Mastered By Love

“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.

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