Mastered By Love

was sinking deeper into his bones.

Margaret looked back at him a few times; he presumed she was assuring herself he wasn’t about to collapse.

He wasn’t entirely surprised when she stepped sideways out of the group and waited until he and Minerva drew level.

But it was Minerva to whom Margaret spoke. “If I could have a word?”

“Yes. Of course.” Minerva halted.

Royce walked on, but slowed. He didn’t like the look in Margaret’s eyes, or her expression, and even less her tone. Minerva was no servant, not even to the family. She wasn’t a penniless relative, or anything of the sort.

She was his chatelaine, and rather more, even if Margaret didn’t yet know it.

“Yes?”

That was Minerva prompting Margaret, who had thus far remained silent.

Margaret waited until he’d taken two more steps before saying-hissing-“How dare you?” There was a wealth of furious, frightened venom in her voice; it shook as she went on, “How dare you put the entire dukedom at risk for a crofter’s brat!”

Royce halted.

“The Honeymans are your brother’s tenants, but regardless, saving that girl was the right thing to do.”

He turned.

Saw Margaret draw in a breath. Her color high, eyes locked on Minerva, she all but shrieked, “For some stupid, silly girl, you risked-”

“Margaret.” Royce walked back toward her.

She spun to face him. “And you! You’re no better! Did you spare so much as a thought for us-for me, Aurelia, and Susannah, your sisters!-before you-”

“Enough.”

His tone was all cold steel; it had her clenching her fists and swallowing the rest of her tirade. He halted before her, close enough so she had to look up into his face-close enough that she was just a touch intimidated, as well she should be.

“No, I didn’t think of you, Aurelia, or Susannah-you all have wealthy husbands to support you, regardless of my continuing health. I didn’t put you in danger by saving that girl. Her life was in the balance, and I would have been greatly disappointed had Minerva not warned me. I was in a position to save her-a girl who was born on my lands.”

He looked down into his sister’s mulish face. “What Minerva did was right. What I did was right. What you appear to have forgotten is that my people-even silly young girls-are my responsibility.”

Margaret drew in a long, tight breath. “Papa would never-”

“Indeed.” This time his voice cut. “But I am not Papa.”

For a moment, he held Margaret silent with his gaze, then, unhurriedly and deliberately, turned toward the castle. “Come, Minerva.”

She quickly caught up to him, walking alongside.

He lengthened his stride; the other ladies were now far ahead. “I need to get out of these wet clothes.” He spoke conversationally, signaling he intended to leave Margaret’s little scene behind, metaphorically as well as physically.

Minerva nodded, tight-lipped. “Precisely.” A heartbeat passed, then she went on, “I really don’t know why Margaret couldn’t have waited until later to rail at me-it’s not as if I won’t be around. If she was really worried about your health, she’d have done better not to delay us.” She glanced sharply his way. “Can you go faster? Perhaps you ought to run?”

“Why?”

“So you’ll warm up.” They were nearing the mill. Raising a hand, she pushed his shoulder. “Go that way- through the mill and over the race. It’s faster than going down to the bridge and across.”

She usually avoided touching him, yet now she kept pushing, so he diverted onto the paved path leading into the mill. “Minerva-”

“We need to get you to the castle, out of those wet clothes and into a hot bath as soon as possible.” She prodded him toward the gangplank. “So move!”

He almost saluted, but did as she ordered. From Margaret, who thought of no one but herself, to Minerva, who was totally focused…on him.

On his well-being.

It took an instant for that to fully sink in.

He glanced at her as, her hands now locked about one of his elbows, she hurried him out of the mill. Her focus was on the castle, on getting him-all but propelling him-as fast as possible inside. Her intensity wasn’t just that of a chatelaine doing her duty; it was a great deal more.

“I’m not likely to take a fatal chill from a dip in the river.” He tried to slow to a fast walk.

She set her jaw and all but hauled him on. “You’re not a doctor-you can’t know that. The prescribed treatment for immersion in an icy river is a hot bath, and that’s what you have to have. Your mother would never forgive me if I let you expire because you wouldn’t treat the risk with due seriousness.”

His mother, who had never wasted a moment worrying about his health. Male Variseys were supposed to be tough, and, indeed, were. But he bowed to Minerva’s tugging and resumed his faster pace. “I am taking this seriously.”

Just not as seriously as she was.

Or, as it transpired, any of his staff were.

The instant Minerva pushed him through the door into the north wing, Trevor pounced.

“No!” His valet was literally aghast. “That’s another pair of Hobys ruined-two pairs in three days. And, oh, my heavens! You’re drenched!”

He refrained from saying he knew. “Is my bath ready?”

“It better be.” Trevor exchanged a look with Minerva, still by Royce’s side, still hurrying him along. “I’ll go up and make sure.” Trevor turned and all but fled before them, his footsteps clattering up the turret stairs.

Royce and Minerva followed, taking the shortcut to his rooms.

Minerva halted outside his sitting room door; he kept walking, to the useful new door into his dressing room and the bathing chamber beyond that Hancock, the castle carpenter, was just testing.

Hancock nodded. “Your new door as ordered, Your Grace. Just in time, it seems.” Hancock swung the panel wide. “Your bath awaits.”

Royce nodded. “Thank you.” He looked over the door and its frame as he went through into the dressing room, then nodded again to Hancock. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

Hancock saluted, picked up his toolbox, and walked off. Minerva appeared in the doorway-mouth a-cock, staring at the door, then at its frame. Then she looked at Royce.

“So Trevor and the footmen don’t need to come through the bedroom to reach these rooms.”

“Oh.” She stood there, digesting that, while he started the difficult task of unwinding his sodden cravat.

Trevor appeared in the open doorway opposite, from which steam eddied as a footman poured what had to be a last pail of steaming water into the large bath; if any more was put in, it would slosh out when Royce got in. He signaled to the footman to stop.

His valet, meanwhile, was frowning at two glass-stoppered bottles he was holding. “Which would be better? Mint or peppermint?”

“Menthol.” Snapping out of her trance, Minerva bustled in to join Trevor. “Pennyroyal is what you want-it’s the best for warding off chills.” She stepped around Trevor, let the footman squeeze past, then pointed to a rack of similar bottles set on a wooden table. “There should be some there.”

“Pennyroyal. Right.” Trevor went to the rack. “Here it is. How many drops?” He squinted at the tiny label.

“About a teaspoon, even two. Enough so you can smell it strongly.”

Trevor took out the stopper, tipped a bit of the oil into the water. Minerva and he sniffed the steam. Both frowned.