A Royal Engagement: The Storm Within\The Reluctant Queen (6 page)

Utter recklessness, she told herself, shifting a little in her chair. Of course she didn't want that.

Bruno grunted when he made to clear away her plate. ‘Not finished?'

‘Thank you, it was lovely. I'm not really that hungry.' She smiled up at him, wondering if he ever smiled. ‘Does Bruno do the cooking too?' she asked as he disappeared with their plates, looking for a safer topic to discuss.

‘Of course not.' Alessandro almost snapped the words,
seemed to think twice and made another effort. ‘Of course I have a cook.'

‘Oh, I think I saw her. A pretty dark-haired girl?'

‘You saw her?'

‘I happened to see the boat come in earlier today. She was on it. I thought she must work at the castle.'

A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘My cook is named Pietro. There are no women who work at the castle.'

‘Oh.'

He didn't volunteer who the woman was and she wasn't about to ask. Maybe she should have picked another topic. An antique mantel clock rang out the hour and then fell silent again. She studied her hands, busy tying themselves into knots in her lap, while outside the rain continued to come down. It would clear tomorrow, she reassured herself, just like it had cleared today.

Right now the boat couldn't come soon enough.

Somehow, stiffly, they made it through the rest of the courses, and Grace was never more grateful than when coffee was served. Conversation had been stilted and terse and limited to little more than the likes of, ‘How is your duck?' and, ‘Lovely, thank you.'

It had been an ordeal rather than a meal. She knew he was angry with her, but what she couldn't work out was why. He'd been the one to make her feel unwelcome from the start. He'd been the one who'd insisted she leave as soon as she was finished. And now he was acting as if she was cutting and running. And now he was the one who glowered at her with those dark eyes until she shivered with the intensity of it all.

What was his problem?

‘It's late,' she said. ‘I should get my things packed.'

‘Of course,' he said, standing as she rose. ‘You will forgive me, Dr Hunter, if I do not see you off in the morning. Bruno will collect your things and take you to the boat.'

Something lurched inside her—something beyond the un
expected hurt of him dropping the Grace and resuming use of her title. So this would be the last time she'd see him? How strange that felt, when she'd been expecting relief.

‘Thank you, Count Volta. Both for your hospitality and for returning the lost pages of the
Salus Totus
to the world. I will be sure to accord your contribution due recognition in my report.'

He gave a slight bow, formal and brief. ‘Goodnight, Dr Hunter.'

She was halfway to the door when he called her, and she turned uncertainly, unable to prevent or understand the tiny bubble of hope that came with his call. ‘Yes?'

‘Take the dress when you go,' he said. ‘I have no use for it.'

She knew she shouldn't be disappointed. He'd made it clear he was angry with her. But she would take the dress. She doubted she would ever have cause to wear it, but she would treasure it for ever. ‘Thank you. I meant to ask—wherever did it come from?'

His eyes looked back at her, bleak and soulless. ‘It was my fiancée's.'

 

She was leaving. He sat at the empty table, a hint of her perfume the only remaining trace of her.

She was leaving.

Somehow he'd made it through the dinner, forcing food into a body already shutting down.

She was leaving. And, beyond locking her in a turret room or throwing her into the caves below the castle, he had no choice but to let her go.

He'd always intended to let her go.

She did not belong here.

She did not belong to him.

But, God, he had not planned on losing her so soon.

The blackness was there, lurking in the fringes of his mind, bubbling away like boiling mud and fouling the air with stink
ing gases. It was there and mocking him for letting her go, ready to claim him again. He'd thought there was a chance of…

He searched helplessly to latch onto what he was looking for. He didn't know.

Only that he had come to recognise she offered a chance of something—a chance to reclaim what he'd once had, a chance to reconnect to a world of light instead of dark. He wanted to at least taste that light.

And after a decade of burying himself away in the dark he'd seen that light in her expression and lusted after it for himself.

Just a taste.

Was that too much to ask?

Clearly too much. And so he'd pulled back before she could further cut him loose. He'd withdrawn into his dark state to preserve what little of himself there was left.

He'd hurt her in the process.

