A Royal Engagement: The Storm Within\The Reluctant Queen (5 page)

Colour was high in her cheeks. Her blue eyes were so
bright they had a luminous quality. He didn't know anything about ancient texts or book-burning, but he knew
he
was burning and if he didn't do something soon he would self-combust. His hand found its way to her shoulder, scooped around to her nape, his fingers threading into the upward sweep of her hair. She blinked up at him, questions in her clear eyes to which he had no answers.

Except that he wanted her.

S
HE
trembled slightly as he dipped his mouth and brought her close, but it was not fear he sensed under his hand but an answering tremor of need. And then his lips touched hers and she sighed into his mouth. It was all he could do not to crush her to him. It was all he could do to remember to breathe. And when he did it was filled with the tantalising fresh perfume of her set amidst the coiling scent of desire.

He drew her closer, her lips soft under his own, pliant, her body close enough that they touched, chest to chest, her nipples hard against him.
No bra
, he registered with that small part of his brain still functioning, aching to fill his hands with her sweetness. Aching to fill her. Aching…

His hand cupped her behind, angling her back towards the desk, deepening the kiss as he lifted her.

She should not be doing this. She should have told him no. She had felt his warm hand slide around her neck, seen his mouth descend and known she should stop him.

Except she hadn't.

Just one taste, she'd foolishly thought, before she'd insist they stop. One taste of a man who could turn her inside out with just one heated glance. One taste of a man who made her feel more acutely aware of her gender and her innate femininity than she'd ever felt before.

And now, with his lips on hers, coaxing, bewitching, one
taste wasn't enough. One taste led to a hunger for more. He was addictive. Compelling. Impossible to deny.

Her body was his accomplice. Her skin rejoiced at his touch. Her mouth revelled in his mastery and his mystery.

Even when his hand slid to her behind, squeezed her and caused every muscle inside her to contract and then bloom, even when she felt a moment of panic and knew this was dangerous and foolhardy and reckless and so many of those things she had never been, she could not stop herself. For whatever he was awakening in her, whatever madness he was unleashing, she wanted more.

She gasped into his mouth and found no respite, for he claimed her lips in a savage kiss that fuelled her desires and quenched her now wafer-thin resistance. And, whatever he was doing, she knew it was well worth the price. For his kiss was a drug, pulling at her sensibilities, his touch on her flesh a sizzling brand.

Divorced from reality, she was his for the taking—almost. For when she felt his hands beneath her, lifting her, when she felt herself settled somewhere he could so deliciously insinuate his legs between hers, there came the tiniest glimmer of doubt—almost as if she'd lost hold of something she should remember in the firestorm of their mutual desire.

But no rational thought could find a way through this forbidden haze of primal need, and she gave herself up to the wanton pleasure of his hot mouth at her breast.

Until she reached back to steady herself against his pressing weight and felt her hand brush something aside—something featherlight that fluttered from the table.

She wrenched her mouth away from his, turned her head to see the centuries-old page flutter to the floor. With a mighty shove born of panic she pushed him away. ‘What the hell are you thinking?'

The words were directed as much as to herself as to him. She was madder with herself, because she should have known
better. What a fool! She swiped a glove from the box on her desk, pulling it on as she knelt down. If her actions had compromised the page's condition she might as well give up her job now. She would never forgive herself. Maybe she should give it up anyway, given she'd so easily disregarded her first responsibility. A paper that had survived for centuries only to be destroyed by a thoughtless couple behaving on top of it like hormone-driven teenagers—and one of them the person charged with ensuring its preservation. That would look good in her report. If she wanted to make a name for herself in this industry, a name nobody would ever forget, there would be no faster or surer way.

What the hell had she been thinking?

That was an easy one. Clearly she hadn't been thinking—not beyond her own carnal desires.

‘It looks fine.'

Maybe to him.
Nothing looked fine from her angle. Everything was off-kilter. Everything was wrong. She swiped sudden tears from her eyes, not sure if they stemmed from what had just so nearly happened on the desk or from relief that the page appeared to have survived its ordeal intact. But she was not about to risk dripping salty tears all over the page and add insult to injury. ‘Just go, will you?'

