Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

Conqueror was in the lead. Much the same size as his son, yet heavier with age, the big gray slowed, ears flicking back and forth as he eyed Royce.

Halting Sword by the fence, Royce leaned over and held out his hand, a dried apple on his palm. “Here, boy.”

Conqueror whinnied and came forward, lipped the apple from Royce’s palm, chewed, then leaned over the rail and—ignoring his son—butted Royce.

He grinned, patting the great head. “Remember me, do you?”

Conqueror shook his head, mane dancing, then he noticed Sword’s interest in the mares who’d followed him to the fence.

With a thunderous snort, Conqueror moved forward, pushing the mares away, herding them back.

Put in his place—second to Conqueror’s harem—Royce sat and watched the small herd move away.

Settling back in the saddle, he patted Sword’s sleek neck, then looked around. They were high on the rise of Castle Hill, north of the castle; looking down the valley, he could see the massive bulk of his home bathed in bright sunlight. It was barely noon.

Turning, he traced the valley northward, picking out the brown track of Clennell Street as it wound its way up through the hills. Temptation whispered.

He hadn’t made any appointments for the afternoon.

The restlessness that had plagued him even from before he’d learned of his father’s death, brought on, he suspected, by having to end Dalziel’s reign while having no alternative life organized and waiting, then compounded by being thrust unprepared into the ducal harness, still roiled and churned inside, rising up at odd moments to distract and taunt him.

To unexpectedly undermine his natural Varisey confidence, and leave him uncertain.

Not a feeling he’d ever liked, and, at thirty-seven, one that irked. Mightily.

He glanced at Sword, then flicked the reins. “We’ve time enough to escape.”

Urging the gray forward, he set course for the border and Scotland beyond.

He’d said he’d deal with O’Loughlin.

Royce found the farmhouse easily enough—the hills didn’t change—but what had changed was the farmhouse itself. When last he’d seen it, it had been little more than a crofter’s cottage with a lean-to barn alongside. Extended and refashioned, long and low, faced with rough-cut stone, thick timbers and with good slate on the roof, the house—now definitely a farmhouse—appeared warm and quietly prosperous, nestling back against a protecting rise, with a new, good-sized barn to one side.

A low stone wall circled the yard; as Royce walked the tiring Sword through the opening, a dog started barking.

Sword shifted, skittered.

The dog was chained inside the open barn door.

Drawing rein, Royce halted and sat patiently waiting for his calm, his lack of reaction, to sink in; once Sword had noticed and quieted, he dismounted.

Just as the farmhouse door opened and a mountain of a man strode out.

Royce met his half brother’s blue eyes; other than their height and the width of their shoulders, the only physical resemblance lay in the set of their eyes, nose, and chin. Hamish’s brown curls were starting to gray, but otherwise he seemed in his usual rude health. Royce smiled and stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Hamish.”

His hand was engulfed, and then so was he, hauled into one of his half brother’s bear hugs.

“Ro!” Hamish released him with a cuff to the back that—if he hadn’t been expecting it—would have made Royce stagger. Grabbing his shoulders, Hamish searched his face. “Regardless of the reason, it’s damned good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.” Hamish released him and Royce glanced at the hills, at the view across their peaks to Windy Gyle. “I knew I missed it—I hadn’t realized by how much.”

“Och, well, you’re back now, even if it took the old bastard dying to do it.”

“The old bastard” was Hamish’s way of referring to their father, not an insult, but a term of affection.

Royce’s lips twisted. “Yes, well, he’s gone, which is one reason I’m here. There are things—”

“To talk about—but after you’ve come in an’ met Molly and the bairns.” Hamish glanced at the barn, then pointed at a small face peeking out. “Hoi—Dickon! Come and see to this horse…” Hamish glanced at Sword, shifting nervously at the end of the rein.