by Andie Brock
Closing the window, Isobel turned her back on the scene. She felt numb, completely detached from the proceedings going on outside—as if none of it was remotely real.
She moved back to the bed and sat down, looking blankly around her. Hot tears were starting to scald the back of her eyes but she would not let them fall. What difference did it make if Orlando had decided he couldn’t go through with the marriage? Hadn’t she decided the same thing? Logically, she should be pleased. This was probably the first thing they had ever agreed on.
But logic refused to convince her poor broken heart. She could feel it twisting inside her now, beating to a painful, jerky rhythm that made her wonder if each pulse was going to be its last. She desperately wanted to be strong, but sitting there, staring down at the silky folds of her beautiful wedding gown, she barely had the strength to breathe.
She felt hollow, frozen with misery, and terribly, terribly alone. And the worst of it was that the only person who could comfort her was the man who was causing this pain. Orlando. She wanted him beside her so badly it was like a physical ache. She wanted him to take her in his arms and tell her that everything would be all right. She wanted him to say that he loved her the way she loved him—deeply, profoundly, and with a passion that would never, ever die.
But that was never going to happen. Drawing in a breath that snagged in her throat like silk in the teeth of a saw, Isobel tried to think what to do.
She couldn’t just stay here, waiting for a groom who wasn’t going to show in order to tell him she couldn’t marry him. It didn’t get much more ridiculous than that. Or more heartbreakingly tragic. A strange sort of light-headedness came over her, as if her poor frazzled brain couldn’t work out what was important any more so had given up and poured itself a large drink.
Rising to her feet, Isobel felt herself wobble. She needed some fresh air—to get away from this room where the walls were starting to close in on her. She needed some time to decide what to do.
There was no one around when Isobel emerged and scanned the long corridor. She could hear a phone ringing far below, somewhere on the ground floor, but nobody was rushing to answer it. Even so, she decided not to go down there and run the risk of bumping into Maria, or Elena, or some other well-meaning person. She could already see the pity in their eyes, hear their sympathetic platitudes.
Picking up her skirts, she suddenly knew where she would go—she would climb up to the tower. No one ever went up there except her, and with luck there would be a cooling breeze. The tower was her favourite place—the one part of the castello so far left unrestored by the builders, complicated Italian bureaucracy meaning they had to wait for permission before they could so much as replace a single stone of the medieval battlements.
After ducking under the arched doorway, she straightened up again, sucking in the glorious fresh air. She had been right about the breeze. It whipped across her cheeks, tugging at the pins that held her hair, billowing the skirt around her legs. Above her head the Trevente flag cracked like a whip at the top of its flagpole.
Moving further into the space, Isobel stood and gazed around her. There was a whole world going on down there. People, families, problems and triumphs, happiness and sadness. She needed to put things into perspective. Stop dwelling on her own problems and focus on doing the best she could with the crazy situation she now found herself in. Focus on making a good life for herself and her child.
People didn’t die of a broken heart, despite what it might feel like now. Somehow she would get through this.
* * *
Finally Orlando pulled the car up in front of the castello. Taking the wheelchair out of the boot and around to the side of the car, he was surprised to see Mrs Spicer already easing herself out, straightening her spine with a pained but determined expression.
‘I think I will walk. If I could just take your arm?’
‘Sì, certo. But the ceremony is being held beside the lake, around the other side of the castello. It might be quicker to use the wheelchair.’
‘We are so late already, what difference will a few minutes make? Besides, after your little lecture I thought you would be all in favour of me making the effort.’ She shot him a haughty stare. ‘If I am to give my daughter away, I intend to do it standing on my own two legs. Pass me my stick.’
Orlando gritted his teeth as they made their painfully slow way around the side of the castello, across the lawns towards the lake. He could feel his heart thumping heavily in his chest, nerves twisting inside him. Was it only his lateness that was making him so agitated? He just wanted to deliver this cantankerous woman to her front row seat, dash upstairs to change into his suit and then be in position so that the ceremony could finally start.
But mostly he just wanted to see Isobel. To banish this clawing, gnawing feeling that something was wrong.
Cheers greeted them when they finally arrived at the lakeside, where the party seemed to have started without them. In true Italian style the guests were chattering and laughing noisily over the sound of the string quartet, obviously little bothered that the ceremony should have started well over an hour ago. The officiant came towards them, smiling as he shook Orlando’s hand. Only Maria looked worried, jumping up from her seat, her round face flushed beneath a wide-brimmed hat decorated with feathers.
‘Oh, Il Marchese, I am so pleased that you are here at last.’
‘Maria, if you could look after Signora Spicer for me?’ Orlando lowered Isobel’s mother on to a chair, then stood and looked around him. ‘Where is Isobel?’
‘She was in her room...’ Maria spoke with deliberate care.
Of course she was. What had he expected? That she would be standing out here in full view of everyone, waiting for him to turn up?
‘But when Elena went up there a few minutes ago...’ Maria hesitated, shooting a sideways glance at Mrs Spicer ‘...she had gone.’
