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.

What they did need was to keep farmers like the Macgregors, who knew the soil they tilled, on the estate, working the land.

Three cottages-one large, two smaller-had been built in the lee of a west-facing hill. They splashed across the burn at a rough ford. As they neared the buildings, the door of the largest opened; an old man, bent and weathered, came out. Leaning on a stout walking stick, he watched without expression as Royce drew rein and dismounted.

Kicking free of her stirrups, Minerva slid to the ground; reins in one hand, she saluted the old man. “Good morning, Macgregor. His Grace has come to take a look at the cottages.”

Macgregor inclined his head politely to her. As she led her bay to a nearby fence, she reached for Royce’s reins, and he handed them over.

He walked forward, halting before Macgregor. Old eyes the color of stormy skies held his gaze with a calmness, a rooted certainty, that only age could bring.

Royce knew his father would have waited, silent and intimidating, for an acknowledgment of his station, then possibly nodded curtly before demanding Macgregor show him the cottages.

He offered his hand. “Macgregor.”

The old eyes blinked wide. Macgregor dropped his gaze to Royce’s hand; after an instant’s hesitation, he shifted his grip on the walking stick’s knobbed head, and grasped the proffered hand in a surprisingly strong grip.

Macgregor looked up as their hands parted. “Welcome home, Y’r Grace. And it’s right glad I am to see you.”

“I remember you-frankly, I’m amazed you’re still here.”

“Aye, well, some of us grow older than others. And I remember you, too-used to see you riding wild over yon hills.”

“I fear my days of wildness are past.”

Macgregor made a sound denoting abject disbelief.

Royce glanced at the buildings. “I understand there’s a problem with these cottages.”

Minerva found herself trailing the pair, entirely redundant, as Macgregor, famed crustiness in abeyance, showed Royce around, pointing out the gaps in the walls, and where the rafters and roof beams no longer met.

Exiting the larger middle cottage, they were crossing to the smaller one to the left when she heard distant hoof-beats. She halted in the yard. Royce would have heard the horse approaching, but he didn’t take his attention from Macgregor; the pair went into the smaller cottage. Raising a hand to shade her eyes, she waited in the yard.

Macgregor’s oldest son, Sean, appeared, riding one of their workhorses. He slowed, halted just inside the yard, and dismounted, leaving the traces he’d used as reins dragging. He hurried to Minerva. “The rest of the lads and me are working the upper fields. We saw you come riding in.” He looked at the smaller cottage. “Is that the new duke in there with Da?”

“Yes, but-” Before she could assure him that his father and his duke were managing perfectly well, Royce led the way out of the tiny cottage, ducking low to miss the lintel. He glanced back as Macgregor followed, then came on.

“This is Sean Macgregor, Macgregor’s oldest son. Sean, Wolverstone.” Minerva hid a grin at Sean’s astonishment when Royce nodded and, apparently without thought, offered his hand.

After a stunned instant, Sean quickly gripped it and shook.