He’d have to ask her.

Seeing his plan to keep her at a distance crumble to dust, he couldn’t hold back a growl. Swinging around the desk, he headed for the door. Jerking it open, he stepped out, startling Jeffers, who snapped to attention.

“If anyone should ask, I’ve gone riding.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Before eliciting his chatelaine’s advice about the cottages, he’d test her advice about the horse.


She’d been right.

Incontestably right. Thundering over the gently rolling landscape, letting the gray stallion have his head, he felt the air rush past his face, felt an exhilaration he’d missed shooting down his veins, sensed all around him the hills and fields of home racing past at a madman’s pace-and blessed her insightfulness.

His father had been an excellent horseman, but had never had the patience for a mount with a mind of its own. He, on the other hand, enjoyed the challenge of making a compact with a horse, persuading it that it was in its best interests to carry him-so that together they could fly before the wind.

Sword was now his. He would carry him whenever and wherever he wished simply for a chance to run like this. Without restriction, without restraint, flying over fences, leaping rocks and burns, careening between the hills on their way to the breeding fields.

On leaving the study, he’d stridden straight for the stables and asked Milbourne for the stallion. On hearing he intended to ride the recalcitrant beast, Milbourne and Henry had accompanied him to the paddock at the rear of the castle’s holding fields. They’d watched him work the stallion, patient yet demanding; the pair had grinned delightedly when Sword had finally trotted all around the paddock with Royce on his back, then Royce had put the horse at the barred gate and sailed over to their cheers.

As he’d told Minerva, he hadn’t kept a horse in London. When he’d visited friends in the country, he’d ridden mounts they’d provided, but none had been of the ilk of Sword-a heavy hunter fully up to his weight, strong, solid, yet fleet of foot. His thighs gripping the stallion’s wide barrel, he rode primarily with hands and knees, the reins lying lax, there only if needed.

Despite his lack of experience, Sword had all but instantly picked up Royce’s directions, almost certainly because Royce was strong enough to impress them on him clearly. But that took focused strength and concentration, an awareness of the horse and its inclination that few riders possessed; by the time the breeding fields came into view, Royce was no longer surprised that not even Milbourne had been able to ride the stallion.

Grasping the reins, he let Sword feel the bit, slowing him by degrees, until they were trotting.

He wanted to see Conqueror; he didn’t know why. He wasn’t a sentimental man, yet the memories stirred through riding his old mount’s son had driven him there. Standing in his stirrups, he scanned the wide field, then heard a distant but soft trumpet; Sword answered with a snort and picked up his pace.

A group of horses emerged from a fold in the land, trotting, then galloping toward the fence.

Conqueror was in the lead. Much the same size as his son, yet heavier with age, the big gray slowed, ears flicking back and forth as he eyed Royce.

Halting Sword by the fence, Royce leaned over and held out his hand, a dried apple on his palm. “Here, boy.”

Conqueror whinnied and came forward, lipped the apple from Royce’s palm, chewed, then leaned over the rail and-ignoring his son-butted Royce.

He grinned, patting the great head. “Remember me, do you?”

Conqueror shook his head, mane dancing, then he noticed Sword’s interest in the mares who’d followed him to the fence.

With a thunderous snort, Conqueror moved forward, pushing the mares away, herding them back.

Put in his place-second to Conqueror’s harem-Royce sat and watched the small herd move away.

Settling back in the saddle, he patted Sword’s sleek neck, then looked around. They were high on the rise of Castle Hill, north of the castle; looking down the valley, he could see the massive bulk of his home bathed in bright sunlight. It was barely noon.

Turning, he traced the valley northward, picking out the brown track of Clennell Street as it wound its way up through the hills. Temptation whispered.

He hadn’t made any appointments for the afternoon.

The restlessness that had plagued him even from before he’d learned of his father’s death, brought on, he suspected, by having to end Dalziel’s reign while having no alternative life organized and waiting, then compounded by being thrust unprepared into the ducal harness, still roiled and churned inside, rising up at odd moments to distract and taunt him.

To unexpectedly undermine his natural Varisey confidence, and leave him uncertain.

Not a feeling he’d ever liked, and, at thirty-seven, one that irked. Mightily.

He glanced at Sword, then flicked the reins. “We’ve time enough to escape.”