She slid a folio beneath the page, lifting it gently back to the desk, using the opportunity to take a few more steps and put the desk between them at the same time. She would have to check the page for materials and fibres picked up from the rug, but pulling out her tweezers and microscope would have to wait until the Count had gone and her hands had stopped shaking.

‘Dr Hunter…'

‘Haven't you done enough? I asked you to go.'

His jaw firmed, his eyes grew hard edged. ‘You're blaming me?'

‘I certainly didn't kiss
you
!'

‘No? I distinctly remember there were two of us there. And I sure as hell don't remember anyone complaining.'

She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering only too well her lack of resistance. ‘I think we both made a mistake. And now, if you don't mind, I have work to do.' She curled her hands into fists, willing the shaking to stop, trying to make sense of this unfamiliar recklessness and get her scientific self back together while he loomed there, her very own dark cloud.

‘Have dinner with me tonight.'

Her breath caught. Dinner—
and what else?
Why the sudden hospitality? Unless he was looking to finish what he'd started?

‘I'm not sure that's such a good idea.'

‘You have to eat.'

‘I'm very good at eating alone. Luckily, as it happens.'

‘If that's a dig at the way you've been treated here—'

‘Take it how you like. But I live alone. I'm good with it.'

He regarded her coolly from under hooded lids. ‘You're afraid.'

‘I'm not afraid of you. It's just that I don't see the point. Every time we're together we end up arguing or—'

His chin lifted, a spark glinted in his eyes. ‘You are afraid we will not argue?'

‘Should I be?'

‘I think whether or not we argue is something that is as much up to you as it is to me.'

And that was
exactly
what she was afraid of. One kiss and she'd forgotten who she even was. How could something as mechanical as the meeting of two mouths do that? She'd had lovers before, and neither of them had come close to making her feel anything like this man did. Okay, so maybe her first time had been more clinical than exciting, and borne of desperation that she would be the sole virgin in her university graduating class, and the second time had been grief sex with
a colleague after a child she'd nursed for days in the refugee hospital had died in her arms. It had been bitter and sweet and life-affirming and exactly what she'd needed at the time, but it had been nothing to rival the impact of even this man's kiss.

Dared she dine with him? If he kissed her again, how would she resist? And with what? She had no defences against such an onslaught. If she even wanted to stop it. She hadn't before, and if that paper hadn't fallen to the floor what would they be doing now? She shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't stop the images dancing in her mind's eye. Right there,
on the desk.

‘You can tell me more of your theories,' he prompted, clearly sensing her waver, ‘and perhaps I can share mine about why the pages might have ended up here under the castle.'

He had a theory? She looked up. She wanted to hear that. She just wasn't certain about the
you-show-me-yours-and-I'll-show-you-mine
subtext. ‘Or,' she countered, ‘you could just tell me now.'

‘But you have work to do, my dear Dr Hunter. And I have already disturbed you enough.'

True, but he would continue to disturb her whether or not he was here—now more than ever. ‘Look,' she said, shaking her head, knowing it would be crazy to expect they could dine together and pretend that kiss had never happened. She gestured down at her casual singlet and skirt. ‘I didn't expect to be entertained. I brought nothing—'

‘On the contrary,' he interjected, ‘you look charming. But if it pleases you I'm sure we can find you something you will be more comfortable in.'

She sighed, knowing she was fighting a losing battle. Of course he was sure to have an entire women's wardrobe at his disposal. Or maybe Bruno was also a fine seamstress. ‘Fine,' she said in resignation, just wanting more than ever to get back to her work. There was an outside chance she could
finish up the translations today, and if she did that, given the excellent condition of the pages, there was no reason why she couldn't leave early and finish the rest of her report elsewhere. She had contacts in any number of universities across Europe that had the right facilities and who would be delighted to play host to such a famous text. And he wanted her gone. Surely she could survive just one meal together? ‘Fine. In that case I'd be delighted to join you for dinner.'

His eyes glinted with victory. ‘It is a long time since I had the pleasure of a beautiful woman as my dinner companion.'

‘You don't have to resort to flattery, Count Volta. I have already said I'd come.'

‘Alessandro,' he said, with a nod and a smile at her acquiescence. ‘And I shall call you Grace. I think we can drop the formalities, don't you?' He bowed his head and finally headed for the door. ‘Until dinner, then.'

