Mastered By Love

Fourteen

R oyce woke her before dawn in predictable fashion; Minerva reached her room with barely enough time to fall into her bed and recover before Lucy arrived to draw back the curtains.

After washing and dressing, once again eschewing Lucy’s assistance, she set about her usual routine with far more confidence than the day before. If Royce wanted her enough to insist she grace his bed, then he wasn’t about to lose interest in her just yet. Indeed, if last night was anything to judge by, his desire for her seemed to be escalating, not fading.

She pondered that, and how she felt about it, over breakfast, then, leaving his sisters and their guests to their own devices, retreated to the duchess’s morning room to prepare for their usual meeting in the study-and to consider what she might request of him.

If he could demand and insist on her physical surrender, then, she felt, some reward was her due. Some token of his appreciation.

When Jeffers arrived to summon her, she knew for what she would ask; the request would test Royce’s desire, but who knew how long his interest would last? She should ask now; with Variseys it paid to be bold.

Jeffers opened the study door. Entering, she saw that Falwell, as well as Handley, was present; the steward was sitting in the second chair before the desk.

Royce waved her to her usual seat. “Falwell has been describing the current state of the flocks and the clip. There appears to be some decline in quality.”

“Nothing major, of course,” Falwell quickly said, glancing, surprised, at Minerva. “Miss Chesterton has no doubt heard the farmers’ rumblings-”

“Indeed.” She cut off the rest of Falwell’s justification for doing nothing over recent years. “I understand the problem lies in the breeding stock.” Sitting, she met Royce’s gaze.

“Be that as it may,” Falwell said, “to get new breeding stock we’d have to go far south, and the expense-”

“Perhaps O’Loughlin could help?” She made the suggestion as innocently as she could. Royce had summoned her to join this discussion; presumably he wanted her opinions.

Falwell bridled; he didn’t like Hamish, but then Hamish had no time for him.

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Royce did. “I’ll speak to O’Loughlin next time I’m up that way. He might have some breeders we could buy.”

Unsurprisingly, Falwell swallowed his words.

Royce glanced at the sheet on which he’d been making notes. “I need to speak with Miss Chesterton, Falwell, but if you would remain, once we’ve finished, you and I should look over the castle flocks.”

Murmuring acquiescence, Falwell rose, and at Royce’s direction retreated to a straight-backed chair against the wall.

Minerva inwardly cursed. She didn’t want Falwell to hear her request.

“So what have we to deal with today?”

Royce’s question refocused her attention. She looked down at her list, and swiftly went through Retford’s warning that in the wake of the funeral they would need to replenish the cellar, and Cranny’s request for new linens for the north wing bedrooms. “And while we’re looking at fabrics, there are two rooms in the south wing that could use new curtains.” Because of the castle’s isolation, all such items were normally procured from London.

Royce looked at Handley as his secretary glanced up from his notes. “Hamilton can make himself useful-he knows what wines I prefer, and for the rest he could consult with my London housekeeper-” He glanced at Minerva.

“Mrs. Hardcastle,” she supplied.

He looked at Handley. “Send a note to Hamilton about the wines and fabrics, and suggest he ask Mrs. Hardcastle to assist him with the latter. Regardless, he should purchase the materials subject to Miss Chesterton’s and Mrs. Cranshaw’s approval.”

Handley nodded, swiftly scribbling.

“The curtains need to be damask, with apple-green the predominant color,” Minerva said.

Handley nodded again.

Royce arched a brow at her. “Is there anything else?”

“Not about the household.” She hesitated; she would have infinitely preferred not to have Falwell present, but she had to strike while this iron was hot. She drew breath. “However, there’s a matter I’ve been meaning to bring to your attention.”

Royce looked his invitation.

“There’s a footbridge over the Coquet, further to the south, a little beyond Alwinton. It’s been allowed to deteriorate and is now in very bad condition, a serious danger to all who have to use it-”

Falwell shot to his feet. “That’s not on castle lands, Your Grace.” He came forward. “It’s Harbottle’s responsibility, and if they choose to let it fall down, that’s their decision, not ours.”

