Another stone bridge spanned the deep, narrow gorge through which the river gushed and tumbled. The gorge was the reason no army had even attempted to take Wolverstone; the sole approach was via the stone bridge—easily defended. Because of the hills on all other sides, it was impossible to position mangonels or any type of siege engine anywhere that wasn’t well within a decent archer’s range from the battlements.
Royce swept over the bridge, the clatter of the horses’ hooves drowned beneath the tumultuous roar of the waters rushing, turbulent and wild, below. Just like his temper. The closer he drew to the castle, to what awaited him there, the more powerful the surge of his emotions grew. The more unsettling and distracting.
The more hungry, vengeful, and demanding.
The huge wrought-iron gates lay ahead, set wide as they always were; the depiction of a snarling wolf’s head in the center of each matched the bronze statues atop the stone columns from which the gates hung.
With a flick of the reins, he sent the horses racing through. As if sensing the end of their journey, they leaned into the harness; trees flashed past, massive ancient oaks bordering the lawns that rolled away on either side. He barely noticed, his attention—all his senses—locked on the building towering before him.
It was as massive and as anchored in the soil as the oaks. It had stood for so many centuries it had become part of the landscape.
He slowed the horses as they neared the forecourt, drinking in the gray stone, the heavy lintels, the deeply recessed windows, diamond paned and leaded, set into the thick walls. The front door lay within a high stone arch; it had originally been a portcullis, not a door, the front hall beyond, with its arched ceiling, originally a tunnel leading into the inner bailey. The front façade, three stories high, had been formed from the castle’s inner bailey wall; the outer bailey wall had been dismantled long ago, while the keep itself lay deeper within the house.
Letting the horses walk along the façade, Royce gave himself the moment, let emotion reign for just that while. Yet the indescribable joy of being home again was deeply shadowed, caught up, tangled, in a web of darker feelings; being this close to his father—to where his father should have been, but no longer was—only whetted the already razor-sharp edge of his restless, unforgiving anger.
Irrational anger—anger with no object. Yet he still felt it.
Dragging in a breath, filling his lungs with the cool, crisp air, he set his jaw and sent the horses trotting on around the house.
As he rounded the north wing and the stables came into view, he reminded himself that he would find no convenient opponent at the castle with whom he could loose his temper, with whom he could release the deep, abiding anger.
Resigned himself to another night of a splitting head and no sleep.
His father was gone.
It wasn’t supposed to have been like this.
Ten minutes later, he strode into the house via a side door, the one he’d always used. The few minutes in the stables hadn’t helped his temper; the head stableman, Milbourne, hailed from long ago, and had offered his condolences and welcomed him back.
He’d acknowledged the well-meant words with a curt nod, left the post-horses to Milbourne’s care, then remembered and paused to tell him that Henry—Milbourne’s nephew—would be arriving shortly with Royce’s own pair. He’d wanted to ask who else of the long-ago staff were still there, but hadn’t; Milbourne had looked too understanding, leaving him feeling…exposed.
Not a feeling he liked.
His greatcoat swirling about his booted calves, he headed for the west stairs. Pulling off his driving gloves, he stuffed them into a pocket, then took the shallow steps three at a time.
He’d spent the last forty-eight hours alone, had just arrived—and now needed to be alone again, to absorb and in some way subdue the unexpectedly intense feelings returning like this had stirred. He needed to quiet his restless temper and leash it more firmly.
The first floor gallery lay ahead. He took the last stairs in a rush, stepped into the gallery, swung left toward the west tower—and collided with a woman.
He heard her gasp.
Sensed her stumbling and caught her—closed his hands about her shoulders and steadied her. Held her.
Even before he looked into her face, he didn’t want to let her go.
His gaze locked on her eyes, wide and flaring, rich brown with gold flecks, framed by lush brown lashes. Her long hair was lustrous wheat-gold silk, wound and anchored high on her head. Her skin was creamy perfection, her nose patrician straight, her face heart-shaped, her chin neatly rounded. Itemizing those features in a glance, his gaze fixed on her lips. Rose-petal pink, parted in shocked surprise, the lower lushly tempting, the urge to crush them beneath his was nearly overpowering.
She’d taken him unawares; he hadn’t had the slightest inkling she’d been there, gliding along, the thick runner muffling her footsteps. He’d patently shocked her; her wide eyes and parted lips said she hadn’t heard him on the stairs, either—he’d probably been moving silently, as he habitually did.
She’d staggered back; an inch separated his hard body from her much softer one. He knew it was soft, had felt her ripe figure imprinted down the front of him, seared on his senses in that instant of fleeting contact.
On a rational level he wondered how a lady of her type came to be wandering these halls, while on a more primitive plane he battled the urge to sweep her up, carry her into his room, and ease the sudden, shockingly intense ache in his groin—and distract his temper in the only possible way, one he hadn’t even dreamed would be available.
That more primitive side of him saw it as only right that this female—whoever she was—should be walking just there, at just that time, and was just the right female to render him that singular service.
Anger, even rage, could convert into lust; he was familiar with the transformation, yet never had it struck with such speed or strength. Never before had the result threatened his control.
