Mastered by Love

by Stephanie Laurens

  The rest of the company were already at table, engrossed in a discussion of Margaret’s and Susannah’s plans for the six days remaining before the fair. She and Royce went to the laden sideboard, helped themselves from the variety of cold meats, hams, and assorted delicacies displayed on the platters and dishes, then Royce steered her to the head of the table, to the chair beside his. Jeffers leapt to hold it for her.

  By the time she’d sat and settled her skirts, Royce was seated in his great carver, by the angle of his shoulders, and the absolute focus of his attention on her, effectively cutting off the others—who read the signs and left them in peace.

  They started eating, then he met her eyes. “Thank you for your help with the sheep.”

  “You knew Hamish was the best source for breeders—you didn’t need me to tell you so.”

  “I needed you to tell Falwell so. If I’d suggested Hamish, he’d have tied himself in knots trying to acceptably say that my partiality for Hamish’s stock was because of the connection.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “But you aren’t connected to Hamish.”

  “No, but Falwell knows I approve of Hamish.”

  “But not even Falwell would suggest that you—the farmers’ champion—would urge me to get stock from anywhere that wasn’t the best.” Royce met her eyes, let his lips curve slightly. “Using you to suggest Hamish, having your reputation supporting the idea, saved time and a considerable amount of convoluted argument.”

  She smiled, pleased with the disguised compliment.

  He let her preen for a moment, then followed up with, “Which raises a related issue—do you have any suggestions for a replacement for Falwell?”

  She swallowed, nodded. “Evan Macgregor, Macgregor’s third son.”

  “And why would he suit?”

  She reached for her water glass. “He’s young, but not too young, a gregarious soul who was born on the estate and knows—and is liked by—literally everyone on it. He was a scallywag when younger, but always good-hearted, and he’s quick and clever—more than most. Now he’s older, being the third son, and with Sean and Abel more than capable of taking on Macgregor’s holding between them, Evan has too little to do.” She sipped, then met his eyes. “He’s in his late twenties, and is still helping on the farm, but I don’t think he’ll stay much longer unless he finds some better occupation.”

  “So at present he’s wasted talent, and you think I should use him as steward.”

  “Yes. He’d work hard for you, and while he might make the odd mistake, he’ll learn from them, and, most importantly, he’ll never steer you wrongly over anything to do with the estate or its people.” She set down her glass. “I haven’t been able to say that of Falwell for more than a decade.”

  Royce nodded. “However, regardless of Falwell’s shortcomings, I meant what I said about the footbridge being something the dukedom can’t simply step in and fix.”

  She met his eyes, studied them, then faintly raised her brows. “So…?”

  He let his lips curve in appreciation; she was starting to read him quite well. “So I need you to give me some urgent, preferably dramatic, reason to get on my ducal high horse and cow the aldermen of Harbottle into fixing it.”

  She held his gaze; her own grew distant, then she refocused—and smiled. “I can do that.” When he arched a brow, she smoothly replied, “I believe we need to ride that way this afternoon.”

  He considered the logistics, then glanced at the others.

  When he looked back at her, brows lifting, she nodded. “Leave them to me.”

  He sat back and watched with unfeigned appreciation as she leaned forward and, with a comment here, another there, slid smoothly into the discussions they had, until then, ignored. He hadn’t noticed how she dealt with his sisters before; with an artful question followed by a vague suggestion, she deftly steered Susannah and Margaret—the ringleaders—into organizing the company to drive into Harbottle for the afternoon.

  “Oh, before I forget, here’s the guest list you wanted, Minerva.” Seated along the table, Susannah waved a sheet; the others passed it to Minerva.

  She scanned it, then looked at Margaret, at the table’s foot. “We’ll need to open up more rooms. I’ll speak with Cranny.”

  Margaret glanced at him. “Of course, we don’t know how many of those will attend.”

  He let his lips curve cynically. “Given the…entertainments you have on offer, I suspect all those invited will jump at the chance to join the party.”

  Because they’d be keen to learn firsthand whom he’d chosen as his bride. Comprehension filled Margaret’s face; grimacing lightly, she inclined her head. “I’d forgotten, but no doubt you’re right.”

  The reminder that he would soon make that announcement, thus signaling the end of his liaison with her, bolstered Minerva’s determination to act, decisively, today. While his desire for her was still rampant she stood an excellent chance of securing her boon; once it waned, her ability to influence him would fade.

  Susannah was still expounding on the delights of Harbottle. “We can wander around the shops, and then take tea at the Ivy Branch.” She looked at Minerva. “It’s still there, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “They still serve excellent teas and pastries.”

  Margaret had been counting heads and carriages. “Good—we can all fit.” She glanced at Minerva. “Are you coming?”

  She waved the list of guests. “I need to attend to this, and a few other things. I’ll ride down later and perhaps join you for tea.”

  “Very well.” Margaret looked to the table’s head. “And you, Wolverstone?” Ever since he’d agreed to their house party, Margaret and Aurelia had been making an effort to accord him all due deference.