Royce watched Falwell slant a glance at Minerva, sitting upright in her chair; her gaze was fixed on him, not the steward. Falwell tipped his head her way. “With all due respect to Miss Chesterton, Your Grace, we can’t be fixing things beyond the estate, things that are in no way ours to fix.”

Royce looked at Minerva. She met his eyes, and waited for his decision.

He knew why she’d asked. Other ladies coveted jewels; she asked for a footbridge. And if it had been on his lands, he would have happily bestowed it.

Unfortunately, Falwell was unquestionably correct. The last thing the dukedom needed was to become seen as a general savior of last resort. Especially not to the towns, who were supposed to manage their responsibilities from the taxes they collected.

“In this matter, I must agree with Falwell. However, I will raise the matter, personally, with the appropriate authorities.” He glanced at Handley. “Find out who I need to see.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He looked again at Minerva, met her gaze. “Is there anything else?”

She held his gaze long enough to make him wonder what was going through her head, but then she answered, “No, Your Grace. That’s all.”

Looking down, she gathered her papers, then stood, inclined her head to him, turned, and walked to the door.

As it closed behind her, he was already considering how to use the footbridge to his best advantage.

There was more than one way to skin a cat-Minerva wondered what approach Royce was considering. With the luncheon gong echoing through the corridors, she headed for the dining room, hoping she’d read him aright.

She hadn’t been surprised by Falwell’s comments; his role was to manage the estate as a business, rather than care for its people. The latter was in part her role, and even more so the duke’s. Royce’s. He’d said he would take up the issue-presenting her request more clearly in people terms might help. As she neared the dining room, Royce walked out of the parlor opposite. He’d heard her footsteps; he’d been waiting for her. He paused, met her gaze; when she reached him, without a word he waved her ahead of him through the dining room door.

The rest of the company were already at table, engrossed in a discussion of Margaret’s and Susannah’s plans for the six days remaining before the fair. She and Royce went to the laden sideboard, helped themselves from the variety of cold meats, hams, and assorted delicacies displayed on the platters and dishes, then Royce steered her to the head of the table, to the chair beside his. Jeffers leapt to hold it for her.

By the time she’d sat and settled her skirts, Royce was seated in his great carver, by the angle of his shoulders, and the absolute focus of his attention on her, effectively cutting off the others-who read the signs and left them in peace.

They started eating, then he met her eyes. “Thank you for your help with the sheep.”

“You knew Hamish was the best source for breeders-you didn’t need me to tell you so.”

“I needed you to tell Falwell so. If I’d suggested Hamish, he’d have tied himself in knots trying to acceptably say that my partiality for Hamish’s stock was because of the connection.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “But you aren’t connected to Hamish.”

“No, but Falwell knows I approve of Hamish.”

“But not even Falwell would suggest that you-the farmers’ champion-would urge me to get stock from anywhere that wasn’t the best.” Royce met her eyes, let his lips curve slightly. “Using you to suggest Hamish, having your reputation supporting the idea, saved time and a considerable amount of convoluted argument.”

She smiled, pleased with the disguised compliment.

He let her preen for a moment, then followed up with, “Which raises a related issue-do you have any suggestions for a replacement for Falwell?”

She swallowed, nodded. “Evan Macgregor, Macgregor’s third son.”

“And why would he suit?”

She reached for her water glass. “He’s young, but not too young, a gregarious soul who was born on the estate and knows-and is liked by-literally everyone on it. He was a scallywag when younger, but always good-hearted, and he’s quick and clever-more than most. Now he’s older, being the third son, and with Sean and Abel more than capable of taking on Macgregor’s holding between them, Evan has too little to do.” She sipped, then met his eyes. “He’s in his late twenties, and is still helping on the farm, but I don’t think he’ll stay much longer unless he finds some better occupation.”

“So at present he’s wasted talent, and you think I should use him as steward.”

“Yes. He’d work hard for you, and while he might make the odd mistake, he’ll learn from them, and, most importantly, he’ll never steer you wrongly over anything to do with the estate or its people.” She set down her glass. “I haven’t been able to say that of Falwell for more than a decade.”

Royce nodded. “However, regardless of Falwell’s shortcomings, I meant what I said about the footbridge being something the dukedom can’t simply step in and fix.”

She met his eyes, studied them, then faintly raised her brows. “So…?”

