Mastered By Love (48 page)

Catching his head between her hands, she urged him to look up.

 

When he did, dark eyes heavy-lidded, lips rich, fine, wicked, she caught his gaze. Gasped, “Enough. Take me. Finish this.”

 

His steady thrusting between her thighs didn’t ease. He looked deep. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.” Surer than of anything in the world. Slowing her own rhythm, she lost herself in his eyes. “However you wish, however you want.”

 

For one long moment, he held her gaze.

 

Then she was on her back, flung across his bed, clinging to sanity as with her thighs pressed wide, his bound hands beneath her head, palms cradling it, he thrust into her body, hard, deep—

 

Sanity fractured and she flew apart.

 

Royce gasped, fought to hold still so he could savor her release, but the contractions were so strong they ruthlessly, relentlessly drew him on, until with a muffled roar he followed her into oblivion, his release, so long denied, rolling over and through him, powerfully raking him, wrecking him, leaving him drained, a husk buoyed on a welling emotional tide, coming back to life as glory seeped in, and filled him.

 

As his heart swelled, and he drew in a shuddering breath, through the haze in his brain, he felt her lips caress his temple.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The words were a ghost of a whisper, but he heard, slowly smiled.

 

She had it arse over tit; it was he who should thank her.

 

 

A significant time later, he finally summoned sufficient strength to lift from her, roll onto his back, and with his teeth pick apart the knot at his wrists.

 

She lay slumped alongside him, but she wasn’t asleep. Still smiling, he scooped her up, dragged down the covers, then collapsed on the pillows, arranged her in his arms, and tugged the covers over them.

 

Without a word, she snuggled against him, all but boneless.

 

Pleasure, of a depth and quality he’d never thought to feel, rolled over and through him. And sank to his bones.

 

Tilting his head, he looked into her face. “Did I pass your test?”

 

“Humph. Somewhere through all that”—she waved weakly toward the end of the bed—“I realized it was a test for me as much as you.”

 

His lips curved more deeply; he’d wondered if she’d seen that.

 

Curiously clearheaded, he revisited the events, and even more the emotions—all they’d broached, drawn on, used, revealed, over the last hour.

 

She was still awake. Waiting to hear what he would say.

 

He touched his lips to her temple. “Know this.” He kept his voice low; she would hear all he wanted her to hear in his tone. “I will give you anything. Anything and everything I have to give. There is nothing you can ask for that I will not grant you—whatever I have, whatever I am, is yours.”

 

Each word rang with absolute, unshakable commitment.

 

A long moment passed. “Do you believe me?”

 

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation.

 

“Good.” Lips curving, settling his head on the pillow, he closed his arms about her. “Go to sleep.”

 

He knew it was a command, didn’t care. He felt her sigh, felt the last of her tension fade, felt sleep claim her. Taking his own advice, contented to his toes, he surrendered to his dreams.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nineteen

 

 

 

 

A
t a smidgen before dawn, Minerva floated back to her
room, flopped into her bed, and sighed. She couldn’t stop smiling. Royce had more than passed her test with flying colors; even if he couldn’t promise love, what he had promised had more than reassured. He’d given her everything she’d asked for.

 

So what now? What next?

 

She still had no assurance that at some point what presently flared so hotly between them wouldn’t die…Could she risk accepting his offer?

 

Could she risk not?

 

She blinked, felt a cold chill wash through her. Frowned as, for the first time, the alternative to accepting—refusing him, turning her back on all that might be and walking away—formed in her mind.

 

The truth dawned.

 

“Damn that mangy Scot.” She slumped back on her pillows. “He’s right!” Why had it taken her so long to see it?

 

“Because I’ve been looking at Royce, not me.
I
love him.” To the depths of her soul. “No matter how many symptoms of love he has,
my
heart won’t change.”

 

Infatuation-obsession had grown to something a great deal
more—more powerful, deeper, impossible to deny, and immutable, set in stone. Whatever trials she staged, even when he passed with flying colors, were no more than reassurance. Comforting, enlightening, and supportive, yes, but in the end, beside the point.
She
loved him, and as Penny had said, love was not a passive emotion.