She nodded absently, turning back to her work, knowing she should be concentrating on that rather than replaying the sound of his name in her head.

Alessandro.

Oh, no. She didn't like that. She didn't want to give him a name. She didn't want to think of him as Alessandro. She preferred to think of him as the Count. It made him sound remote. A little unreal.

Whereas Alessandro made him sound almost human. It made him sound like a man.

And she didn't want to think of him as a man.

‘Oh, and Grace?'

She blinked and looked around. ‘Yes?'

‘That wasn't flattery.'

 

He had her.
He strode back to his office, knowing that tonight she would grace both his table and his bed. She was as good as his. And tonight, and for all the nights that she remained here, he would have her. Nothing surer.

He almost growled in anticipation. He didn't understand this need, this compulsion to have her. He hated strangers. And yet he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything before in his life.

Did it matter why?

Wasn't it enough to know that he wanted her and that she was his for the taking? And by the time she left he would have rid himself of whatever spell this was that she had cast over him—rid himself of this compulsion to bed her and to watch the sparks in her eyes, to feel the electricity inside her as she came apart around him.

He could hardly wait.

G
RACE
rubbed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, a bubble of excitement glowing pearlescent and pretty as her raw theory took shape and substance—a bubble only slightly tainted by a niggling concern that she had missed something.

She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Her supposition that the pages had been removed to protect them rather than to destroy them wasn't just a rash idea now; the pages she had translated since then only lent weight to her theory.

One page had been in praise of mothers and motherhood and the sacred mother-child bond. Another had been a celebration of spring and renewal in all things spiritual and physical. Another an endorsement of acting kindly to friends and strangers alike. All of them fabulous. All of them a revelation into thoughts based more on humanitarian principles rather than the dictates of any particular religion. That would have been crime enough to have them destroyed.

But it was the last page that gave the most credence to her theory.

It was probably the most spectacular of all the pages. The inks were fresh and clear, the colours almost leaping from the page, bold and beautiful. It was the message that disturbed her on some deep, uncomfortable level.

It warned of an affliction with no cure. An odd subject, Grace had thought, in a so-called book of healing, assuming it must contain a description of a disease beyond the range
of a physician's treatment. Cancer, or any number of things that would have been similarly incurable back then.

The affliction was random, the scribe warned, regardless of wealth or station. It was ruthless and devastating in its impact.

It must be something like cancer, she'd mused as she'd made notes before continuing. But, reading on, she'd realised she'd been wrong.

It made your chest thump and left you breathless and weak. It turned your mind to a porridge filled with poems and songs and other, darker, carnal longings. And should you fall you were doomed, and no god in heaven or on earth could save you. Yet if you succumbed you were the most blessed soul alive.

Love
, Grace had realised with a smile, working through the translation. Love was the scribe's fatal affliction, its victims both doomed and blessed. She'd heard plenty of modern ballads with similar themes. It never ceased to amaze her how some things transcended not only the generations but the centuries.

Still, something bothered her. She checked her notes, unable to dispel the glimmer of uneasiness. But there was nothing untoward that she could see, and anyway it was time to pack up and get dressed for dinner.

She gathered her things, sending up silent thanks to whoever it was who had removed the pages from the book for safekeeping all those centuries ago. Soon, if all went well and her findings were corroborated, the pages and the book would be reunited.

And tomorrow she could leave.
Her heart gave a little lurch she interpreted as relief. Already she felt better about dinner, more in control. The doctor was back in charge, her earlier recklessness put aside. Dinner would be fine, she told herself. She'd tell him what she'd found and ask him about why he thought the pages had ended up here. She'd tell him she was leaving and ask him to arrange transport. What could possibly happen when she was leaving tomorrow?

She returned to her bedroom. Gloomy light was filtering
into the room courtesy of the dark clouds hiding the sun. Wind rattled at the windows. Another rough night, she presumed, the scientist in her firmly back in control. There was nothing sinister about it. Stormy nights were just the way things were here.

But the weather faded to insignificance when she turned on the light and saw what was waiting for her on the bed.

