by Trish Morey / Caitlin Crews / Nina Harrington / Raye Morgan
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.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
GRACE 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.
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 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?’
