Mastered By Love

Eleven

B y lunchtime the next day, Royce was hot, flushed, sweaty-and leaning against a railing with a group of men, all estate workers, in a field on one of his tenant farms, sharing ale, bread, and bits of crumbly local cheese.

The men around him had almost forgotten he was their duke; he’d almost forgotten, too. With his hacking jacket and neckerchief off, and his sleeves rolled up, his dark hair and all else covered in the inevitable detritus of cutting and baling hay, except for the quality of his clothes and his features, he could have been a farmer who’d stopped by to help.

Instead, he was the ducal landowner lured there by his chatelaine.

He’d wondered what she’d planned for the day-what her chosen path to avoid him would be. He’d missed her at breakfast, but while pacing before the study window dictating to Handley, he’d seen her riding off across his fields.

After finishing with Handley, he’d followed.

Of course, she hadn’t expected him to turn up at the haymaking, let alone that their day would evolve as it had, due to the impulse that had prompted him to offer to help.

He’d cut hay before, long ago, sneaking out of the castle and, against his father’s wishes, rubbing shoulders with the estate workers. His father had been a stickler for protocol and propriety, but he had never felt the need to adhere to and insist on every single privilege at every turn.

Some of the men remembered him from long ago, and hadn’t been backward over accepting his help-tendered, he had to admit, more to see how Minerva would react than anything else.

She’d met his gaze, then turned and offered to help the women. They’d worked alongside those they normally directed for the past several hours, he swinging a scythe in line with the men, she following with the women, gathering the hay and deftly binding it into sheaves.

What had started out as an unvoiced contest had evolved into a day of exhausting but satisfying labor. He’d never worked so physically hard in his life, but he, and his body, felt unexpectedly relaxed.

From where the women had gathered, Minerva watched Royce leaning against the fence enclosing the field they’d almost finished cutting, watched his throat-the long column bare-work as he swallowed ale from a mug topped up from a jug the men were passing around-and quietly marveled.

He was so unlike his father on so many different counts.

He stood among the men, sharing the camaraderie induced by joint labor, not the least concerned that his shirt, damp with honest sweat, clung to his chest, outlining the powerful muscles of his torso, flexing and shifting with every movement. His dark hair was not just rumpled, but dusty, his skin faintly flushed from the sun. His long, lean legs, encased in boots his precious Trevor would no doubt screech over later, were stretched out before him; as she watched he shifted, cocking one hard thigh against the fence behind.

With no coat and his shirt sticking, she could see his body clearly-could better appreciate the broad shoulders, the wide, sleekly muscled chest tapering to narrow hips and those long, strong, rider’s legs.

To any female this side of the grave, the view was mouthwatering; she wasn’t the only one drinking it in. With all ducal trappings stripped away, leaving only the man beneath, he looked more overtly earthily sexual than she’d ever seen him.

She forced herself to look away, to give her attention to the women and keep it there, pretending to be absorbed in their conversation. The quick glances the younger women cast toward the fence broke her resolve-and she found herself looking his way again. Wondering when he’d learned to use a scythe; his effortless swing wasn’t something anyone just picked up.

Their lunch consumed, the men were talking to him avidly; from their gestures and his, he was engaging in one of his disguised interrogations.

If anything, she’d increased her assessment of his intelligence, and his ability to garner and catalog facts-and that assessment had already been high. While both were attributes he’d always had, they’d developed significantly over the years.

In contrast, his ability with children was a skill she never would have guessed he possessed. He certainly hadn’t inherited it; his parents had adhered to the maxim that children should be seen and not heard. Yet when they’d broken for refreshment earlier, Royce had noticed the workers’ children eyeing Sword, not so patiently waiting tied to a nearby post; waving aside their mothers’ recommendations not to let them pester him, he’d walked over and let the children do precisely that.

He’d answered their questions with a patience she found remarkable in him, then, to everyone’s surprise, he’d mounted and, one by one, taken each child up before him for a short walk.

The children now thought him a god. Their parents’ estimation wasn’t far behind.

She knew he’d had little to nothing to do with children; even those of his friends were yet babes in arms. Where he’d learned how to deal with youngsters, let alone acquired the requisite patience, a trait he in the main possessed very little of, she couldn’t imagine.