 

Love would never allow her to turn her back on him and walk away, would never allow her to be so cowardly as not to risk her heart.

 

Love would—and did—demand her heart.

 

If she wanted love, she had to risk it. Had to give it. Had to surrender it.

 

Her way forward was suddenly crystal clear.

 

“Your Grace, I will be honored to accept your offer.”

 

Her heart literally soared at the sound of the words—words she’d never thought to say. Her lips curved, and curved; she smiled gloriously.

 

The door opened; Lucy breezed in. “Good morning, ma’am. Ready for the big day? Everyone’s already bustling below stairs.”

 

“Oh. Yes.” Her smile waned. She inwardly swore; it was the day before the fair. The one day of the year in which she would have not a moment to call her own.

 

Or Royce’s.

 

She swore again, and got up.

 

And plunged into the day—into a whirlpool of frenetic activity and concerted organization.

 

Breakfast for her was rushed. Royce, wisely, had come down early, and already ridden out. All the guests had arrived; the parlor was a sea of chatter and greetings. Of course, her three mentors were agog to hear her news; given the company, the best she could do was reconjure her radiant smile.

 

They saw it, interpreted it accurately—and beamed back.

 

Letitia patted her arm. “That’s wonderful! You can tell us the details later.”

 

Later it would have to be. It had been too many years since
the staff had coped with a house party and the fair simultaneously; panic threatened on more than one front.

 

Tea and toast downed, Minerva rushed up to the morning room. She and Cranny spent a frantic hour making sure their days’ schedules included all that needed doing. The housekeeper had just left when a tap on the door heralded Letitia, Penny, and Clarice.

 

“Oh.” Meeting Letitia’s bright gaze, Minerva tried to refocus her mind.

 

“No, no.” Grinning, Letitia waved aside her efforts. “Much as we’d like to hear all—in salacious detail—now is clearly not the time. Apropos of which, we’ve come to offer our services.”

 

Minerva blinked; as Letitia sat, she glanced at Penny and Clarice.

 

“There is nothing worse,” Penny declared, “than idly waiting, kicking one’s heels, with nothing to do.”

 

“Especially,” Clarice added, “when there’s obvious employment in which our particular talents might assist—namely, your fair.” She sank onto the sofa. “So share—what’s on your list that we can help with?”

 

Minerva took in their patently eager expressions, then looked down at her lists. “There’s the archery contests, and…”

 

They divided up the tasks, then she ordered the landau to be brought around. While the others fetched bonnets and shawls, she grabbed hers and rushed down to speak with Retford. He and she discussed entertainments for the castle’s guests, most of whom would remain about the castle that day, then she hurried to join the others in the front hall.

 

On the way to the fairground—the field beyond the church—they went over the details of the tasks each would pursue. Reaching the field, already a sea of activity, they exchanged glances, and determinedly plunged in.

 

Even delegating as she had, getting through her list of activities to be checked, organized or discussed took hours. The Alwinton Fair was the largest in the region; crofters
came from miles around, out of the hills and dales of the Borders, and travelers, tradesmen, and craftsmen came from as far afield as Edinburgh to sell their wares.

 

On top of that, the agricultural side was extensive. Although Penny was overseeing the preparations for the animal contests, Minerva had kept the produce section under her purview; there were too many locals involved, too many local rivalries to navigate.

 

And then there was the handfasting; the fair was one of the events at which the Border folk traditionally made their declarations before a priest, then jumped over a broomstick, signaling their intention of sharing an abode for the next year. She came upon Reverend Cribthorn in the melee.

 

“Nine couples this year.” He beamed. “Always a delight to see the beginnings of new families. I regard it as one of my most pleasurable duties, even if the church pretends not to know.”

 

After confirming time and place for the ceremonies, she turned away—and through a gap in the milling throng, spotted Royce. He was surrounded by a bevy of children, all chattering up at him.