He let his lips curve in appreciation; she was starting to read him quite well. “So I need you to give me some urgent, preferably dramatic, reason to get on my ducal high horse and cow the aldermen of Harbottle into fixing it.”

She held his gaze; her own grew distant, then she refocused-and smiled. “I can do that.” When he arched a brow, she smoothly replied, “I believe we need to ride that way this afternoon.”

He considered the logistics, then glanced at the others.

When he looked back at her, brows lifting, she nodded. “Leave them to me.”

He sat back and watched with unfeigned appreciation as she leaned forward and, with a comment here, another there, slid smoothly into the discussions they had, until then, ignored. He hadn’t noticed how she dealt with his sisters before; with an artful question followed by a vague suggestion, she deftly steered Susannah and Margaret-the ringleaders-into organizing the company to drive into Harbottle for the afternoon.

“Oh, before I forget, here’s the guest list you wanted, Minerva.” Seated along the table, Susannah waved a sheet; the others passed it to Minerva.

She scanned it, then looked at Margaret, at the table’s foot. “We’ll need to open up more rooms. I’ll speak with Cranny.”

Margaret glanced at him. “Of course, we don’t know how many of those will attend.”

He let his lips curve cynically. “Given the…entertainments you have on offer, I suspect all those invited will jump at the chance to join the party.”

Because they’d be keen to learn firsthand whom he’d chosen as his bride. Comprehension filled Margaret’s face; grimacing lightly, she inclined her head. “I’d forgotten, but no doubt you’re right.”

The reminder that he would soon make that announcement, thus signaling the end of his liaison with her, bolstered Minerva’s determination to act, decisively, today. While his desire for her was still rampant she stood an excellent chance of securing her boon; once it waned, her ability to influence him would fade.

Susannah was still expounding on the delights of Harbottle. “We can wander around the shops, and then take tea at the Ivy Branch.” She looked at Minerva. “It’s still there, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “They still serve excellent teas and pastries.”

Margaret had been counting heads and carriages. “Good-we can all fit.” She glanced at Minerva. “Are you coming?”

She waved the list of guests. “I need to attend to this, and a few other things. I’ll ride down later and perhaps join you for tea.”

“Very well.” Margaret looked to the table’s head. “And you, Wolverstone?” Ever since he’d agreed to their house party, Margaret and Aurelia had been making an effort to accord him all due deference.

Royce shook his head. “I, too, have matters to deal with. I’ll see you at dinner.”

With that settled, the company rose from the table. Conscious of Royce’s dark gaze, Minerva hung back, letting the others go ahead; he and she left the dining room at the rear of the group.

They halted in the hall. He met her eyes. “How long will you take?”

She’d been swiftly reviewing her list of chores. “I have to see the timber merchant in Alwinton-it might be best if you meet me in the field beyond the church at…” She narrowed her eyes, estimating. “Just after three.”

“On horseback, beyond the church, at just after three.”

“Yes.” Turning away, she flung him a smile. “And to make it, I’ll have to rush. I’ll see you there.”

Suiting action to her words, she hurried to the stairs and went quickly up-before he asked how she planned to motivate him to browbeat the aldermen into submission. The sharp jab she had in mind would, she thought, work best if he wasn’t prepared.

After speaking with Cranny about rooms for the latest expected guests, and with Retford about the cellar and the depredations likely during the house party, she checked with Hancock over his requirements for the mill, then rode into Alwinton and spoke with the timber merchant. She finished earlier than she’d expected, so dallied in the village until just after three before remounting Rangonel and heading south.

As she’d expected, Royce was waiting in the designated field, both horse and rider showing their customary impatience. He turned Sword toward Harbottle as she ranged alongside. “Are you really planning on joining the others in Harbottle later?”

Looking ahead, lips curving, she shrugged lightly. “There’s an interesting jeweler I could visit.”

He smiled and followed her gaze. “How far is it to this footbridge?”

She grinned. “About half a mile.” With a flick of her reins, she set Rangonel cantering, the big gelding’s gait steady and sure. Royce held Sword alongside despite the stallion’s obvious wish to run.

A wish shared by his rider. “We could gallop.”