He'd seen her stricken face when he'd told her about the dress. He'd sensed the trembling under her pale skin before she'd fled in a flurry of blue silk on a wavering goodnight.

Why had he told her that?

Payback? Because she'd teased him with the taste of something he'd long given up on, only to deprive him of it when he'd been lured under her spell? Because she'd reminded him of his failure with the village woman he'd sent packing because he wanted her instead?

Or maybe just because he'd finally become that monster he'd always been made out to be?

Because that dress had been made to be worn, and even if Adele had ever deigned to select it from her extensive wardrobe it would never have looked half as good as it had tonight on Dr Grace Hunter.

Why hadn't he told her that instead?

He knew why.

Because she was leaving tomorrow.

S
HE
should have thought to bring something to wrap around herself. She was almost frozen by the time she returned to her room. And it wasn't just the storm outside and the wind that wailed a mournful song outside that turned her skin to goosebumps. It was the dreadfulness of dinner and the anticlimax of it all. She was chilled from the inside out.

She was leaving tomorrow. She should feel relieved.

And yet instead she felt this massive let-down.

Hormones, she told herself, or the sudden lack of them. The post-adrenaline rush. Nothing more scientific than that. But still…

She unzipped the dress and let it slide from her body, letting it pool on the floor at her feet.

His fiancée's dress.

She shivered anew. God, what that had done to her. A dress chosen by the woman he had loved. The woman who had died that night along with so many others all those years long ago. Why had he wanted her to wear it?

She collapsed onto the bed and buried her face in her hands while the wind outside howled her distress.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. It was okay. She was leaving in the morning. Everything would be fine in the morning.

Like an automaton she packed her belongings to the sounds of a storm that mirrored her mood perfectly—every clap of
thunder cheered, every burst of rain celebrated. The packing took nowhere near long enough for the storm. Her tools she'd already cleaned and packed. The pages were secure in acid-free packaging, padded to protect them from bumps during transit. There was nothing for it but to sleep and pray the storm had blown itself out by morning.

And the dress? She left it on a hanger in the dressing room before she slipped between the covers and settled her head into the pillows. It was a beautiful gown, there was no doubt—more exotic, more expensive than anything she had ever seen before or could ever afford—and she'd felt a million dollars inside its silken drapes. But it wasn't hers.

It would never be truly hers.

 

It was dark when she awoke, disorientated and confused after another fitful sleep and wondering again what had roused her. At first she thought it must be just that the wind had dropped and the rain had ceased, the lull leaving everything suddenly almost unnaturally quiet.

Until she heard it. The sound wound almost hauntingly through the night air until it was carried away with the next gust of wind.

She sat up. Definitely notes from a piano. Maybe she hadn't imagined it last night after all.

Between gusts of wind she caught more snatches, the notes melancholy and slightly off-beat, increasing in parts. Bewitching.

She snapped on her light, relieved the power was still on, saw that it was two in the morning and listened, wondering where it was coming from. The music had moved to a more comforting melody, undulating and lyrical, soft and warm, except there were gaps and she hated that she kept missing bits—hated that they were carried away on the wind. Then rain splattered against her windows, drowning out the sound entirely.

Intrigued, she slid from between the covers, drawing on her robe. If she opened her door just a little she might hear more over the weather.

The door snicked open and light spilled into the shadow-filled passageway. She listened. It was coming from somewhere downstairs. The rain intensified, thunder rumbled overhead and the poignant notes were lost again. She took a step towards the stairs, and then another, barefoot and silent in the darkened hallway.

She reached the top of the stairs and peered down into the inky depths. The music was hauntingly beautiful and yet so utterly, utterly wretched. And she felt compelled to hear more.

She looked around the darkened empty hall, nervous and excited at the same time. Nobody would see her, and if they did surely there was no crime in listening? Still, she took the steps gingerly, the haunting notes luring her further and further down. It was coming from the ballroom that, from the impression she'd gained in her brief time here, seemed to take up one half of the massive frontage of the castle.