Realizing she was still staring, broodingly, at him, she forced her gaze back to the women surrounding her. But their talk couldn’t hold her interest, couldn’t draw her senses, or even her mind, from him.

All of which ran directly counter to her intentions; out of the castle and surrounded by his workers, she’d thought she’d be safe from his seduction.

Physically, she’d been correct, but in other ways her attraction to him was deepening and broadening in ways she hadn’t-couldn’t have-foreseen. Worse, the unexpected allure was unintentional, uncalculated. It wasn’t in his nature to radically alter his behavior to impress.

“Ah, well.” The oldest woman stood. “Time to get back to it if we’re to get all those sheaves stacked before dusk.”

The other women rose and brushed off their aprons; the men saw, and stowed their mugs and jug, hitched up their trousers, and headed back into the field. Royce went with a group to one of the large drays; seizing the moment, Minerva went to check on Rangonel.

Satisfied he was comfortable, she headed to where the others were readying an area for the first haystack. Rounding a dray piled with sheaves, she halted-faced with a fascinating sight.

Royce stood five paces ahead of her, his back to her, looking down at a small girl, no more than five years old, planted directly in his path, nearly tipping backward as she looked all the way up into his face.

Minerva watched as he smoothly crouched before the girl, and waited.

Entirely at ease, the girl studied his face with open inquisitiveness. “What’s your name?” she eventually lisped.

Royce hesitated; Minerva could imagine him sorting through the various answers he could give. But eventually he said, “Royce.”

The girl tilted her head, frowned as she studied him. “Ma said you were a wolf.”

Minerva couldn’t resist shifting sideways, trying to see his face. His profile confirmed he was fighting not to smile-wolfishly.

“My teeth aren’t big enough.”

The poppet eyed him measuringly, then nodded sagely. “Your snout isn’t long enough, either, and you’re not hairy.”

Her own lips compressed, Minerva saw his jaw clench, holding back a laugh. After an instant, he nodded. “Very true.”

The girl reached out, with one small hand clasped two of his fingers. “We should go and help now. You can walk with me. I know how the haystack’s made-I’ll show you.”

She tugged, and Royce obediently rose.

Minerva watched as the most powerful duke in all of England allowed a five-year-old poppet to lead him to where his workers had gathered, and blithely instruct him in how to stack sheaves.

Days passed, and Royce advanced his cause not one whit. No matter what he did, Minerva evaded him at every turn, surrounding herself with either the estate people or the castle’s guests.

The plays had proved a major success; they now filled the evenings, allowing her to use the company of the other ladies to elude him every night. He’d reached the point of questioning his not exactly rational but unquestionably honorable disinclination to follow her into her room, trampling on her privacy to press his seduction, his suit.

While playing a long game was his forte, inaction was another matter; lack of progress on any front had always irked.

Lack of progress on this front positively hurt.

And today, the entire company had decided to go to church, presumably to atone for the many sins they’d committed. Despite none of those sins being his, he’d felt obliged to attend, too, especially as Minerva had been going, so what else was he to do?

Wallowing in bed when that bed was otherwise empty-devoid of soft, warm, willing female-had never appealed.

Seated in the front pew, Minerva beside him, with his sisters beyond her, he let the sermon roll over him, freeing his mind to range where it would-the latest prod to his escalating frustration was its first stop.

They’d chosen Midsummer Night’s Dream for their play last night-and Minerva had suggested he play Oberon, a chant promptly taken up by the rest of the company in full voice. The twist of fate that had seen her caught by the same company’s brilliant notion that she play Titania, queen to his king, had been, in his opinion, nothing more than her due.

Given their natures, given the situation, even though their exchanges on stage had been oblique, the palpable tension between them had puzzled a number of their audience.

That tension, and its inevitable effects, had resulted in another near-sleepless night.

He slanted a glance to his right, to where she, his fixation, sat, her gaze dutifully trained on Mr. Cribthorn, the vicar, rambling from his pulpit about long-dead Corinthians.

She knew who and what he was; no one knew him better. Yet she’d deliberately set out to cross swords with him-and thus far she was winning.

