A Royal Engagement: The Storm Within\The Reluctant Queen (4 page)

He wanted to find out.

He burned to find out.

What was wrong with him? She was a scientist, with scraped-back hair and a passion for ancient relics, and he was lusting after her? Damn! What on earth had possessed him to let her stay?

Alessandro threw himself into his chair and then spun straight out of it, reaching for his phone. God, he didn't need this!

Bruno answered on the second ring.

‘Fetch the woman from the village,' he growled.

There was hesitation at the end of the phone and he could almost hear Bruno's mind working out that it was not quite a month since her last visit. But instead he said, ‘The boat will not come with the storm brewing.'

‘Offer them double,' he ordered, and hung up.

Five minutes later Bruno called back. ‘The captain says it's too rough. He will bring her tomorrow.'

‘I don't want her tomorrow!' This time he slammed the phone down, turning his gaze out through the windows to where the waves were wearing white caps from which the wind whipped spray metres into the air. And then rain lashed the windows until they were running like a river and the sea beyond blurred to grey.

Curse the damned weather! How dared it confound him when he needed a woman?

But there was already a woman on the island.

He wheeled away, trying hard to lose that thought. He could see her even now, poring over her precious pages as if they were the Holy Grail. In that moment he'd seen inside her. He'd seen beyond the scientist who made out she had no desires. He'd seen the woman beneath—a woman born for passion.

And she was waiting for you to kiss her.

He strode down the passageway, raking hands through his hair, not knowing where he was going, refusing to give credence to the sly voice in his head that refused to shut up.

She baited you.

She didn't know what she was asking.

She wants you.

No. No. And
no
! She did not want him. She was a fool. She had no idea.

But you want her…

He found himself outside her room, the sliver of light under the door telling him she was still working, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Would she welcome his visit?

Would she welcome being spread over that wide desk, scattering her precious papers, while he buried himself in her depths? Would her eyes light up for him the way they had in the cave? Would her entire body shimmer with desire and explode with light?

Blood pounded in his ears. His fingers were on the doorknob.

Or would she close her eyes and turn away?

He could not bear it if she turned away…

Blackness, thick and viscous, oozed up from the depths. His fingers screwed into a ball as he forced it down.

Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she was different. She didn't shy away from him. She didn't recoil in horror. She treated him as if he was almost normal—as if his scars didn't exist.

But you're not normal
, the dark voices said.
You can never be normal again.

The blackness welled up like a rolling wave. What had he been thinking? Why was he doing this to himself?

He should have made her leave when he'd had the chance!

He pushed away from the door, forced his feet to walk, but he'd gone no more than a few paces when he heard the door open behind him.

‘Count Volta?'

He dragged in air, turned and nodded stiffly. ‘Dr Hunter.'

She had a hand on her chest, as if she'd been frightened of who or what she might find in the passageway. ‘I was just about to go to bed. I thought I heard a noise. Did you want something?'

God, yes.

‘No. I'm sorry if I disturbed you.' He didn't want to think about Dr Hunter and bed. And then, because he should be interested, ‘How does your investigation progress?'

Her eyes lit up that way they did until he would swear they almost shimmered with excitement. ‘The pages are wonderful. Do you want to have a look before I put them away?'

On that same desk, when all he wanted was to spread her limbs and plunge into her slick depths and feel her incandescent exhilaration explode around him?

‘No!' he said, so forcefully that she took a small step backwards and he had to suck in air to regain his composure. ‘Maybe tomorrow,' he added more gently. ‘It's getting late. Goodnight, Dr Hunter. Sleep well.'

He wouldn't sleep, he knew, as he descended the wide stairs leading to the ground floor. Not now, not after seeing her again. Instead he would read in the library and listen to the storm continue to build outside. He would take comfort in the savagery of the elements and the pounding violence of the sea. He would be at one with its endless torment.

And perhaps in the morning he might have Bruno fetch the woman from the village after all. God knew, books weren't going to cut it tonight. He would need something.

In the gloom of light he passed the doorway to the ballroom, a flash of lightning illuminating the empty space. Empty but for the grand piano sitting bereft in the far corner of the room.

He paused and gazed at the imprint the lightning had left behind and felt a pang for something long gone. Across the marble tiles, under the rumble of thunder, he approached the instrument like a one-time friend whose friendship had been soured by time. Cautiously. Mistrustfully.

Once he'd known her intimately. Known her highs and her lows and how to wring every piece of emotion from her.
She'd been a thing of beauty when the world had been all about beauty.

Before life had soured and turned ugly.

Yet still she sat there, black and sleek, totally shameless. And even now she beckoned, luring him like the memories of a mistress he hadn't quite finished with before they'd parted company.

And what surprised him more than anything was that he was tempted. He lifted the lid, ran his fingers along the keys, hit a solitary note that rang out in the empty ballroom and felt something twist inside him.

