Mastered By Love (56 page)

 

 

 

 

Twenty-two

 

 

 

 

M
inerva had weathered the prick of the cravat pin—
more through sheer terror than anything else. She’d managed not to flinch, but her muscles had tensed. Phillip had noticed; he’d nudged her, slapped her cheeks, but when she’d stirred, mumbled, then slumped as if comatose again, he’d muttered a raw expletive and swung viciously away.

 

He’d fallen to pacing again, but closer, watching her all the while. “Damn you, wake
up
! I want you awake so you’ll know what I’m doing to you—I want you to fight me. I want to hear you
scream
as I force my way inside you. I specifically brought you here—far enough from the house and with the noise of the water to cover all sounds—just so I could enjoy your sobbing and pleading. And your screaming—above all, your screaming. I want to see your eyes, I want to feel your fear. I want you to know every little thing I’m going to do to you before I do it—and for every second while I am.”

 

He suddenly swooped close. “You won’t be dying anytime soon.”

 

She jerked her head away from the hot waft of his crooning breath, tried to disguise the instinctive flinch as restless
ness.

 

He drew back, his gaze heavy on her face. Then, “You aren’t
pretending
to still be asleep, are you, Minerva?”

 

His tone was taunting; he slapped her cheek again. Then he sneered. “Let’s see if this will wake you up.”

 

He roughly seized her breast, hard fingers searching for, then framing her nipple. Her breasts were tender; she cracked open her lids, looked up—

 

Saw him above her, one knee on the millstone beside her, his features distorted into a mask of pure evil, looking down to where his hand imprisoned her flesh. His eyes glittered; his other hand rose, holding his cravat pin.

 

Her hands came up; with all her strength, she pushed him off.

 

Releasing her breast, he rocked back—laughed in triumph. Before she could move, he swooped and seized her arm.

 

He dragged her half upright, shook her like a doll. “You
bitch!
Time for your punishment to begin.”

 

She fought him; he shook her viciously, then slapped her hard.

 

The crack of his palm on her cheek echoed sharply through the mill.

 

Something fell to the ground.

 

Phillip froze. Standing with his knees against the side of the millstone, with her on the stone before him, her legs trapped in the lace froth of her wedding gown, one of her arms locked in a painful, unbreakable grip, he stopped breathing and stared across the race.

 

The sound had come from the east side—the lower side of the mill. There were no doors on that side of the building; if anyone was going to come in unremarked, they would have to come that way.

 

“Royce?” Phillip waited, but no answer came. No hint of movement. No further sound.

 

He glanced down at her, but immediately snapped his gaze up again, locked it on the gangplank, presently set over the race connecting the two levels; his eyes searched the clear
space on the lower side beyond it.

 

Minerva felt him shift his weight from one foot to the other; he was uncertain—this wasn’t what he’d planned. Her gaze fixed on him, her senses locked on him, she waited for her chance.

 

Royce was somewhere on the lower level; her senses told her he was there. But Phillip couldn’t see him because of the cupboards lining the race, not unless—until—Royce wanted to be seen.

 

Apparently realizing, Phillip snarled, and grabbed her with both hands; hauling her off the millstone, he dragged her up against him, her back to his chest. With one arm, he locked her there; he held her so tightly she could barely breathe. With his other hand he fished in his pocket; turning her head to the side, she saw him pull out a pistol.

 

He held it down, at his side. His body at her back was unbelievably tense.

 

He was using her as a shield, and she couldn’t do anything; her arms were trapped against her body. If she struggled he’d just lift her off her feet. All she could do was grasp her skirts in her hands, hold them as high as she could—at least enough for her feet to be free—and wait for an opening. Wait for the right moment.

 

Phillip was muttering beneath his breath; she forced herself to focus, to listen. He was talking to himself, reworking his plan; he was ignoring her as if she were some inanimate pawn—no threat whatsoever.

 

“He’s down there somewhere, but that’s all right. As long as he knows I’ve killed her, I still win. And then I’ll kill him.” He hauled her with him as he edged around the huge circular stone. “I’ll get into position, shoot her, then I’ll have to grab the gangplank and swing it to this side—he’ll be shocked, he won’t be expecting that, I can have it done by the time she hits the ground.”

