A Royal Wedding. Trish Morey
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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