Mastered by Love (Bastion Club 8)

Royce walked on, but slowed. He didn’t like the look in Margaret’s eyes, or her expression, and even less her tone. Minerva was no servant, not even to the family. She wasn’t a penniless relative, or anything of the sort.

She was his chatelaine, and rather more, even if Margaret didn’t yet know it.

“Yes?”

That was Minerva prompting Margaret, who had thus far remained silent.

Margaret waited until he’d taken two more steps before saying—hissing—“How dare you?” There was a wealth of furious, frightened venom in her voice; it shook as she went on, “How dare you put the entire dukedom at risk for a crofter’s brat!”

Royce halted.

“The Honeymans are your brother’s tenants, but regardless, saving that girl was the right thing to do.”

He turned.

Saw Margaret draw in a breath. Her color high, eyes locked on Minerva, she all but shrieked, “For some stupid, silly girl, you risked—”

“Margaret.” Royce walked back toward her.

She spun to face him. “And you! You’re no better! Did you spare so much as a thought for us—for me, Aurelia, and Susannah, your sisters!—before you—”

“Enough.”

His tone was all cold steel; it had her clenching her fists and swallowing the rest of her tirade. He halted before her, close enough so she had to look up into his face—close enough that she was just a touch intimidated, as well she should be.

“No, I didn’t think of you, Aurelia, or Susannah—you all have wealthy husbands to support you, regardless of my continuing health. I didn’t put you in danger by saving that girl. Her life was in the balance, and I would have been greatly disappointed had Minerva not warned me. I was in a position to save her—a girl who was born on my lands.”

He looked down into his sister’s mulish face. “What Minerva did was right. What I did was right. What you appear to have forgotten is that my people—even silly young girls—are my responsibility.”

Margaret drew in a long, tight breath. “Papa would never—”

“Indeed.” This time his voice cut. “But I am not Papa.”

For a moment, he held Margaret silent with his gaze, then, unhurriedly and deliberately, turned toward the castle. “Come, Minerva.”

She quickly caught up to him, walking alongside.

He lengthened his stride; the other ladies were now far ahead. “I need to get out of these wet clothes.” He spoke conversationally, signaling he intended to leave Margaret’s little scene behind, metaphorically as well as physically.

Minerva nodded, tight-lipped. “Precisely.” A heartbeat passed, then she went on, “I really don’t know why Margaret couldn’t have waited until later to rail at me—it’s not as if I won’t be around. If she was really worried about your health, she’d have done better not to delay us.” She glanced sharply his way. “Can you go faster? Perha

ps you ought to run?”

“Why?”

“So you’ll warm up.” They were nearing the mill. Raising a hand, she pushed his shoulder. “Go that way—through the mill and over the race. It’s faster than going down to the bridge and across.”

She usually avoided touching him, yet now she kept pushing, so he diverted onto the paved path leading into the mill. “Minerva—”

“We need to get you to the castle, out of those wet clothes and into a hot bath as soon as possible.” She prodded him toward the gangplank. “So move!”

He almost saluted, but did as she ordered. From Margaret, who thought of no one but herself, to Minerva, who was totally focused…on him.

On his well-being.

It took an instant for that to fully sink in.

He glanced at her as, her hands now locked about one of his elbows, she hurried him out of the mill. Her focus was on the castle, on getting him—all but propelling him—as fast as possible inside. Her intensity wasn’t just that of a chatelaine doing her duty; it was a great deal more.