Mastered by Love

  Someone had seized her and carried her away. She’d gone to the door, looking for Hamish’s children—and someone, some man, had come up behind her. She’d sensed him an instant before he’d grabbed her, tried to turn her head, but he’d slapped a handkerchief over her nose and mouth…

  It had smelled sickly sweet, cloying…

  Reality inched closer, seeped into her mind. She breathed in, carefully, but that horrible, nauseating smell was gone.

  Someone—the man—was talking, the sound distant, fading in and out.

  Familiar. He was familiar.

  She would have frowned, but her features were still not her own. She was lying on her back…on stone, its rough surface beneath her fingers, under one palm…she’d been here before, lain just like this not long ago…

  The millstone. She was lying on the grinding stone in the mill.

  The realization evoked an inpouring of awareness; the clouds dissipated; she came fully awake.

  Just as the man halted beside her. She sensed him looking down at her; instinct kept her perfectly still.

  “Damn you—wake up!”

  He’d spoken through clenched teeth, yet she placed him. Phillip. What the devil was he up to?

  With a muttered curse, he swung away. Her hearing focused, her mind followed; still too weak to move, she listened as he paced, talking to himself.

  “It’s all right. I have time. Plenty of time to set the stage—to rape her, and beat her, then kill her—perhaps slit her throat, let her blood flow artistically over the stone—yes!”

  His shoes scraped on the floor as if he’d swung around. She sensed him looking at her; she didn’t move a muscle.

  “Damn!” he muttered. “I forgot to bring my knife.” He paused, then said, “No matter. I’ve ball and powder—I can shoot her as many times, in as many places, as I like.”

  Again she felt him studying her, then he started pacing again.

  “Yes, that will do nicely. I’ll rip her gown to shreds, shoot her in the head, then again in the belly, and place that damned crown in the blood.” He laughed. “Oh, yes, that will work. He has to be shattered by the sight. Completely and utterly broken. He has to finally see that I’m more powerful. That because he took my treasure, I’ve taken something he valued from him—that in our game, I’ll always win. That I’m the truly clever one. When he comes in here, and sees what I’ve done to her—his new duchess, the woman he today vowed to honor and protect—he’ll know I’ve won. He’ll know that everyone will know what a failure he is—that he wasn’t even clever enough, strong enough, powerful enough, to protect her.”

  His long strides brought him to the millstone again; again she felt his gaze. Unlike Royce’s, his made her skin crawl. She fought to remain lifeless, utterly lax—battled the compulsion to tense, to hold her breath, to raise her lids enough to see.

  She nearly sighed with relief when he said, “Time’s on my side.” He moved away again. “I’ve got more than an hour before that valet gives Royce the note. Plenty of time to enjoy debauching and killing her, and then get ready to welcome him.”

  Facts fell into place with a suddenness that left her mentally reeling. Treasure. Phillip had said treasure. He was Royce’s last traitor.

  That’s what this was all about. He thought to use her to break Royce.

  The fight she had to wage to suppress her reaction—not to let her jaw, her features, set, not to let her hands curl into fists, not to reach for the knife she had, for an entirely different reason, strapped to her thigh—was immense.

  She could kill him with that knife, but Phillip was strong—he was like Royce in that. Yet while he believed her unconscious, it seemed she was safe. Just as long as he kept believing he had time, her best strategy was to simply lie there and let him rant.

  And give Royce time to reach her.

  She knew he would.

  How long had she been unconscious? How long was it since she’d left the ballroom? Phillip’s plan had a large hole in it, one he’d never see. He might not be a Varisey, yet he was just like Royce in not understanding what love actually was.

  He didn’t comprehend that Royce would simply know, that he was always aware of her—even in a crowded ballroom. He’d never wait an hour before checking where she’d gone. She seriously doubted he’d have waited ten minutes. Which meant rescue was afoot.

  Phillip was now ranting about his father, and his grandfather, how they’d always lauded Royce and never him. How they would now see that Royce was nothing, powerless…

  Royce’s maternal grandfather was long dead.