She shook her head. “No. We shouldn’t get there too early.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” She caught his disgruntled snort, but he didn’t press her. They crossed the Alwin at the ford, water foaming about the horses’ knees, then cantered on, cutting across the pastures.

A flash of white ahead was the first sign that her timing was correct. Cresting a low rise, she saw two young girls, pinafores flapping, books tied in small bundles on their backs, laughing as they skipped along a track that led down a shallow gully disappearing behind the next rise to their left.

Royce saw them, too. He shot her a suspicious, incipiently frowning glance, then tracked the pair as he and she headed down the slope. The girls passed out of sight behind the next rise; minutes later, the horses reached it, taking the upward slope in their stride, eager to reach the crest.

When they did, Royce looked down and along the gully-and swore. He hauled Sword to a halt, and grimly stared down.

Expressionless, she drew rein beside him, and watched a bevy of children crossing the Coquet, swollen by the additional waters of the Alwin to a turbulent, tempestuous, swiftly flowing river, using the rickety remnants of the footbridge.

“I thought there was no school in the area.” His clipped accents underscored the temper he held leashed.

“There isn’t, so Mrs. Cribthorn does what she can to teach the children their letters. She uses one of the cottages near the church.” It was the minister’s wife who had brought the execrable state of the footbridge to her attention. “The children include some from certain of Wolverstone’s crofter families where the women have to work the fields alongside their men. Their parents can’t afford the time to bring the children to the church via the road, and on foot, there is no other viable route the children could take.”

The young girls they’d seen earlier had joined the group at the nearer end of the bridge; the older children organized the younger ones in a line before, one by one, they inched their way along the single remaining beam, holding the last horizontal timber left from the bridge’s original rails.

Someone had strung a rough rope along the rail, giving the children with smaller hands something they could cling to more tightly.

Royce growled another curse and lifted his reins.

“No.” She caught his arm. “You’ll distract them.”

He didn’t like it, but reined both himself and Sword in; drawing her hand from the rigid steel his arm had become, she knew how much it cost him.

Could sense how much, behind his stony face, he fumed and railed while being forced to watch the potential drama from a distance-a distance too great to help should one of the children slip and fall.

“What happened to the damned bridge, and when?”

“A bore last spring.”

“And it’s been like this ever since?”

“Yes. It’s only used by the crofter children to get to the church, so…” She didn’t need to tell him that the welfare of crofter children didn’t rate highly with the aldermen of Harbottle.

The instant the last child stepped safely onto the opposite bank, Sword surged down the rise and thundered toward the bridge. The children heard; trudging over the field, they turned and looked, but after watching curiously for several minutes, continued homeward. By the time she and Rangonel reached the river, Royce was out of the saddle and clambering about the steep bank, studying the structure from below.

From Rangonel’s back, she watched as he grabbed the remaining beam, using his weight to test it. It creaked; he swore and let go.

When he eventually climbed back up and came striding toward her, his expression was black.

The glare he bent on her was coldly furious. “Who are the aldermen of Harbottle?”

He knew she’d manipulated him; the instant he’d seen the two girls he’d known. Despite that, his irritation with her was relatively minor; he put it to one side and dealt with the issue of the rickety footbridge with a reined fury that brought vividly to mind ghosts from his ancestral past.

There was a wolf in the north again, and he was in a savage mood.

Even though she’d had high expectations, Minerva was impressed. Together they thundered into Harbottle; she introduced him to the senior alderman, who quickly saw the wisdom of summoning his peers. She’d stood back and watched Royce, with cutting exactitude, impress on those unwitting gentlemen first their shortcomings, then his expectations. Of the latter, he left them in absolutely no doubt.

They bowed and scraped, and swore they would attend to the footbridge expeditiously.

He eyed them coldly, then informed them he would be back in three days to view their progress.

Then he turned and stalked out; entirely satisfied, she followed.

Royce set a furious pace back to the castle. The dark look he cast her as he swung up to his saddle made it clear he hadn’t forgotten her tweaking of his temper, but he’d wanted an urgent and dramatic reason to give him justification for browbeating the aldermen into fixing the footbridge, so she’d given him one. Her conscience was clear.

Something she suspected he realized, for even when they reached Wolverstone, left their horses with Milbourne, and started toward the castle, other than another of his piercing, dark looks, he said nothing.

