Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

Christian slipped through the door. “That’s all of us.”

Royce raked the ranks of deadly serious faces. “My cousin, Phillip Debraigh, has seized Minerva. He’s our last traitor—the one I failed to apprehend. As far as I can judge, he’s set on wreaking vengeance of a sort on me—the diadem she was wearing”—that he, Royce, had given her—“was part of his thirty pieces of silver. He’s taken her somewhere outside. Although the castle is huge, with it packed with guests there are staff constantly scurrying everywhere—something he knows. He won’t have risked staging anything indoors.” He glanced outside. “But there are only so many places he could use outside—which gives us a chance to rescue Minerva, and capture him.”

He brought his gaze back to the grave faces. “He took her less than fifteen minutes ago—he won’t be expecting us to have even noticed her absence yet, so we have a small amount of time to plan.”

Rupert, on his left, shifted, caught Royce’s eyes when he glanced his way. “Whatever we do, secrecy is imperative. No matter he’s a traitor, and deserves to be brought down, you can’t bring down the Debraighs as a family. You, especially, can’t do that.”

Because the Debraighs, his mother’s family, had always supported him. Because his Debraigh grandfather had been so much a part of his formative life. Jaw set, Royce nodded. “As far as possible, we’ll try to keep this secret, but I won’t risk Minerva’s safety, not even for the Debraighs.”

He looked at the grouped ladies, at Letitia, Clarice, Rose, and all the rest. “You ladies are going to have to give us cover. You’re going to have to go back into the ballroom and spread some story—of how we’ve adjourned for a meeting on whatever topic your imaginations can devise. You’re going to have to hide your apprehension—make it appear as irritation, annoyance, resignation—anything. But we’ll never keep this concealed without you.”

Clarice nodded. “We’ll manage. Just go”—she waved them off—“do what you’re so good at, and get Minerva back.”

Her waspish tone was reinforced by the looks on the other ladies’ faces. Royce nodded grimly, and looked at the m

en. “Come up to the battlements.”

He led them up the battlement stairs in a thunder of heavy feet. Just in case he’d guessed wrongly and Phillip was somewhere in the house, Handley, Trevor, Jeffers, Retford, and Hamilton were alerted, and a quiet search was under way. But as he walked to the battlements, waited while the others joined him, he knew he was right. Phillip was outside—somewhere in the grounds, all the relevant parts of which were visible from this vantage point.

Bracing his hands on the stone, he looked out. “He’ll have taken her to one of the structures. There’s not that many. There’s—” He broke off. He’d come to the same spot to which he’d brought Minerva, twice. The view was to the north, up the gorge to the Cheviots and Scotland beyond.

The mill was in the foreground.

He straightened, his gaze locked on the building. “He’s taken her to the mill.”

All the others crowded the battlements, looking.

Before any could ask, he went on, “There is no one on the entire estate who would close those doors—for excellent reasons, they’re always left open.”

Christian was assessing the terrain, as were the others. “Two levels.”

“Can he get out along the stream?” Tony asked.

“Not easily—not safely.”

“So.” Devil Cynster straightened, cocked a brow his way. “How are we going to do this?”

In a few succinct phrases, he told them.

They weren’t entirely happy, but no one argued.

Minutes later, they were streaming from the house, slipping into the gardens, a silent, deadly force intent on only one thing—ending the last traitor’s reign.

Royce was at the head of the pack, saving Minerva his only real aim.

Twenty-two

Minerva had weathered the prick of the cravat pin—more through sheer terror than anything else. She’d managed not to flinch, but her muscles had tensed. Phillip had noticed; he’d nudged her, slapped her cheeks, but when she’d stirred, mumbled, then slumped as if comatose again, he’d muttered a raw expletive and swung viciously away.

He’d fallen to pacing again, but closer, watching her all the while. “Damn you, wake up! I want you awake so you’ll know what I’m doing to you—I want you to fight me. I want to hear you scream as I force my way inside you. I specifically brought you here—far enough from the house and with the noise of the water to cover all sounds—just so I could enjoy your sobbing and pleading. And your screaming—above all, your screaming. I want to see your eyes, I want to feel your fear. I want you to know every little thing I’m going to do to you before I do it—and for every second while I am.”

He suddenly swooped close. “You won’t be dying anytime soon.”

She jerked her head away from the hot waft of his crooning breath, tried to disguise the instinctive flinch as restlessness.

He drew back, his gaze heavy on her face. Then, “You aren’t pretending to still be asleep, are you, Minerva?”

His tone was taunting; he slapped her cheek again. Then he sneered. “Let’s see if this will wake you up.”