The narrower, lower, eastern side through which he and Minerva entered contained beams and pulleys that raised and lowered the huge waterwheel; because of the bores that surged down the Coquet when the snows melted, it was essential the wheel could be lifted entirely free of the race. The eastern section also contained bins and storage cupboards set against the wooden railing that ran along the edge of the race.

The first crop of corn had already been ground; the second crop was yet to be harvested. For the moment, the mill stood silent and empty, with the wheel raised and braced above the race on massive beams.

“The problem’s not hard to see.” Minerva led the way into the soft shadows. The building had no windows, but light streamed in through the three open doorways-the one through which they’d entered, as well as the two at either end of the upper, western section.

Royce followed her along the continuation of the path, now paved; bins and cupboards formed a row on his left, the wood-and-stone outer wall to his right. The noise of rushing water was amplified inside, filling his ears. The cupboards were shoulder-height; when he looked over their tops, his eyes were level with the timber floor of the western section.

Ahead, beyond where the cupboards ended, Minerva had paused at the foot of a slanting gangplank connecting the two sections of the mill.

He nodded at the gangplank. “That’s new.” There’d always been a plank, but the ones he remembered had been literally planks, not this substantial timber board with cleats and a sturdy rail on one side. Halting beside Minerva, he studied the hinges, ropes, and pulleys attached to the plank, connecting it to the western section’s floor and railing. “And it even swings out of the way.”

In order for the waterwheel to be lowered and raised, the plank used to have to be removed altogether.

“After he’d replaced the old plank three times-you know how frequently they drop it in the race when they try to lift it away-Hancock designed this.” Minerva started across the narrow platform. “He hasn’t had to even repair it since.”

“An estimable improvement.” Royce followed her.

“Which is what we could do with up here.” Stepping off the gangplank’s upper end, Minerva swept her arms wide, encompassing the whole timber-floored western section in the middle of which sat the massive circular grinding stone supported by a stone plinth; the plinth continued through the floor into the earth beneath.

Letting his gaze travel around the otherwise empty area, Royce walked to the millstone, then cocked a brow at her.

“As I explained,” she continued, “because we have to keep the doors open all the time, summer and winter, it’s impos sible to store anything here. The corn is ground, collected, and bagged-and then, each day, has to be moved, either to the castle cellars or back to farmers’ holdings. If we close the doors to keep the animals out, the corn starts to mold by the next day. Bad enough, but preserving the millstone through winter is a never-ending battle. No matter what we’ve tried, it takes weeks of preparation every spring before we can use it without risking the corn.”

“Mold again?” He walked back to the railing along the race.

“Mold, fungus, mildew-we’ve even had mushrooms growing on it.”

Running a hand along the wide top rail, he grimaced. “Too damp.”

“If we shut the doors, it sometimes gets so bad it drips.”

He looked at her. “So what’s your solution?”

“Hancock agrees that if we put up a timber wall all along the race, we can tar it and make it waterproof. We’d also need to fill the gaps in the outer walls and roof, and around the plinth, and put extra strips on the doors, to stop damp air getting in. And Hancock strongly recommends, as do I, putting in glass panes above the southern doors, so sun can shine in and help keep what’s inside warm and dry.”

Royce glanced around. “Shut those doors.” He waved at the pair at the north end of the building, then walked to the larger set at the southern end. He waited until Minerva, frowning, shut both north doors, cutting off the light from that direction.

Sunshine coming through the doors in the eastern section didn’t reach the western side. Royce swung one of the southern doors closed, blocking off half the sunshine that had been streaming in, then, more slowly, closed the other door, watching as the band of sunshine narrowed until it was a thin beam.

Shutting the door completely, he walked back along the line the sunshine had traced to where it had ended just before the millstone. Halting, he turned to look back toward the doors, at the wall above them reaching to the roof.

Minerva came to stand beside him.

“How much glass was Hancock thinking of?”

Glass was expensive. “He was thinking of at least two panes, one above each door, at least half the width of each door.”

