Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

The huge wrought-iron gates lay ahead, set wide as they always were; the depiction of a snarling wolf’s head in the center of each matched the bronze statues atop the stone columns from which the gates hung.

With a flick of the reins, he sent the horses racing through. As if sensing the end of their journey, they leaned into the harness; trees flashed past, massive ancient oaks bordering the lawns that rolled away on either side. He barely noticed, his attention—all his senses—locked on the building towering before him.

It was as massive and as anchored in the soil as the oaks. It had stood for so many centuries it had become part of the landscape.

He slowed the horses as they neared the forecourt, drinking in the gray stone, the heavy lintels, the deeply recessed windows, diamond paned and leaded, set into the thick walls. The front door lay within a high stone arch; it had originally been a portcullis, not a door, the front hall beyond, with its arched ceiling, originally a tunnel leading into the inner bailey. The front façade, three stories high, had been formed from the castle’s inner bailey wall; the outer bailey wall had been dismantled long ago, while the keep itself lay deeper within the house.

Letting the horses walk along the façade, Royce gave himself the moment, let emotion reign for just that while. Yet the indescribable joy of being home again was deeply shadowed, caught up, tangled, in a web of darker feelings; being this close to his father—to where his father should have been, but no longer was—only whetted the already razor-sharp edge of his restless, unforgiving anger.

Irrational anger—anger with no object. Yet he still felt it.

Dragging in a breath, filling his lungs with the cool, crisp air, he set his jaw and sent the horses trotting on around the house.

As he rounded the north wing and the stables came into view, he reminded himself that he would find no convenient opponent at the castle with whom he could loose his temper, with whom he could release the deep, abiding anger.

Resigned himself to another night of a splitting head and no sleep.

His father was gone.

It wasn’t supposed to have been like this.

Ten minutes later, he strode into the house via a side door, the one he’d always used. The few minutes in the stables hadn’t helped his temper; the head stableman, Milbourne, hailed from long ago, and had offered his condolences and welcomed him back.

He’d acknowledged the well-meant words with a curt nod, left the post-horses to Milbourne’s care, then remembered and paused to tell him that Henry—Milbourne’s nephew—would be arriving shortly with Royce’s own pair. He’d wanted to ask who else of the long-ago staff were still there, but hadn’t; Milbourne had looked too understanding, leaving him feeling…exposed.

Not a feeling he liked.

His greatcoat swirling about his booted calves, he headed for the west stairs. Pulling off his driving gloves, he stuffed them into a pocket, then took the shallow steps three at a time.

He’d spent the last forty-eight hours alone, had just arrived—and now needed to be alone again, to absorb and in some way subdue the unexpectedly intense feelings returning like this had stirred. He needed to quiet his restless temper and leash it more firmly.

The first floor gallery lay ahead. He took the last stairs in a rush, stepped into the gallery, swung left toward the west tower—and collided with a woman.

He heard her gasp.

Sensed her stumbling and caught her—closed his hands about her shoulders and steadied her. Held her.

Even before he looked into her face, he didn’t want to let her go.

His gaze locked on her eyes, wide and flaring, rich brown with gold flecks, framed by lush brown lashes. Her long hair was lustrous wheat-gold silk, wound and anchored high on her head. Her skin was creamy perfection, her nose patrician straight, her face heart-shaped, her chin neatly rounded. Itemizing those features in a glance, his gaze fixed on her lips. Rose-petal pink, parted in shocked surprise, the lower lushly tempting, the urge to crush them beneath his was nearly overpowering.

She’d taken him unawares; he hadn’t had the slightest inkling she’d been there, gliding along, the thick runner muffling her footsteps. He’d patently shocked her; her wide eyes and parted lips said she hadn’t heard him on the stairs, either—he’d probably been moving silently, as he habitually did.

She’d staggered back; an inch separated his hard body from her much softer one. He knew it was soft, had felt her ripe figure imprinted down the front of him, seared on his senses in that instant of fleeting contact.

On a rational level he wondered how a lady of her type came to be wandering these halls, while on a more primitive plane he battled the urge to sweep her up, carry her into his room, and ease the sudden, shockingly intense ache in his groin—and distract his temper in the only possible way, one he hadn’t even dreamed would be available.

That more primitive side of him saw it as only right that this female—whoever she was—should be walking just there, at just that time, and was just the right female to render him that singular service.

Anger, even rage, could convert into lust; he was familiar with the transformation, yet never had it struck with such speed or strength. Never before had the result threatened his control.

The consuming lust he felt for her in that instant was so intense it shocked even him.

Enough to have him slapping the urge down, clenching his jaw, tightening his grip, and bodily setting her aside.

He had to force his hands to release her.

“My apologies.” His voice was close to a growl. With a curt nod in her direction, without again meeting her eyes, he strode on, swiftly putting distance between them.