Stephanie Laurens: Mastered By Love

But it had.

Through those years he’d recruited the best of his generation of Guards, organized them into a network of secret operatives, and successfully placed them throughout Napoleon’s territories. Their success had become the stuff of legend; those who knew correctly credited his network with saving countless British lives, and contributing directly to Napoleon’s downfall.

His success on that stage had been sweet. However, with Napoleon on his way to St. Helena, he’d disbanded his crew, releasing them to their civilian lives. And, as of Monday, he, too, had left his former life-Dalziel’s life-behind.

He hadn’t, however, expected to assume any title beyond the courtesy one of Marquess of Winchelsea. Hadn’t expected to immediately assume control of the dukedom and all it comprised.

His ongoing banishment-he’d never expected his father to back down any more than he himself had-had effectively estranged him from the dukedom’s houses, lands, and people, and most especially from the one place that meant most to him-Wolverstone itself. The castle was far more than just a home; the stone walls and battlements held something-some magic-that resonated in his blood, in his heart, in his soul. His father had known that; it had been the same for him.

Despite the passage of sixteen years, as the horses raced on Royce still felt the pull, the visceral tug that only grew stronger as he rattled through Sharperton, drawing ever closer to Wolverstone. He felt faintly surprised that it should be so, that despite the years, the rift, his own less than susceptible temperament, he could still sense…home.

That home still meant what it always had.

That it still moved him to his soul.

He hadn’t expected that, any more than he’d expected to be returning like this-alone, in a tearing rush, without even his longtime groom, Henry, another Wolverstone outcast, for company through the empty miles.

On Monday, while tidying the last of Dalziel’s files from his desk, he’d been planning his return to Wolverstone. He’d imagined driving up from London by easy stages, arriving at the castle fresh and rested-in suitable state to walk into his father’s presence…and see what came next.

He’d imagined an apology from his father might, just might, have featured in that scene; he’d been curious to see, yet hadn’t been holding his breath.

But now he’d never know.

His father had died on Sunday.

Leaving the rift between them-vicious and deep, naturally enough given they were both Variseys-unhealed. Unaddressed. Unlaid to rest.

He hadn’t known whether to curse his father or fate for leaving him to cauterize the wound.

Regardless, dealing with his past was no longer the most urgent matter on his plate. Picking up the reins of a far-flung and extensive dukedom after a sixteen-year absence was going to demand all his attention, command all of his abilities to the exclusion of all else. He would succeed-there was neither question nor option in that regard-but how long it would take, and what it would cost him…how the devil he was to do it, he didn’t know.

It wasn’t supposed to have been like this.

His father had been hale and healthy enough for a man in his sixties. He hadn’t been ailing; Royce trusted that if he had, someone would have broken his father’s prohibition and sent him word. Instead, he’d been blindsided.

In his version of his return, his father and he would have made their peace, their truce, whatever arrangement they would have made, then he would have started refreshing his knowledge of the estate, filling in the gap between when he’d been twenty-one, and last at Wolverstone, to his present thirty-seven.

Instead, his father was gone, leaving him to pick up the reins with a lag of sixteen years in knowledge hanging like a millstone around his neck.

While he had absolute confidence-Varisey confidence-that he would fill his father’s shoes more than adequately, he wasn’t looking forward to assuming emergency command over unfamiliar troops in terrain that would have shifted in unforeseen ways over the past sixteen years.

His temper, like that of all Variseys, especially the males, was formidable, an emotion that carried the same cutting edge as their broadswords of long ago. He’d learned to control it rather better than his father, to keep it reined, another weapon to be used to conquer and overcome; not even those who knew him well could detect the difference between mild irritation and a killing rage. Not unless he wished them to know. Control of his emotions had long become second nature.

Ever since he’d learned of his father’s demise, his temper had been surging, restless, largely unreasoning, violently hungry for some release. Knowing the only release that would satisfy had, courtesy of fickle fate, been denied him forever.

Not having any enemy to lash out at, to exact vengeance from, left him walking a tightrope, his impulses and instincts tightly leashed.

Stony-faced, he swept through Harbottle. A woman walking along the street glanced curiously at him. While he was clearly heading for Wolverstone, there being no other destination along this road to which a gentleman of his ilk might be going, he had numerous male cousins, and they all shared more than a passing resemblance; even if the woman had heard of his father’s death, it was unlikely she would realize it was he.

Since Sharperton the road had followed the banks of the Coquet; over the drumming of the horses’ hooves, he’d heard the river burbling along its rocky bed. Now the road curved north; a stone bridge spanned the river. The curricle rattled across; he drew a tight breath as he crossed into Wolverstone lands.

Felt that indefinable connection grip and tighten.

Straightening on the seat, stretching the long muscles in his back, he eased the horses’ pace, and looked around.

Drank in the familiar sights, each emblazoned in his memory. Most were as he’d expected-exactly as he recalled, only sixteen years older.

A ford lay ahead, spanning the River Alwin; he slowed the horses and let them pick their way across. As the wheels drew free of the water, he flicked the reins and set the pair up the slight rise, the road curving again, this time to the west.

The curricle topped the rise, and he slowed the horses to a walk.

The slate roofs of Alwinton lay directly ahead. Closer, on his left, between the road and the Coquet, sat the gray stone church with its vicarage and three cottages. He barely spared a glance for the church, his gaze drawn past it, across the river to the massive gray stone edifice that rose in majestic splendor beyond.

Wolverstone Castle.

The heavily fortified square Norman keep, added to and rebuilt by successive generations, remained the central and dominant feature, its crenellated battlements rising above the lower roofs of the early Tudor wings, both uniquely doglegged, one running west, then north, the other east, then south. The keep faced north, looking directly up a narrow valley through which Clennell Street, one of the border crossings, descended from the hills. Neither raiders, nor traders, could cross the border by that route without passing under Wolverstone’s ever-watchful eyes.

From this distance, he could make out little beyond the main buildings. The castle stood on gently sloping land above the gorge the Coquet had carved west of Alwinton village. The castle’s park spread to east, south, and west, the land continuing to rise, eventually becoming hills that sheltered the castle on the south and west. The Cheviots themselves protected the castle from the north winds; only from the east, the direction from which the road approached, was the castle vulnerable to even the elements.

This had always been his first sight of home. Despite all, he felt the connection lock, felt the rising tide of affinity surge.