Despite his lack of experience, Sword had all but instantly picked up Royce’s directions, almost certainly because Royce was strong enough to impress them on him clearly. But that took focused strength and concentration, an awareness of the horse and its inclination that few riders possessed; by the time the breeding fields came into view, Royce was no longer surprised that not even Milbourne had been able to ride the stallion.
Grasping the reins, he let Sword feel the bit, slowing him by degrees, until they were trotting.
He wanted to see Conqueror; he didn’t know why. He wasn’t a sentimental man, yet the memories stirred through riding his old mount’s son had driven him there. Standing in his stirrups, he scanned the wide field, then heard a distant but soft trumpet; Sword answered with a snort and picked up his pace.
A group of horses emerged from a fold in the land, trotting, then galloping toward the fence.
Conqueror was in the lead. Much the same size as his son, yet heavier with age, the big gray slowed, ears flicking back and forth as he eyed Royce.
Halting Sword by the fence, Royce leaned over and held out his hand, a dried apple on his palm. “Here, boy.”
Conqueror whinnied and came forward, lipped the apple from Royce’s palm, chewed, then leaned over the rail and—ignoring his son—butted Royce.
He grinned, patting the great head. “Remember me, do you?”
Conqueror shook his head, mane dancing, then he noticed Sword’s interest in the mares who’d followed him to the fence.
With a thunderous snort, Conqueror moved forward, pushing the mares away, herding them back.
Put in his place—second to Conqueror’s harem—Royce sat and watched the small herd move away.
Settling back in the saddle, he patted Sword’s sleek neck, then looked around. They were high on the rise of Castle Hill, north of the castle; looking down the valley, he could see the massive bulk of his home bathed in bright sunlight. It was barely noon.
Turning, he traced the valley northward, picking out the brown track of Clennell Street as it wound its way up through the hills. Temptation whispered.
He hadn’t made any appointments for the afternoon.
The restlessness that had plagued him even from before he’d learned of his father’s death, brought on, he suspected, by having to end Dalziel’s reign while having no alternative life organized and waiting, then compounded by being thrust unprepared into the ducal harness, still roiled and churned inside, rising up at odd moments to distract and taunt him.
To unexpectedly undermine his natural Varisey confidence, and leave him uncertain.
Not a feeling he’d ever liked, and, at thirty-seven, one that irked. Mightily.
He glanced at Sword, then flicked the reins. “We’ve time enough to escape.”
Urging the gray forward, he set course for the border and Scotland beyond.
He’d said he’d deal with O’Loughlin.
Royce found the farmhouse easily enough—the hills didn’t change—but what had changed was the farmhouse itself. When last he’d seen it, it had been little more than a crofter’s cottage with a lean-to barn alongside. Extended and refashioned, long and low, faced with rough-cut stone, thick timbers and with good slate on the roof, the house—now definitely a farmhouse—appeared warm and quietly prosperous, nestling back against a protecting rise, with a new, good-sized barn to one side.
A low stone wall circled the yard; as Royce walked the tiring Sword through the opening, a dog started barking.
Sword shifted, skittered.
The dog was chained inside the open barn door.
Drawing rein, Royce halted and sat patiently waiting for his calm, his lack of reaction, to sink in; once Sword had noticed and quieted, he dismounted.
Just as the farmhouse door opened and a mountain of a man strode out.
Royce met his half brother’s blue eyes; other than their height and the width of their shoulders, the only physical resemblance lay in the set of their eyes, nose, and chin. Hamish’s brown curls were starting to gray, but otherwise he seemed in his usual rude health. Royce smiled and stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Hamish.”
His hand was engulfed, and then so was he, hauled into one of his half brother’s bear hugs.
“Ro!” Hamish released him with a cuff to the back that—if he hadn’t been expecting it—would have made Royce stagger. Grabbing his shoulders, Hamish searched his face. “Regardless of the reason, it’s damned good to have you back.”
“It’s good to be back.” Hamish released him and Royce glanced at the hills, at the view across their peaks to Windy Gyle. “I knew I missed it—I hadn’t realized by how much.”