  Royce shook his head. “I, too, have matters to deal with. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  With that settled, the company rose from the table. Conscious of Royce’s dark gaze, Minerva hung back, letting the others go ahead; he and she left the dining room at the rear of the group.

  They halted in the hall. He met her eyes. “How long will you take?”

  She’d been swiftly reviewing her list of chores. “I have to see the timber merchant in Alwinton—it might be best if you meet me in the field beyond the church at…” She narrowed her eyes, estimating. “Just after three.”

  “On horseback, beyond the church, at just after three.”

  “Yes.” Turning away, she flung him a smile. “And to make it, I’ll have to rush. I’ll see you there.”

  Suiting action to her words, she hurried to the stairs and went quickly up—before he asked how she planned to motivate him to browbeat the aldermen into submission. The sharp jab she had in mind would, she thought, work best if he wasn’t prepared.

  After speaking with Cranny about rooms for the latest expected guests, and with Retford about the cellar and the depredations likely during the house party, she checked with Hancock over his requirements for the mill, then rode into Alwinton and spoke with the timber merchant. She finished earlier than she’d expected, so dallied in the village until just after three before remounting Rangonel and heading south.

  As she’d expected, Royce was waiting in the designated field, both horse and rider showing their customary impatience. He turned Sword toward Harbottle as she ranged alongside. “Are you really planning on joining the others in Harbottle later?”

  Looking ahead, lips curving, she shrugged lightly. “There’s an interesting jeweler I could visit.”

  He smiled and followed her gaze. “How far is it to this footbridge?”

  She grinned. “About half a mile.” With a flick of her reins, she set Rangonel cantering, the big gelding’s gait steady and sure. Royce held Sword alongside despite the stallion’s obvious wish to run.

  A wish shared by his rider. “We could gallop.”

  She shook her head. “No. We shouldn’t get there too early.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.” She caught his disgruntl
ed snort, but he didn’t press her. They crossed the Alwin at the ford, water foaming about the horses’ knees, then cantered on, cutting across the pastures.

  A flash of white ahead was the first sign that her timing was correct. Cresting a low rise, she saw two young girls, pinafores flapping, books tied in small bundles on their backs, laughing as they skipped along a track that led down a shallow gully disappearing behind the next rise to their left.

  Royce saw them, too. He shot her a suspicious, incipiently frowning glance, then tracked the pair as he and she headed down the slope. The girls passed out of sight behind the next rise; minutes later, the horses reached it, taking the upward slope in their stride, eager to reach the crest.

  When they did, Royce looked down and along the gully—and swore. He hauled Sword to a halt, and grimly stared down.

  Expressionless, she drew rein beside him, and watched a bevy of children crossing the Coquet, swollen by the additional waters of the Alwin to a turbulent, tempestuous, swiftly flowing river, using the rickety remnants of the footbridge.

  “I thought there was no school in the area.” His clipped accents underscored the temper he held leashed.

  “There isn’t, so Mrs. Cribthorn does what she can to teach the children their letters. She uses one of the cottages near the church.” It was the minister’s wife who had brought the execrable state of the footbridge to her attention. “The children include some from certain of Wolverstone’s crofter families where the women have to work the fields alongside their men. Their parents can’t afford the time to bring the children to the church via the road, and on foot, there is no other viable route the children could take.”

  The young girls they’d seen earlier had joined the group at the nearer end of the bridge; the older children organized the younger ones in a line before, one by one, they inched their way along the single remaining beam, holding the last horizontal timber left from the bridge’s original rails.

  Someone had strung a rough rope along the rail, giving the children with smaller hands something they could cling to more tightly.

  Royce growled another curse and lifted his reins.

  “No.” She caught his arm. “You’ll distract them.”

  He didn’t like it, but reined both himself and Sword in; drawing her hand from the rigid steel his arm had become, she knew how much it cost him.

  Could sense how much, behind his stony face, he fumed and railed while being forced to watch the potential drama from a distance—a distance too great to help should one of the children slip and fall.

  “What happened to the damned bridge, and when?”

  “A bore last spring.”

  “And it’s been like this ever since?”

  “Yes. It’s only used by the crofter children to get to the church, so…” She didn’t need to tell him that the welfare of crofter children didn’t rate highly with the aldermen of Harbottle.

  The instant the last child stepped safely onto the opposite bank, Sword surged down the rise and thundered toward the bridge. The children heard; trudging over the field, they turned and looked, but after watching curiously for several minutes, continued homeward. By the time she and Rangonel reached the river, Royce was out of the saddle and clambering about the steep bank, studying the structure from below.

  From Rangonel’s back, she watched as he grabbed the remaining beam, using his weight to test it. It creaked; he swore and let go.

  When he eventually climbed back up and came striding toward her, his expression was black.

  The glare he bent on her was coldly furious. “Who are the aldermen of Harbottle?”

  He knew she’d manipulated him; the instant he’d seen the two girls he’d known. Despite that, his irritation with her was relatively minor; he put it to one side and dealt with the issue of the rickety footbridge with a reined fury that brought vividly to mind ghosts from his ancestral past.