He could have put the lid down then. He could have walked away. But the way his fingers rested on the keys, familiar yet foreign, wouldn't let him go. Outside the waves crashed; the thunder boomed until the windows rattled. Inside his fingers reacquainted themselves with the cool ivory. He let them find their own way. He let them remember. Let them give voice to his damaged heart.

 

She woke with a start, her breath coming fast, her heart thumping, not knowing what had woken her, just grateful to escape from her dreams. She reached over to snap on her bedside light but the switch just clicked uselessly from side to side. Great. The storm must have taken out the power again.

The wind howled past the windows, searching for a way in. The sea boomed below, the waves pounding at the very foundations of the island.

What had woken her? Maybe it had been nothing. Certainly nothing she could do anything about now. She settled back down, willing her breathing to calm, not sure if she wanted to head straight back into the heated confusion of her dreams. She ran her hands thought her hair. No way did she want to go back there.

Often when she was working on a piece she would dream of her work, her mind busy even in sleep, imagining the art
ists and scribes who had produced whatever artefact she was studying. Often her mind would work at solving the puzzles of who and what and why, even when those answers had been lost in time.

But not tonight. Tonight her dreams had been full of one man. A scarred count. Menacing and intense. Unwelcoming to the point of rudeness and beyond, and yet at the same time strangely magnetic. Strangely compelling.

He'd been watching her in her dream, she remembered with a shudder. Not just looking at her—she knew the difference—but
watching
her, his black-as-night eyes wild and filled with dark desires and untold heat. And even now she could remember the feel of that penetrating gaze caress her skin like the sizzling touch of a lover's hand. Even now her skin goose-bumped and her breasts firmed and her nipples strained to peaks.

She shook her head, trying to clear the pictures from her mind; she punched her pillow as if that was the culprit, putting them there when she knew it probably had more to do with the storm. The lightning and thunder were messing with her brainwaves, she told herself. All that electrical energy was messing with the connections in her mind. It was madness to consider any other option. Madness.

She didn't even like the man!

She was just snuggling back down into the pillow-soft comfort of her bed, determined to think about the pages and the translations she would commence, when she heard it—what sounded like a solitary note ringing out into the night. But the sound was whisked away by the howling wind before she could get make sense of it.

She'd almost forgotten about it when there came another, hanging mournful and lonely in the cold night air. She blinked in the inky darkness, her ears straining for sounds that had no place in the storm.

And then, in a brief lull in the wind, she heard what
sounded like a chord this time, an achingly beautiful series of notes that seemed to echo the pain of the raging storm. Curious, she stretched out one hand, reaching for her watch, groping for the button to illuminate the display and groaning when she saw what time it was. Three-forty-five.

She had to be imagining things. Lightning flashed outside, turning her room to bright daylight for a moment before it plunged back into darkness. A boom of thunder followed, shaking the floor and windows and sending a burst of rain pelting against the windows.

She pulled back her arm and buried herself deeper under the thick eiderdown. She had to be dreaming. That or she really was going mad.

M
ORNING
brought surprisingly clear skies with little trace of the storm that had threatened to rend the night apart. Grace blinked as she drew open the curtains and gazed out over the view. Every surface sparkled with its recent wash, the sapphire sea calm now but for a breeze playfully tickling at its surface. Not a cloud in the sky as far as she could see. She looked up and promptly revised her weather report. Not a cloud in the sky—except for the wispy white one hovering over the castle. She smiled, feeling brighter despite the night-time's interruptions. Like the tunnels underneath the castle, it would almost be disappointing if the cloud weren't there.

She wasn't left to wonder about the arrangements for breakfast. True to the Count's prediction, Grace had no sooner bathed and dressed than Bruno appeared with a breakfast tray. She didn't mind if she was being snubbed by being made to take her meals alone; the arrangement suited her. Less chance of running into anyone, she figured. At least less chance of running into the Count. She wasn't sure she was ready for another encounter so soon after last night's discomfiting dreams.

And even though she had some questions about the pages, like how he thought they might have come to be in the caves below the castle and who might have left them there, they could wait until he came looking for her. He was sure to come and check how long she thought she would be here.

She was back in her makeshift office across the hall before eight. She'd photographed each of the pages yesterday, taking her time to get detailed photographs of every page and then more detailed shots of the cut edges where they'd been sliced from the book.

The rest of the day she'd spent making meticulous notes on the condition of each of the pages. For something reputed to be upwards of six hundred years old, they were remarkably well preserved, a fact that at first had her doubting they could possibly be authentic and wondering if they were nothing more than a clever forgery. After all, nobody really knew what had been in the missing pages, only that the book and its prayers had been famous for their healing words.