By the time they reached the west wing and were approaching the turret stairs, she’d stopped expecting any reaction from him. She was deep in self-congratulation, pleased and eminently satisfied with her day’s achievements, when his fingers locked about her elbow and he swung her into the shadowed hall at the bottom of the stairs. Her back met the paneled wall; he followed, pinning her.

Startled, her lips were parted when he crushed them beneath his and kissed her-filled her mouth, seized her wits, and stormed her senses.

It was a hard, bruising, conquering sort of kiss, one she responded to with damning ardor.

Her hands were sunk in the dark silk of his hair when he abruptly pulled back, leaving her gasping, her senses reeling.

From a distance of inches, his eyes bored into hers. “Next time, just tell me.” A growled, direct order.

She hadn’t yet regained breath enough to speak, managed to nod.

His eyes narrow, his lips grimly set, he drew back a little-as if realizing how hard it was for her to think with him so close. “Is there anything else that bad on my lands? Or not on my lands but affecting my people?”

He waited while she gathered her wits, and thought. “No.”

He exhaled. “That’s something, I suppose.”

Stepping back, he drew her away from the wall, and urged her up the narrow stairs. She went, her heart beating just a little faster from knowing he was directly behind her and not in a predictable mood.

But when they reached the gallery, and she turned for her room, he let her go. He stepped up from the last stair, halted.

“Incidentally…” He waited until she paused and glanced back at him; he caught her eyes. “Tomorrow morning I’ll want you to ride with me to Usway Burn-we can check on progress and I want to speak with Evan Macgregor.”

She felt her brightest smile dawn, felt it light her eyes. “Yes, all right.”

With a nod, he turned to his rooms.

Thoroughly pleased with her day, she continued to hers.

They next met in the drawing room, surrounded by the others all full of their day and their plans for the morrow. Walking into the large room, Royce located Minerva chatting in a group with Susannah, Phillip, Arthur, and Gregory. He met her eyes as Retford appeared behind him to announce dinner; stepping aside, he let the others go ahead, waiting until she joined him to claim her.

He wanted her with him, but hadn’t yet decided what he wanted to say-or rather, how to say it. He sat her beside him; as he took his own seat at the table’s head, she regarded him calmly, then turned to Gordon on her left and asked him about something.

The party had relaxed even further, all the members entirely comfortable in each other’s company. He felt comfortable ignoring them all; sitting back, his fingers crooked about the stem of his wineglass, as the endless chatter flowed over and around him he let his gaze rest on his chatelaine’s golden head while their day replayed in his mind.

All in all it had been a distinct success, yet he hadn’t been-still wasn’t-pleased by the way she’d evoked-deliberately and knowingly provoked-his temper over the bridge. He’d asked her to in a way, but he hadn’t imagined she’d succeed to anything like the extent she had.

She had effectively manipulated him, albeit with his implied consent. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had successfully done so; that she had, and so easily, left him feeling oddly vulnerable-not a feeling with which he was familiar, one the marcher lord he truly was didn’t approve of in the least.

However, against that stood the successes of the day. First in dealing with Falwell, then in deciding the steward’s replacement, and lastly over the bridge. He’d wanted to illustrate one point, to demonstrate it in a way she, rational female that she was, couldn’t fail to see, and between them they’d succeeded brilliantly.

Regardless…he let his gaze grow more intent, until she felt it and glanced his way. He shifted toward her; she turned back and excused herself to Gordon, then faced him and raised her brows.

He locked his eyes on hers. “Why didn’t you simply tell me about the children using the bridge?”

She held his gaze. “If I had, the effect would have been…distanced. You asked for something dramatic, to give you something urgent to take to the aldermen-if you hadn’t seen the children, but simply been told of them, it wouldn’t have been the same.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t have been the same.”

He wouldn’t have felt like handing the aldermen their heads. He hesitated, then, still holding her gaze, inclined his head. “True.” Lifting his glass, he saluted her. “We make a good team.”

Which was the point he’d been bent on illustrating.

He might tie her to him with passion, but to be sure of holding her he needed more. A lady like her needed occupation-an ability to achieve. As his wife, she’d be able to achieve even more than she currently could; when the time came, he wasn’t going to be backward in pointing that out.

