Blinking in surprise, Minerva desperately tried to reorder her senses and her wits. While he untied Sword’s reins and swung up to the gray’s back, she slid her boots into her stirrups, reclaimed her reins.
With just a look that said very clearly, “Follow me,” he turned Sword and led the way down. Luckily, they had to go slowly down the hill; once they reached the flat and the horses stretched into a gallop, she’d recovered enough to cope.
Nevertheless, she was amazed she made it back to the castle without a stumble. By the time the stables rose before them, her mind had cleared, and her wits had reassembled. Her lips were still swollen, and her body still warm, and if she thought too much, remembered too much, she would blush, but she knew what she had to do.
They clattered into the stable yard and he fluidly dismounted. By the time she’d halted Rangonel and freed her feet from her stirrups, he was by her side; she surrendered to the inevitable and let him lift her down.
And discovered that, if she wasn’t tensing, fighting to suppress her reaction, then the sensation of his hands gripping her waist, that instant of being completely in his power as he lifted her, held more delight than trauma.
She reminded herself that when it came to him, she no longer had anything to hide. Yet when he grasped her hand, engulfing it in his, she would have tugged it back—except he tightened his hold, threw her a look, and proceeded to hold her beside him as, with a curt nod to Milbourne, he stalked out of the yard.
Deciding that having a tug-of-war over her hand with His Grace of Wolverstone in his own stable yard, watched over by various of his and her staff, wasn’t an endeavor she was likely to gain anything from, she held her tongue, and strove to keep up with his strides.
She had to pick her time, her moment. Her battleground.
He led her to the house via the west courtyard, but instead of taking his usual route to the front hall and the main stairs, he turned the other way; she realized he was making for the west turret stairs, a rarely used lesser staircase from which he could reach the gallery, not far from his rooms.
Until he’d headed that way, she hadn’t been sure what he intended, but given his preference for the minor stairs…he was taking her to his rooms.
She chose the small hall at the foot of the turret stairs to make her stand. There were no servants about, no one else about to see, let alone interrupt. When he reached for the newel post, she halted. Held steady when he tried to draw her forward. He looked around, met her gaze—saw her determination. Arched one black brow.
“What you have in mind isn’t going to happen.” She made the statement clearly, evenly. Not a challenge, but a statement of fact. She wanted to draw her hand from his, to lose the sensation of his long, strong fingers locked about hers, but knew better than to trigger his reaction. Instead, she met his gaze with steadfast resolution. “You are not even going to kiss me again.”
His eyes narrowed; turning to face her, he opened his mouth—
“No. You will not. You might lust after me, but that, as we both know, is merely a reaction to being forced to name your bride. It will last for all of a day or two, and then what? It’s possible that the only reason your eye has fixed on me is that I’m one of the few ladies in the house not related to you. But I’m not going to tumble into your bed just because you’ve decided it suits you. I’m your chatelaine, not your lover, not your mistress.” She drew in a breath, held his dark gaze. “So we’re going to pretend, going to behave, as if what just happened on Lord’s Seat…didn’t.”
That was the only way she could think of to survive, heart intact, to get through this time as his chatelaine, fulfill her vows to his parents, and then leave Wolverstone and start a new life.
Somewhere.
Somewhere a very long way from him, so she’d never have to meet him again, not even set eyes on him. Because after what had just happened on Lord’s Seat, she was going to regret not letting matters take their course, to regret not letting him take her to his bed.
And that regret would last forever.
Royce watched her denial form on her lips—lips he’d just kissed, possessed, and now knew beyond question were his. He heard her words, could even make sense of them, but the reactions they called forth left him inwardly reeling. As if she’d picked up a broadsword and clouted him over the head.
She couldn’t be serious—yet he could see she was.
He’d stopped thinking rationally the instant he’d possessed her lips, the instant he’d swept into her mouth and tasted her. Claimed her. He’d spent the ride home anticipating claiming her in a more absolute, biblical way—and now she was refusing.
More, she was insisting that their incendiary kiss should be ignored, as if she hadn’t welcomed him, kissed him back, and clung.
Worse, she’d accused him of seducing her out of lust—that he would take her to his bed with no feeling whatever, that she was merely a convenient female body to him…inwardly he frowned. He felt offended, yet…
He was a Varisey, until now in this sphere archetypically so—she had every reason to believe any female would do.
Except no other would. He knew that to his bones.
He held her gaze. “You want me as much as I want you.”
She lifted her chin. “Perhaps. But remember the reason I haven’t accepted any offers—of any sort—from any gentlemen? Because they didn’t offer anything I wanted.” She looked directly into his eyes. “In this case, anything I want enough.”
Her last word echoed in the stairwell, filling the silence that fell between them.
A clear, unequivocal challenge.
One that called to him on a level he couldn’t deny, but he could see from her eyes, her calmly resolute mien, that she was unaware she’d issued it.