downfall, but it took Wellington and the whole army, and Blucher and the others, too, to finally get the deed done.”
Naturally, they took that as an invitation to pepper him with questions about his men’s missions; borrowing freely from otherwise classified exploits, it was easy enough to keep the expectant horde satisfied, although they were rather put out to learn he hadn’t actually seen Napoleon dragged away in chains.
After delivering the preserves she’d brought, and being introduced to the latest addition to the combined households by its grandmother, juggling the swaddled infant in her arms, cooing while it batted at her hair, Minerva went to the window the better to see the child’s eyes, glanced out-and tensed to hand the babe back so she could rush out and rescue its siblings.
Or Royce, whichever applied…but after an instant of looking, taking in the tableau centered on the black horses, the curricle-and the most powerful duke in England, who appeared to be telling some tale-she relaxed and, smiling, turned back to the baby and cooed some more.
The baby’s grandmother came to the window; she, too, took in the scene outside. Her brows rose. After a moment, she said, “Looking at that, if I couldn’t see with my own eyes that he’s the last lord’s get, I’d be thinking some cuckoo had got into the ducal nest.”
Minerva’s smile deepened; the idea of Royce as a cuckoo…“He’s definitely a Varisey, born and bred.”
The old woman humphed. “Aye, we’ll all be locking up our daughters, no doubt. Still…” She turned from the window and headed back to her work. “If that had been his father out there, he would have snarled at the brats and sent them scurrying-just because he could.”
Minerva couldn’t disagree, yet old Henry would never have even considered coming out with her on her rounds.
Nevertheless, she didn’t tempt fate; handing the baby back to its grandmother, she collected her basket, and was saying her farewells when a large presence darkened the doorway. Royce had to duck low to enter.
The three women immediately bobbed curtsies; Minerva introduced them before he could make any abrupt demand that they leave.
He acknowledged the women smoothly, then his gaze flicked over her, taking in the empty basket in her hand. But again, before he could say anything, the matriarch, who’d seized the moment to size him up, came forward to show him her grandchild.
Minerva held her breath, sensed him tense to step back- retreating from the baby-but then he stiffened and held his ground. He nodded formally at the matriarch’s words, then, about to turn and leave, hesitated.
He reached out and touched the back of one long finger to the baby’s downy cheek. The baby gurgled and batted with tiny fists. The grandmother’s face was wreathed in smiles.
She saw Royce notice, saw him take in the way the other women softened, too. Then he glanced at her.
She gestured with her basket. “We should be going.”
He nodded, inclined his head to the women. “Ladies.” Turning, he ducked out of the cottage.
After exchanging impressed looks with the crofter women, Minerva followed. Crossing the yard to the curricle, she saw and heard enough to know that the children had lost all fear of their duke; their eyes now shone with a species of hero worship more personal than simple awe.
His father had had no real relationship, no personal interaction, with his people; he’d managed them from a distance, through Falwell and Kelso, and had spoken with any directly only when absolutely necessary. He’d therefore only spoken to the senior men.
Royce, it seemed, might be different. He certainly lacked his father’s insistence on a proper distance being preserved between his ducal self and the masses.
Once again he took the basket, stowed it, then handed her up. Retrieving the reins from the oldest lad, he joined her. She held her tongue and let him direct the children back. Round-eyed, they complied, watched as he carefully turned the skittish pair, then waved wildly and sang their farewells as he guided the curricle down the lane.
As the cottages fell behind, the peace, serenity-and isolation-of the hills closed around them. Reminded of her goal, she thought quickly, then said, “Now we’re out this way, there’s a well over toward Shillmoor that’s been giving trouble.” She met his hard gaze as his head swung her way. “We should take a look.”
He held her gaze for an instant, then had to look back to his horses. The only reply he gave was a grunt, but when they reached the bottom of the lane, he turned the horses’ heads west, toward Shillmoor.
Rather than, as she was perfectly certain he’d intended to, make for the nearest secluded lookout.
Sitting back, she hid a smile. As long as she avoided being alone with him in a setting he could use, she would be safe, and he wouldn’t be able to advance his cause.
It was early evening when Royce stalked into his dressing room and started stripping off his clothes while Trevor poured the last of a succession of buckets of steaming water into the bath in the bathing chamber beyond.
His mood was distinctly grim. His chatelaine had successfully filled their entire day; they’d left the little hamlet near Shillmoor with barely enough time to drive back to the castle and bathe before dinner.
And after overseeing the final stages of reconstruction of the well’s crumbling walls and sagging roof, then taking an active part in reassembling and correctly recommissioning the mechanism for pulling water up from the depths of the very deep well, he needed a bath.
The local men had taken the day off from working their fields and had gathered to repair the aging well, a necessity before winter; when he and Minerva had driven up, they’d been well advanced with the repairs to the walls. Their ideas for shoring up the roof, however, were a recipe for disaster; he’d stepped in and used his unquestioned authority to redesign and direct the construction of a structure that would have some hope of withstanding the weight of snow they commonly experienced in those parts.
Far from resenting his interference, the men, and the women, too, had been relieved and sincerely grateful. They’d shared their lunch-cider, thick slabs of cheese, and freshly baked rye bread, which he and Minerva had graciously accepted-then been even more amazed when, after watching the men scratch their heads and mutter over the mecha nism they’d disassembled, he’d shrugged out of his hacking jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and got to work with them, sorting the various parts and helping reassemble, realign, and reposition the mechanism-he was taller and stronger than any of those there-finally resulting in a rejuvenated and properly functioning well.
There’d been cheers all around as one of the women had pulled up the first brimming pail.
He and Minerva had left with a cacophony of thanks ringing in their ears, but it hadn’t escaped his notice how surprised and intrigued by him the villagers had been. Clearly, his way of dealing with them was vastly different from that of his sire.
Minerva had told him he didn’t need to be like his father; it seemed he was proving her correct. She should be pleased…and she was. Her excursions had ensured she won the day-that she had triumphed in the battle of wills, and wits, he and she were engaged in.
To him, the outcome was a foregone conclusion; he did not doubt she would end in his bed. Why she was resisting so strongly remained a mystery-and an ongoing challenge.
Boots removed, he stood and peeled off his breeches and stockings. Naked, he walked into the bathing chamber, and stood looking down at the steam wreathing above the water’s surface.
His chatelaine was the first woman he’d ever had to exert himself to win, to battle for in even the most minor sense. Despite the annoyance, the frequent irritations, the constant irk of sexual denial, he couldn’t deny he found the challenge-the chase-intriguing.
He glanced down. It was equally impossible to deny he found her challenge, and her, arousing.
Stepping into the tub, he sank down, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The day might have been hers, but the night would be his.
He walked into the drawing room feeling very much a wolf anticipating his next meal. He located his chatelaine,
