Felt warmth of a different kind slowly expand from his center out.
His gaze on the door through which his chatelaine had fled, he slowly thawed.
Late that night, lounging shoulder to the wall in the darkness of an embrasure in the keep’s gallery, Royce broodingly stared at Minerva’s bedroom door.
The only thought in his mind was whether her caring about him as she clearly did was sufficient excuse for what he was about to do.
He understood perfectly well why the need to bed her had suddenly escalated to a level significantly beyond his control. Dicing with death had that effect, made one only too aware of one’s mortality, and commensurately fired the need to live, to prove one was vitally alive in the most fundamental way.
What he was feeling, how he was reacting, was all perfectly natural, normal, logical. To be expected.
He wasn’t at all sure she’d see it that way.
But he needed her tonight.
And not solely for his selfish self.
While in the matter of the rescue, he and she had been in the right, so, too, had Margaret. He’d accepted the need to secure the succession; he couldn’t continue to put off speaking and gaining Minerva’s agreement to be his bride.
To be the mother of his son—the eleventh Duke of Wolverstone.
At this moment in time, all roads in his life led to this place, and compelled him to act, to take the next step.
The castle had grown quiet; all the guests were abed, whoever’s bed they were gracing that night. Within the keep, only he and Minerva remained; all the staff had long retired.
There was no sense dallying any longer.
He was about to push away from the wall, had tensed to take the first fateful step toward her door, when it opened.
He froze, watched through the darkness as Minerva came out. She was still fully dressed; clutching a shawl about her shoulders, she glanced right, then left. She didn’t notice him, standing perfectly still in the enveloping shadows.
Quietly closing her door, she set off down the corridor.
Silent as a wraith, he followed.
Twelve
A full moon rode the sky; Minerva didn’t need a candle to slip down the main stairs and follow the west wing corridor to the music room. Once on the ground floor, she walked quickly, openly; all the guests were on the floor above.
She’d loaned Cicely, a distant Varisey cousin, her mother’s pearl brooch to anchor the spangled shawl Cicely had worn as the Princess of France in that evening’s performance of Love’s Labour’s Lost—and had forgotten to take it back. The brooch was valuable, but much more than that, it was one of the few mementos she had of her mother; she wasn’t of a mind to risk leaving it jumbled with the other pieces of finery in the costume box, not even just until tomorrow.
Not that she imagined anyone would steal it, but…she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she had the brooch back.
Reaching the music room, she opened the door and went in. Moonlight streamed through the wide window, flooding the stage, providing more than enough light. As she walked up the aisle between the rows of chairs, her mind drifted to Royce—and the sharp clutch of fear, almost paralyzing in strength, that had gripped her when she’d seen him in the river, with his burden sweeping wide around the spit where his would-be rescuers had waited…
For one crystal-clear instant in time, she’d thought she—they—would lose him. Even now…She slowed, closed her eyes, drew in a slow, steadying breath. All had turned out well—he was safe upstairs, and the girl was at her home, no doubt cosseted and warm in her bed.
Exhaling and opening her eyes, she continued on more briskly, stepping up onto the low stage. The trunk of costumes stood in the lee of the paneled left wing. Beside it sat a box full of shawls, scarves, kerchiefs, mixed with fake daggers, berets, a paste tiara and crown, all the smaller items that went with the costumes.
Crouching by the box, she started sorting through the materials, looking for the spangled shawl.
With hands and eyes engaged, her thoughts, prodded by Margaret’s outburst, and by comments she’d subsequently heard, not just from the ladies but from some of the men as well, roamed, circling the question of whether she’d done the right thing in warning Royce of the girl’s danger.
Not all who’d commented had assumed she’d expected him to rescue the girl, but she had. She’d expected him to act precisely as he had—not in the specifics, but in the sense that he would do all he could to save the child.
She hadn’t expected him to risk his life, not to the point where his death had become a real possibility. She didn’t think he’d foreseen that, either, but in such situations there never was time for cold-blooded calculations, weighing every chance.
When faced with life-and-death situations, one had to act—and trust that one’s skills would see one through. As Royce’s had. He’d given orders to his cousins and they’d instinctively obeyed; now they might question the w