The consuming lust he felt for her in that instant was so intense it shocked even him.
Enough to have him slapping the urge down, clenching his jaw, tightening his grip, and bodily setting her aside.
He had to force his hands to release her.
“My apologies.” His voice was close to a growl. With a curt nod in her direction, without again meeting her eyes, he strode on, swiftly putting distance between them.
Behind him he heard the hiss of an indrawn breath, heard the rustle of skirts as she swung and stared.
“Royce! Dalziel—whatever you call yourself these days—stop!”
He kept walking.
“Damn it, I am not going to—refuse to—scurry after you!”
He halted. Head rising, he considered the list of those who would dare address him in such words, in such a tone.
The list wasn’t long.
Slowly, he half turned and looked back at the lady, who patently didn’t know in what danger she stood. Scurry after him? She should be fleeing in the opposite direction. But…
Long-ago recollection finally connected with present fact. Those rich autumn eyes were the key. He frowned. “Minerva?”
Those fabulous eyes were no longer wide, but narrowed in irritation; her lush lips had compressed to a grim line.
“Indeed.” She hesitated, then, clasping her hands before her, lifted her chin. “I gather you aren’t aware of it, but I’m chatelaine here.”
Contrary to Minerva’s expectation, the information did not produce any softening in the stony face regarding her. No easing of the rigid line of his lips, no gleam of recognition in his dark eyes—no suggestion that he’d realized she was someone he needed to help him, even though, at last, he’d placed her: Minerva Miranda Chesterton, his mother’s childhood friend’s orphaned daughter. Subsequently his mother’s amanuensis, companion, and confidante, more recently the same to his father, although that was something he most likely didn’t know.
Of the pair of
them, she knew precisely who she was, what she was, and what she had to do. He, in contrast, was probably uncertain of the first, even more uncertain of the second, and almost certainly had no clue as to the third.
That, however, she’d been prepared for. What she wasn’t prepared for, what she hadn’t foreseen, was the huge problem that now faced her. All six-plus feet of it, larger and infinitely more powerful in life than even her fanciful imagination had painted him.
His stylish greatcoat hung from shoulders that were broader and heavier than she recalled, but she’d last seen him when he’d been twenty-two. He was a touch taller, too, and there was a hardness in him that hadn’t been there before, investing the austere planes of his face, his chiseled features, the rock-hard body that had nearly sent her flying.
Had sent her flying, more than physically.
His face was as she remembered it, yet not; gone was any hint of civilized guise. Broad forehead above striking slashes of black brows that tilted faintly, diabolically, upward at the outer ends, a blade of a nose, thin mobile lips guaranteed to dangerously fascinate any female, and well-set eyes of such a deep dark brown they were usually unreadable. The long black lashes that fringed those eyes had always made her envious.
His hair was still solidly sable, the thick locks fashionably cropped to fall in waves about his well-shaped head. His clothes, too, were fashionably elegant, restrained, understated, and expensive. Even though he’d been traveling hard, all but racing for two days, his cravat was a subtle work of art, and beneath the dust, his Hessians gleamed.
Regardless, no amount of fashion could screen his innate masculinity, could dim the dangerous aura any female with eyes could detect. The passing years had honed and polished him, revealing rather than concealing the sleekly powerful, infinitely predatory male he was.
If anything, that reality seemed enhanced.
He continued to stand twenty feet away, frowning as he studied her, making no move to come closer, giving her witless, swooning, drooling senses even more time to slaver over him.
She’d thought she’d outgrown her infatuation with him. Sixteen years of separation should surely have seen it dead.
Apparently not.
Her mission, as she viewed it, had just become immeasurably more complicated. If he learned of her ridiculous susceptibility—perhaps excusable in a girl of thirteen, but hideously embarrassing in a mature lady of twenty-nine—he’d use the knowledge, ruthlessly, to stop her from pressuring him into doing anything he didn’t wish to do. At that moment, the only positive aspect to the situation was that she’d been able to disguise her reaction to him as understandable surprise.
Henceforth she would need to continue to hide that reaction from him.
Simple…was one thing that wasn’t going to be.
Variseys as a breed were difficult, but she’d been surrounded by them from the age of six, and had learned how to manage them. All except this Varisey…oh, this was not good. Unfortunately not one, but two deathbed promises bound her to her path.
She cleared her throat, tried hard to clear her head of the disconcerting distraction of her still jangling senses. “I didn’t expect you so early, but I’m glad you made such good time.” Head high, eyes locked on his face, she walked forward. “There’s a huge number of decisions to be made—”
He shifted, turning away, then restlessly turned back to her. “I daresay, but at present, I need to wash off the dust.” His eyes—dark, fathomless, his gaze impossibly sharp—scanned her face. “I take it you’re in charge?”
“Yes. And—”
He swung away, was off again, his long legs carrying him swiftly around the gallery. “I’ll come and find you in an hour.”
“Very well. But your room’s not that way.”
He halted. Once again stood facing away for the space of three heartbeats, then, slowly, he turned.
