Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

He’d offered her everything her heart could desire—short of promising her his. In one arrogant sweep, he’d moved them into a landscape she’d never imagined might exist—and in which there were no familiar landmarks.

“You’ve thrown me into complete mental turmoil.” Her thoughts were chaotic, her emotions more so; her mind was a seething cauldron in which well-known fears battled unexpected hopes, uncataloged desires, unsuspected needs.

Still he said nothing, too wise to press.

Indeed. She couldn’t let him, or her wilder self, rush her into this—a marriage that, if it went wrong, guaranteed emotional obliteration. “You’re going to have to give me time. I need to think.”

He didn’t protest.

She dragged in a breath, threw him a warning look, then slid off him, back to her side of the bed; turning onto her side, facing away from him, she pulled the covers up over her shoulders and snuggled down.

After a moment of regarding her through the dark, Royce turned and slid down in the bed, spooning his body around hers. Sliding his arm over her waist, he eased her back against him.

She humphed softly, but wriggled back, setting her hips against his abdomen. With a small sigh, she relaxed slightly.

He was still tense, his gut still churning. So much of his life, his future, was now riding on this, on her; he’d just placed his life in her hands—at least she hadn’t handed it straight back.

Which, realistically, was all he could ask of her at that point.

Lifting her hair aside, he pressed a kiss to her nape. “Go to sleep. You can take whatever time you need to think.”

After a moment, he murmured, “But when Lady Osbaldestone comes back up here and demands who I’ve chosen as my bride, I’ll have to tell her.”

Minerva snorted. Her lips curved, then, against every last expectation, she did as he’d bid her and fell fast asleep.

Seventeen

Hamish O’Loughlin, you mangy Scot, how dare you tell Royce to tell me he loves me!”

“Huh?” Hamish looked up from the sheep he was examining.

Folding her arms, Minerva fell to pacing alongside the pen.

Hamish studied her face. “You didn’t want to hear that he loves you?”

“Of course I would love to hear that he loves me—but how can he say such a thing? He’s a Varisey, for heaven’s sake.”

“Hmm.” Letting the sheep jump away, Hamish leaned against the railing. “Perhaps the same way I tell Moll that I love her.”

“But that’s you. You’re not—” She broke off. Halting, head rising, she blinked at him.

He gave her a cynical smile. “Aye—think on it. I’m as much a Varisey as he is.”

She frowned. “But you’re not…” She waved south, over the hills.

“Castle-bred? True. But perhaps that just means I never believed I wouldn’t love, not when the right woman came along.” He studied her face. “He didn’t tell you, did he?”

“No—he was honest. He says he’ll try—that he wants more of his marriage, but”—she drew in a huge breath—“he can’t promise to love me because he doesn’t know if he can.”

Hamish made a disgusted sound. “You’re a right pair. You’ve been in love with him—or at least waiting to fall in love with him—for decades, and now you have—”

“You

can’t know that.” She stared at him.

“Of course, I can. Not that he’s said all that much, but I can read between his lines, and yours, well enough—and you’re here, aren’t you?”

She frowned harder.