Accepting defeat on any stage had never come easily; his only recent failure had been over bringing to justice the last traitor he and his men knew lurked somewhere in the government. There were some things fate didn’t allow.

Be that as it may, accepting defeat with Minerva was…entirely beyond his scope. One way or another she was going to be his-his lover first, then his wife.

Her capitulation on both counts would happen-had to happen-soon. He’d told the grandes dames a week, and that week was nearly past. While he doubted they’d haul themselves all the way back to Northumbria if they didn’t see a notice in the Gazette this coming week, he wouldn’t put it past them to start sending candidates north-in carriages designed to break axles and wheels as they neared Wolverstone’s gates.

The vicar called the congregation to their feet for the benediction; everyone rose. Subsequently, once the vicar had passed on his way up the aisle, Royce stepped out of the pew, stepped back to let Minerva go ahead of him, then followed, leaving his sisters trailing shawls and reticules in his wake.

As usual, they were the first out of the church, but he’d noticed one of his more affluent farmers among the worshippers; as they stepped down to the path, he bent his head close beside Minerva’s. “I want to have a word with Cherry.”

She glanced back and up at him.

And time stopped.

With Margaret and Aurelia distracting the vicar, they were the only two in the churchyard-and they were very close, their lips inches apart.

Her eyes, rich browns flecked with gold, widened; her breath caught, suspended. Her gaze lowered to his lips.

His dropped to hers…

He dragged in a breath and straightened.

She blinked, and stepped away. “Ah…I must speak with Mrs. Cribthorn, and some of the other ladies.”

He nodded stiffly, forced himself to turn away. Just as the rest of the congregation came flooding down the steps.

Searching for Cherry, he set his jaw. Soon. She was going to lie beneath him very soon.

Minerva let a moment pass while her heart slowed and her breathing evened, then she drew a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and went to speak with the vicar’s wife about the preparations for the fair.

She was turning from Mrs. Cribthorn when Susannah approached.

“There you are!” Susannah gestured to where the castle’s guests were piling into various carriages. “We’re heading back-do you want to come, or do you have to wait for Royce?”

Royce had taken her up in his curricle for the drive to the church. “I…” Can’t possibly leave yet. Minerva swallowed the words. As a recognized representative of the castle, the largest and socially dominant house in the district, it simply wasn’t done to leave without chatting with their neighbors; the locals would see that as a slight. Neither she nor Royce could yet leave, a fact Susannah should have known. “No. I’ll wait.”

Susannah shrugged, gathering her shawl. “Commendably dutiful-I hope Royce appreciates it, and that you aren’t bored to tears.” With a commiserating grimace, she headed for the carriages.

Her last comment had been entirely sincere; the late duke’s daughters had adopted their father’s social views. Old Henry had rarely come to church, leaving it to his wife, and later Minerva alone, to carry the castle flag.

More interesting to Minerva, Susannah’s comments confirmed that, despite the near debacle of last night’s play-she’d thought the lust that had burned in Royce’s eyes, that had resonated beneath the smooth tenor of his voice, the breathlessness that had assailed her, the awareness that had invested her every action, would have utterly given them away-not a single guest had realized that his interest in her had any basis beyond castle business.

Admittedly, every single guest was distracted on his or her own account.

That, however, didn’t explain the pervasive blindness. The truth was, regardless of his pursuit of her, Royce had unfailingly ensured that whenever they were not alone, their interaction projected the image of duke and dutiful chatelaine, and absolutely nothing more. All the guests, and even more his sisters, now had that image firmly fixed in their minds, and blithely ignored anything to the contrary.

Looking over the congregation, she located his dark head. He stood in a group of farmers, most but not all his tenants; as was becoming usual, they were talking and he was listening. Entirely approving, she surveyed the gathering, then went to do her own listening with a group of farmers’ wives.

She left it to him to find her when he was ready to leave. He eventually did, and allowed her to introduce him to the wife of the local constable, and two other ladies. After suitable words had been exchanged, they made their farewells and he strolled beside her down the path to where Henry waited with the curricle and the by now restive blacks.