  Not that she needed any further proof of the state of Phillip’s mind.

  Nevertheless, she forced herself to listen so she could track his movements; when she was sure he was pacing away from her, she quickly cracked open her lids—immediately closed them again and heaved a mental sigh of relief. He’d closed the mill doors.

  Resisting the urge to smile intently, she worked on keeping every muscle flaccid.

  Not so easy when Phillip stopped talking, then halted beside the millstone. She was fully awake now, could sense his physical closeness. Like Royce, he was large, well-muscled, and radiated heat—and quelling her revulsion and lying quiescent with him near was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.

  Then she heard a rustle; his arms moved.

  Then he leaned near. “Come on, damn you! Wake up.”

  And then she discovered there were harder things to quell than mere revulsion.

  Instinct had her peeking through her lashes. She only had an instant’s warning, only an instant to scream at herself to relax, relax, for God’s sake don’t react!—then he jabbed her in the arm with his cravat pin.

  Royce waited in the hallway until all the men had gathered. The ladies remained, too—they were all too sober to go back into the ballroom; if they did, they’d cause comment.

  Christian slipped through the door. “That’s all of us.”

  Royce raked the ranks of deadly serious faces. “My cousin, Phillip Debraigh, has seized Minerva. He’s our last traitor—the one I failed to apprehend. As far as I can judge, he’s set on wreaking vengeance of a sort on me—the diadem she was wearing”—that he, Royce, had given her—“was part of his thirty pieces of silver. He’s taken her somewhere outside. Although the castle is huge, with it packed with guests there are staff constantly scurrying everywhere—something he knows. He won’t have risked staging anything indoors.” He glanced outside. “But there are only so many places he could use outside—which gives us a chance to rescue Minerva, and capture him.”

  He brought his gaze back to the grave faces. “He took her less than fifteen minutes ago—he won’t be expecting us to have even noticed her absence yet, so we have a small amount of time to plan.”

  Rupert, on his left, shifted, caught Royce’s eyes when he glanced his way. “Whatever we do, secrecy is imperative. No matter he’s a traitor, and deserves to be brought down, you can’t bring down the Debraighs as a family. You, especially, can’t do that.”

  Because the Debraighs, his mother’s family, had always supported him. Because his Debraigh grandfather had been so much a part of his formative life. Jaw set, Royce nodded. “As far as possible, we’ll try to keep this secret, but I won’t risk Minerva’s safety, not even for the Debraighs.”

  He looked at the grouped ladies, at Letitia, Clarice, Rose, and all the rest. “You ladies are going to have to give us cover. You’re going to have to go back into the ballroom and spread some story—of how we’ve adjourned for a meeting on whatever topic your imaginations can devise. You’re going to have to hide your apprehension—make it appear as irritation, annoyance, resignation—anything. But we’ll never keep this concealed without you.”

  Clarice nodded. “We’ll manage. Just go”—she waved them off—“do what you’re so good at, and get Minerva back.”

  Her waspish tone was reinforced by the looks on the other ladies’ faces. Royce nodded grimly, and looked at the m
en. “Come up to the battlements.”

  He led them up the battlement stairs in a thunder of heavy feet. Just in case he’d guessed wrongly and Phillip was somewhere in the house, Handley, Trevor, Jeffers, Retford, and Hamilton were alerted, and a quiet search was under way. But as he walked to the battlements, waited while the others joined him, he knew he was right. Phillip was outside—somewhere in the grounds, all the relevant parts of which were visible from this vantage point.

  Bracing his hands on the stone, he looked out. “He’ll have taken her to one of the structures. There’s not that many. There’s—” He broke off. He’d come to the same spot to which he’d brought Minerva, twice. The view was to the north, up the gorge to the Cheviots and Scotland beyond.

  The mill was in the foreground.

  He straightened, his gaze locked on the building. “He’s taken her to the mill.”

  All the others crowded the battlements, looking.