Gone? Switching to Italian, Orlando started to fire rapid questions at Maria, and then Elena, who had come over to join them. Scarcely waiting for their replies, he was already turning, walking quickly, and then running towards the castello, with only one thought in his head. He had to find Isobel. Now.
Bursting through the front doors, he stopped in the hallway. Fear was starting to spread through his body, clawing at his chest and gripping his throat with merciless talons. He could feel the thunderous beat of his heart, hear his ragged breath cutting through the quiet stillness of the air—air that felt horribly empty.
Dragging in a breath, he held it, listening intently for a sound—any sound that might tell him she was there, might take away the dread that was racing through his veins. But all he could hear was the distant clank of metal coming from the kitchens, mocking him with the reminder of a wedding breakfast that increasing desperation was telling him might never take place.
‘Isobel!’ Tipping back his head, he called her name up the sweeping staircase. It was met with nothing but cold silence. ‘Isobel, answer me, damn you!’
Following his own voice, Orlando tore up the stairs two, three at a time, racing from room to room, flinging open doors, still calling her name, his feet thundering into every empty echoing chamber.
Finally he returned to her suite of rooms and stood in the middle of the bedroom, forcing his breath to steady, commanding the logical side of his brain to kick in. His eyes darted around, searching for clues.
He had never been in this room before today, having convinced himself that Isobel needed her space—that they both had to adjust to the challenges of living in the castello without adding the temptation of sex. That exquisite pleasure would come later, when they were married, when things had settled down and they had somehow managed to pick their way through the complicated mix of emotions that at the moment made them spark off each other like flint against steel.
Not that that wasn’t exciting in itself. These past two weeks the thought of Isobel alone in her bed, with only a few dark stretches of corridor separating them, ha
d tormented him, kept him awake at night and then burnt into his dreams, awakening him with a throbbing erection desperate to be satisfied.
Never, ever had he wanted a woman as badly as he wanted Isobel. Several times he had found himself weakening, setting off to find her, to take her in his arms, to claim her lips and make love to her with the searing, scalding intensity that was threatening his sanity.
But every time he had stopped, forced himself to find some self-control. Because no matter how urgent his desire, how fiercely the longing galloped through his body, he knew he had to think about Isobel—respect her, protect her. He could never offer her more than sex, and common decency refused to let him use her just to satisfy his carnal lust. He cared about her too much for that.
Far too much.
Suddenly the realisation of just what Isobel meant to him slammed into his chest and he sank down onto the bed with his head in his hands. All this time he had been convincing himself that everything he had done was purely for the sake of his unborn child. To provide the stable upbringing that he had never had, to ensure that his son or daughter would want for nothing. Controlling, cajoling, bullying—he had done everything in his power to get Isobel to agree to his terms for the sake of their child.
Or had he? The big, fat lie now stared him in the face, refusing to go away. He hadn’t done this solely because of the baby. He’d done it because he wanted Isobel in his life—baby or no baby. Because he couldn’t imagine his life without her. Because life without her would be empty, dull and depressingly meaningless. Isobel had crept under his skin, infiltrated his mind, body and soul. And one thing was for sure: he wasn’t going to lose her now—no way!
Jumping up from the bed, he marched from the room, determination setting his jaw, making him grind his teeth. He was going to find Isobel and he was going to demand that this wedding went ahead. He would make it happen.
* * *
Pacing the circuit of the battlements, Isobel finally came to a standstill and took in a shuddering breath. The searing pain in her chest hadn’t lessened, nor the feeling that life had mysteriously moved on and left her behind. But neither had her conviction that her decision was right—marrying Orlando would have been the biggest mistake of her life. And obviously he felt the same.
With no sign of him it was pathetically, pitifully clear that he had no more intention of going through with the wedding than she did—which only managed to tighten the screws into her heart still further.
Somehow she was going to have to gather the strength to fight her way through this misery and find a way forward. Although right now she had no idea how. Right now she felt as if she had fallen into the deepest darkest well, where she could barely see the hand in front of her face, let alone a pathway ahead.
Pushing the wind-tossed strands of hair away from her face, she gazed up to check that the clear blue sky was still there. Yes, the world was still turning. She was still breathing. And the heart of her precious baby was still pump-pumping away. For that reason alone she would carry on.
When Orlando returned—assuming he ever did—she would insist that they sat down and discussed their future together calmly, like sensible adults. No arguing, no posturing, no pride. Especially no pride. Although right now Isobel felt as if she had very little of that left. Somehow they would come up with a solution that they could both live with—a compromise. Something that didn’t involve marriage or spending too much time together. Then Orlando could get on with his life and Isobel could get on with hers and the hideous torment of this unrequited love would be banished to the dark recesses of her mind for ever.
Perhaps they could start with the fact that neither of them had felt able to go through with the wedding. What exactly did that say about their relationship? The wedding that, Isobel suddenly remembered with a jolt of alarm, fifty or so guests were still down there waiting to celebrate. Someone was going to have to make an announcement. And presumably that someone was her.
Gingerly looking over the battlements, Isobel pictured herself walking down the aisle between the rows of chairs in her beautiful wedding dress, every concerned face turned toward as she took her position under the rose-covered bower and explained, in her very best, most stiff-upper-lipped English, that there wouldn’t actually be a wedding, but that she thanked them so much for coming and she did hope they hadn’t been too inconvenienced.
