The Rightful Lord (The Saga Of Wolfbridge Manor Book 3) Sahara Kelly (free ebook reader TXT) 📖

She put out her hand and rested it on his shoulder. “I was thinking the same thing, Gabriel. It’s a first for me too.”

“And me,” nodded Harry.

There were sounds of agreement from Jeremy and Evan, and then Royce added his, taking her aback.

“I don’t think I ever had a home,” he said. “I grew up with a family who showed nothing but devotion to duty.” His eyes roamed around from his seat in the chair near the fire. “It was filled with the best of everything, but there was no…” he frowned, searching for the right word.

“Affection?” offered Gwyneth.

Royce nodded. “Yes, as good a word as any. I cannot remember receiving anything but stern advice and orders from my parents. They seemed incapable of any demonstrations of, as you say, affection. I called it home, but a week in my first barracks taught me more about what a home should be than all the years I had spent prior.”

She longed to ask him where he was raised, but since Wolfbridge acknowledged the secrets of its residents, she pushed the question aside. “I’m glad you’re here, Royce,” she said, and then waved her hand at the room. “All of you. I am so very grateful, and it occurs to me that I am remiss in not telling you so. Perhaps now is the time to make amends.”

She stood. “I am looking forward to my first glass of whisky, but before I indulge, let me show you how much you mean to me.” She went to Jeremy, put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him in his seat. “I love your smile, Jeremy. It brightens my day.” She leaned over and kissed him.

Moving to Evan, she repeated her movements. “I love your enthusiasm and your food, Evan. You feed my happiness.” She kissed him as well.

“My turn,” Gabriel eagerly announced.

“Yes, Gabriel.” Gwyneth kissed him. “I love the goodness of your heart that shines so brightly every day. You lighten my heart as well.”

“Oh, I might cry,” he sniffled, making them all laugh.

“Harry.” Gwyneth walked to him as he stood by the fireplace. He leaned down to accept her kiss. “You have brought your intelligence and your heart to Wolfbridge. You have opened my mind with your wisdom.”

Harry smiled gently at her and brushed his fingers over her cheek.

And then she walked to Royce’s chair.

“Royce,” she said. “You do so much for everyone.” She touched his shoulders. “These bear the burdens of Wolfbridge, yet never falter under their weight. You are the string that ties us all together, and you make my every moment feel safe.” She leaned toward his face, and felt his hand reach for her, snagging the back of her neck and pulling her in for a kiss that was a great deal more than proper.

When he finally let her go, there was a round of applause from all the gentlemen.

Gwyneth blushed. “I’m not sure what that was for, but if it was for Royce, I wholeheartedly agree.”

Royce shook his head on a smile. “Pass the whisky.”

The whisky was passed, tasted, approved and downed, finding favour with everyone, even Gwyneth, although she coughed a little at the first burn.

“That is very fine liquor,” observed Evan appreciatively.

“I’ve always enjoyed it,” added Jeremy, finishing his glass. “More please.”

“It will catch up with you,” warned Royce.

“’Tis almost the new year,” laughed Gabriel. “What better way to celebrate it than with a happy heart and a muddled head?”

“The lad has a point,” Harry chuckled.

“We have a goodly supply.” Royce nodded at the half dozen bottles Jeremy had retrieved. “Although I’ll wager it won’t take but two of those to have you all drunk as a wheelbarrow. In fact, I’d say you’re well into your cups right now.”

And so the jests flew fast, and the whisky disappeared as the clock on the mantel ticked away the last hours of the year.

As midnight arrived, they managed to stand and toast each other, swaying a little as the new year dawned precisely on time.

Royce was correct in one regard—within the first hour of 1819 Gabriel was asleep and snoring, and Jeremy and Evan close behind.

Harry had his feet up on an ottoman, slouched comfortably with his jacket off, his head nodding as he fought the inevitable effects of the amber liquid remaining in his glass.

“You win,” he slurred, managing to put the glass on the side table before his head lolled back on a snore.

Gwyneth, who had carefully nursed her whisky, giggled. “I think they are completely castaway.”

Royce nodded. “I think you’re right.”

She sighed and stood. “They’ll get cold. Will you put another couple of logs on the fire and bank it for the night?” She fetched blankets and tucked them around her sleeping gentlemen.

Royce chuckled quietly as he stacked the wood and pulled the screen across the blaze, turning the damper down. “They’re going to be deuced unhappy come morning,” he said, looking at his fellows as they slumbered noisily.

“But it has been a wonderful evening. Such fun.” She smiled at Royce. “Even if we’re the only two left standing…”

Her heart thudded at the look in his eyes. “Gwyneth,” he murmured.

“Royce,” she murmured back, aching to go to him. “Oh Royce.”

As if his body overrode his mind, he held out his arms, and she willingly went to him, eager to hold him close.

He groaned as she did so, but encased her in his warmth, pressing her to his chest. “God, I want you so badly, love.”

She raised her head. “Then…then have me, Royce. I’m yours and you’re mine, every bit as much as the others. You know that.”

“I shouldn’t…” he began.

“Why not?” She squeezed him tightly. “Why not, Royce? Show me where it’s written that