Urging the gray forward, he set course for the border and Scotland beyond.


He’d said he’d deal with O’Loughlin.

Royce found the farmhouse easily enough-the hills didn’t change-but what had changed was the farmhouse itself. When last he’d seen it, it had been little more than a crofter’s cottage with a lean-to barn alongside. Extended and refashioned, long and low, faced with rough-cut stone, thick timbers and with good slate on the roof, the house-now definitely a farmhouse-appeared warm and quietly prosperous, nestling back against a protecting rise, with a new, good-sized barn to one side.

A low stone wall circled the yard; as Royce walked the tiring Sword through the opening, a dog started barking.

Sword shifted, skittered.

The dog was chained inside the open barn door.

Drawing rein, Royce halted and sat patiently waiting for his calm, his lack of reaction, to sink in; once Sword had noticed and quieted, he dismounted.

Just as the farmhouse door opened and a mountain of a man strode out.

Royce met his half brother’s blue eyes; other than their height and the width of their shoulders, the only physical resemblance lay in the set of their eyes, nose, and chin. Hamish’s brown curls were starting to gray, but otherwise he seemed in his usual rude health. Royce smiled and stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Hamish.”

His hand was engulfed, and then so was he, hauled into one of his half brother’s bear hugs.

“Ro!” Hamish released him with a cuff to the back that-if he hadn’t been expecting it-would have made Royce stagger. Grabbing his shoulders, Hamish searched his face. “Regardless of the reason, it’s damned good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.” Hamish released him and Royce glanced at the hills, at the view across their peaks to Windy Gyle. “I knew I missed it-I hadn’t realized by how much.”

“Och, well, you’re back now, even if it took the old bastard dying to do it.”

“The old bastard” was Hamish’s way of referring to their father, not an insult, but a term of affection.

Royce’s lips twisted. “Yes, well, he’s gone, which is one reason I’m here. There are things-”

“To talk about-but after you’ve come in an’ met Molly and the bairns.” Hamish glanced at the barn, then pointed at a small face peeking out. “Hoi-Dickon! Come and see to this horse…” Hamish glanced at Sword, shifting nervously at the end of the rein.

Royce smiled. “I think I’d better help Dickon.”

Hamish trailed alongside as Royce led Sword to the barn. “Isn’t this the stallion that wouldn’t let the old bastard ride him?”

“So I’ve heard. I didn’t have a horse, so now he’s mine.”

“Aye, well, you always had the right touch with the headstrong ones.”

Royce smiled at the boy waiting by the barn door; Hamish’s blue eyes stared back at him. “This isn’t one I’ve met before.”

“Nah.” Halting beside the lad, Hamish ruffled his hair. “This one came while you were away.” He looked down at the boy, who was regarding Royce with wide eyes. “This here’s the new duke, lad-you call him Wolverstone.”

The boy’s eyes switched to his father. “Not ‘the old bastard’?”

Royce laughed. “No-but if there’s no one else about but family, you can call me Uncle Ro.”

While Royce and Dickon settled Sword in an empty stall, Hamish leaned on the wall and brought Royce up to date with the O’Loughlins. When Royce had last been at Wolverstone, Hamish, two years older than he, had had two young “bairns” through the occasional letters they’d exchanged, Royce knew Hamish was now the proud father of four, Dickon at ten being the third.

Leaving the barn, they crossed the yard and entered the house; both Hamish and Royce had to duck beneath the low lintel.

“Hi, Moll!” Hamish led the way into a large parlor. “Come see who’s here.”

A short, rotund woman-more rotund than Royce remembered her-came bustling in from the kitchen beyond, wiping her hands on her apron. Bright blue eyes were set in a sweet round face beneath a shock of coppery red curls. “Really, Hamish, as if that’s any way to summon me. Anyone would think you were a heathen-” Her eyes lit on Royce and she halted. Then she shrieked-making both men wince-and flung herself at Royce.

He caught her, laughed as she hugged him wildly.

“Royce, Royce!” She tried to shake him, an impossibility for her, then looked up into his face, beaming delightedly. “It’s so good to see you back.”

His own smile widened. “It’s good to be back, Moll.” He was increasingly realizing how true that was, how deep within him the feeling of coming home reached. Touched. “You’re looking as fetching as ever. And you’ve expanded the family since last I was here.”