With no light to guide her, with the music leading her feet, she silently descended the stairway, hesitating on that final step as the rich emotion of the piece washed over her. It was building now, in time with the storm outside, a rising of passion that left her gasping at its intensity. She took one tentative step closer to the wide French doors leading into the ballroom, and then another, until she could see inside.

She didn't need light to know it was him. Even through the night-filled room, even across the yawning space between them, there was no mistaking the dark shadow at the piano, no mistaking it was pain he was feeling as he poured himself into the piece. She felt it too—felt that pain, felt that loss and his constant struggle.

And she fought with herself as she felt her own heart go out to this man. He had clearly lost so much.

He could be cruel, she reminded herself, remembering the
dress and the cold way he'd told her it was his fiancée's. He was autocratic. Imperious. Cold.

He'd wanted her gone and then he'd frozen her out when she'd told him she would be.

And that was after he'd practically forced himself upon her.

Except that he hadn't…

He'd kissed her and she'd responded in the only way she'd been able—by responding in kind, by kissing him back. Because, so help her, she'd wanted him then and it hadn't even occurred to her to stop him. And she wouldn't have if it hadn't been for that paper. She would have opened her legs and welcomed him.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, aching in that hollow space between her thighs. How could she judge him?

The notes rang out, fighting the storm raging outside for supremacy, frenetic as the passion burst into a climax of such frenzied intensity that tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. A flash of lightning lit the room and displayed him in all his tragic beauty, his pain and torment clear in every stark feature and the scarred plane of his cheek.

The room went dark as the music crashed so suddenly down to earth that she held her breath and nearly turned and ran lest he discover her there, watching him.

Except that before her feet would move the notes resumed, almost from nowhere, soft and melodic. She recognised the earlier tune, only sweeter this time, and more poignant if that were possible. The notes tumbled like a stream, light and magical and so evocative that tears spilled down her cheeks.

She watched him as much as the storm-ridden night allowed as he coaxed honeyed sweetness from the instrument so that it almost bent to his will, compliant as a new lover willing to please—until he changed direction and willed it to insanity once again, urging it higher and wilder until the
notes meshed one final time with the storm outside, only to collapse and shudder to a dramatic conclusion.

She heard the piano lid bang closed. She heard breathing, loud and close, and froze, panicked, only to realise it was her own ragged breaths she was hearing. She cursed herself for the time she had lost in making her escape.

She'd wheeled around, trying to make sense of the dark shadows before her, when light flooded the room—a chandelier of one thousand tiny globes above turning night to day.

‘Was there something you wanted, Dr Hunter?'

Adrenaline flushed through her veins. Her heart pounded frantically in her chest as she surveyed the stairs. Escape was right there, brilliantly and starkly illuminated, and yet her feet remained frozen to the floor. She dragged in air and pulled her robe tighter around her before she was game to turn around, trembling with panic and guilt at being caught out, knowing he would not welcome her intrusion.

‘I heard music, Count Volta. I was curious.'

He was standing near the doorway, wearing the same suit he'd worn at their disastrous dinner, as formal and regal as ever, though his eyes seemed darker and even more tortured if that were possible. ‘I hope I did not disturb your sleep.'

No more than usual.
‘No. Really, I was…' She swiped at a wayward tear on her cheek. ‘I was just getting up for a glass of—' His dark eyes narrowed and she forgot what she had been going to say as he came closer, his eyes missing nothing as he took in the robe and the tightly cinched belt.

‘But you have been crying.'

‘The music,' she said. ‘It was so beautiful. I'm sorry. I'll…'

But he was already wiping away the moisture with the pad of his thumb—so tenderly, so at odds with the dark, tortured eyes that raked her face, that more tears squeezed free. There was a tightness to his features. His face was set almost like a mask. It was a tightness that spoke of anger and resentment and some barely controlled agony.

A tightness that frightened her and yet excited her on some primeval level, just as his touch set her skin alight. ‘It is late,' he said tightly, his fingers resting lightly on her cheek. ‘You should be in bed if you are leaving tomorrow.'

‘I'll go now,' she whispered, wondering if he might stop her. Half wanting him to.

‘I'll see you to your room.'