 

His whispered words tripped over themselves as he frantically rehearsed. “Then I’ll reload—and shoot him when he comes for me…”

 

She felt him look up; she looked where he did—at the big beams forming the heavy structure supporting the waterwheel.

 

“With the gangplank gone, he’ll have to come that way. He might not love her, but he won’t let me get away with killing his duchess. So he’ll come for me—and I’ll have more than enough time to reload and shoot him before he can reach me.”

 

She sensed welling triumph in his tone.

 

“Yes! That’s what I’ll do. So first, I get in place.” Renewed confidence infused him. He tightened his arm, lifted her from her feet, and walked forward—toward the upper end of the gangplank.

 

She’d run out of time, but with her arms locked to her body there was nothing she could do.

 

Above her head, Phillip muttered, so low she could barely hear him. “Close enough to the plank ropes, close enough to my powder and shot.”

 

He moved her forward. And she saw the powder horn and shot canister he’d left on the flat top railing, a few feet left of the gangplank.

 

She couldn’t use her arms, but could she possibly raise her feet high enough to kick powder or shot away? Either would do—then he’d have only one shot. Only one person he could kill.

 

If he shot her, he couldn’t kill Royce. Phillip slowed as he maneuvered into position; she was gauging the distance, tensing to try to kick up—

 

Something flashed across in front of them, right to left—and hit the powder horn and canister, sending both spinning.

 

The powder horn spun off the railing and fell into the race.

 

Something clattered on the wooden floor. Both she and Phillip instinctively looked.

 

And saw a knife. Royce’s knife.

 

Like most gentlemen, he always had one somewhere about
him—but she’d only known him ever to have one.

 

A thump had their heads snapping around—

 

Royce had leapt onto the lower end of the gangplank.

 

He stood directly before them, his gaze locked on Phillip’s face. “Let her go, Phillip—it’s me you want.”

 

Phillip snarled; backing quickly, he pressed the muzzle of the cocked pistol to Minerva’s temple. “I’m going to kill her—and you’re going to watch.”

 

“You’ve only got one shot, Phillip—who are you going to kill? Her…or me?”

 

Phillip halted. He rocked back and forth, heels to toes, indecisive, undecided.

 

Then his chest swelled; with a roar, he flung Minerva to the side, and swung his pistol up to aim at Royce.
“You!”
he screamed. “I’m going to kill
you
!”

 

“
Run
, Minerva!” Royce didn’t even glance at her. “Through the doors. The others are outside.”

 

Then he charged up the gangplank.

 

Having landed on her side on the millstone, she was frantically hauling up her skirts.

 

She sat up—saw Phillip brace his pistol arm with his other hand. His face aglow with maniacal joy, laughing, he aimed for Royce’s chest.

 

Her fingers closed about the hilt of her knife. She didn’t think, didn’t blink, just threw it.

 

The hilt appeared on the side of Phillip’s neck.

 

He choked, pulled the trigger.

 

The shot rang out, filling the enclosed space.

 

Phillip started to crumple.

 

Minerva scrambled off the millstone. Her eyes locked on Royce as he halted before Phillip, looking down on his cousin as he slumped to the floor. Her gaze raced over Royce, seeking the wound…she nearly swooned with relief when she finally accepted that there wasn’t one. Phillip’s shot had gone wide.

 

Her gaze returned to Royce’s face; behind his mask, he was stunned. In that instant she knew he hadn’t expected to
survive.

 

He could have run for cover, but he’d run toward Phillip to give her time to get away, to make sure Phillip shot at him, and not her.

 

Dragging in a deep breath, she went to join him.

 

Just as the doors at both ends of the mill swung open, and Christian and Miles appeared at the lower end of the gangplank.

 

Reaching Royce, she laid a hand on his arm. He looked at her then, met her eyes, then he looked down at the knife in Phillip’s throat, and didn’t say anything.

 

The others gathered around; what expressions were discernable were unrelentingly grim. She glimpsed pistols being slipped back into pockets, the flash of knives being put away.