She smiled, lifted her glass, and touched the rim to his. “Indeed.”

He watched her sip, then swallow, felt something in him tighten. “Incidentally…” He waited until her gaze returned to his eyes. “It’s customary when a gentleman gives a lady a token of his appreciation, for that lady to show her apprecia tion in return.”

Her brows rose, but she didn’t look away. Instead, a faint-distinctly arousing-smile flirted about the corners of her lips. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Do.”

Their gazes touched, locked; the connection deepened. Around them the company was in full voice, the bustle of the footmen serving, the clink of cutlery and the clatter of china a cacophony of sound and a sea of colorful movement swirling all about them, yet it all faded, grew distant, while between them that indefinable connection grew taut, gripped and held.

Expectation and anticipation flickered and sparked.

Her breasts swelled as she drew in a breath, then she looked away.

He glanced down, at his fingers curved about the bowl of the wineglass; setting it down, he shifted in his chair.

At least the company had tired of amateur theatricals; he inwardly gave thanks. The meal ended and Minerva left his side; he kept the passing of the port to the barest minimum, then led the gentlemen to rejoin the ladies in the drawing room.

After exchanging one look, he made no attempt to join her; with heightened passion all but arcing between them, it was simply too dangerous-not even this company were that blind. Outwardly idly amiable, he chatted to some of his sisters’ friends, yet he knew the instant Minerva slipped from the room.

She didn’t return. He gave her half an hour, then left the garrulous gathering and followed her up the stairs into the keep. Slowing, he glanced at the shadows wreathing the corridor to her room, wondered, but then continued on. To his apartments, to his bedroom.

She was there, lying in his bed.

Halting in the doorway, he smiled, the gesture laden with every ounce of the predatory impulses coursing his veins.

She’d left no candles burning, but the moonlight streamed in, burnishing her hair as it rippled across his pillows, gilding the curves of her bare shoulders with a pearlescent sheen.

No nightgown, he noted.

She lay propped high amid the pillows; she’d been looking out at the moon-drenched night, but had turned her head to watch him. Through the dark, he felt her gaze slide over him-sensed anticipation heighten, tighten.

He remained where he was and let it build.

Let it grow and strengthen until, when he finally stirred and walked forward, it felt as if some invisible silken rope had looped around him and drew him on.

The sight of her lying there, a willing gift, a reward, racked the hunger within him up another notch, set a primitive thrum in his blood.

She was his for the taking. In whatever manner his ducal self decreed.

Her willing surrender was implicit in her silent waiting.

He walked to the tallboy by the wall. Shrugging off his coat, he tossed it on a nearby chair, unbuttoned his waistcoat as he planned how best to use the opportunity to further his aim.

To advance his campaign.

Undressing casually was an obvious first step; deliberately drawing out the moments before he joined her with an activity that underscored his intent would increase her already heightened awareness, of him and all he and she would shortly do.

Drawing the diamond pin from his cravat, he laid it on the tallboy, then unhurriedly unwound the linen band.

When he drew his shirt off, he heard her shift beneath the sheets.

When he tossed his trousers aside and turned, she stopped breathing.

His stride slow and deliberate, he walked to her side of the bed. For an instant, he stood looking down at her; her gaze slowly rose from his groin to his chest, then eventually to his face. Trapping her wide eyes, he reached for the covers, lifted them as he held out his hand. “Come. Get up.”

Anticipation flashed through her, a sharp, fiery wave spreading beneath her skin. Her mouth dry, Minerva searched his face, all hard angles and shadowed planes, the unyielding, uninformative expression that simply stated: primitive male. She licked her lips, saw his eyes follow the small movement. “Why?”

His eyes returned to hers. He didn’t answer, simply held the covers up, implacably held out his hand, and waited.

Cool air slipped beneath the raised sheets and found her skin. He, she knew, would be radiating heat; all she had to do to quell the shivers threatening was to stand and let him draw her near.

And then what?

An even bigger shiver of anticipation-a telltale sign he wouldn’t miss-threatened to overwhelm her. Lifting her hand, she placed her fingers in his, and let him draw her out of the bed, off it and onto her feet.