Again she felt the dark weight of his gaze, this time pinning her more definitely. This time, rather than converse over the yawning gap that once again separated them, a gap she now would have preferred to maintain, he walked, stalked, slowly back to her.
He kept walking until no more than a foot remained between them, which left him towering over her. Physical intimidation was second nature to male Variseys; they learned it from the cradle. She would have liked to say the ploy had no effect, and in truth it didn’t have the effect he intended. The effect was something quite other, and more intense and powerful than she’d ever dreamed. Inside she quaked, trembled; outwardly she held his gaze and calmly waited.
First round.
He lowered his head slightly so he could look directly into her face. “The keep hasn’t rotated in all the centuries since it was built.” His voice had lowered, too, but his diction had lost nothing of its lethal edge. If anything that had sharpened. “Which means the west tower lies around the gallery.”
She met his dark gaze, knew better than to nod. With Variseys one never conceded the slightest point; they were the sort that, if one surrendered an inch, took the whole county. “The west tower lies that way, but your room is no longer there.”
Tension rippled through him; the muscle in the side of his jaw tightened. His voice, when he spoke, had lowered to a warning growl. “Where are my things?”
“In the ducal apartments.” In the central part of the keep, facing south; she didn’t bother telling him what he already knew.
She stepped back, just far enough to wave him to join her as, greatly daring, she turned her back on him and started strolling farther into the keep. “You’re the duke now, and those are your rooms. The staff have slaved to have everything in readiness there, and the west tower room has been converted into a guest chamber. And before you ask”—she heard him reluctantly follow her, his longer legs closing the distance in a few strides—“everything that was in the west tower room is now in the duke’s rooms—including, I might add, all your armillary spheres. I had to move every single one myself—the maids and even the footmen refuse to touch them for fear they’ll fall apart in their hands.”
He’d amassed an exquisite collection of the astrological spheres within spheres; she hoped mention of them would encourage him to accept the necessary relocation.
After a moment of pacing silently beside her, he said, “My sisters?”
“Your father passed away on Sunday, a little before noon. I dispatched the messenger to you immediately, but I wasn’t sure what you wished, so I held back from informing your sisters for twenty-four hours.” She glanced at him. “You were the farthest away, but we needed you here first. I expect they’ll arrive tomorrow.”
He glanced at her, met her eyes. “Thank you. I appreciate the chance to find my feet before having to deal with them.”
Which, of course, was why she’d done it. “I sent a letter with the messenger to you for Collier, Collier, and Whitticombe.”
“I sent it on with a covering letter from me, asking them to attend me here, with the will, at the earliest opportunity.”
“Which means they’ll arrive tomorrow, too. Late afternoon, most likely.”
“Indeed.”
They turned a corner into a short hall just as a footman closed the massive oak door at the end. The footman saw them, bowed low, then retreated.
“Jeffers will have brought up your bags. If you need anything else—”
“I’ll ring. Who’s the butler here these days?”
She’d always wondered if he’d had anyone in the household feeding him information; obviously not. “Retford the younger—old Retford’s nephew. He was the underbutler before.”
He nodded. “I remember him.”
The door to the duke’s apartments neared. Clinging to her chatelaine’s glamour, she halted beside it. “I’ll join you in the study in an hour.”
He looked at her. “Is the study in the same place?”
“It hasn’t moved.”
“That’s something, I suppose.”
She inclined her head, was about t
o turn away when she noticed that, although his hand had closed about the doorknob, he hadn’t turned it.
He was standing staring at the door.
“If it makes any difference, it’s been over a decade since your father used this room.”
That got her a frowning look. “Which room did he use?”
“He moved to the east tower room. It’s remained untouched since he died.”
“When did he move there?” He looked at the door before him. “Out of here.”
It wasn’t her place to hide the truth. “Sixteen years ago.” In case he failed to make the connection, she added, “When he returned from London after banishing you.”
He frowned, as if the information made no sense.
Which made her wonder, but she held her tongue. She waited, but he asked no more.
Brusquely he nodded in dismissal, turned the knob, and opened the door. “I’ll see you in the study in an hour.”
With a serene inclination of her head, she turned and walked away.
And felt his dark gaze on her back, felt it slide down from her shoulders to her hips, eventually to her legs. Managed to hold back her inner shiver until she was out of his acutely observant sight.
Then she picked up her pace, walking swiftly and determinedly toward her own domain—the duchess’s morning room; she had an hour to find armor sufficiently thick to protect her against the unexpected impact of the tenth Duke of Wolverstone.
Royce halted just inside the duke’s apartments; shutting the door, he looked around.
Decades had passed since he’d last seen the room, but little had changed. The upholstery was new, but the furniture was the same, all heavy polished oak, glowing with a rich, golden patina, the edges rounded by age. He circled the sitting room, running his fingers over the polished tops of sideboards and the curved backs of chairs, then went into the bedroom—large and spacious with a glorious view south over the gardens and lake to the distant hills.
He was standing before the wide window drinking in that view when a tap on the outer door had him turning. He raised his voice. “Come.”