Curious, she glanced at his face. “You seem to be…” She waggled her head. “Unexpectedly amenable to the ‘letting the locals get to know you’ socializing.”

He shrugged. “I intend to live here for the rest of my life. These are the people I’ll see every day, the ones I’ll be working with, and for. They might want to know more of me, but I definitely need to know more about them.”

She let him hand her into the curricle. While she settled, she pondered his words. His father-

She broke off the thought. If there was one thing she should by now have realized it was that he wasn’t like his father when it came to people. His temper, arrogance, and a great deal more, were very familiar, but his attitudes to others were almost universally different. On some aspects-for instance, children-even diametrically opposed.

They were on the road beyond the village when he said, “Kilworth told me there’s no school in the district, not even at the most elementary level.”

Timorous Mr. Kilworth, the deacon, would never have mentioned such a matter, not unless asked.

“I suppose I should have guessed,” he continued, “but it never occurred to me before.”

She regarded him with something close to fascination-safe enough with his attention focused on his horses as he steered them toward the bridge. “Are you thinking of starting a school here?”

He flicked her a glance. “I’ve heard talk among other peers-there’s an evolving notion that having better educated workers benefits everyone.”

And he’d seen a lot of croft and farm children in recent days.

“I wouldn’t disagree.” His father had-vociferously-when she’d suggested it.

“Any school shouldn’t be solely for the estate families-it needs to be for the district, so we’d need to recruit wider support, but…” He sent the blacks rocketing across the stone bridge. “I think it’s worthwhile pursuing.”

As the horses thundered through the big gates and the wheels rolled more smoothly on the drive, he glanced at her. “Write down any thoughts you have.” His eyes rested on hers. “Once I have the matter of my bride settled, we’ll be able to move forward with that.”

She felt ecstatic on the one hand, unsettled and oddly cast down on the other.

Minerva was given no time to examine her contradictory feelings; she and Royce walked into the castle as the luncheon gong sounded, then during the meal the idea of a fishing expedition upstream along the Coquet was touted, and instantly found favor with all the men.

And all the women, although none had any intention of picking up a rod. But the day was fine, sunny with the barest breath of a breeze, and everyone agreed a walk would do them good.

She was tempted to cry off, to use her duties as an excuse to remain behind and try to untangle her emotions, but Royce paused beside her as the company rose from the table.

He spoke quietly, for her ears only. “Keep an eye on the ladies-make sure the more adventurous don’t attempt to investigate the gorge.”

Inwardly cursing, she nodded. It was just the sort of witless thing some of the ladies present might do, and the gorge was dangerous.

The fishing rods and tackle were stowed in the boathouse by the lake; Royce led the men down to make their choices while the ladies hurried to fetch bonnets, shawls, and parasols.

From the lake, rods over their shoulders, the men followed the path north along the stream. Feeling like a sheepdog, Minerva marshaled the ladies and herded them along the west and north wings and out along the route to the mill.

The men were a little way ahead; some ladies called, waved. The men glanced back, waved, but continued walking.

Among the ladies, Margaret and Caroline Courtney led the way, heads together as they shared secrets. The other ladies walked in twos and threes, chatting as they ambled in the sunshine.

Minerva kept to the rear, ensuring no stragglers got left behind. The men crossed the bridge over the race; the ladies followed.

After passing the mill, the twin parties reached the end of the race where it came off the gorge, and turned north along the gorge. Minerva did, indeed, have to dissuade three ladies from descending into the gorge to investigate the rock pools. “I know you can’t tell from up here, but the rocks are terribly slippery, and the stretches of water are treacherously deep.”

She pointed to where the river ran strongly, gushing and churning over its rocky bed. “There’s been rain on the Cheviots over the last weeks-the currents will be surprisingly strong. That’s the biggest danger if you fall in-that you’ll be dashed to death on the rocks.”

In her experience, it never hurt to be specific; the ladies “oh”-ed and readily walked on.

The men drew ahead; the ladies loitered, pointing to this, examining that, but nevertheless drifting in the right direction. Minerva fell back, ambling even more slowly in her shepherdess role. Finally she had a moment to think.

Not that her thoughts were all that clear.