He walked backward, drawing her with him, until they both stood within the shaft of silvery moonlight, until they were both bathed by the pale glow. Her breath suspended, trapped in her chest, she couldn’t drag her eyes from him-a magnificent male animal, powerful and strong, every muscled curve, every ridge and line, etched in molten silver.

His fingers tightening on hers, he tugged her to him, drew her inexorably, irresistibly, into his arms. Into an embrace that was both cool and heated; his hands slid knowingly over her skin, assessing, caressing, as his arms slowly closed and trapped her, then cinched further, easing her against him, against the hot hardness of his utterly male frame.

His hands spread on her back, molded her to him; his dark eyes watched, drank in her expression as their bodies met, bare breasts to naked chest, her hips to his thighs…she closed her eyes and shivered.

The hard ridge of his erection seared like a branding rod against her taut belly.

She sucked in a breath, opened her eyes, only to find him closing the distance. His lips found hers, covered them, possessed them, not with any conquering force but with a languid passion, one all the more evocative, all the more compelling, for being so unhurried-a statement of intent he had no reason to make more stridently; she would be his however he wished-they both knew it.

The knowledge seeped into her even as she gave him her lips, then her mouth, then engaged in a hot, but undriven duel of tongues; she’d come to his room with the thought of rewarding him high in her mind. Rewarding him required no active action from her; she could simply let him take all he wished, follow his lead, and he’d be satisfied.

But would she?

Passivity wasn’t her style, and she wanted this, tonight, to be a gift from her-something she gave him, not something she surrendered.

Because he wasn’t whipping them along, the reins fast in his grasp, opportunity was hers for the taking. So she took-slid one hand between them and closed it firmly about the rod of his erection. Felt certainty bloom when he stilled, as if her touch held the power to completely distract him.

Taking advantage of the momentary hiatus, she eased her other hand down to join the first, linking them about his rigid member in tactile homage-and through the fading kiss sensed every last particle of his awareness center on where she held him.

Slowly breaking from the kiss, she moved her palms-watched his face, confirming that her touch, her caresses, possessed the power to capture him. His arms eased as his attention shifted; his hold on her weakened enough for her to ease back.

Far enough to look down, so she could see what she was doing and better experiment.

He’d let her touch him before, but then she’d been all but overwhelmed-there’d been so much of him to explore. Now, more familiar with his body, more comfortable standing naked before him, less distracted by the wonder of his chest, the heavy muscles of his arms, the long powerful columns of his thighs, no longer held in thrall by his lips, she could extend her explorations to what she most wanted to learn-what pleased him.

She stroked, then let her fingers wander; his chest swelled as he drew in a tight breath.

Glancing at his face, she saw his eyes, dark desire burning, glinting from beneath the thick fringe of his lashes. Took in his clenched jaw, the muscles taut with a tension that was slowly spreading through his body.

Knew he wouldn’t let her play for long.

In a flash of recollection, she remembered a long-ago afternoon in London, and the illicit secrets shared by her wilder peers.

She smiled-and saw his gaze sharpen on her lips. Felt the rod between her hands jerk faintly.

Looking into those dark eyes lit by smoldering passion, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Knew exactly what she wanted to do, needed to do, to balance the scales of give and take between them.

She took half a step back, lowered her gaze from his eyes to his lips, then ran it down the column of his throat and the long length of his chest, all the way down to where her palms and fingers were firmly locked about him, one hand above the other, one thumb cruising the sensitive edge of the broad bulbous head.

Before he could stop her, she sank to her knees.

Sensed his shock-compounded it by angling the stiff rod to her face, parting her lips, and sliding them over the luscious, delicate flesh, slowly taking him into the warm welcome of her mouth.

She’d heard enough of the theory to know what she should do; the practice was a trifle harder-he was large, long, and thick, but she was determined.

Royce finally managed to get his lungs to work, to haul in a desperate breath, but he couldn’t drag his eyes from her, from the sight of her golden head bent to his groin as she worked her mouth over his straining erection.

The ache in his loins, in his balls and his shaft, intensified with every sweet lap of her tongue, every long, slow suck.

