But it was his face that, in that moment, held her, the sharp angles and planes, the long hollows of his lean cheeks, the square chin and wide brow, the blade of his nose, the intent line of his lips-the expression that, for that one unchecked instant, screamed with possessive lust.

It was that, it had to be; recognition made her wantonly writhe inside. Beneath his hand, she shifted restlessly.

His gaze flicked up; his eyes met hers for an instant, then he looked back at her breasts, lowered his head-and with calculated intensity swept her back into the flames.

She was far beyond any protest when he drew her skirts and petticoats up-all the way up to her waist. The touch of air on her skin should have felt cool, but instead she was already burning.

Already yearning for the touch of his hand between her thighs; when it came, she sighed. But she couldn’t relax, caught her breath on an urgent half sob, her fingers gripping his sleeve as her body arched, helplessly wantonly begged as he stroked, caressed, teased…

She wanted his fingers inside her again. That or…she’d always wondered why, how, women could be persuaded to accommodate the hard, heavy reality of a man’s erection, what madness possessed them to permit, let alone invite, such a thing to penetrate them there…now she knew.

She definitely knew, definitely burned with a want she’d never thought to feel.

Breathless, her voice no longer hers to command, she was struggling to find a way to communicate that burning, increasingly urgent desire when he released the tortured nipple he’d been suckling, lifted his head, slid down alongside her, ducked his head below the ridge of her rucked skirts-she gasped, shivered, as she felt his hot lips caress her navel.

Then she felt his tongue touch, caress, probe, then settle to a languid thrust and retreat; she shuddered and, eyes tightly closed, sank one hand in his hair, clinging to her whirling senses as between her thighs his fingers stroked in the same, evocative rhythm.

She was so deeply ensnared in the web of hot delight, of heated pleasure he sent coursing down her veins, that she was only dimly aware of him drawing back, of him easing her thighs wider apart.

What broke through the haze was the touch of his gaze, when, sensing it, faintly disbelieving, she cracked open her eyes and from beneath her lashes watched him studying, examining, the wet, swollen flesh his fingertips were tracing.

Her eyes locked on his face, captured by what she saw, sensed in the harsh, arrogant lines-the absolute drive, the all-consuming intent to possess her, all of her, that was engraved so clearly on his features.

The sight stole what little breath she had left, locked her lungs, left her giddy.

“Are you ready to scream?”

He hadn’t looked up, hadn’t met her eyes. She frowned; she hadn’t screamed yet, or only in her mind.

He glanced up, met her gaze for a fleeting instant, then lowered his head. And replaced his fingers with his lips.

She gasped, arched, would have jerked away but he had her well anchored, her hips held immobile so he could lap, lick, and savor.

And taste her. The realization brought a moan to her lips. Lids falling, head back, she tried to breathe, tried to cope, had no other option but to, fists clenching in his hair, ride the wave of sharp delight he sent surging through her.

That with an expert’s skill he crafted into a powerful, thunderous force that swept her into a fierce tempest of pleasure.

She battled to stifle a shriek as the tip of his tongue circled and stroked the tight bud of her desire, only partially succeeded. Her thighs trembled as his tongue continued to stroke…

Her spine arched helplessly as he eased it into her.

She shrieked, then screamed as he thrust it deep, then again more deeply into her.

Came apart in shuddering, sobbing waves as his mouth worked at her, on her, over her.

As the storm passed on and through her, leaving her utterly wracked and spent, Royce continued to lap at the nectar he’d drawn forth, savoring the gradual easing of her muscles, the slow roll of release as it swept through her.

Eventually, he drew back, looked at her face-that of a madonna pleasured to her toes-and smiled.

He reached for the buttons of her bodice and carefully did them up. A flick of his hand sent her skirts rustling down, covering her long, lithe legs. There was no sense in torment ing himself; this wasn’t his bed.

Tactics, strategy, and above all else, winning the war.

He rose, and opened the northern doors, then, once he’d ensured her skirts were fully down, opened the big southern doors as well. The afternoon sun slanted in; he stood there for a moment, ignoring the persistent ache in his groin, and looked back at the castle. He could see the keep’s battlements, private and out of bounds to all guests, but all the lower windows were screened by trees. Returning to the castle, they’d be safe from any even mildly interested eyes until they got much nearer the walls.