She was thrilled Royce wanted to establish a school in the village; she would cheer him on in that. More, she felt strangely proud of him, that he-a Varisey in so many ways-had thought of it on his own. She felt distinctly vindicated over encouraging him to turn from his father’s example and forge his own way, follow his own inclinations; they were proving very sound.

But she wouldn’t be around to see the outcome-and that galled her. Disappointment, dejection, dragged her down, as if some prize she’d worked for and deserved was, by fate’s fickle decree, to be denied her. More, was to be granted to another, who wouldn’t appreciate it given she wouldn’t know him.

His bride still remained unnamed, and therefore nebulous; she couldn’t fix a face on the female, so couldn’t direct her anger at her.

Couldn’t resent her.

She halted at the thought.

Shocked by the unhappy emotion she’d just put a name to.

Nonsensical, she chided herself; she’d always known his bride would arrive one day-and that, soon after, she’d leave.

Leave the place she called home.

Lips firming, she thrust the thought away. The others had wandered far ahead; they’d reached the end of the gorge and were continuing on, following the river path into more open meadows. Lifting her head, drawing in a deep breath, she lengthened her stride and set out to catch them up.

No more thinking allowed.

North of the gorge, the river was wider, wending down from the hills through fertile meadowland. It was still deep in the middle, and there it ran swiftly, but the spreading edges flowed more gently.

There was a particular spot where the river rounded a curve, then spread in a wide pool that was especially good for fishing. The men had descended the sloping bank; spreading out in a line along the pool’s edge, casting lures into the stream, they talked only in murmurs as they waited for a bite.

Royce and his male cousins-Gordon, Rohan, Phillip, Arthur, Gregory, and Henry-stood shoulder to shoulder. All tall, dark-haired, and handsome, they were an arresting sight, reducing the other male guests to mere contrast.

The ladies gathered on the bank above. They knew enough to mute their voices; standing in a loose group, they enjoyed the sunshine and the light breeze, chatting quietly.

Minerva joined them. Susannah asked again whether she’d discovered whom Royce had chosen as his bride; Minerva shook her head, then stepped a little away from the group, her eye caught by a flash of color upriver.

From their position, the land rose gently; she could see another party enjoying a pleasant day by the banks two bends upstream.

One of the tenant farmers’ families, plus their laborers’ families as well; squinting, she saw a gaggle of children playing by the water’s edge, laughing and shrieking, or so it seemed, as they played tag. The breeze was blowing northward, so no sound reached her, yet she had to wonder how many fish the men would catch with such a cacophony two hundred yards upstream.

She was about to look away when a girl standing by the stream’s edge suddenly flailed her arms-and fell backward into the stream. The bank had crumbled beneath her heels; she fell with a splash-breath caught, Minerva watched, waiting to see…

The girl’s white cap bobbed to the surface-in the middle of the stream. The current had caught her skirts; even as the adults rushed to the bank, she was whisked downriver, around the next curve.

Minerva looked down at the men. “Royce!”

He looked up, instantly alert.

She pointed upriver. “There’s a girl in the water.” She looked again, spotted the bobbing white cap. “Two bends upstream. She’s in the center and coming down fast.”

Before the last word had left her lips, Royce was giving orders. Rods were dropped; his cousins and the others gathered around him, then the whole group turned and ran downstream.

Royce paused only to call to Minerva, “Yell when she comes around that bend.” He pointed at the last bend before the pool, then raced after the others.

From their vantage point, the ladies watched in horrified fascination. Minerva went as far down the bank as she could without losing sight of the girl. Susannah and two friends joined her, peering after the men. “What are they doing?” Susannah asked.

Minerva spared a quick glance downriver, saw where the men were going-Royce on his own, just beyond the pool, the others still hurrying, leaping over rocks and slipping over wet patches on their way farther down-then looked back at the girl. “Royce is going out on the nearer spit-he’ll catch her. But he’s likely to lose his footing when he does-the current’s running strongly-it’ll take both of them. The others will form a human chain farther down. It’ll be up to them to grab Royce and haul him and the girl in.”

Susannah knew the river; she blanched.

