Mastered By Love (19 page)

 

The stables loomed ahead. She walked into the courtyard, smiling when she saw Rangonel waiting, saddled and patient by the mounting block, a groom at his head. She went forward—a flash of gray and the steel tattoo of dancing hooves had her glancing around.

 

Sword pranced on the other side of the yard, saddled and…waiting. She tried to tell herself Royce must have just ridden in…but the stallion looked fresh, impatient to be off.

 

Then she saw Royce—pushing away from the wall against which he’d been leaning chatting to Milbourne and Henry.

 

Henry went to calm Sword and untie his reins.

 

Milbourne rose from the bench on which he’d been sitting.

 

And Royce walked toward her.

 

Quickening her pace, she clambered onto the mounting
block and scrambled, breathless, into her sidesaddle.

 

Royce halted a few paces away and looked up at her. “I need to talk to you.”

 

Doubtless about his bride. Her lungs constricted; she felt literally ill.

 

He didn’t wait for any agreement, but took the reins Henry offered, and swung up to Sword’s back.

 

“Ah…we should discuss the mill. There are decisions that need to be made—”

 

“We can talk when we stop to rest the horses.” His dark gaze raked her, then he turned Sword to the archway. “Come on.”

 

This time, he led.

 

She had no option but to follow. Given the pace he set, that took all her concentration; only when he slowed as they started up Lord’s Seat did she have wits to spare to start wondering what, exactly, he was going to say.

 

He led her up to a sheltered lookout. A grassy shelf on the side of the hill where a remnant of woodland enclosed a semicircular clearing, it had one of the best views in the area, looking south down the gorge through which the Coquet tumbled, to the castle, bathed in sunlight, set against the backdrop of the hills beyond.

 

Royce had chosen the spot deliberately; it gave the best, most complete view of the estate, the fields as well as the castle.

 

He rode Sword to the trees, swung down from the stallion’s back, and tied the reins to a branch. On her bay, Minerva followed more slowly. Allowing her time to slip down from her saddle and tie her horse, he crossed the lush grass to the rim of the clearing; looking out over his lands, he seized the moment to rehearse his arguments one more time.

 

She didn’t want to leave Wolverstone, and, as the pristine condition of his armillary spheres testified, she felt
something
for him. It might not be the counterpart of his desire for her, and she hadn’t seen enough of him to have developed an admiration and appreciation of his talents reciprocal to his
for hers. But it was enough.

 

Enough for him to work with, enough for him to suggest as a basis for their marriage. It was a damned sight more than could possibly exist between him and any of the ladies on the grandes dames’ list.

 

He’d come prepared to persuade.

 

She was twenty-nine, and had admitted no man had offered her anything she valued.

 

She valued Wolverstone, and he would offer her that.

 

Indeed, he was willing to offer her anything it was in his power to give, just as long as she agreed to be his duchess.

 

She might not be as well-connected or well-dowered as the candidates on the list, but her birth and fortune were more than sufficient that she needn’t fear the ton would consider their union a mésalliance.

 

More, in marrying him herself, she would be satisfying her vows to his parents in unarguably the most effective way—she was the only female who had ever stood up to him, ever faced him down.

 

As she’d proved yesterday, she would tell him whatever she deemed he needed to hear regardless of him wanting to hear it. And she would do so knowing that he could rip up at her, knowing how violent his temper could be. She already knew, was demonstrably confident, that he would never lose it with—loose it on—her.

 

That she knew him that well spoke volumes. That she had the courage to act on her knowledge said even more.

 

He needed a duchess who would be more than a cipher, a social ornament for his arm. He needed a helpmate, and she was uniquely qualified.

 

Her caring for the estate, her connection with it, was the complement of his; together, they would give Wolverstone—castle, estate, title, and family—the best governance it could have.

 

And when it came to the critical issue of his heirs, having her in his bed was something he craved; he desired her—more than he would any of the grandes dames’ ciphers, no
matter how beautiful. Physical beauty was the most minor attractant to a man like him. There had to be more, and in that respect Minerva was supremely well-endowed.

