Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

Macgregor’s oldest son, Sean, appeared, riding one of their workhorses. He slowed, halted just inside the yard, and dismounted, leaving the traces he’d used as reins dragging. He hurried to Minerva. “The rest of the lads and me are working the upper fields. We saw you come riding in.” He looked at the smaller cottage. “Is that the new duke in there with Da?”

“Yes, but—” Before she could assure him that his father and his duke were managing perfectly well, Royce led the way out of the tiny cottage, ducking low to miss the lintel. He glanced back as Macgregor followed, then came on.

“This is Sean Macgregor, Macgregor’s oldest son. Sean, Wolverstone.” Minerva hid a grin at Sean’s astonishment when Royce nodded and, apparently without thought, offered his hand.

After a stunned instant, Sean quickly gripped it and shook.

Releasing him, Royce turned to the last cottage. “I should look at them all while I’m here.”

“Aye.” Macgregor stumped past him. “Come along, then. Not much different to the others, but there’s a crooked corner in this one.”

He beckoned Royce to follow, and he did.

Sean stood, mouth a-cock, and watched as Royce ducked through the cottage door in his father’s wake. After a moment, he said, “He’s really looking.”

“Indeed. And when he comes out, I suspect he’ll want to discuss what can be done.” Minerva looked at Sean. “Can you speak for your brothers?”

He shifted his gaze to her face, nodded. “Aye.”

“In that case, I suggest we wait here.”

Her prophecy proved correct. When Royce emerged from the dimness of the third cottage, his lips were set in a determined line. He met her gaze, then turned to Macgregor, who had followed him into the mild sunshine. “Let’s talk.”

They—Royce, Minerva, Macgregor, and Sean—sat at the deal table in the big cottage and thrashed out an arrangement that satisfied them all. While not condoning Kelso’s and Falwell’s tack, Royce made it clear that the precedent that would be set if the cottages were repaired under the current lease was not one he would countenance; instead, he offered to refashion the lease. It took them an hour to agree on the basic principles; deciding how to get the work done took mere minutes.

Somewhat to her surprise, Royce took charge. “Your lads need to give their time to the harvest first. Once that’s in, they can help with the building. You”—he looked at Macgregor—“will supervise. It’ll be up to you to make sure the work is done as it should be. I’ll come up with Hancock”—he glanced at Minerva—“I assume he’s still the castle builder?” When she nodded, he went on, “I’ll bring him here, and show him what we need done. We have less than three months before the first snow—I want all three cottages leveled and three new ones completed before winter sets in.”

Macgregor blinked; Sean still looked stunned.

When they left the cottage, Minerva was beaming. So, too, were Macgregor and Sean. Royce, in contrast, had his inscrutable mask on.

She hurried to get her horse, Rangonel. There was a convenient log by the fence for a mounting block; scrambling into her saddle, she settled her skirts.

After shaking hands with the Macgregors, Royce cast her a glance, then retrieved Sword and mounted. She urged Rangonel alongside as he turned down the track.

At the last, she waved to the Macgregors. Still beaming, they waved back. Facing forward, she glanced at Royce. “Am I allowed to say I’m impressed?”

He grunted.

Smiling, she followed him back to the castle.

“Damn it!” With the sounds of a London evening—the rattle of wheels, the clop of hooves, the raucous cries of jarveys as they tacked down fashionable Jermyn Street—filling his ears, he read the short note again, then reached for the brandy his man had fortuitously just set on the table by his elbow.

He took a long swallow, read the note again, then tossed it on the table. “The duke’s dead. I’ll have to go north to attend his funeral.”

There was no help for it; if he didn’t appear, his absence would be noted. But he was far from thrilled by the prospect. Until that moment, his survival plan had revolved around total and complete avoidance, but a ducal funeral in the family eradicated that option.

The duke was dead. More to the point, his nemesis was now the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.

It would have happened sometime, but why the hell now? Royce had barely shaken the dust of Whitehall from his elegantly shod heels—he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten the one traitor he’d failed to bring to justice.

He swore, let his head fall back against the chair. He’d always assumed time—the simple passage of it—would be his salvation. That it would dull Royce’s memories, his drive, distract him with other things.

Then again…

Straightening, he took another sip of brandy. Perhaps having a dukedom to manage—one unexpectedly thrust upon him immediately following an exile of sixteen years—was precisely the distraction Royce needed to drag and hold his attention from his past.

Royce had always had power; his inheriting the title changed little in that regard.