It was a gown of liquid silk, a waterfall of blue and green rippling over the coverlet, and it was the most glorious thing she had ever seen. She held it up against herself and realised it was new, its store tag swinging free. A store she'd never been game enough to walk into in her life. It must have cost a fortune. How on earth had he found it?

Ten minutes later, showered and fresh, she slipped it on. It floated over her skin, setting it alight like a lover's caress, reminding her of the sensation when Alessandro's big hands had skimmed over her. She shivered with the memories, turning this way and that in the mirror, trying to focus on what she saw and put out of her mind what she remembered. The one-shouldered design fitted perfectly, its silk feeling magical against her skin. She loved what she saw. Spinning around in front of the mirror, her inner girl delighted. She never wore pretty things. It was usually jeans or a denim skirt for work, and practical suits for presentations to libraries or at conferences. She owned one whole cocktail dress. Black, of course. Never in her life had she worn something so utterly—
feminine.

She coiled her hair—nothing special, with loose tendrils refusing to behave and escaping, but it would have to do. She applied what little make-up she'd bothered to bring and stepped into the silver sandals left with the dress and made one final check in the mirror.

Would he approve? She hoped so. And immediately wondered why it even mattered what he thought. She was leaving tomorrow. Still, she thought, with a flutter in her tummy as she headed for the dining room, he always looked so regal
in his high-collared suits. It would be nice to appear for once in something less casual. And it would be gratifying if he at least approved.

 

He had the hard-on from hell. One look at the vision that had just entered the room and it was a wonder it hadn't bodily dragged him across the room. God, but he wanted her!

He forced his hungry mouth into a smile as he poured her a glass of champagne. ‘You look—ravishing.'

She actually blushed, and stumbled delightfully over something she'd been going to say, ratcheting up his hunger tenfold. Was she so unused to compliments? She was a goddess in that dress, needing no jewellery when her blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. And if she was a goddess in it, he couldn't wait to see her out of it.

Soon
, he assured the ravenous beast bucking for release.
Soon.

‘The dress is lovely, thank you.' She headed uncertainly towards him, taking the circuitous way round as if interested in the photographs lining the mantelpiece in the grand high-ceilinged room. She had to watch what she said. When he'd told her she looked ravishing she'd almost said,
So do you.

But it was true. In another of those high-collared jackets, that fitted him like a second skin and showed off the tapering of shoulders to hip to magnificent effect, he looked like royalty. He
was
royalty, she reminded herself. A count. With connections that went back for ever. Which reminded her of much safer territory than how good he looked right now…

‘Did you want to tell me about that theory of yours? About how the pages might have ended up in the caves below your castle?'

He handed her a glass of sparkling gold-tinged liquid and their fingers brushed, causing an electric jolt to her senses and her heart. The silver shoes, she figured, preferring to
blame static electricity than take heed of the niggling worm of doubt lurking in the back of her mind.

He smiled down at her, as if he'd sensed her sudden discomfiture, and she was forced to meet his eyes and pretend unconcern, closing her lips before she could tell him he smelt ravishing as well, clean and masculine and all too addictive.

‘Pirates,' he said simply.

She blinked up at him, lost in his scent, trying to regain hold of the conversation. ‘Why would pirates care about a few random pages cut from a book? Wouldn't they be more interested in treasure and looting?'

‘Perhaps they didn't care about the pages themselves, but the money they were paid to hide them. They would know where to secrete them to keep them safe from prying eyes. The caves beneath this castle were used by pirates for centuries, even while the first Counts were in residence. Perhaps someone paid them to find somewhere safe—somewhere the authorities would never find them. Somewhere they didn't know the location of themselves.'

‘So they could never give it away if anyone asked…' Her mind was working through the possibilities. ‘They must have known they could be lost and might never be found.'

‘It was no doubt a better option than to be burned outright. Little would have existed of the
Salus Totus
then.'

She looked up at him. ‘You sound like you care—like the
Salus Totus
really matters to you. Why do you care about these pages? You could have left them there and not told anyone. Nobody would have been any the wiser.'

Before he could answer the door swung open on Bruno pushing a trolley.

‘Ah, dinner is served,' the Count said with a smile. ‘Please be seated.'

