewhat grimly, she considered ways and means. She wasn’t, when she dwelled on it, as short of defenses as she’d thought.

Ten

The next morning, she commenced her campaign to protect her heart from the temptation of falling in love with Royce Varisey.

Her strategy was simple; she had to keep as far as possible from his ducal bed.

She knew him; he was stubborn, not to say muleheaded, to a fault. Given he’d declared that he would first have her in the huge four-poster—even to denying himself over the point—as long as she kept clear of his bedroom and that bed, she would be safe.

After breakfasting with the other guests rather than in the keep’s private parlor, she sent a message to the stables for the gig, went down to the kitchens and filled a basket with a selection of preserves made from fruit from the castle’s orchards, then strolled out to the stables.

She was waiting for the gig’s harness to be tightened when Sword came thundering in, Royce on his back.

Bringing the stallion under control, he raked her with his gaze. “Wither away?”

“There are some crofter families I need to call on.”

“Where?”

“Up Blindburn way.”

His gaze lowered to Sword. He’d ridden the stallion hard, and would need another mount if he chose to come with her; the gig couldn’t hold the basket and them both.

He glanced at her. “If you’ll wait while they fetch my curricle, I’ll drive us there. I should meet these crofters.”

She considered, then nodded. “All right.”

He dismounted, with a few orders dispatched Henry and two grooms to harness his blacks to his curricle, while others unharnessed the old cob from the gig.

When the curricle was ready, she let him take her basket and stow it beneath the seat, then hand her up; she’d remembered his demon-bred horses—with them between the shafts, he wouldn’t be able to devote any attention to her.

To seducing her.

He climbed up beside her, and with a flick of his wrist, sent the blacks surging; the curricle rattled out of the stable yard and down the drive, then he headed the flighty pair up Clennell Street.

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at a group of low stone cottages huddled against a hillside. Royce was quietly relieved that his expensive pair had, once they’d accepted that he wasn’t going to let them run, managed the less-than-even climb without breaking any legs.

He drew the horses to a halt at the edge of a flattened area between the three cottages. Children instantly appeared from every aperture, some literally tumbling out of windows. All were wide-eyed with wonder. They quickly gathered around, staring at the blacks.

“Coo—oo!” one boy reverently breathed. “Bet they go like the clappers.”

Minerva climbed down, then reached in for her basket. She caught his eye. “I won’t be too long.”

A sudden feeling—it might have been panic—assailed him at the notion of bein

g left at the mercy of a pack of children for hours. “How long is ‘too long’?”

“Perhaps half an hour—no more.” With a smile, she headed for the cottages. All the children chorused a polite “Good morning, Miss Chesterton,” which Minerva answered with a smile, but the brats immediately returned their attention to him—or rather, his horses.

He eyed the motley crew gradually inching closer; they ranged from just walking to almost old enough to work in the fields—whatever ages those descriptions translated to. He’d had very little to do with children of any sort, not since he’d been one himself; he didn’t know what to say, or do.