‘I'll be fine.' She had to get away. She couldn't stand the tension of having him walk alongside her, wondering all the way, back to her room. She couldn't stand the disappointment if he merely left her at the door and walked away. ‘I know the way.'

She turned back, her feet programmed now to flee, only for the storm to unleash one more act of savagery. The boom crashed overhead and reverberated through the floor and walls. For a split second the room was still lit with the light from the chandelier, only to plunge the next instant into blackness so thick it was like a wall.

Panicked, she plunged into it, only to trip against the first step—would have fallen if he hadn't been there first to gather her into his arms.

Air was knocked from her lungs, and when she breathed again the air came full of the heady scent of him. His arms were like iron bars around her, powerful and strong, as slowly he righted her until her feet touched the ground. Her knees buckled and his arms tightened, pulling her against the hard wall of his chest.

She heard his ragged breathing, she could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest, and she didn't need light to tell her he was looking at her. She knew by the intoxicating fan of his breath against her face and by the sheer intensity of his stillness. She knew by the sudden fullness of her breasts and the aching tightness of her nipples.

‘You are leaving tomorrow,' he said, sounding almost as if he was reminding himself, trying to convince himself.

‘Yes.' Her word was no more than a whispered breath, and she sensed rather than saw the shake of his head.

‘You should not have come downstairs.' His voice was choked and thick, and a shudder rippled deep and evocative through her. ‘You should not have come.'

His words were warm and rich and scented with the unmistakable essence of him and she drank him in, tasting him. ‘I had no choice,' she admitted, her lips hungry and searching the darkness. ‘You gave me no choice.'

He made a sound, strangled and thick, as her drew her closer, her head cradled in his hands. ‘I am giving you a choice now. Tell me, before I give way to the monster inside me and decide for you, what do you want?'

Her heart lurched. Her senses lurched. His hands were hot on her face and in her hair as he waited for her answer. Her skin was alive with the touch of him, her body alight with need, and right now there was only one answer. Lust, she told herself, feeling herself falling further from reality and the safe world she had always known, the safe person she had always been. But she was leaving in the morning. Was one stolen night too much to ask?

And she put her hands over his, lacing their fingers together. ‘I want you.'

Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. And the room was suddenly so bright she was surprised she couldn't see her need splashed right across the ceiling.

But she could see him. Saw the flames flare in his eyes as his mouth crashed down on hers. And she knew she was lost. His kiss was wrenching at her very soul just like the music had done, reaching inside her to unleash emotions she'd never known existed. His mouth was setting her alight, his touch sending her skin aflame.

And then, still kissing her, she was in his arms as he mounted the stairs two at a time, with a speed that she would
normally consider reckless but which now felt strangely necessary. Because she wanted him. Burned for him.

She didn't know where he was taking her in the dark. She didn't care whose bed it was he laid her down upon. She only cared that soon he would soon quench this aching need. This burning desire.

Her fingers scrabbled with his jacket, protesting at the barrier, and without leaving her mouth he ripped it off and let it fall to the floor. He tugged loose her robe while her hands clawed at his shoulders, wanting him back, wanting to feel him against her. She forgave him when she felt his palms sliding from her thighs to her breasts, drawing her nightgown upwards with it. She lifted her head to let it go while his fingers trailed back down her body.

‘Beautiful,' he growled, leaning over her, rolling one tight nipple under his thumb and making her back arch into the bed. ‘Do you know how much I want you?'

‘Please,' she implored, desperate now. Nobody had ever called her beautiful. Nobody had ever told her they wanted her. And now his words fuelled a body already screaming for release. Her hands were at his waist and then below, until she gasped into his mouth as she discovered exactly how much he wanted her, her fingers marvelling, tracing his rigid length.

He groaned like an animal in distress and grabbed the offending wrist, pinning it to the bed while he freed himself with the other and ripped open protection with his teeth.
Surely now!

But still she had to wait. ‘Please!' she cried when his hand peeled away her panties, his fingers slipping between her folds and brushing that tiny nub that seemed the repository of every nerve-ending she'd ever possessed while his mouth suckled one peaked breast.