One of her friends frowned. “Why are they trying to catch him? He’s so strong-surely he’ll be able to-”

“It’s the gorge.” Susannah cut her off, her voice harsh. “Oh, God. If they miss him…”

She grabbed up her skirts, climbed the bank, and started running downstream.

“What is it?” Margaret called.

Susannah turned and called something back. Minerva stopped listening. The girl, still weakly struggling, cleared the bend.

She turned and looked downriver. “Royce! She’s coming!”

Standing in the shallows around the next bend, just visible from where she was, he raised a hand in acknowledgment; no longer wearing his coat, he waded deeper into the river.

Minerva hurried down the bank, then along the water’s edge, where the men had stood. Susannah’s other friend, Anne, held her tongue and went with her. Minerva ran, but the current whisked the girl along faster; long braids floating on either side of her small white face, the poor child was almost spent. “Hold on!” Minerva called, and prayed the girl could hear. “He’ll catch you in a minute.”

She slipped and nearly fell; Anne, on her heels, caught her and steadied her, then they both dashed on.

The bobbing rag doll the girl had become was swept around the bend, out of their sight. Gasping, Minerva ran faster; she and Anne rounded the bend in time to see Royce, sunk chest-deep even though he stood on a spit in the streambed, lean far to his right, then launch himself across, into the swiftly running current; it caught him in the same moment he caught the girl, hoisting her up onto his chest, then onto his right shoulder where her head was at least partly clear of the increasingly turbulent water.

Minerva slowed, her fingers rising to her lips as she took in what lay beyond the pair. The river started narrowing, funneling toward the gorge, the water tumbling and churning as it battered its way on.

There was only one spot, another spit, where the pair, whisked along, could be caught, one chance before the building pressure of the water swept them into the gorge and almost certain death. On the spit, Royce’s Varisey and Debraigh cousins were linking arms, forming a human chain, anchored by Henry and Arthur, the lightest, together on the bank. Each held on to one of Gregory’s arms. Gregory had his other arm linked with Rohan’s, who in turn was waiting for Gordon to link his arm with his, leaving Phillip at the end.

Minerva halted, put her hands about her mouth. “Quickly!” she screamed. “They’re almost there!”

Phillip looked, then shoved Gordon toward Rohan, grabbed one of Gordon’s arms, and waded into the stream.

The current swung away, around the spit, carrying Royce and his burden along the other side of the riverbed. Rohan yelled and the men all stretched…Phillip yelled to Gordon to hang on to his coat. As soon as he had, Phillip lunged out, stretching as far as he could, reaching out.

Just as it seemed the pair would be lost, Royce’s arm lashed out of the water-and connected with Phillip’s. They both gripped.

“Hold hard!” Phillip yelled.

The dragging weight-not just of Royce and the girl, but now Phillip as well, all drenched and sodden-tested the other men. Muscles bunched, locked. Henry’s and Arthur’s feet shifted; they both leaned back, faces grim and set as they hauled their kinsmen in.

Then it was over. Royce and Phillip, swung downstream and in toward the bank, got their feet under them.

Royce stood, breathing hard, then, shaking his head like a dog, he hoisted the girl free of the water, and holding her to his chest, walked, slowly and carefully, across the rocky riverbed. Phillip staggered up, then followed alongside. He reached over and lifted the girl’s hair from her face, tapped her cheek-and she coughed. Weakly at first, but when Royce reached the bank and laid her on her side, she retched, coughed hard, then started to cry.

Minerva fell to her knees beside her. “It’s all right. Your mother and father are coming-they’ll be here soon.” She glanced at Royce; his chest was rising and falling like a bellows, and water ran off him in streams, but he was unharmed, unhurt. Alive.

She looked up at the other ladies, gathering in an anxious, exclaiming knot on the bank above. Anne had come to stand beside her. Minerva pointed at the shawls some of the others carried. “Shawls-the woolen ones.”

“Yes, of course.” Anne climbed the bank partway and reached up, beckoning.

Two ladies surrendered their shawls readily, but Aurelia sniffed. “Not mine.”

Royce had bent over, hands braced on his knees. He didn’t bother looking up. “Aurelia.”

His voice cut like a whip; Aurelia all but flinched. She paled. Her face set in sour lines, but she shrugged off her shawl and tossed it at Anne-who caught it, turned, and hurried back to Minerva.