  Before any could ask, he went on, “There is no one on the entire estate who would close those doors—for excellent reasons, they’re always left open.”

  Christian was assessing the terrain, as were the others. “Two levels.”

  “Can he get out along the stream?” Tony asked.

  “Not easily—not safely.”

  “So.” Devil Cynster straightened, cocked a brow his way. “How are we going to do this?”

  In a few succinct phrases, he told them.

  They weren’t entirely happy, but no one argued.

  Minutes later, they were streaming from the house, slipping into the gardens, a silent, deadly force intent on only one thing—ending the last traitor’s reign.

  Royce was at the head of the pack, saving Minerva his only real aim.

  Twenty-two

  Minerva had weathered the prick of the cravat pin—more through sheer terror than anything else. She’d managed not to flinch, but her muscles had tensed. Phillip had noticed; he’d nudged her, slapped her cheeks, but when she’d stirred, mumbled, then slumped as if comatose again, he’d muttered a raw expletive and swung viciously away.

  He’d fallen to pacing again, but closer, watching her all the while. “Damn you, wake up! I want you awake so you’ll know what I’m doing to you—I want you to fight me. I want to hear you scream as I force my way inside you. I specifically brought you here—far enough from the house and with the noise of the water to cover all sounds—just so I could enjoy your sobbing and pleading. And your screaming—above all, your screaming. I want to see your eyes, I want to feel your fear. I want you to know every little thing I’m going to do to you before I do it—and for every second while I am.”

  He suddenly swooped close. “You won’t be dying anytime soon.”

  She jerked her head away from the hot waft of his crooning breath, tried to disguise the instinctive flinch as restlessness.

  He drew back, his gaze heavy on her face. Then, “You aren’t pretending to still be asleep, are you, Minerva?”

  His tone was taunting; he slapped her cheek again. Then he sneered. “Let’s see if this will wake you up.”

  He roughly seized her breast, hard fingers searching for, then framing her nipple. Her breasts were tender; she cracked open her lids, looked up—

  Saw him above her, one knee on the millstone beside her, his features distorted into a mask of pure evil, looking down to where his hand imprisoned her flesh. His eyes glittered; his other hand rose, holding his cravat pin.

  Her hands came up; with all her strength, she pushed him off.

  Releasing her breast, he rocked back—laughed in triumph. Before she could move, he swooped and seized her arm.

  He dragged her half upright, shook her like a doll. “You bitch! Time for your punishment to begin.”

  She fought him; he shook her viciously, then slapped her hard.

  The crack of his palm on her cheek echoed sharply through the mill.

  Something fell to the ground.

  Phillip froze. Standing with his knees against the side of the millstone, with her on the stone before him, her legs trapped in the lace froth of her wedding gown, one of her arms locked in a painful, unbreakable grip, he stopped breathing and stared across the race.

  The sound had come from the east side—the lower side of the mill. There were no doors on that side of the building; if anyone was going to come in unremarked, they would have to come that way.

  “Royce?” Phillip waited, but no answer came. No hint of movement. No further sound.

  He glanced down at her, but immediately snapped his gaze up again, locked it on the gangplank, presently set over the race connecting the two levels; his eyes searched the clear space on the lower side beyond it.

  Minerva felt him shift his weight from one foot to the other; he was uncertain—this wasn’t what he’d planned. Her gaze fixed on him, her senses locked on him, she waited for her chance.

  Royce was somewhere on the lower level; her senses told her he was there. But Phillip couldn’t see him because of the cupboards lining the race, not unless—until—Royce wanted to be seen.

  Apparently realizing, Phillip snarled, and grabbed her with both hands; hauling her off the millstone, he dragged her up against him, her back to his chest. With one arm, he locked her there; he held her so tightly she could barely breathe. With his other hand he fished in his pocket; turning her head to the side, she saw him pull out a pistol.

  He held it down, at his side. His body at her back was unbelievably tense.

