“Indeed, Your Grace.” Collier bowed low. “I wish you a good night.”
Royce nodded. He waited until Collier had closed the door behind him, before saying, “You heard?”
He knew she was there, behind him in the shadows. He’d known the instant she’d walked into the room.
“Yes, I heard.”
“And?” He made no move to turn from the window and the view of the dark night outside.
Drifting closer to the desk, Minerva drew a tight breath, then stated, “He’s wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Your father didn’t wish you to be like him.”
He stilled, but didn’t turn around. After a moment, he asked, voice quiet, yet intense, “What do you mean?”
“In his last moments, when I was with him here, in the library, he gave me a message for you. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you, so you would understand what he meant.”
“Tell me now.” A harsh demand.
“He said: ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’”
A long silence ensued, then he asked, voice soft, quietly deadly, “And what, in your opinion, am I to understand by that?”
She swallowed. “He was speaking in the most general terms. The widest and broadest terms. He knew he was dying, and that was the one thing he felt he had to say to you.”
“And you believe he wished me to use that as a guide in dealing with the cottages?”
“I can’t say that—that’s for you to decide, to interpret. I can only tell you what he said that day.”
She waited. His fingers had clenched, each hand gripping the other tightly. Even from where she stood, she could feel the dangerous energy of his temper, eddies swirling and lashing, a tempest coalescing around him.
She felt an insane urge to go closer, to raise a hand and lay it on his arm, on muscles that would be tight and tensed, more iron than steel beneath her palm. To try, if she could, to soothe, to drain some of that restless energy, to bring him some release, some peace, some surcease.
“Leave me.” His tone was flat, almost grating.
Even though he couldn’t see, she inclined her head, then turned and walked—calmly, steadily—to the door.
Her hand was on the knob when he asked, “Is that all he said?”
She glanced back. He hadn’t moved from his stance before the window. “That was all he told me to tell you. ‘Tell Royce not to make the same mistakes I made.’ Those, exactly those, were his last words.”
When he said nothing more, she opened the door, went out, and shut it behind her.
Four
R oyce strode into the breakfast parlor early the next morning, and trapped his chatelaine just as she finished her tea.
Eyes widening, fixed on him, she lowered her cup; without taking her gaze from him, she set it back on its saucer.
Her instincts were excellent. He raked her with his gaze. “Good—you’re dressed for riding.” Retford had told him she would be when he’d breakfasted even earlier. “You can show me these cottages.”
She raised her brows, considered him for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” Dropping her napkin beside her plate, she rose, picked up her riding gloves and crop, and calmly joined him.
Accepting his challenge.
Loins girded, jaw clenched, he suffered while, with her gliding beside him, he stalked to the west courtyard. He’d known his sisters would breakfast in their rooms, while their husbands would come down fashionably later, allowing him to kidnap her without having to deal with any of them.