“Och, well, you’re back now, even if it took the old bastard dying to do it.”
“The old bastard” was Hamish’s way of referring to their father, not an insult, but a term of affection.
Royce’s lips twisted. “Yes, well, he’s gone, which is one reason I’m here. There are things—”
“To talk about—but after you’ve come in an’ met Molly and the bairns.” Hamish glanced at the barn, then pointed at a small face peeking out. “Hoi—Dickon! Come and see to this horse…” Hamish glanced at Sword, shifting nervously at the end of the rein.
Royce smiled. “I think I’d better help Dickon.”
Hamish trailed alongside as Royce led Sword to the barn. “Isn’t this the stallion that wouldn’t let the old bastard ride him?”
“So I’ve heard. I didn’t have a horse, so now he’s mine.”
“Aye, well, you always had the right touch with the headstrong ones.”
Royce smiled at the boy waiting by the barn door; Hamish’s blue eyes stared back at him. “This isn’t one I’ve met before.”
“Nah.” Halting beside the lad, Hamish ruffled his hair. “This one came while you were away.” He looked down at the boy, who was regarding Royce with wide eyes. “This here’s the new duke, lad—you call him Wolverstone.”
The boy’s eyes switched to his father. “Not ‘the old bastard’?”
Royce laughed. “No—but if there’s no one else about but family, you can call me Uncle Ro.”
While Royce and Dickon settled Sword in an empty stall, Hamish leaned on the wall and brought Royce up to date with the O’Loughlins. When Royce had last been at Wolverstone, Hamish, two years older than he, had had two young “bairns” through the occasional letters they’d exchanged, Royce knew Hamish was now the proud father of four, Dickon at ten being the third.
Leaving the barn, they crossed the yard and entered the house; both Hamish and Royce had to duck beneath the low lintel.
“Hi, Moll!” Hamish led the way into a large parlor. “Come see who’s here.”
A short, rotund woman—more rotund than Royce remembered her—came bustling in from the kitchen beyond, wiping her hands on her apron. Bright blue eyes were set in a sweet round face beneath a shock of coppery red curls. “Really, Hamish, as if that’s any way to summon me. Anyone would think you were a heathen—” Her eyes lit on Royce and she halted. Then she shrieked—making both men wince—and flung herself at Royce.
He caught her, laughed as she hugged him wildly.
“Royce, Royce!” She tried to shake him, an impossibility for her, then looked up into his face, beaming delightedly. “It’s so good to see you back.”
His own smile widened. “It’s good to be back, Moll.” He was increasingly realizing how true that was, how deep within him the feeling of coming home reached. Touched. “You’re looking as fetching as ever. And you’ve expanded the family since last I was here.”
“Och, aye.” Molly sent a mock-glare Hamish’s way. “Himself got busy, you might say.” Face softening, she looked at Royce. “You’ll stay to lunch, won’t you?”
He did. There was thick soup, mutton stew, and bread, followed by cheese and ale. He sat at the long table in the warm kitchen, redolent with succulent aromas and filled with constant babble, and marveled at Hamish’s children.
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Heather, the eldest, a buxom seventeen, had been a tiny tot when he’d last seen her, while Robert, sixteen and bidding fair to be as large as Hamish, had been a babe in arms, with Molly barely recovered from the birthing. Dickon was next in age, then came Georgia, who at seven looked very like Molly and seemed equally feisty.
As they’d taken their seats, the four had regarded him with wide eyes, as if drinking him in with their confident candid gazes—a combination of Hamish’s shrewdness and Molly’s openheartedness—then Molly had set the soup on the table and their attention had shifted; they’d thereafter blithely treated him as family, as “Uncle Ro.”
Listening to their chatter, to Robert reporting to Hamish on the sheep in some field, and Heather telling Molly about a chicken gone broody, Royce couldn’t help but register how comfortable he felt with them. In contrast, he’d be hard-pressed to name his legitimate sisters’ offspring.