 

He’d been about all day, directing and, to their astonishment, often assisting various groups of males engaged in setting up booths and tents, stages and holding pens. Although he and she had exchanged numerous glances, he’d refrained from approaching her—from distracting her.

 

She’d still felt his gaze, had known that at times he’d passed close by in the crowd.

 

Given he was absorbed, she allowed herself to stare, to drink in the sight of him dealing with what she’d come to realize he saw as his youngest responsibilities. He hadn’t forgotten the footbridge, and therefore the aldermen of Harbottle hadn’t forgotten, either. Hancock, the castle carpenter, had been dispatched to oversee the reconstruction, and reported daily to Royce.

 

Every local, on first setting eyes on him—a tall, commanding figure in his well-cut coat, buckskin breeches, and
top boots—stopped and stared. As she watched, Mrs. Critch-ley from beyond Alwinton halted in her tracks, and all but gawped.

 

His father hadn’t attended the fair in living memory, but even more telling, his father would never, ever have assisted—have counted himself as one of this community. He’d been their ruler, but never one of them.

 

Royce would rule as his ancestors had before him, but not distantly, aloofly; he was one with the noisy horde around him. She no longer needed to think to know his views; his sense of duty toward those he ruled—to his people—infused all he did. It was a fundamental part of who he was.

 

Confident, arrogant, assured to his toes, he was Wolverstone, marcher lord incarnate—and using that power that by birth was his to wield, he’d rescripted the role, far more thoroughly, more fundamentally and progressively, than she’d dared hope.

 

Watching him with the children, seeing him turn his head and exchange a laughing comment with Mr. Cribthorn, she felt her heart grow wings.

 

That
was the man she loved.

 

He was who he was, he still had his flaws, but she loved him with all her heart.

 

She had to turn away, had to battle to suppress the emotion welling inside so she could smile and function and do what needed doing. Irrepressibly smiling, she lifted her head, drew breath, and plunged back into the crowd, immersed herself in all she’d come there to do.

 

Later.

 

Later she would speak with him, accept his offer—and offer him her heart, without reservation.

 

 

“It’s entirely thanks to you three that I’m heading home before dusk, let alone in time for afternoon tea.” At ease in the landau, Minerva smiled at Letitia, Clarice, and Penny, all, like her, exhausted, but satisfied with their day.

 

“It was our pleasure,” Penny returned. “Indeed, I think
I’ll suggest Charles investigates getting some ewes from that breeder, O’Loughlin.”

 

She grinned, but didn’t get to mention Hamish’s background, distracted instead by Clarice’s account of what she’d discovered among the craft stalls. By the time they reached the castle, she’d been amply reassured that her friends hadn’t found their assumed duties too onerous. Alighting, they went indoors to join the company for afternoon tea.

 

All the ladies were present, but only a handful of the gentlemen, most having taken out rods or guns and disappeared for the day.

 

“It seemed wise to encourage them,” Margaret said. “Especially as we want them to dance attendance on us tomorrow at the fair.”

 

Smiling to herself, Minerva quit the gathering and climbed the main stairs. She wasn’t sure she’d dealt with everything within the castle itself; she’d left those lists in the morning room.

 

She was reaching for the knob of the morning room door when it opened.

 

Royce stood framed in the doorway. “There you are.”

 

“I’ve just got back. Or rather”—she tipped her head downward—“just finished afternoon tea. Everything seems to be proceeding smoothly.”

 

“As, under your guidance, things always do.” Taking her arm, he moved her back, joining her and pulling the door closed behind him. “That being the case…come walk with me.”

 

He wound her arm in his, setting his hand over hers. She glanced at his face—uninformative as ever—as she strolled beside him. “Where to?”

 

“I thought…” He’d led her back into the keep; now he turned down the short corridor to his apartments—not entirely to her surprise.

 

But he halted a few paces along, looked at the wall, then put out his hand, depressed a catch; the door to the keep’s battlements sprang open. “I thought,” he repeated, meeting