A Royal Wedding. Trish Morey
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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.
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 unexpected hurt of him dropping the Grace and resuming use of her title. So this would be the last time