When his father had banished him from all Wolverstone domains and banned all communication with him, his sisters had fallen in with his father’s wishes. Even though all three had been married and mistresses of their own establishments, they’d made no move to stay in touch, not even by letter. If they had, he would have at least corresponded, because he’d always known this day would come—when he was the head of the family, and in charge of the dukedom’s coffers, on which his sisters still drew, and, through them, their children did, too.
Like everyone else, his sisters had assumed the situation wouldn’t last long. Certainly not for sixteen years.
He’d kept a list of his nephews and nieces culled from birth notices in the Gazette, but in the rush had left it in London; he hoped Handley would remember it.
“But when did you get to the castle?” Molly fixed her bright gaze on him.
“Yesterday morning.”
“Aye, well, I’m sure Miss Chesterton will have everything in hand.”
He noted Molly’s approval. “You know her?”
“She comes up here to discuss things with Hamish now and then. Always takes tea with us—she’s a proper lady in every way. I imagine she’ll have everything running smoothly as usual.” Molly fixed her eyes on his face. “Have you decided when the funeral will be?”
“Friday next week.” He glanced at Hamish. “Given the ton’s inevitable interest, that was the earliest.” He paused, then asked, “Will you come?”
“Moll and I will come to the church.” Hamish exchanged a glance with Molly, who nodded, then he looked at Royce and grinned. “But you’ll have to manage on your own at the wake.”
Royce sighed. “I had hoped presenting them with a Scottish giant might distract them. Now I’ll have to think of something else.”
“Nah—I should think you yourself, the prodigal son returned, will be distraction enough.”
“That,” Royce said, “was my point.”
Hamish chortled and they let the matter slide; Royce steered the conversation to local farming conditions and the upcoming harvest. Hamish had his pride, something Royce respected; his half brother had never set foot inside the castle.
As he’d expected, on the subject of farming he got more pertinent information from Hamish than from his own steward and agent; the farms in the area were scraping by, but were not exactly thriving.
Hamish himself was faring rather better. He held his lands freehold; his mother had been the only daughter of a freeholder. She’d married later in life, and Hamish had been her only child. He’d inherited the farm from her, and with the stipend his father had settled on him, had had the capital to expand and improve his stock; he was now a well-established sheep farmer.
At the end of the meal, Royce thanked Molly, bussed her cheek, then, following Hamish, snagged an apple from the bowl on the dresser, and they took their talk outside.
They sat on the stone wall, feet dangling, and looked across the hills. “Your stipend continues to your death, but you knew that.” Royce took a bite of his apple; it crunched sharply.
“Aye.” Hamish settled beside him. “So how did he die?”
“Minerva Chesterton was with him.” Royce related what she’d told him.
“Have you managed to contact all the others?”
“Minerva’s written to the girls—they’re all on one or other of the estates. That’s eleven of the fifteen.” His father had sired fifteen illegitimate children on maids, tavern wenches, farm and village lasses; for some reason he’d always drawn his lovers from the local lower orders. “The other three men are in the navy—I’ll write to them. Not that his death materially changes anything.”
“Aye, still, they’ll need to know.” Hamish eyed him for a moment, then asked, “So, are you going to be like him?”
Tossing away his apple core, Royce slanted him a narrow-eyed glance. “In what way?”
Unabashed, Hamish grinned. “In exactly the way you thought I meant. Are you going to have every farmer in the region locking up his daughters?”
Royce snorted. “Definitely not my style.”
“Aye, well.” Hamish tugged at one earlobe. “Never was mine, either.” For a moment they dwelled on their sire’s sexual proclivities, then Hamish went on, “It was almost as if he saw himself as one of the old marcher lords, royal perquisites and all. Within his domains, he saw, he wanted, he took—not, as I heard it, that any of the lasses resisted all that much. M’ mother certainly didn’t. Told me she never regretted it—her time with him.”
Royce smiled. “She was talking about you, you daft beggar. If she hadn’t spent that time with him, she wouldn’t have had you.”
