Her gaze returned to Royce’s face; behind his mask, he was stunned. In that instant she knew he hadn’t expected to survive.
He could have run for cover, but he’d run toward Phillip to give her time to get away, to make sure Phillip shot at him, and not her.
Dragging in a deep breath, she went to join him.
Just as the doors at both ends of the mill swung open, and Christian and Miles appeared at the lower end of the gangplank.
Reaching Royce, she laid a hand on his arm. He looked at her then, met her eyes, then he looked down at the knife in Phillip’s throat, and didn’t say anything.
The others gathered around; what expressions were discernable were unrelentingly grim. She glimpsed pistols being slipped back into pockets, the flash of knives being put away.
Royce drew in a breath—almost unable to believe he could. Almost unable to believe that Minerva stood, shaken but otherwise well, beside him—that he could sense her there, steady and sure, that he was still alive to feel her comforting warmth, her vital presence.
The emotions churning inside him were staggeringly strong, but he battened them down, left them for later. There was one more thing he had to do.
Something only he could.
The others had formed a rough circle about them. Phillip lay sprawled, twisted half on his back, his head not far from Royce’s right shoe. The knife wound would eventually kill him, but he wasn’t dead yet.
He shifted to his right, crouched down. “Phillip—can you hear me?”
Phillip’s lips twisted. “Almost got you. Almost…did it.”
The words were barely a whisper, but in the intent silence, they were audible enough.
“You were the traitor, weren’t you, Phillip? The one in the War Office. The one who sent God knows how many Englishmen to their deaths, and who the French paid in a treasure most of which lies at the bottom of the Channel.”
Although his eyes remained closed, Phillip’s lips curved in an unholy smile. “You’ll never know how successful I was.”
“No.” Royce curved one hand about Phillip’s chin, with his other hand grasped the top of his skull. “We won’t.”
He sensed Minerva draw close, from the corner of his eye glimpsed the ivory lace of her gown. He turned his head her way. “Look away.”
Phillip dragged in a hissing breath. He frowned. “Hurts.”
Royce looked down at him. “Sadly nowhere near as much as you deserve.” With an abrupt twist, he snapped Phillip’s neck.
He released him. The features so like his own eased, fell slack.
He reached for the knife hilt, jerked the blade free. With Phillip’s heart already stopped, the wound bled only slightly. He wiped the blade on Phillip’s lapel, then rose, sliding the knife into his pocket.
Minerva’s hand slipped into his, her fingers twining, gripping.
Christian stepped forward; so did Miles and Devil Cynster.
“Leave this to us,” Christian said.
“You’ve tidied up after us often enough,” Charles said. “Allow us to return the favor.”
There was a growl of agreement from the other Bastion Club members.
“I hate to sound like a grande dame,” Devil said, “but you need to get back to your wedding celebration.”
Miles glanced at Rupert and Gerald. “Gerald and I will stay and help—we know the estate fairly well. Enough, at least, to help stage a fatal accident—I presume that’s what we need?”
“Yes,” Rupert, Devil, and Christian answered as one.
Rupert caught Royce eye. “You and Minerva need to get back.”
They took over and, for once, Royce let them. Devil, Rupert, Christian, Tony, and both Jacks accompanied him and Minerva back to the house, leaving the others to stage Phillip’s accident. Royce knew what they would do; the gorge was both close and convenient, and disguising the knife wound as a wound from a sharp stick wouldn’t be hard—but he appreciated their tact in not discussing the details in front of Minerva.
She hurried beside him, her skirts looped over her arm so they could stride faster.
The instant they came within sight of the house, the ladies—who had been banned absolutely from setting foot in the gardens until their husbands returned, and who, for once, had obeyed—broke ranks and came pouring out of the north wing to meet them.
They had, it transpired, been operating in shifts—some on watch, while the others did duty in the ballroom. Letitia, Phoebe, Alice, Penny, Leonora, and Alicia had just resumed the watch—they flocked around Minerva, reporting that all was under control, that although the grandes dames were suspicious, none had yet demanded to be told what was going on, then they announced that Minerva’s gown would no longer pass muster—she would have to change.
“And that,” Leonora declared, “is our perfect excuse for where you’ve been. This gown looks so delicate, no one will be surprised that you’ve chosen to change, even in the middle of your wedding breakfast.”
“But we’ll have to make it quick.” Alice beckoned them back into the house. “Let’s go.”
In a flurry of silks and satins, the ladies whisked Minerva up the west turret stairs.
Royce and the other men exchanged glances, drew in deep breaths, then headed back to the ballroom. Pausing before the door, they donned expressions of relaxed jocularity, then, with a nod, Royce led them back into the melee.
No one knew, no one guessed; gradually all those involved slipped back into the ballroom, the men returning in jovial groups of three or more, the ladies ferrying Minerva back, ready with their tale to explain her absence.
And if the grandes dames wondered why Royce thereafter kept Minerva so closely beside him, why he so often drew her within the circle of his arm, if they wondered why she showed no inclination to stray, but instead often touched a hand to his arm, none of them voiced so much as a vague query.