 

Royce drew in a breath—almost unable to believe he could. Almost unable to believe that Minerva stood, shaken but otherwise well, beside him—that he could sense her there, steady and sure, that he was still alive to feel her comforting warmth, her vital presence.

 

The emotions churning inside him were staggeringly strong, but he battened them down, left them for later. There was one more thing he had to do.

 

Something only he could.

 

The others had formed a rough circle about them. Phillip lay sprawled, twisted half on his back, his head not far from Royce’s right shoe. The knife wound would eventually kill him, but he wasn’t dead yet.

 

He shifted to his right, crouched down. “Phillip—can you hear me?”

 

Phillip’s lips twisted. “Almost got you. Almost…did it.”

 

The words were barely a whisper, but in the intent silence, they were audible enough.

 

“You were the traitor, weren’t you, Phillip? The one in the War Office. The one who sent God knows how many Englishmen to their deaths, and who the French paid in a treasure most of which lies at the bottom of the Channel.”

 

Although his eyes remained closed, Phillip’s lips curved in an unholy smile. “You’ll never know how successful I was.”

 

“No.” Royce curved one hand about Phillip’s chin, with his other hand grasped the top of his skull. “We won’t.”

 

He sensed Minerva draw close, from the corner of his eye glimpsed the ivory lace of her gown. He turned his head her way. “Look away.”

 

Phillip dragged in a hissing breath. He frowned. “Hurts.”

 

Royce looked down at him. “Sadly nowhere near as much as you deserve.” With an abrupt twist, he snapped Phillip’s neck.

 

He released him. The features so like his own eased, fell slack.

 

He reached for the knife hilt, jerked the blade free. With Phillip’s heart already stopped, the wound bled only slightly. He wiped the blade on Phillip’s lapel, then rose, sliding the knife into his pocket.

 

Minerva’s hand slipped into his, her fingers twining, gripping.

 

Christian stepped forward; so did Miles and Devil Cynster.

 

“Leave this to us,” Christian said.

 

“You’ve tidied up after us often enough,” Charles said. “Allow us to return the favor.”

 

There was a growl of agreement from the other Bastion Club members.

 

“I hate to sound like a grande dame,” Devil said, “but you need to get back to your wedding celebration.”

 

Miles glanced at Rupert and Gerald. “Gerald and I will stay and help—we know the estate fairly well. Enough, at least, to help stage a fatal accident—I presume that’s what we need?”

 

“Yes,” Rupert, Devil, and Christian answered as one.

 

Rupert caught Royce eye. “You and Minerva need to get back.”

 

They took over and, for once, Royce let them. Devil, Rupert, Christian, Tony, and both Jacks accompanied him and Minerva back to the house, leaving the others to stage
Phillip’s accident. Royce knew what they would do; the gorge was both close and convenient, and disguising the knife wound as a wound from a sharp stick wouldn’t be hard—but he appreciated their tact in not discussing the details in front of Minerva.

 

She hurried beside him, her skirts looped over her arm so they could stride faster.

 

The instant they came within sight of the house, the ladies—who had been banned absolutely from setting foot in the gardens until their husbands returned, and who, for once, had obeyed—broke ranks and came pouring out of the north wing to meet them.

 

They had, it transpired, been operating in shifts—some on watch, while the others did duty in the ballroom. Letitia, Phoebe, Alice, Penny, Leonora, and Alicia had just resumed the watch—they flocked around Minerva, reporting that all was under control, that although the grandes dames were suspicious, none had yet demanded to be told what was going on, then they announced that Minerva’s gown would no longer pass muster—she would have to change.

 

“And that,” Leonora declared, “is our perfect excuse for where you’ve been. This gown looks so delicate, no one will be surprised that you’ve chosen to change, even in the middle of your wedding breakfast.”

 

“But we’ll have to make it quick.” Alice beckoned them back into the house. “Let’s go.”

 

In a flurry of silks and satins, the ladies whisked Minerva up the west turret stairs.

 

Royce and the other men exchanged glances, drew in deep breaths, then headed back to the ballroom. Pausing before the door, they donned expressions of relaxed jocularity, then, with a nod, Royce led them back into the melee.