Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

No one knew, no one guessed; gradually all those involved slipped back into the ballroom, the men returning in jovial groups of three or more, the ladies ferrying Minerva back, ready with their tale to explain her absence.

And if the grandes dames wondered why Royce thereafter kept Minerva so closely beside him, why he so often drew her within the circle of his arm, if they wondered why she showed no inclination to stray, but instead often touched a hand to his arm, none of them voiced so much as a vague query.

The wedding celebrations of the tenth Duke and Duchess of Wolverstone were widely reported to have passed joyously, and—sadly for the gossipmongers—entirely without incident.

About a third of the guests left late that afternoon. It was evening before Royce and Minerva could disappear, could close the door of his sitting room on the world—and finally take stock.

She halted in the middle of the room, stood for one moment, then drew in a huge breath, raised her head, whirled—and plowed her fist into his arm. “Don’t you dare do such a thing again!”

As immovable as rock, and equally impassive, he merely looked down at her, arched an arrogant brow.

She wasn’t having that. She narrowed her eyes on his, stepped close and pointed a finger at his nose. “Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. What sort of maniac invites a deranged killer to shoot him?”

For a long moment, he looked down at her, then, his eyes locked on hers, he caught her hand, raised it, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “A maniac who loves you. To the depths of his cold, hardened, uninformed heart.”

Her lungs seized. She searched his eyes, replayed his words—savored the certainty that rang in them. Then she drew in a shaky breath, nodded. “I’m glad you’ve realized that. Phillip was useful for that much, at least.”

His lips quirked, but then he sobered. “Phillip.” He shook his head, his expression turning grim. “I suspected the last traitor was someone I knew, but…”

“You never imagined the traitor had become a traitor because of you, so you never suspected anyone so close.” She stepped back, with the hand he still held drew him with her. “There’s more—Phillip ranted a lot while he was waiting for me to recover. I already had, but was pretending to be unconscious, so I heard. Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you. You need to hear.”

He sank heavily into one of the armchairs, pulled her down onto his lap. “Tell me.”

Leaning against his chest, his arms around her, she recounted as much as she could remember.

“So it was his father’s and my grandfather’s attention he cra

ved?”

“Not just their attention—their appreciation and acknowledgment that he was your equal. He felt…impotent when it came to them—no matter what he did, what he achieved, they never noticed him.”

Royce shook his head. “I never saw it.” He grimaced. “At least not that they lauded me and not Phillip, but I was rarely there to hear either.” He shook his head again. “My uncle and grandfather would be horrified to know they were the cause of such traitorous acts.”

“The underlying cause,” she sternly corrected him. “They were entirely unwitting—it was Phillip’s mania, first to last. He twisted his mind—no one else can be blamed.”

He cocked a brow at her. “Not even me?”

“Least of all you.”

The fierceness in her tone, in her eyes as she turned her head to meet his, warmed him.

Then she frowned. “One thing I’ve been puzzling over—if Phillip wanted you dead, and he definitely did, more than anything else, then why did he help rescue you from the river? Surely it would have been easy to miss catching you, and then your death would have been a sad accident.”

He sighed. “In hindsight, I think he did intend to let me drown. He couldn’t not help in the rescue because all the others were there, but by being the last in the line…” He tightened his arms about her, as ever anchored by her warmth, her physical presence. “At the time, I thought I wouldn’t be able to reach his hand. It was just out of my reach—or so I thought. In desperation I made a herculean effort—and managed to grab his wrist. And once I had, he couldn’t easily have broken my hold—not without being obvious. So he had to pull me in—an opportunity he missed, by pure luck.”

Her head shifted against his coat as she shook it. “No. You weren’t meant to die—he was. His time for being the last traitor had run out.”

He let her certainty seep into him, soothing, reassuring. Then he shifted. “Incidentally…” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew her knife. Held it up where both of them could see it. “This, as I recall, was once mine.”

She took it, turned it in her hands. “Yes, it was.”

“What on earth made you wear it—today, of all days?”

He’d tipped his head so he could see her face. Her lips curved in pure affection. “ Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.’ I had the crown as something very old, my gown as the new, my mother’s wedding favor as something borrowed, but I didn’t have anything blue.” She pointed to the cornflower-blue sapphire set in the dagger’s hilt. “Except for this—and it seemed oddly fitting.” Her smile deepened; slanting her eyes sideways, she caught his gaze. “I thought of you discovering it when we came back here to continue our celebrations.”

He laughed; he hadn’t thought it possible after all that had happened, but the look in her eyes—the pure suggestion—made him laugh. He refocused on the blade. “I gave it to you when you were what? Nine?”

“Eight. You were sixteen. You gave it to me that summer and taught me how to throw it.”