Stephanie Laurens - Mastered By Love

That’s what this was all about. He thought to use her to break Royce.

The fight she had to wage to suppress her reaction-not to let her jaw, her features, set, not to let her hands curl into fists, not to reach for the knife she had, for an entirely different reason, strapped to her thigh-was immense.

She could kill him with that knife, but Phillip was strong-he was like Royce in that. Yet while he believed her unconscious, it seemed she was safe. Just as long as he kept believing he had time, her best strategy was to simply lie there and let him rant.

And give Royce time to reach her.

She knew he would.

How long had she been unconscious? How long was it since she’d left the ballroom? Phillip’s plan had a large hole in it, one he’d never see. He might not be a Varisey, yet he was just like Royce in not understanding what love actually was.

He didn’t comprehend that Royce would simply know, that he was always aware of her-even in a crowded ballroom. He’d never wait an hour before checking where she’d gone. She seriously doubted he’d have waited ten minutes. Which meant rescue was afoot.

Phillip was now ranting about his father, and his grandfather, how they’d always lauded Royce and never him. How they would now see that Royce was nothing, powerless…

Royce’s maternal grandfather was long dead.

Not that she needed any further proof of the state of Phillip’s mind.

Nevertheless, she forced herself to listen so she could track his movements; when she was sure he was pacing away from her, she quickly cracked open her lids-immediately closed them again and heaved a mental sigh of relief. He’d closed the mill doors.

Resisting the urge to smile intently, she worked on keeping every muscle flaccid.

Not so easy when Phillip stopped talking, then halted beside the millstone. She was fully awake now, could sense his physical closeness. Like Royce, he was large, well-muscled, and radiated heat-and quelling her revulsion and lying quiescent with him near was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.

Then she heard a rustle; his arms moved.

Then he leaned near. “Come on, damn you! Wake up.”

And then she discovered there were harder things to quell than mere revulsion.

Instinct had her peeking through her lashes. She only had an instant’s warning, only an instant to scream at herself to relax, relax, for God’s sake don’t react! -then he jabbed her in the arm with his cravat pin.

Royce waited in the hallway until all the men had gathered. The ladies remained, too-they were all too sober to go back into the ballroom; if they did, they’d cause comment.

Christian slipped through the door. “That’s all of us.”

Royce raked the ranks of deadly serious faces. “My cousin, Phillip Debraigh, has seized Minerva. He’s our last traitor-the one I failed to apprehend. As far as I can judge, he’s set on wreaking vengeance of a sort on me-the diadem she was wearing”- that he, Royce, had given her -“was part of his thirty pieces of silver. He’s taken her somewhere outside. Although the castle is huge, with it packed with guests there are staff constantly scurrying everywhere-something he knows. He won’t have risked staging anything indoors.” He glanced outside. “But there are only so many places he could use outside-which gives us a chance to rescue Minerva, and capture him.”

He brought his gaze back to the grave faces. “He took her less than fifteen minutes ago-he won’t be expecting us to have even noticed her absence yet, so we have a small amount of time to plan.”

Rupert, on his left, shifted, caught Royce’s eyes when he glanced his way. “Whatever we do, secrecy is imperative. No matter he’s a traitor, and deserves to be brought down, you can’t bring down the Debraighs as a family. You, especially, can’t do that.”

Because the Debraighs, his mother’s family, had always supported him. Because his Debraigh grandfather had been so much a part of his formative life. Jaw set, Royce nodded. “As far as possible, we’ll try to keep this secret, but I won’t risk Minerva’s safety, not even for the Debraighs.”

He looked at the grouped ladies, at Letitia, Clarice, Rose, and all the rest. “You ladies are going to have to give us cover. You’re going to have to go back into the ballroom and spread some story-of how we’ve adjourned for a meeting on whatever topic your imaginations can devise. You’re going to have to hide your apprehension-make it appear as irritation, annoyance, resignation-anything. But we’ll never keep this concealed without you.”

Clarice nodded. “We’ll manage. Just go”-she waved them off-“do what you’re so good at, and get Minerva back.”

Her waspish tone was reinforced by the looks on the other ladies’ faces. Royce nodded grimly, and looked at the men. “Come up to the battlements.”

He led them up the battlement stairs in a thunder of heavy feet. Just in case he’d guessed wrongly and Phillip was somewhere in the house, Handley, Trevor, Jeffers, Retford, and Hamilton were alerted, and a quiet search was under way. But as he walked to the battlements, waited while the others joined him, he knew he was right. Phillip was outside-somewhere in the grounds, all the relevant parts of which were visible from this vantage point.

Bracing his hands on the stone, he looked out. “He’ll have taken her to one of the structures. There’s not that many. There’s-” He broke off. He’d come to the same spot to which he’d brought Minerva, twice. The view was to the north, up the gorge to the Cheviots and Scotland beyond.

The mill was in the foreground.

He straightened, his gaze locked on the building. “He’s taken her to the mill.”

All the others crowded the battlements, looking.

Before any could ask, he went on, “There is no one on the entire estate who would close those doors-for excellent reasons, they’re always left open.”

Christian was assessing the terrain, as were the others. “Two levels.”

“Can he get out along the stream?” Tony asked.

“Not easily-not safely.”

“So.” Devil Cynster straightened, cocked a brow his way. “How are we going to do this?”

In a few succinct phrases, he told them.

They weren’t entirely happy, but no one argued.

Minutes later, they were streaming from the house, slipping into the gardens, a silent, deadly force intent on only one thing-ending the last traitor’s reign.

Royce was at the head of the pack, saving Minerva his only real aim.

M inerva had weathered the prick of the cravat pin- more through sheer terror than anything else. She’d managed not to flinch, but her muscles had tensed. Phillip had noticed; he’d nudged her, slapped her cheeks, but when she’d stirred, mumbled, then slumped as if comatose again, he’d muttered a raw expletive and swung viciously away.

He’d fallen to pacing again, but closer, watching her all the while. “Damn you, wake up ! I want you awake so you’ll know what I’m doing to you-I want you to fight me. I want to hear you scream as I force my way inside you. I specifically brought you here-far enough from the house and with the noise of the water to cover all sounds-just so I could enjoy your sobbing and pleading. And your screaming-above all, your screaming. I want to see your eyes, I want to feel your fear. I want you to know every little thing I’m going to do to you before I do it-and for every second while I am.”

He suddenly swooped close. “You won’t be dying anytime soon.”

She jerked her head away from the hot waft of his crooning breath, tried to disguise the instinctive flinch as restless ness.