And yet the more she'd examined the pages, the more she'd been convinced they were the genuine article. It couldn't be confirmed until samples were matched with what little remained of the
Salus Totus
, but she almost didn't need that confirmation right now to be sure. And the longer she examined the pages, the more certain she was that this had the potential to be the very biggest discovery of the twenty-first century.

And she was at the heart of it.

Her heart raced with the potential. People worked thankless long decades in this industry, re-examining texts already long known, searching for an angle, a point of difference with which to elevate their careers out of obscurity. Seldom did people have an opportunity like this, the chance to examine a new discovery practically thrust upon them.

It was really happening.

And now, because the pages were in such amazingly good condition and she didn't have to spend time stabilising what was left, she could get to work on the translation. Some time this morning the power had been restored and gratefully she snapped on the lamps she'd arranged around the desk.

She'd recognised just an odd word or two as she'd per
formed yesterday's tasks and it had been tempting to stop and decipher more. Now she had the luxury of time to study them more closely. So it was with a heart bursting with possibilities that she retrieved the package from the box in which she'd stored it and gently placed the first page in front of her.

It was hours later before she happened to glance at her watch. Excited about her work so far, she knew she had to move, so she stood and did a few stretches before heading to her room across the hall and the jug of water she had left there.

She poured herself a glass and took a long drink, gazing out of the window, musing over the pages, before her eyes caught on a movement below the castle. A boat was nearing the dock—it looked like the same boat that had brought her over yesterday, although she'd got the impression from the way the men spoke that the provisions runs happened no more than once or twice a week. She glanced down and saw Bruno standing ready to meet it. Curious, she waited for it to dock, wondering what they were bringing this time.

Make that who, she amended, as a raven-haired woman was handed by a smiling skipper to the shore. A striking woman too, in a peasant top and skirt that showed off a tiny waist and generous curves. With a laugh and a wave to the skipper, she pulled a scarf around her shoulders and climbed into the Jeep alongside Bruno. Grace lost sight of them as they started up the cliff track.

Who was she? Grace had got the impression visitors weren't exactly welcome here. She shrugged and drained the rest of the glass. Maybe someone who worked at the castle. And with any luck a cook, given how hungry she suddenly felt.

Barely ten minutes later she was back at work when Bruno appeared, a very welcome tray in his hands. Whatever was on it, it smelled wonderful. She smiled and thanked him as he put it down on a table set a safe distance away from the
desk and her work, even though she knew her words wouldn't make a dent in his grizzled visage.

‘You're busy today,' she said. He merely grunted in response, peering at her from under tangled brows that looked like something that had been washed up in a storm. ‘I saw you down at the dock. Who's the woman? Does she work here?'

He threw her a dark look. ‘The woman is not your concern.'

‘No, of course not. I just thought it might be nice to say hello—'

‘Forget the woman!' he said, marching back to the door. ‘She is not here for your benefit.'

The door closed behind him with a bang. Okay, maybe his message was none too subtle, but he was right. She should just get on with the job. At least then she could finish up here and leave. God knew, the prospect was tempting.

 

She was waiting for him.
He let himself into the darkened room, the ache in his loins more insistent than ever after a night spent torturing himself thinking about that damned Dr Hunter. He refused to let himself think of her as anything else. He needed to think of her as a cold-blooded scientist and not as a woman.

Which made no sense when all he had wanted last night was have that woman bucking beneath him.

Why was she doing this to him? And how?

He dragged in air. Damn her. He was hard as a rock, his loins aching with need and another woman waiting naked in bed for him. Why was he even thinking about her?

He growled and approached the bed, shucking off his robe and tossing it to the floor, already half dizzy with the heady anticipation of release. His erection rocked free, heavy and hard. He steadied it with one hand to don protection and felt his searing, throbbing heat against his palm.
Dio
, he needed this.

He pulled back the covers and stared down at her in the
dim light. She was smiling knowingly, even though her eyes were dreamily closed, her head tipped back as if she was already in ecstasy, her hands busy at her breasts, tugging at her nipples, making them hard for him. Usually he'd spend some time with those breasts, but today his need was too great.

‘Open your legs,' he commanded, and if she wondered at his brusque manner she didn't show it in the way she acquiesced without a murmur. And why shouldn't she do what he asked she when she was going home with the equivalent of a month's wages in her pocket? She'd do anything he asked and more.

He gazed down at her, took in the glossy hair splayed over the pillow, her olive skin with its satin-like sheen in the half-light, her breasts plump and peaked. He was rock-hard and wanting and he wondered why the hell he was hesitating and not already inside her.

Until he realised that there was somewhere else he'd rather be.

With a cry of frustration he snapped on the light. ‘Get dressed,' he ordered. ‘Bruno will take you to the boat.'

‘Did I do something wro—?'