She’d stripped off the girl’s hat and sodden pinafore, and had been chafing her small icy hands. She stopped to take one of the shawls-Aurelia’s large warm one. Shaking it out, with Anne’s help she wrapped the girl tightly, then wound the other shawls about her hands and feet.

Then the girls’ parents and the rest of the farmer’s party arrived; they’d had to backtrack to cross the river by a wooden bridge higher up.

“She’s all right,” Minerva called as soon as she saw the parents’ distraught faces.

Both rushed down the riverbank, eyes only for their child.

“Mary!” The mother dropped to her knees opposite Minerva. She placed a gentle hand on the girl’s cheek. “Sweetheart?”

The girl’s lashes fluttered; she tried to move her hands. “Ma?”

“Oh, thank God.” The mother swept the girl up against her bosom. She looked at Minerva, then up at Royce. “Thank you-thank you, Your Grace. I don’t know how we can ever repay you.”

Her husband laid a shaking hand on his daughter’s dark head. “Nor I. I thought she were-” He cut himself off, blinked rapidly. Shook his head and looked at Royce. Gruffly said, “Can’t thank you enough, Your Grace.”

One of his cousins had fetched Royce’s coat; he’d been using it to mop his face. “If you want to thank me, take her home and get her warm-after hauling her out, I don’t want her to take a chill.”

“Yes-yes, we will.” The mother struggled to her feet, lifting the girl. Her husband quickly took the child.

“And you may be sure,” the mother said, tugging her damp clothes straight, “that none of that lot will ever play too close to the riverbanks again.” Her severe look directed their gazes to the gaggle of children, watching round-eyed from up along the bank, their parents and the other adults at their backs.

“You might like to remind them,” Royce said, “that if they do, there’s unlikely to be a group of us here, in the right spot at the right time, to pull them out.”

“Aye. We’ll tell them, you may be sure.” The father ducked his head as low as he could. “With your permission, Your Grace, we’ll get her home.”

Royce waved him up the slope.

The mother sighed and shook her head. She exchanged a glance with Minerva. “You tell them and tell them, but they never listen, do they?” With that, she followed her husband up the bank.

Royce watched them go, watched as the other farmers and their wives gathered around, offering comfort and support as they closed around the couple and their nearly lost daughter.

Beside him, Minerva slowly got to her feet. He waited while she thanked Anne for her help, then asked, “Who were they?”

“The Honeymans. They hold the farm up around Green Side.” She paused, then added, “They would have seen you at church, but I don’t think you’ve met them before.”

He hadn’t. He nodded. “Let’s get back.” He was chilled to the bone, and there was no earthly way to get his coat-expertly fitted by Shultz-on over his wet clothes.

Anne had joined the others, but now she came back. She touched Minerva’s arm. “Susannah and some of the other ladies have started back with Phillip-his teeth are chattering. I thought I’d run ahead and warn the household.” Although in her thirties, Anne was slim, fit, and swift on her feet.

“Thank you.” Minerva lightly grasped Anne’s fingers. “If you could tell Retford we need hot baths for His Grace, and for Phillip, and hot water for the others, too.”

“I’ll do that.” Anne glanced at Royce, inclined her head, then turned and climbed swiftly up the slope.

With Minerva beside him, Royce followed more slowly.

Minerva humphed. Looking ahead to where certain of the ladies were still milling inconsequentially, some, with hands clutched to their breasts, exclaiming as if the incident had overset their delicate nerves, she muttered, “At least some people keep their heads in a crisis.”

She meant Anne. Royce looked at her, felt his lips curve. “Indeed.”

Arthur and Henry, together with the other male guests not in some degree soaked, had gone back to fetch the discarded rods and tackle.

As Royce and Minerva crested the slope, the remaining ladies, apparently deciding that the excitement was now entirely over, regrouped and started back to the castle.

With Minerva walking alongside, Royce found himself nearing the rear of the group, and wished they’d walk faster. He needed to keep moving, or he’d start shivering as badly as Phillip. His skin was already icy, and the chill was sinking deeper into his bones.

