The glow from the desk lamps and those by the chaise didn’t reach as far as the door. She halted in the shadows. Royce was still speaking with Collier, both standing in the space between the big desk and the window behind it, looking out at the night as they conversed.
She drew nearer, quietly, not wishing to intrude.
And heard Royce ask Collier for his opinion on the leasing arrangements for tied cottages.
“The foundation of the nation, Your Grace. All the great estates rely on the system-it’s been proven for generations, and is, legally speaking, solid and dependable.”
“I have a situation,” Royce said, “where it’s been suggested that some modification of the traditional form of lease might prove beneficial to all concerned.”
“Don’t be tempted, Your Grace. There’s much talk these days of altering traditional ways, but that’s a dangerous, potentially destructive road.”
“So your considered advice would be to leave matters as they are, and adhere to the standard, age-old form?”
Minerva stepped sideways into the shadows some way behind Royce’s back. She wanted to hear this, preferably without calling attention to her presence.
“Indeed, Your Grace. If I may make so bold”-Collier puffed out his chest-“you could not do better than to follow your late father’s lead in all such matters. He was a stickler for the legal straight and narrow, and preserved and grew the dukedom significantly over his tenure. He was shrewd and wise, and never one for tampering with what worked well. My counsel would be that whenever any such questions arise, your best tack would be to ask yourself what your sire would have done, and do precisely that. Model yourself upon him, and all will go well-it’s what he would have wished.”
Hands clasped behind his back, Royce inclined his head. “Thank you for your advice, Collier. I believe you’ve already been given a room-if you encounter any difficulty relocating it, do ask one of the footmen.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Collier bowed low. “I wish you a good night.”
Royce nodded. He waited until Collier had closed the door behind him, before saying, “You heard?”
He knew she was there, behind him in the shadows. He’d known the instant she’d walked into the room.
“Yes, I heard.”
“And?” He made no move to turn from the window and the view of the dark night outside.
Drifting closer to the desk, Minerva drew a tight breath, then stated, “He’s wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Your father didn’t wish you to be like him.”
He stilled, but didn’t turn around. After a moment, he asked, voice quiet, yet intense, “What do you mean?”
“In his last moments, when I was with him here, in the library, he gave me a message for you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you, so you would understand what he meant.”
“Tell me now.” A harsh demand.
“He said: ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’”
A long silence ensued, then he asked, voice soft, quietly deadly, “And what, in your opinion, am I to understand by that?”
She swallowed. “He was speaking in the most general terms. The widest and broadest terms. He knew he was dying, and that was the one thing he felt he had to say to you.”
“And you believe he wished me to use that as a guide in dealing with the cottages?”
“I can’t say that-that’s for you to decide, to interpret. I can only tell you what he said that day.”
She waited. His fingers had clenched, each hand gripping the other tightly. Even from where she stood, she could feel the dangerous energy of his temper, eddies swirling and lashing, a tempest coalescing around him.
She felt an insane urge to go closer, to raise a hand and lay it on his arm, on muscles that would be tight and tensed, more iron than steel beneath her palm. To try, if she could, to soothe, to drain some of that restless energy, to bring him some release, some peace, some surcease.
“Leave me.” His tone was flat, almost grating.
Even though he couldn’t see, she inclined her head, then turned and walked-calmly, steadily-to the door.
Her hand was on the knob when he asked, “Is that all he said?”
She glanced back. He hadn’t moved from his stance before the window. “That was all he told me to tell you. ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’ Those, exactly those, were his last words.”
When he said nothing more, she opened the door, went out, and shut it behind her.
Four
R oyce strode into the breakfast parlor early the next morning, and trapped his chatelaine just as she finished her tea.
Eyes widening, fixed on him, she lowered her cup; without taking her gaze from him, she set it back on its saucer.
Her instincts were excellent. He raked her with his gaze. “Good-you’re dressed for riding.” Retford had told him she would be when he’d breakfasted even earlier. “You can show me these cottages.”
She raised her brows, considered him for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” Dropping her napkin beside her plate, she rose, picked up her riding gloves and crop, and calmly joined him.
Accepting his challenge.
Loins girded, jaw clenched, he suffered while, with her gliding beside him, he stalked to the west courtyard. He’d known his sisters would breakfast in their rooms, while their husbands would come down fashionably later, allowing him to kidnap her without having to deal with any of them.
He’d ordered their horses to be saddled. He led the way out of the house; as they crossed the courtyard toward the stables, he glanced at Minerva as, apparently unperturbed, she walked alongside. He’d steeled himself to deflect any comment about their exchange last night, but she’d yet to make one. To press her point that he didn’t have to be like his father in managing the dukedom.
That he should break with tradition and do what he felt was right.
Just as he had sixteen years ago.
Regardless of her silence, her opinion reached him clearly.
He felt as if she were manipulating him.
They reached the stable yard and found Henry holding a dancing Sword while Milbourne waited with her horse, a bay gelding, by the mounting block.
On her way to Milbourne, she glanced at the restless gray. “I see you tamed him.”
Taking the reins from Henry, Royce planted one boot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the broad back. “Yes.”
Just as he’d like to tame her.
Teeth gritted, he gathered the reins, holding Sword in as he watched her settle in her sidesaddle. Then she nodded her thanks to Milbourne, lifted the reins, and trotted forward.
He met her eyes, tipped his head toward the hills. “Lead the way.”
She did, at a pace that took some of the edge from his temper. She was an excellent horsewoman, with an excellent seat. Once he’d convinced himself she wasn’t likely to come to grief, he found somewhere else to fix his gaze. She led him over the bridge, then across the fields, jumping low stone walls as they headed north of the village. Sword kept pace easily; he had to rein the gray in to keep him from taking the lead.
But once they reached the track that meandered along the banks of Usway Burn, a tributary of the Coquet, they slowed, letting the horses find their own pace along the rocky and uneven ground. Less experienced than the gelding, Sword seemed content to follow in his wake. The track was barely wide enough for a farm cart; they followed its ruts up into the hills.
The cottages stood halfway along the burn, where the valley widened into reasonable-sized meadows. It was a small but fertile holding. As Royce recalled, it had always been prosperous. It was one of the few acreages on the estate given over to corn. With the uncertainty in supply of that staple, and the consequent increase in price, he could understand Kelso’s and Falwell’s push to increase the acreage, but…the estate had always grown enough corn to feed its people; that hadn’t changed. They didn’t need to grow more.