Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

She gestured with her basket. “We should be going.”

He nodded, inclined his head to the women. “Ladies.” Turning, he ducked out of the cottage.

After exchanging impressed looks with the crofter women, Minerva followed. Crossing the yard to the curricle, she saw and heard enough to know that the children had lost all fear of their duke; their eyes now shone with a species of hero worship more personal than simple awe.

His father had had no real relationship, no personal interaction, with his people; he’d managed them from a distance, through Falwell and Kelso, and had spoken with any directly only when absolutely necessary. He’d therefore only spoken to the senior men.

Royce, it seemed, might be different. He certainly lacked his father’s insistence on a proper distance being preserved between his ducal self and the masses.

Once again he took the basket, stowed it, then handed her up. Retrieving the reins from the oldest lad, he joined her. She held her tongue and let him direct the children back. Round-eyed, they complied, watched as he carefully turned the skittish pair, then waved wildly and sang their farewells as he guided the curricle down the lane.

As the cottages fell behind, the peace, serenity—and isolation—of the hills closed around them. Reminded of her goal, she thought quickly, then said, “Now we’re out this way, there’s a well over toward Shillmoor that’s been giving trouble.” She met his hard gaze as his head swung her way. “We should take a look.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then had to look back to his horses. The only reply he gave was a grunt, but when they reached the bottom of the lane, he turned the horses’ heads west, toward Shillmoor.

Rather than, as she was perfectly certain he’d intended to, make for the nearest secluded lookout.

Sitting back, she hid a smile. As long as she avoided bei

ng alone with him in a setting he could use, she would be safe, and he wouldn’t be able to advance his cause.

It was early evening when Royce stalked into his dressing room and started stripping off his clothes while Trevor poured the last of a succession of buckets of steaming water into the bath in the bathing chamber beyond.

His mood was distinctly grim. His chatelaine had successfully filled their entire day; they’d left the little hamlet near Shillmoor with barely enough time to drive back to the castle and bathe before dinner.

And after overseeing the final stages of reconstruction of the well’s crumbling walls and sagging roof, then taking an active part in reassembling and correctly recommissioning the mechanism for pulling water up from the depths of the very deep well, he needed a bath.

The local men had taken the day off from working their fields and had gathered to repair the aging well, a necessity before winter; when he and Minerva had driven up, they’d been well advanced with the repairs to the walls. Their ideas for shoring up the roof, however, were a recipe for disaster; he’d stepped in and used his unquestioned authority to redesign and direct the construction of a structure that would have some hope of withstanding the weight of snow they commonly experienced in those parts.

Far from resenting his interference, the men, and the women, too, had been relieved and sincerely grateful. They’d shared their lunch—cider, thick slabs of cheese, and freshly baked rye bread, which he and Minerva had graciously accepted—then been even more amazed when, after watching the men scratch their heads and mutter over the mechanism they’d disassembled, he’d shrugged out of his hacking jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work with them, sorting the various parts and helping reassemble, realign, and reposition the mechanism—he was taller and stronger than any of those there—finally resulting in a rejuvenated and properly functioning well.

There’d been cheers all around as one of the women had pulled up the first brimming pail.

He and Minerva had left with a cacophony of thanks ringing in their ears, but it hadn’t escaped his notice how surprised and intrigued by him the villagers had been. Clearly, his way of dealing with them was vastly different from that of his sire.

Minerva had told him he didn’t need to be like his father; it seemed he was proving her correct. She should be pleased…and she was. Her excursions had ensured she won the day—that she had triumphed in the battle of wills, and wits, he and she were engaged in.

To him, the outcome was a foregone conclusion; he did not doubt she would end in his bed. Why she was resisting so strongly remained a mystery—and an ongoing challenge.

Boots removed, he stood and peeled off his breeches and stockings. Naked, he walked into the bathing chamber, and stood looking down at the steam wreathing above the water’s surface.

His chatelaine was the first woman he’d ever had to exert himself to win, to battle for in even the most minor sense. Despite the annoyance, the frequent irritations, the constant irk of sexual denial, he couldn’t deny he found the challenge—the chase—intriguing.

He glanced down. It was equally impossible to deny he found her challenge, and her, arousing.

Stepping into the tub, he sank down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The day might have been hers, but the night would be his.

He walked into the drawing room feeling very much a wolf anticipating his next meal. He located his chatelaine, standing before the hearth in her black gown with its modestly cut neckline, and amended the thought: a hunger-ravaged wolf slavering in expectation.

He started toward her. Within two steps, he registered that something was afoot; his sisters, his cousins, and those others still at the castle were abuzz and atwitter, the excitement of their conversations a hum all around him.

Suspicions had started forming before he reached Minerva. Margaret stood beside her; his elder sister turned as he neared, her face alight in a way he’d forgotten it could be. “Royce—Minerva’s made the most wonderful suggestion.”

Even before Margaret rattled on, he knew to his bones that he wasn’t going to share her sentiment.

“Plays—Shakespeare’s plays. There’s more than enough of us who’ve decided to stay to be able to perform one play each night—to entertain us until the fair. Aurelia and I felt that, as it’s now a week since the funeral, and given this is as private a party as could be, then there really could be no objections on the grounds of propriety.” Margaret looked at him, dark eyes alive. “What do you think?”

He thought his chatelaine had been exceedingly clever. He looked at her; she returned his gaze levelly, no hint of gloating in her expression.