 

Yesterday, while she’d been insisting he appease the grandes dames, he’d finally accepted that, if he wanted a marriage like his friends’, then, regardless of what he had to do to make it happen, it was Minerva he needed as his wife. That if he wanted something more than a loveless marriage, he would have to strike out, and, as he had with her help in other respects, try to find a new road.

 

With her.

 

The certainty that had gripped him, infused him, hadn’t waned; with the passing hours, it had grown more intense. He’d never felt more certain, more set on any course, more confident it was the right one for him.

 

No matter what he had to do—no matter the hurdles she might place in his path, no matter where the road led or how fraught the journey might be, no matter what she or the world might demand of him—it was she he had to have.

 

He couldn’t sit back and wait for it to happen; if he waited any longer, he’d be wed to someone else. So he would do whatever it took, swallow whatever elements of his pride he had to, learn to persuade, to seduce, to entice—do whatever he needed to to convince her to be his.

 

Mind and senses returning to the here and now, poised to speak, he mentally reached for her—and realized she hadn’t yet joined him.

 

Turning, he saw her still sitting her horse. She’d swung the big bay to face the view. Hands folded before her, she looked past him down the valley.

 

He shifted, caught her eye. Beckoned. “Come down. I want to talk to you.”

 

She looked at him for a moment, then nudged her horse forward. Halting the big bay alongside, she looked down at him. “I’m comfortable here. What did you want to talk about?”

 

He looked up at her. Proposing while she was perched above him was beyond preposterous. “Nothing I can discuss
while you’re up there.”

 

She’d eased her boots from the stirrups. He reached up and plucked her from her saddle.

 

Minerva gasped. He’d moved so fast she’d had no time to block him—to prevent him from closing his hands around her waist and lifting her…

 

Increasingly slowly, he lowered her to the ground.

 

The look on his face—utter, stunned disbelief—would have been priceless if she hadn’t known what put it there.

 

She’d reacted to his touch. Decisively and definitely. She’d stiffened. Her lungs had seized; her breath had hitched in a wholly damning way. Focused on her, his hands tight about her waist, he hadn’t missed any of the telltale signs.

 

Long before her feet got within a foot of the lush grass, he’d guessed her secret.

 

Knew it beyond question.

 

She read as much in the subtle shift of his features, in the suddenly intent—ruthlessly intent—look that flared in his eyes.

 

She panicked. The instant her feet touched earth, she forced in a breath, opened her lips—

 

He bent his head and kissed her.

 

Not gently.

 

Hard. Ravenously. Her lips had been parted; his tongue filled her mouth with no by-your-leave.

 

He marched in and laid claim. His lips commanded, demanded—rapaciously seized her wits. Captured her senses.

 

Desire rolled over her in a hot wave.

 

His, she realized on a mental gasp, not just hers.

 

The realization utterly dumbfounded her; since when had he desired her?

 

Yet the ability to think, to reason, to do anything other than feel and respond had flown.

 

She didn’t at first realize she was kissing him back; once she did, she tried to stop—but couldn’t. Couldn’t drag her senses from their fascination, from their greedy excitement; this was better than she’d dreamed. Regardless of all
wisdom, she wasn’t able to disengage, not from him, not from this.

 

He made it harder yet when he angled his head, slanted his lips over hers, and deepened the kiss—not by degrees, but in one bold, senses-shattering leap.

 

Her hands had fallen to his shoulders; they gripped, clung as their mouths melded—as he relentlessly pressed his advantage, rolled over her defenses and drew her with him into the scorching, shatteringly intimate exchange. She couldn’t comprehend how his rapacious kisses, his hard hungry lips, his bold thrusting tongue, caught her, trapped her, then delivered her up, captive to her own need to respond. It wasn’t
his
will making her kiss him so damningly eagerly, as if despite all good sense, she couldn’t get enough of his thinly veiled possession.

 

She’d always known he would be an aggressive lover; what she hadn’t known, would never have guessed, was that she would respond so flagrantly, so invitingly—that she would welcome that aggression, seize it as her due and demand more.