The wedding celebrations of the tenth Duke and Duchess of Wolverstone were widely reported to have passed joyously, and—sadly for the gossipmongers—entirely without incident.
About a third of the guests left late that afternoon. It was evening before Royce and Minerva could disappear, could close the door of his sitting room on the world—and finally take stock.
She halted in the middle of the room, stood for one moment, then drew in a huge breath, raised her head, whirled—and plowed her fist into his arm. “Don’t you dare do such a thing again!”
As immovable as rock, and equally impassive, he merely looked down at her, arched an arrogant brow.
She wasn’t having that. She narrowed her eyes on his, stepped close and pointed a finger at his nose. “Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. What sort of maniac invites a deranged killer to shoot him?”
For a long moment, he looked down at her, then, his eyes locked on hers, he caught her hand, raised it, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “A maniac who loves you. To the depths of his cold, hardened, uninformed heart.”
Her lungs seized. She searched his eyes, replayed his words—savored the certainty that rang in them. Then she drew in a shaky breath, nodded. “I’m glad you’ve realized that. Phillip was useful for that much, at least.”
His lips quirked, but then he sobered. “Phillip.” He shook his head, his expression turning grim. “I suspected the last traitor was someone I knew, but…”
“You never imagined the traitor had become a traitor because of you, so you never suspected anyone so close.” She stepped back, with the hand he still held drew him with her. “There’s more—Phillip ranted a lot while he was waiting for me to recover. I already had, but was pretending to be unconscious, so I heard. Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you. You need to hear.”
He sank heavily into one of the armchairs, pulled her down onto his lap. “Tell me.”
Leaning against his chest, his arms around her, she recounted as much as she could remember.
“So it was his father’s and my grandfather’s attention he cra
ved?”
“Not just their attention—their appreciation and acknowledgment that he was your equal. He felt…impotent when it came to them—no matter what he did, what he achieved, they never noticed him.”
Royce shook his head. “I never saw it.” He grimaced. “At least not that they lauded me and not Phillip, but I was rarely there to hear either.” He shook his head again. “My uncle and grandfather would be horrified to know they were the cause of such traitorous acts.”
“The underlying cause,” she sternly corrected him. “They were entirely unwitting—it was Phillip’s mania, first to last. He twisted his mind—no one else can be blamed.”
He cocked a brow at her. “Not even me?”
“Least of all you.”
The fierceness in her tone, in her eyes as she turned her head to meet his, warmed him.
Then she frowned. “One thing I’ve been puzzling over—if Phillip wanted you dead, and he definitely did, more than anything else, then why did he help rescue you from the river? Surely it would have been easy to miss catching you, and then your death would have been a sad accident.”
He sighed. “In hindsight, I think he did intend to let me drown. He couldn’t not help in the rescue because all the others were there, but by being the last in the line…” He tightened his arms about her, as ever anchored by her warmth, her physical presence. “At the time, I thought I wouldn’t be able to reach his hand. It was just out of my reach—or so I thought. In desperation I made a herculean effort—and managed to grab his wrist. And once I had, he couldn’t easily have broken my hold—not without being obvious. So he had to pull me in—an opportunity he missed, by pure luck.”
Her head shifted against his coat as she shook it. “No. You weren’t meant to die—he was. His time for being the last traitor had run out.”
He let her certainty seep into him, soothing, reassuring. Then he shifted. “Incidentally…” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew her knife. Held it up where both of them could see it. “This, as I recall, was once mine.”
She took it, turned it in her hands. “Yes, it was.”
“What on earth made you wear it—today, of all days?”
He’d tipped his head so he could see her face. Her lips curved in pure affection. “ Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.’ I had the crown as something very old, my gown as the new, my mother’s wedding favor as something borrowed, but I didn’t have anything blue.” She pointed to the cornflower-blue sapphire set in the dagger’s hilt. “Except for this—and it seemed oddly fitting.” Her smile deepened; slanting her eyes sideways, she caught his gaze. “I thought of you discovering it when we came back here to continue our celebrations.”
He laughed; he hadn’t thought it possible after all that had happened, but the look in her eyes—the pure suggestion—made him laugh. He refocused on the blade. “I gave it to you when you were what? Nine?”
“Eight. You were sixteen. You gave it to me that summer and taught me how to throw it.”
“There was an element of blackmail involved, as I recall.”
She snorted. “You were sixteen—there was a girl involved. Not me.”
He remembered, smiled. “The blacksmith’s daughter. It’s coming back to me.”
Minerva eyed his smile, waiting…he saw her looking, quirked an arrogantly amused brow. She smiled back—intently. “Keep remembering.”
She watched as he did. His smile faltered, then disappeared.
Expression inscrutable, he met her eyes. “You never told me how much you actually saw.”
It was her turn to smile in fond reminiscence. “Enough.” She added, “Enough to know your technique has improved significantly since then.”
“I should bloody well hope so. That was twenty-one years ago.”
“And you haven’t been living in a monastery.”
He ignored that. Frowned. “Another thing I didn’t think to ask all those years ago—did you often follow me?”
She shrugged. “Not when you rode—you would have seen me.”