He felt he should stop her, bring the moment to a swift halt. It wasn’t that he didn’t like what she was doing-he loved every second of tactile delight, loved the sight of her on her knees before him, his shaft buried between her luscious lips-but…he neither expected nor generally had ladies service him in this way.

They were usually too exhausted after he’d had his way with them-and his way always came first.

He should, but wasn’t going to, stop her. Instead, he accepted-accepted the pleasure she lavished on him, let his hands-hovering about her head-close, let his fingers tunnel through her silky hair and grip, gently guide…

She eased him deeper, then deeper still, until his engorged head was in her throat. Her tongue wrapped around his length and slowly rasped.

Chest swelling, eyes closing, he let his head tip back, fought to stifle a groan-fought to let her go on, to let her have her way.

To let her have him.

But there was only so far he could go. Only so much of the wet heaven of her mouth he could endure.

Her hands about the base of his shaft, she’d found her rhythm; her confidence had grown, and with it her dedication. Lungs screaming, nerves beyond taut, he fought to give her one more moment-then he forced himself to slip a thumb between her lips and draw his throbbing length from her mouth.

She looked up, licked her lips-started to frown.

He bent, gripped her waist, and lifted her-up and to him. “Wrap your legs about my waist.”

She already was. He slid his hands down to grip her hips, positioned her so the heated head of his erection parted the scalding slickness of her folds and pressed against her entrance.

He looked at her face, caught her wide, desire-darkened eyes-watched as he drew her down, as he steadily, inexorably, impaled her. Watched her features ease, then blank, as her awareness turned inward to where he stretched her and filled her. Her lids lowered and she quivered in his arms, caught on the knife edge of surrender. He gripped more firmly, ruthlessly pulled her hips into his, tilting her so he could thrust the last inch and fill her completely.

Possess her completely.

He saw, felt, heard the breath shudder from her lungs. Shifting his grip, he took her weight on one arm, lifted his other hand to her face, framed her jaw, and kissed her.

Hungrily.

She surrendered her mouth, opened to his onslaught, and gave him, ceded to him, all he desired. For long moments, sunk in her body, he simply devoured, then she tried to move, tried to ease up and use her body to satisfy the rampant demand of his-and discovered she couldn’t.

That she couldn’t move at all unless he permitted it, that impaled as she was, she was wholly in his power.

That the rest of this script was entirely his to write-and hers to experience, to endure.

He showed her-showed her how he could lift her as little or as much as he wished, then lower her, as slowly or as rapidly as he wanted. That the power and depth of his penetration of her body was wholly his to decree.

That their journey to the top of the peak would be at his command.

She’d given herself to him, now he intended to take-all and everything he could from her.

He lifted her, and brought her down, one hand still at her nape, that arm wrapped about her body, pressing it to his so the movement of their joining made her breasts ride against his chest. With one arm about her hips, that hand spread beneath her bottom, her legs wrapped, now tight, about his waist, her arms slung around his shoulders, her hands spread on his back, he could feel her all around him, and she was wholly locked within his embrace.

A naked, primitive embrace that suited him well. That would deliver her to him-make her surrender to him-at an even deeper, more primal level.

Minerva drew back from the kiss on a gasping sob, head rising as, breasts swelling, she struggled to find breath.

He let her, then, hand firming at her nape, drew her back.

Kissed her again.

Took, seized, and devoured again.

His hands were suddenly much more demanding, their grip like fire, just this side of painful, elementally commanding as he moved her on him, against him, flayed her senses in every possible way inside and out until she wrenched back from the kiss, let her head fall back, and gave herself up to him.

To the fires that raged between them, building and growing, then erupting in molten passion so hot it seared and scalded, branded and marked.

Flames, hungry and greedy, rose up and washed over them, through them, spreading beneath their skins and consuming as the insistent, persistent, tempo of his possession escalated and claimed her anew.

Made her burn anew, made her fragment and scream, made her cling and sob as he joined her.

As, at the last, she felt him, hard and hot and undeniably real, undeniably him, buried deep within her, deeper than he’d ever been.

Deep enough to touch her heart.

Deep enough to lay claim to that, too.

The thought drifted through her mind, but she let it go, let it fade as he carried her to his bed, and collapsed with her across it.

Holding her against his heart.

At the very last, she heard him groan, “Especially in this, we make an excellent team.”