 

Yet that was precisely what she was doing—and she couldn’t stop.

 

Her experience with men was limited, but not nonexistent, yet this…was something entirely beyond her ken.

 

No other man had made her heart thud, made her blood sing, sent it racing through her body.

 

With his lips on hers, with just a kiss, he’d transformed her into a greedy wanton—and some part of her soul sang.

 

Royce knew. Sensed her response in every fiber of his being. He wanted more—of her, of her luscious mouth, of her blatantly inviting lips. Yet beyond his own hunger lay the wonder of hers, a temptation like no other, one every primitive instinct he possessed had fixed upon, unswervingly fastened on as the most direct and certain route to appeasing his own, already tumultuous needs.

 

Sunk in her mouth, he wasn’t thinking. Only feelings registered—the spike of disbelief when he’d realized what
she’d been hiding—that she did indeed respond to him vibrantly, instinctively, most importantly helplessly—that despite his experience, his skills, she’d pulled the wool thickly and completely over his eyes…and a wave of hard anger that the agonies he’d suffered over the past weeks while subduing his lust for her hadn’t been necessary. That if he’d given in and kissed her, she’d have yielded.

 

As she was now.

 

She was helplessly in thrall to the desire, the passion, that had erupted between them, more powerful, more driven from having been denied.

 

Relief swam through him; he would no longer need to suppress his lust for her. Expectation flared at the prospect of giving it full rein. Of indulging it to the hilt. With her. In her.

 

In the instant before he’d kissed her, he’d looked into her face, into her gorgeous autumn-rich eyes—and had seen them widen. Not only with the realization that he’d learned what she’d been hiding, not just with apprehension over what he might do, but with sensual shock. That was what had sent her eyes flaring, all rich browns and welcoming golds; more than experienced enough to recognize it, he’d instantly taken advantage.

 

He’d seen her lips part, start to form some word; he hadn’t been interested in listening. And now—now that she was trapped in the web of their desires—he was intent on only one thing. On possessing what he’d wanted to seize for the last too many days.

 

On possessing her.

 

She was clinging to his shoulders, as deeply ensnared in their kiss as he. Her knees had weakened; his hands locked about her waist, he held her upright.

 

He didn’t even need to think to steer her back, shouldering her horse aside as he guided her back until her spine met the bole of the nearest useful tree.

 

She instinctively braced against it. He wedged his right knee between her thighs, the hard muscle of his thigh riding
against hers, holding her in place as he released his grip about her waist, easing back from the kiss as, hard palms to the velvet of her habit, he skated his hands, slow and deliberate, up, over her ribs, and closed them possessively about her breasts.

 

He broke from the kiss, let their hungry lips part just enough to catch the shocked, delicious inward hiss of her breath as he eased his hands, then closed them again, then provocatively kneaded. Just enough to savor her half moan, half sob when he found her nipples and through the screening fabric circled the tight nubs with his thumbs.

 

Then he dove back into the kiss, reclaimed her mouth, sent her gathering wits spinning again while he set his hands to learn everything he needed to know to reduce her to the sensual wanton he had every intention of drawing forth.

 

She had it in her, he knew.

 

Even just from this kiss, he knew beyond question that she was not just more responsive than any woman he’d ever known, but specifically more responsive to him. If he managed her correctly, educated her properly, she would willingly cede him everything, anything and everything he wanted of her; he knew it to his bones.

 

There was nothing the marcher lord within him found more alluring than the prospect of absolute surrender.

 

He plundered her mouth, and reveled in the knowledge that, soon, she would be his. That, very soon, she would lie beneath him, heated and mindless as he sheathed himself in her.

 

As he took her, claimed her, and made her his.

 

He wouldn’t even need to go slowly; she wouldn’t be shocked by his demands. She knew him well, knew what to expect from him.

 

Closing his hands possessively about her breasts, squeezing her distended nipples between his fingers, he shifted his thigh so the long muscle rode more definitely against the soft flesh at the apex of hers, caught her muffled moan, and