“P’rhaps. But even in her last years, she used to get a wistful look in her eye whenever she spoke of him.”
Another moment passed, then Royce said, “At least he looked after them.”
Hamish nodded.
They sat for a time, drinking in the ever-changing views, the play of light over the hills and valleys, the shifting hues as the sun edged to the west, then Hamish stirred and looked at Royce. “So, will you be mostly at the castle, then, or will London and the sassenach ladies lure you south?”
“No. In that respect I’ll be following in his footsteps. I’ll live at the castle except when duty to the estate, family or the Lords calls me south.” He frowned. “Speaking of living here, what have you heard of the castle’s agent, Kelso, or the steward, Falwell?”
Hamish shrugged. “They’ve been your father’s eyes and ears for decades. Both are…well, not quite local anymore. They live in Harbottle, not on the estate, which causes some difficulty. Both were born on the estate, but moved to the town years ago, and for some reason your father didn’t object—suspect he thought they’d still know the land. Not something you forget all that easily, after all.”
“No, but things, conditions, change. Attitudes change, too.”
“Och, well, you’ll not get those two changing anything in a hurry. Right set in their ways—which I always supposed was why they suited the old bastard so well. Right set in his ways, he was.”
“Indeed.” After a moment of reflecting on his sire’s resistance to change, and how deep that had gone, Royce admitted, “I might have to replace them—retire them—both, but I won’t know until I’ve had a chance to get out and about and assess matters for myself.”
“If it’s information on the estate you need, your chatelaine can fill you in. Minerva’s the one everyone goes to if there’s a problem. Most have grown weary—in fact, wary—of going to Falwell or Kelso. Like as not, if they make a complaint, either nothing gets done, or the wrong thing—something worse that wasn’t intended—happens.”
Royce leveled a direct look at Hamish. “That doesn’t sound good.”
It was a question, one Hamish understood. “Aye, well, you’d written that you’d be giving up that commission of yours, and I knew you’d come home—didn’t think there was any need to write and tell you how things were not going quite so well. I knew you’d see it once you got back, and Minerva Chesterton was doing we
ll enough holding the fort.” He shrugged his massive shoulders; they both looked south, over the peaks toward Wolverstone. “It might be not the done thing for me to say this, but perhaps it’s as well that he’s gone. Now you’ve got the reins, and it’s more than time for a new broom.”
Royce would have smiled at the mixed metaphor, but what they were discussing was too serious. He stared in the direction in which his responsibilities, growing weightier by the hour, lay, then he slid from the wall. “I should go.”
Hamish paced alongside as he went to the barn and saddled Sword, then swung up to the saddle and walked the big gray into the yard.
Halting, he held out his hand.
Hamish clasped it. “We’ll see you Friday at the church. If you get caught having to make a decision about something on the estate, you can rely on Minerva Chesterton’s opinion. People trust her, and respect her judgment—whatever she advises will be accepted by your tenants and workers.”
Royce nodded; inwardly he grimaced. “That’s what I thought.”
What he’d feared.
He saluted, then flicked the reins, and set Sword for Clennell Street and Wolverstone.
Home.
He’d torn himself away from the peace of the hills…only to discover when he rode into the castle stables that his sisters—all three of them, together with their husbands—had arrived.
Jaw set, he stalked toward the house; his sisters could wait—he needed to see Minerva.
Hamish’s confirmation that she was, indeed, the current champion of the estate’s well-being left him with little choice. He was going to have to rely on her, spend hours gleaning everything he could about the estate from her, ride out with her so she could show him what was going on—in short, spend far more time with her than he wished.
Than was wise.
Entering the house by the side door, he heard a commotion ahead, filling the cavernous front hall, and steeled himself. Felt his temper ratchet up another notch.
His elder sisters, Margaret, Countess of Orkney, and Aurelia, Countess of Morpeth, had agreed, implicitly if not explicitly, with his father over his erstwhile occupation; they’d supported his banishment. But he’d never got on well with either of them; at best he tolerated them, and they ignored him.