Margaret looked back at him a few times; he presumed she was assuring herself he wasn’t about to collapse.

He wasn’t entirely surprised when she stepped sideways out of the group and waited until he and Minerva drew level.

But it was Minerva to whom Margaret spoke. “If I could have a word?”

“Yes. Of course.” Minerva halted.

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? Perhaps 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.

“I’m not likely to take a fatal chill from a dip in the river.” He tried to slow to a fast walk.

She set her jaw and all but hauled him on. “You’re not a doctor-you can’t know that. The prescribed treatment for immersion in an icy river is a hot bath, and that’s what you have to have. Your mother would never forgive me if I let you expire because you wouldn’t treat the risk with due seriousness.”

His mother, who had never wasted a moment worrying about his health. Male Variseys were supposed to be tough, and, indeed, were. But he bowed to Minerva’s tugging and resumed his faster pace. “I am taking this seriously.”

Just not as seriously as she was.

Or, as it transpired, any of his staff were.

The instant Minerva pushed him through the door into the north wing, Trevor pounced.

“No!” His valet was literally aghast. “That’s another pair of Hobys ruined-two pairs in three days. And, oh, my heavens! You’re drenched!”

He refrained from saying he knew. “Is my bath ready?”

“It better be.” Trevor exchanged a look with Minerva, still by Royce’s side, still hurrying him along. “I’ll go up and make sure.” Trevor turned and all but fled before them, his footsteps clattering up the turret stairs.

Royce and Minerva followed, taking the shortcut to his rooms.

Minerva halted outside his sitting room door; he kept walking, to the useful new door into his dressing room and the bathing chamber beyond that Hancock, the castle carpenter, was just testing.

Hancock nodded. “Your new door as ordered, Your Grace. Just in time, it seems.” Hancock swung the panel wide. “Your bath awaits.”

Royce nodded. “Thank you.” He looked over the door and its frame as he went through into the dressing room, then nodded again to Hancock. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

Hancock saluted, picked up his toolbox, and walked off. Minerva appeared in the doorway-mouth a-cock, staring at the door, then at its frame. Then she looked at Royce.

“So Trevor and the footmen don’t need to come through the bedroom to reach these rooms.”

“Oh.” She stood there, digesting that, while he started the difficult task of unwinding his sodden cravat.

Trevor appeared in the open doorway opposite, from which steam eddied as a footman poured what had to be a last pail of steaming water into the large bath; if any more was put in, it would slosh out when Royce got in. He signaled to the footman to stop.

His valet, meanwhile, was frowning at two glass-stoppered bottles he was holding. “Which would be better? Mint or peppermint?”

“Menthol.” Snapping out of her trance, Minerva bustled in to join Trevor. “Pennyroyal is what you want-it’s the best for warding off chills.” She stepped around Trevor, let the footman squeeze past, then pointed to a rack of similar bottles set on a wooden table. “There should be some there.”

“Pennyroyal. Right.” Trevor went to the rack. “Here it is. How many drops?” He squinted at the tiny label.

“About a teaspoon, even two. Enough so you can smell it strongly.”

Trevor took out the stopper, tipped a bit of the oil into the water. Minerva and he sniffed the steam. Both frowned.

Walking into the bathing chamber, Royce dropped his sodden cravat, which he’d finally managed to untangle, onto the floor; it landed with a splat, but neither his valet nor his chatelaine reacted.

He looked longingly at the hot water, felt ice seeping into his marrow-heard the other two arguing the merits of adding peppermint as well.

Lips setting, he yanked his shirttails free of his waistband, loosened the cords at his wrists and neck, then looked at his chatelaine. “Minerva.”

She looked up, met his eyes.

“Leave. Now.” He reached for the bottom of his shirt.

“Oh, yes-of course.”

He pulled the shirt up, heard the flurry of her footsteps, then the door to the bathing chamber click shut. Grimly smiled. But wrestling free of the drenched folds was an exercise and a half; Trevor had to help-with that, his boots, and his breeches, designed to cling to him even when dry.

Finally naked, he stepped into the tub, sat, and leaned back, then sank right down. Felt the heat from the water slowly melt the ice in his flesh. Felt the warmth sink in.

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.