He put a hand to the small of her back to direct her, and she felt warmth and heat and an instant connection. It was utterly innocent, she was sure, and the fabric of her dress was
separating them, and yet she had never felt anything quite so shockingly intimate. Did he have any idea what that low touch did to her? How it stirred her in secret places and moved her to remember a kiss that had near wrenched her soul as well as her defences away?

She swallowed, some of her earlier confidence trickling away. She was leaving tomorrow but that still left tonight. Why had she thought it would be such a breeze? What if he'd planned dinner to be one long assault to her senses? The brush of his fingers when he'd handed her the glass, the touch of his fingers to her back—was it all part of a long, sweet seduction?

He leaned over her as she was seated and she felt his warm breath stir the ends of her hair and brush her ear. She shuddered, suddenly breathless and flushed and trying to ignore the thrum of blood in her veins.

She was reminded of that line of the translation…

‘It makes your chest thump and leaves you breathless.'

Where had that come from?

No. That was laughable. Ridiculous. Although her brain must certainly be turning to porridge if she entertained any such thoughts!

‘It is random, regardless of wealth or station.'

That proved nothing. She was tired, overwrought after a long couple of days, and the lines were fresh in her mind.

‘It turns your mind to a porridge filled with poems and songs and other, darker, carnal longings.'

There! Not once had she felt inclined to burst into song or break out a sonnet. And she wasn't the type to have dark, carnal longings. Even if just a tiny fraction of her wondered about his hard body and how it would feel to have him inside her. If that paper hadn't fallen, if they hadn't stopped…

Her body hummed with unfamiliar awareness. A pulse she'd never known existed made itself known and almost ached…

‘Is something wrong?'

The room came back into focus. She noticed the delicate porcelain bowl in front of her and the scent of wild mushroom and herbs from the soup someone had ladled into it. And she noticed him, watching her. Somewhere along the line her appetite for food had disappeared, been replaced with an appetite for something else entirely.

Lust, she thought. She hadn't had much personal experience but she guessed that could be a chronic affliction too. But not necessarily fatal. Definitely temporary. She'd start feeling better as soon as she'd left the island.

‘It's been a long day,' she offered. ‘I'm sorry. I'm probably not very good company tonight.'

‘Did you have trouble with your work today?'

‘No. On the contrary, I managed to cover a lot more than I expected. In fact, I was going to talk to you about that. I've got enough done that I don't need to trouble you any more. I'm hoping the boat can pick me up tomorrow morning.'

The atmosphere flat-lined between them.

‘Tomorrow.'

It wasn't a question. More an accusation.

‘Yes. Will it be a problem to get the boat, do you think? Only the pages are in such good condition they are more than safe for transportation, and I can continue my studies and complete my report elsewhere before the discovery goes public.'

‘You're going to leave?'

She blinked. ‘Isn't that what you want? For me to be gone as soon as possible?'

Yes!

But not this way. Not this soon. Not now! ‘How can you be sure there's nothing more to learn here? What is the point of rushing elsewhere?'

Escape.

‘I'll just have to take that risk.' There would be more to learn, she knew it. She would love to investigate the tunnels beneath the castle some more, to learn more of their shadowy
past, but there was no way she'd trust herself down there with him again. ‘I'll make my report. Others might want to fill in more details and undertake a research trip later.'

‘I don't want
others
here!'

‘That's not my problem!'

A flash of lightning rent the skies and shook the very foundations. A boom of thunder followed hot on its heels, along with a burst of rain splattering against the windows.

‘Is it always stormy at night here?' she asked him, when the rolling boom had finally died away, breathless with the shock of the onslaught.

‘Not always.' He was leaning back in his chair, his jaw set, his eyes as hard as the rock this castle was constructed with. He picked up his spoon. ‘Sometimes it's stormy during the day too.'

Lovely. Clearly she'd visited the castle in the high season. She followed his lead, only to toy with her spoon, barely tasting the soup. She'd known they would either argue or end up in each other's arms and more. Clearly it would not be the latter tonight.

Which was a good thing, wasn't it?

She had no intention of ending up in his bed. Even if she was leaving tomorrow and the idea of a one-night affair came with a frisson of the forbidden. One night with a dark count with a savage heart. One night of passion unleashed.