  There was a wolf in the north again, and he was in a savage mood.

  Even though she’d had high expectations, Minerva was impressed. Together they thundered into Harbottle; she introduced him to the senior alderman, who quickly saw the wisdom of summoning his peers. She’d stood back and watched Royce, with cutting exactitude, impress on those unwitting gentlemen first their shortcomings, then his expectations. Of the latter, he left them in absolutely no doubt.

  They bowed and scraped, and swore they would attend to the footbridge expeditiously.

  He eyed them coldly, then informed them he would be back in three days to view their progress.

  Then he turned and stalked out; entirely satisfied, she followed.

  Royce set a furious pace back to the castle. The dark look he cast her as he swung up to his saddle made it clear he hadn’t forgotten her tweaking of his temper, but he’d wanted an urgent and dramatic reason to give him justification for browbeating the aldermen into fixing the footbridge, so she’d given him one. Her conscience was clear.

  Something she suspected he realized, for even when they reached Wolverstone, left their horses with Milbourne, and started toward the castle, other than another of his piercing, dark looks, he said nothing.

  By the time they reached the west wing and were approaching the turret stairs, she’d stopped expecting any reaction from him. She was deep in self-congratulation, pleased and eminently satisfied with her day’s achievements, when his fingers locked about her elbow and he swung her into the shadowed hall at the bottom of the stairs. Her back met the paneled wall; he followed, pinning her.

  Startled, her lips were parted when he crushed them beneath his and kissed her—filled her mouth, seized her wits, and stormed her senses.

  It was a hard, bruising, conquering sort of kiss, one she responded to with damning ardor.

  Her hands were sunk in the dark silk of his hair when he abruptly pulled back, leaving her gasping, her senses reeling.

  From a distance of inches, his eyes bored into hers. “Next time, just tell me.” A growled, direct order.

  She hadn’t yet regained breath enough to speak, managed to nod.

  His eyes narrow, his lips grimly set, he drew back a little—as if realizing how hard it was for her to think with him so close. “Is there anything else that bad on my lands? Or not on my lands but affecting my people?”

  He waited while she gathered her wits, and thought. “No.”

  He exhaled. “That’s something, I suppose.”

  Stepping back, he drew her away from the wall, and urged her up the narrow stairs. She went, her heart beating just a little faster from knowing he was directly behind her and not in a predictable mood.

  But when they reached the gallery, and she turned for her room, he let her go. He stepped up from the last stair, halted.

  “Incidentally…” He waited until she paused and glanced back at him; he caught her eyes. “Tomorrow morning I’ll want you to ride with me to Usway Burn—we can check on progress and I want to speak with Evan Macgregor.”

  She felt her brightest smile dawn, felt it light her eyes. “Yes, all right.”

  With a nod, he turned to his rooms.

  Thoroughly pleased with her day, she continued to hers.

  They next met in the drawing room, surrounded by the others all full of their day and their plans for the morrow. Walking into the large room, Royce located Minerva chatting in a group with Susannah, Phillip, Arthur, and Gregory. He met her eyes as Retford appeared behind him to announce dinner; stepping aside, he let the others go ahead, waiting until she joined him to claim her.

  He wanted her with him, but hadn’t yet decided what he wanted to say—or rather, how to say it. He sat her beside him; as he took his own seat at the table’s head, she regarded him calmly, then turned to Gordon on her left and asked him about something.

  The party had relaxed even further, all the members entirely comfortable in each other’s company. He felt comfortable ignoring them all; sitting back, his fingers crooked about the stem of his wineglass, as the endless chatter flowed over an
d around him he let his gaze rest on his chatelaine’s golden head while their day replayed in his mind.

  All in all it had been a distinct success, yet he hadn’t been—still wasn’t—pleased by the way she’d evoked—deliberately and knowingly provoked—his temper over the bridge. He’d asked her to in a way, but he hadn’t imagined she’d succeed to anything like the extent she had.

  She had effectively manipulated him, albeit with his implied consent. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had successfully done so; that she had, and so easily, left him feeling oddly vulnerable—not a feeling with which he was familiar, one the marcher lord he truly was didn’t approve of in the least.

  However, against that stood the successes of the day. First in dealing with Falwell, then in deciding the steward’s replacement, and lastly over the bridge. He’d wanted to illustrate one point, to demonstrate it in a way she, rational female that she was, couldn’t fail to see, and between them they’d succeeded brilliantly.

  Regardless…he let his gaze grow more intent, until she felt it and glanced his way. He shifted toward her; she turned back and excused herself to Gordon, then faced him and raised her brows.

  He locked his eyes on hers. “Why didn’t you simply tell me about the children using the bridge?”

  She held his gaze. “If I had, the effect would have been…distanced. You asked for something dramatic, to give you something urgent to take to the aldermen—if you hadn’t seen the children, but simply been told of them, it wouldn’t have been the same.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t have been the same.”

  He wouldn’t have felt like handing the aldermen their heads. He hesitated, then, still holding her gaze, inclined his head. “True.” Lifting his glass, he saluted her. “We make a good team.”