He was reaching for his robe and tugging it on, but not before she'd opened her eyes to plead, no doubt worried she would not be paid. He caught the exact moment of change, when her eyes moved from protest to revulsion, and she pulled the covers back over herself as if to protect herself from his hideousness.

With a roar he ripped the covers straight back off. ‘Just go!'

 

He could wallow in them if he wanted. He could let those black waves rise up and swallow him whole, sucking him back to that dark time and those dark nights when there was no respite, no relief.

Or he could deal with the problem, get rid of the source
of his aggravation, and be able to breathe in his own space again.

He would not be sucked back.

He would deal with the problem.

Because everything had been fine until
she
had come along. She would just have to leave.

Now.

He headed to her office to tell her exactly that. After all, it wasn't as if the pages were in terrible condition and too fragile to be shifted. They looked fine as far as he was concerned. And besides, the longer she was here, the more chance someone would talk, someone would stumble on the news of the discovery, and the sharks and parasites of the media world would descend
en masse.
The story could break somewhere else—anywhere else; he didn't care—and then the media attention would be someone else's problem.

So he would tell her. And then she would go.

Nothing could be simpler.

The door to her office was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, still rehearsing his speech. It wouldn't be a long one.
Pack your things and be ready for the next boat
, was about the size of it. Still, knowing Dr Hunter and how she liked an argument, he was mentally preparing for a fight.

He was also preparing himself to win.

She was sitting at the desk, so intent on one of the pages she was studying and on the notes she was typing in the notebook computer alongside that she didn't hear him enter. She looked younger today, even with the frown puckering her brow, or maybe she just looked fresher. She'd dispensed with the ponytail and instead had twisted her hair behind her head so the blonde tips feathered out, and she'd swapped the khaki shirt for a white tank with straps so thin he wondered how they covered her bra straps.

Assuming she was wearing one…

Breath whooshed from his lungs. His blood rushed south.
She muttered something, still oblivious to his presence, and jumped out of her chair, wheeling around to the briefcase on the credenza beside her, rummaging through its contents. It would be rude to interrupt now, he thought, when she was so intensely involved in her work. Besides, the view from the back was no hardship to endure either. A well-worn denim skirt lovingly hugged her bottom and made his hands itch to do the same. But it was the length of the skirt he approved of most, or rather the lack of it, showcasing the surprisingly long legs beneath.

He sucked in air, desperate to replace what he had lost. She was nothing like the woman from the village. That woman was olive-skinned and dark-eyed, lush with curves and sultry good-looks. Whereas this one was blonde and petite, blue-eyed and more than slightly bookish. It made no sense.

Except for one more difference that made all the sense in the world.

This woman he wanted.

She pulled something from the briefcase then, a sheaf of papers, and looked up, blinking warily when she saw him standing in the doorway. ‘Count Volta. I wasn't expecting you.'

He nodded. ‘Dr Hunter,' he acknowledged, moving closer, searching his mind, certain that he'd been intending to say something but knowing only that he needed to get closer—maybe then it would come to him. And maybe he might even find an answer to his earlier question. But before he could latch onto his reason for coming, or work out whether there were telltale lines under her singlet after all, her face broke into one of those electric smiles. He felt the charge all the way to his toes, felt the jolt in his aching length.

‘You picked the best time to drop by. Come and see.'

‘What is it?'

‘I translated the first of the pages. It's a prayer, a midnight
prayer, beseeching the coming of dawn and an end to the darkness of night.'

He looked at the page and then at the translation she had up on her screen. ‘And that's important because…?'

‘Don't you see? The
Salus Totus
was revered—no, more than that, almost worshipped in its own right—as a book of healing. But little of the book remains to explain why. Remnants talk of eating and drinking in moderation, of taking fresh air, and while that is good advice, scholars have always felt there must have been more to warrant such a reputation for miracle cures and saved lives. Speculation has existed for centuries as to what might be in the missing pages and why they were removed.'

He didn't understand what she was getting at. He couldn't honestly say he cared. But her face was so animated with whatever she'd discovered that he could not help but join in the game. He shrugged. ‘Because the pages offended someone they had to be destroyed?'

She shook her head. ‘That's the most common theory, I agree, but I don't think it's right. Not now. I think they were sliced from the book not to destroy them but to save them.'

‘Why?'

‘Because they're secular. They're prayers of life and living that talk about the earth as mother of all. Nothing offensive to us now, in these times, but for all their gentle truths and wisdom they would have been seen as blasphemy then. The only reason we have what remains of the
Salus Totus
is because these pages were removed from inside its covers. With them gone there was no risk of offending anyone and the book could live on in more than memories. If they had stayed, the
Salus Totus
would surely have been thrown into the fires. So you see, by removing them from the book someone was trying to preserve them. Someone was trying to ensure their survival.'