It had to be done.
She was just about to turn to go down when the flash of a dark figure caught her eye—Orlando! He had appeared from nowhere, stepping out of the shadows cast by the walls of the castello and marching towards the lake, towards the assembled crowd, his stride fast and aggressive—panicked, even. She saw the way he ignored the guests as they turned to look at him, saw him finally stopping when he reached the front row, bending to speak to someone then straightening up, placing his hands on his hips, casting his gaze around.
Even from this distance she could see his agitation. He looked wild, unkempt and dangerously close to losing control: unlike Isobel had ever seen him before. Gone was the cool, composed Orlando she’d thought she knew, to be replaced with this thunderingly dark force of nature.
Oh, Orlando! Isobel felt her heart clench violently in her chest. She longed to go to him, fighting every instinct to stop herself from snatching up her skirts and running across the grass to join him, humiliating herself by begging him to marry her after all, begging him to love her.
Standing on tiptoes, she leant further over the battlements, trying to see his face, to work out what was going on beneath the rigidly held dark figure. But he was too far away, no matter how hard she strained her eyes, how far she reached forward.
Suddenly Orlando’s head jerked up, his eyes flying in her direction, making Isobel start. She clutched at the crumbling stonework for support. A chunk of it came away in her hand, then hurtled towards the ground, followed by another, and then a third piece as the ancient stones dislodged each other and a section of the battlements started to fall apart before her eyes.
With a jolt of fear Isobel retreated several steps backwards, to the safety of the solid flagstones, and waited for her heart rate to steady—from the fright of her narrow escape but even more from the sight of Orlando.
Had he seen her? She couldn’t be sure. But within a few minutes she knew the answer, when she heard her name being hoarsely yelled, accompanied by the pounding of footsteps and the rasping of breath as, ducking under the arched doorway, he appeared before her, tall and all-powerful and glowering with murderous intent.
‘Isobel!’
She stood rooted to the spot as he marched towards her, encircling her with his strong arms, crushing her against his body. Isobel could feel his heart thudding against her cheek, his chest rising and falling with the force of each lungful of air. She closed her eyes, letting herself be held in his arms. Just for a moment.
‘Are you okay? You’re not hurt?’ Pulling away enough to see her face, Orlando stared down at her, his pupils dilating, his eyes shining black.
‘I’m fine.’ Isobel moved within the circle of his arms but the band only tightened further.
‘Dio, Isobel. You could have been killed.’ Hugging her to him, he spoke over the top of her head, relief catching at his voice before it was swiftly replaced with harsh interrogation. ‘What is the meaning of this anyway?’ Pulling away again, he held Isobel at arm’s length to glare into her eyes. ‘What the hell are you doing up here?’
Stiffening her spine, Isobel tried to push him away with hands that trembled against the wall of his chest. ‘I needed some space, some time to think.’
‘Think about what?’ He let his arms fall by his sides but his piercing stare never left her face.
‘Lots of things. Why you didn’t turn up for our wedding, for one.’
‘What are you talking about? I’m here, aren’t I?
‘It’s too late, Orlando.’
‘Too late? What do you mean, too late?’ Anger danced in his eyes, glinting like p
olished stone. ‘Look, Isobel...’
Isobel watched him trying to rein in his temper, trying to appear reasonable—an effort that had him clenching his jaw, sharpening the angles of his face. ‘If you feel you need to make a stand because I’m late then fair enough—point taken. I apologise. Now, can we just...?’
‘No, Orlando. It’s too late because I have realised that I can’t go through with it. I can’t marry you.’
Orlando’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits of fire.
‘What do you mean, you can’t go through with it? We agreed. It’s all arranged.’
Isobel took a couple of steps away from him. The wind was getting stronger now, ruffling Orlando’s dark curls, billowing inside his shirt that was half untucked from his jeans. It blew against the skirts of her dress, lifting the silky fabric, then moulding it against the length of her legs.
‘I’m sorry, Orlando.’
‘Sorry?’ Taking a step towards her, Orlando cupped her bare shoulders with powerful hands that held her rigid beneath his grasp. ‘I don’t know what this is all about, Isobel, but I suggest you pull yourself together, right now, so that we can go down there and get this done.’
Isobel swallowed past the agonising lump in her throat, blinked against the tears that were scalding the backs of her eyes. Get this done. His callous phrase epitomised everything this marriage meant to him—everything she meant to him. She raked her eyes over the harsh contours of his beautiful face; he was cold, calculating and utterly ruthless. How had she ever thought she could marry a man with the power to hurt her so much?
‘I’m sorry, Orlando.’
It really was all she could think of to say. Shrugging his hands off her shoulders, she went to move past him but he caught hold of them again, whipping her round to face him.
‘And that’s it, is it? All the explanation I’m going to get?’ Fury contorted his features, scoured his voice. ‘Do you really think I’m going to just accept that—let you walk away? I need a reason, Isobel. And I want to hear it right now.’