Given he wanted her to agree to their wedding solely because she desired him as much as he desired her, keeping their liaison a secret was imperative; he was determined that no social pressure of any stripe would work its way into their equation. Reassured, he returned to her.

The instant she blinked back to life, he took her hand and drew her to her feet, steadying her until, her arm tucked in his, she could walk beside him.

He led her out into the sunshine, heading back to the castle via the path along the western bank of the race.

Minerva felt…detached. Light, floating, glowing. Her limbs felt deliciously relaxed.

If nothing else, she now knew beyond question that Royce was expert at this game-which left her wondering why he hadn’t taken advantage of what he had to have known was her acquiescence, and sought his own release in her wantonly willing body.

The body he’d reduced to wanton willingness with caresses that, for the rest of her life, would make her blush.

As heat rose in her cheeks, she inwardly frowned; her features were still too lax to manage the expression.

“Because I intend to have you naked-not a stitch on-in my ducal bed.” He made the statement in an even, matter-of-fact voice as he strolled beside her, his gaze on the castle. “That’s where I intend to sink into you, to fill you and have my fill of you, for the first time.”

A spurt of irritation gave her strength enough to turn her head and narrow her eyes on his profile, until he, lips faintly curved, glanced her way.

She looked into his eyes, dark as sin and still far too molten, and discovered she had nothing to say. They’d reached a footbridge spanning the race, now a wider, burbling stream; drawing her arm from his, she reached for the railing and started across. She needed to put space between them.

“At the risk of sounding arrogantly smug, I got the impression you haven’t been accustomed to…life’s little subtleties.”

His tone made it clear to what he was referring; life’s little subtleties, indeed! “Of course not. I’ve been your mother’s confidante and your father’s chatelaine for the past eleven years. Why would I know of such things?”

She glanced his way, and saw a faintly puzzled, somewhat quizzical look on his face.

The same qualities resonated in his voice when he replied, “Strangely, those same criteria gave rise to my question.”

She looked ahead, felt his gaze on her face.

“I take it your past lovers weren’t…shall we say, imaginative?”

Her past lovers were nonexistent, but she wasn’t going to tell him that-he who had known more women than he could count. Literally.

That he, expert that he was, hadn’t detected her inexperience left her feeling faintly chuffed. She cast about in her mind for a suitable retort. As she stepped off the bridge and set off down the path, with every step closer to the castle feeling more like herself, she inclined her head in his direction. “I suspect few men are as imaginative as you.”

She felt certain that was nothing more than the truth, and if it caused him to preen and think he’d advanced his cause, so much the better.

After the afternoon’s debacle, she was going to have to give avoiding him much more serious thought. He thought she’d had lovers.

Then again, Variseys were sneaky, underhanded, and utterly untrustworthy when it came to something they wanted; he was quite capable of paying her a roundabout compliment like that in the hopes of further softening her brain.

Which, where he was concerned, was already soft enough.

Late that night, so late the moon was riding an inky sky over the Cheviots, casting a pearlescent sheen over every tree and rock, Minerva stood at her bedroom window and, arms folded, stared unseeing at the evocative landscape.

The door was locked; she suspected Royce could pick locks, so she’d left the key in the hole and turned it fully, then wedged a handkerchief around it, just to be sure.

She’d spent the evening with the other ladies, metaphorically clinging to their skirts. Although her bedroom was in the keep proper, opposite the duchess’s morning room, not all that far from the ducal apartments and Royce’s ducal bed, by steering the guests up the main keep stairs, she’d been able to tag along, stopping at her door while the ladies with rooms in the east wing walked on.

Royce had noticed her strategy, but other than an appreciative quirk to his lips, had made nothing of it.

She, however, was clearly going to have to take a stand against him.

The speculation the assembled ladies had indulged in after dinner, in the drawing room before the men had rejoined them, had underscored what she shouldn’t have needed to be reminded of; they were all waiting to learn who he’d chosen as his bride.