A short silence ensued, then he quietly asked, “How often did you spy on me?”
She glanced at his face, arched a brow. “You’re starting to look as stunned as you did in the mill.”
He met her eyes. “It’s a reaction to the revelation that I was singlehandedly if unwittingly responsible for my wife’s extensive sexual education at a precocious age.”
She smiled. “You don’t seem to have any objection to the outcome.”
He hesitated, then said, “Just tell me one thing—it was singlehandedly, wasn’t it?”
She laughed, leaned back in his arms. “I may have been precocious, but I was only interested in you.”
He humphed, hugged her tight.
After a moment, he nuzzled her neck. “Perhaps it’s time I reminded you of some of the technical improvements I’ve assimilated over the years.”
“Hmm. Perhaps.” She shifted sinuously against him, her derriere caressing his erection. “And perhaps you might include something new, something more novel and adventurous.” Glancing over her shoulder, she caught his eye. “Perhaps you should extend my horizons.”
Her tone made that last an imperious, definitely duchessy demand.
He laughed and rose, sweeping her up in his arms. He carried her into the bedroom; halting beside the bed with her cradled in his arms, he looked down. Met her eyes. Held them. “I love you—I really do.” The words were low, heartfelt, resonating with feeling—with discovery, joy, and unfettered belief. “Even when you refuse to do as I say—perhaps even because you refused to look away, to not see the violent side of me.”
Her words were as heartfelt as his. “I love all of you—your worst, your best, and everything in between.” Laying a palm against his cheek, she smiled into his eyes. “I even love your temper.”
He snorted. “I should have you put that in writing.”
She laughed, reached further, and drew his head to hers. He kissed her, followed her down as he laid her on his bed, on the crimson-and-gold brocade.
His. His duchess.
His life. His all.
Later, much later, Minerva lolled naked on the crimson silk sheets, and watched the last of the light fade over the distant hills. Beside her, Royce lay slumped on his back, one arm crooked behind his head, the other draped loosely around her.
He was at peace, and so was she. She was precisely where she was meant to be.
His parents, she thought, would have been pleased; she’d fulfilled her vows to them—quite possibly in the way they’d always intended. They’d known her well, and, she’d come to realize, had understood Royce better than he’d known.
She stirred, shifting closer to his muscled body—a body she’d explored at length, claimed beyond question, and now considered uniquely hers. Eyes still on the far-reaching view, she murmured, “Hamish told me that love was a disease, and you could tell who’d caught it by looking for the symptoms.”
Even though she couldn’t see it, she knew his lips curved.
“Hamish is frequently a font of worldly wisdom. But don’t tell him I said that.”
“I love you.” A statement, no longer any great revelation.
“I know.”
“When did you know?” One thing she’d yet to discover. “I tried so hard to deny it, to hide it—to call it something else.” She turned in his arms to look into his face. “What did I do that first made you suspect that I felt anything at all for you?”
“I knew…” He brought his gaze down to meet her eyes. “The afternoon that I arrived back here, when I realized you’d polished my armillary spheres.”
She arched her brows, considered, then persisted, “And now I know that you know you love me.”
“Hmm.” The sound was full of purring content.
“So confess—when did you first realize?”
His lips curved; drawing the arm from behind his head, he caught a stray lock of her hair, gently tucke
d it behind her ear. “I knew I felt something, more or less from that first night. It kept getting stronger, no matter what I did, but I didn’t realize, didn’t even imagine, for obvious reasons, that it might be love. I thought it was…lust at first, then caring, then a whole host of similar, connected emotions, most of which I wasn’t in the habit of feeling. Yet I knew what they were, I could name them, but I didn’t know it was love that made me feel them.” He looked into her eyes. “Until today, I didn’t know that I loved you—that I would, without thought or hesitation, lay down my life for you.”
Through her happiness, she managed a frown. “Incidentally, I was serious. Don’t ever, ever do that again—put your life before mine. Why would I want to live if you die?” She narrowed her eyes on his. “Much as I value the sentiment—and I do, nothing more highly—promise me you will never give up your life for mine.”
He held her gaze steadily, as serious as she. “If you promise not to get caught by a murderous maniac.”
She thought, then nodded. “I’ll promise that, as far as I’m able.”
“Then I’ll promise what you ask, as far as I’m able.”
She looked into his dark eyes, and knew that would never hold. “Humph!”
Royce grinned, bent, and kissed her nose. “Go to sleep.”
That was one order he seemed always to get away with. As if she’d heard his thought, she humphed again, less forcefully, and snuggled down, within his arm, her head on his shoulder, her hand over his heart.
He felt her relax, felt the soothing warmth of her sink to his marrow, reassuring, almost stroking, the primitive being within.
Closing his eyes, he let sleep creep up, in, over him.
In the now peaceful stillness of his mind, the thought that had jarred and jangled as, weeks before, he’d raced back to Wolverstone to bury his father and assume the ducal mantle echoed, reminded him of the uncertainties, the loneliness, he’d left behind.
Since then, through Minerva, Fate had laid her hands on him. Now, at long last, he could surrender; at last he was at peace.