  He was using her as a shield, and she couldn’t do anything; her arms were trapped against her body. If she struggled he’d just lift her off her feet. All she could do was grasp her skirts in her hands, hold them as high as she could—at least enough for her feet to be free—and wait for an opening. Wait for the right moment.

  Phillip was muttering beneath his breath; she forced herself to focus, to listen. He was talking to himself, reworking his plan; he was ignoring her as if she were some inanimate pawn—no threat whatsoever.

  “He’s down there somewhere, but that’s all right. As long as he knows I’ve killed her, I still win. And then I’ll kill him.” He hauled her with him as he edged around the huge circular stone. “I’ll get into position, shoot her, then I’ll have to grab the gangplank and swing it to this side—he’ll be shocked, he won’t be expecting that, I can have it done by the time she hits the ground.”

  His whispered words tripped over themselves as he frantically rehearsed. “Then I’ll reload—and shoot him when he comes for me…”

  She felt him look up; she looked where he did—at the big beams forming the heavy structure supporting the waterwheel.

  “With the gangplank gone, he’ll have to come that way. He might not love her, but he won’t let me get away with killing his duchess. So he’ll come for me—and I’ll have more than enough time to reload and shoot him before he can reach me.”

  She sensed welling triumph in his tone.

  “Yes! That’s what I’ll do. So first, I get in place.” Renewed confidence infused him. He tightened his arm, lifted her from her feet, and walked forward—toward the upper end of the gangplank.

  She’d run out of time, but with her arms locked to her body there was nothing she could do.

  Above her head, Phillip muttered, so low she could barely hear him. “Close enough to the plank ropes, close enough to my powder and shot.”

  He moved her forward. And she saw the powder horn and shot canister he’d left on the flat top railing, a few feet left of the gangplank.

  She couldn’t use her arms, but could she possibly raise her feet high enough to kick powder or shot away? Either would do—then he’d have only one shot. Only one person he could kill.

  If he shot her, he couldn’t kill Royce. Phillip slowed as he maneuvered into position; she was gauging the distance, tensing to try to kick up—

  Something flashed across in front of them, right to left—and hit the powder horn and canister, sending both spinning.

  The powde
r horn spun off the railing and fell into the race.

  Something clattered on the wooden floor. Both she and Phillip instinctively looked.

  And saw a knife. Royce’s knife.

  Like most gentlemen, he always had one somewhere about him—but she’d only known him ever to have one.

  A thump had their heads snapping around—

  Royce had leapt onto the lower end of the gangplank.

  He stood directly before them, his gaze locked on Phillip’s face. “Let her go, Phillip—it’s me you want.”

  Phillip snarled; backing quickly, he pressed the muzzle of the cocked pistol to Minerva’s temple. “I’m going to kill her—and you’re going to watch.”

  “You’ve only got one shot, Phillip—who are you going to kill? Her…or me?”

  Phillip halted. He rocked back and forth, heels to toes, indecisive, undecided.

  Then his chest swelled; with a roar, he flung Minerva to the side, and swung his pistol up to aim at Royce. “You!” he screamed. “I’m going to kill you!”

  “Run, Minerva!” Royce didn’t even glance at her. “Through the doors. The others are outside.”

  Then he charged up the gangplank.

  Having landed on her side on the millstone, she was frantically hauling up her skirts.

  She sat up—saw Phillip brace his pistol arm with his other hand. His face aglow with maniacal joy, laughing, he aimed for Royce’s chest.

  Her fingers closed about the hilt of her knife. She didn’t think, didn’t blink, just threw it.

  The hilt appeared on the side of Phillip’s neck.

  He choked, pulled the trigger.

  The shot rang out, filling the enclosed space.

  Phillip started to crumple.

  Minerva scrambled off the millstone. Her eyes locked on Royce as he halted before Phillip, looking down on his cousin as he slumped to the floor. Her gaze raced over Royce, seeking the wound…she nearly swooned with relief when she finally accepted that there wasn’t one. Phillip’s shot had gone wide.