She watched as Royce studied the wall, then turned and looked at the millstone. “We’d be better off glazing as much of that wall as possible.”

She blinked.

He glanced at her, arched a brow.

Quickly, she nodded. “That would definitely be best.” She hadn’t suggested it because she hadn’t thought he would agree.

A subtle curving of his lips suggested he’d guessed as much, but all he said was, “Good.” Turning, he looked at the millstone, then prowled around her, examining the stone.

She looked up at the area above the door, estimating the size, then deciding she might as well reopen the north doors, swung around and walked-into Royce.

Into his arms.

She was surprised.

He wasn’t.

That last registered-along with the wicked glint in his eyes, the subtly triumphant lift to his lips, and that they were alone in the mill, acres from the castle, and the doors were closed-

He kissed her. Despite her racing thoughts, she had less than an instant’s warning. She tried to resist-the intention formed; she tried to make herself stiffen as his arms slid around her, tried to make her hands, instinctively splayed on his chest, push him away…

Nothing happened. Or rather, for long moments she simply stood there and let him kiss her-savored again the pressure of his lips on hers, the subtle heat of them, and of his body so near, hard, and fascinating as he gathered her in, closer to that beckoning heat…she almost couldn’t believe it was happening again. That he was kissing her again.

In a burst of startling clarity, she realized she hadn’t truly believed what had happened the previous night. She’d been cautious, wary and watchful today, but she hadn’t truly let herself acknowledge, not consciously, all that had happened in the morning room last night.

So it was going to happen again.

Before panic could gather wit and will, grab them back from where they’d wandered enough to mount any effective resistance, his lips firmed, hard and commanding, and hers parted. In the instant he surged, conquerorlike, into her mouth, she sensed his full intention-realized with absolute certainty that she had no hope of stopping him when fully half of her didn’t want to.

When too much of her wanted. Wanted to know, to experience, to savor him and all he would show her, to embrace the moment, and the pleasure and delight it might bring.

To open herself to that, and him, to explore the possibilities she’d sensed last night-to follow the lingering urging of her infatuation-obsession and all the fanciful dreams she’d ever had…of just such an illicit moment as this.

With him.

Even as the thought resonated through her, she felt the dark silk of his hair sliding over and under her fingers, realized that, once again, she was kissing him back-that he’d succeeded once again in luring her-the inner wanton only he had ever touched-into coming out and playing with him.

And it was a game. A sudden sense of exhilaration gripped her and she shifted against him, then, utterly blatant, stroked her tongue boldly along his.

She felt his deep chuckle, then he returned the favor, his mouth, lips, and tongue doing things to hers that she felt perfectly certain ought to be banned. His arms tightened, steely bands closing to bring her body flush against his, then his hands went wandering, tracing, then evocatively sculpting her curves, sweeping over her hips and down, then drawing her closer, molding her hips against his hard thighs, the rigid rod of his erection impressing itself on her much softer belly.

Already lost in the kiss, to his embrace, she felt her inner flames leap from a smolder to a crackling blaze. Felt herself heat, then melt into them, become part of them as they spread and consumed her.

She felt like a fey creature as she let herself spin, senses alert, attuned, as she let the fiery, gathering vortex he was orchestrating draw her in.

At some point, his arms eased from her; hands gripping her waist, he turned with her, then drew her down to the millstone.

The next thing she knew-the next moment her senses surfaced from the firestorm of pleasure he wrought enough to know-she was lying on her back, the rough stone beneath her shoulders, hips, and thighs, her bodice wide open, and he was feasting on her naked breasts even more evocatively-more intently and expertly-than he had the previous night.

It was only because he’d drawn back to look down on the flesh he’d so thoroughly possessed that she’d been able to rise above the pleasured haze he’d wrapped her in. Trapped her in-yet she couldn’t deny she was a very willing prisoner.

She was panting, gasping; she knew she’d moaned. Her hands lay lax on his upper arms; they’d lost all strength, after all he’d wrung from her. His dark eyes were tracing; she could feel the heat of his gaze, so much hotter on her bare skin.