by Andie Brock
Isobel gazed back at him, strands of her hair blowing across her face, catching on her eyelashes, snagging against her dry lips. When she said nothing he increased the pressure on her shoulders, the warmth of his grip searing into her. A reason. He made it sound easy. Maybe it was easy. Maybe it was time to tell it as it was.
‘Very well.’ Biting down on her trembling lip, she raised her eyes, determined at least that she would meet his gaze full-on. ‘I can’t go through with the ceremony. I can’t stand there and make my vows in front of those people knowing that the whole thing is nothing more than a sham.’
‘It is no such thing. I intend to make a full commitment and honour my vows. And I expect you to do the same.’
‘This is not about commitment or honour, Orlando.’
‘So what is it about? Tell me.’
Orlando was leaning in so close to her now his face blurred out of focus. His breath was hot on her face.
‘It’s about love.’ The words fell softly from her lips.
‘Love?’ He repeated the word with distaste. ‘So what are you saying? That you can’t marry me because you don’t love me?’
‘No, Orlando.’ Isobel drew in a breath as if it were her last. ‘I’m saying I can’t marry you because I do.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
ORLANDO STARED AT Isobel’s upturned face, so stunningly beautiful, but haunted with an anguish that flayed his skin.
She loved him? Had he known? No. Because he had refused to go there—refused to open up the hard kernel of his heart to the possibility. The same way he had refused to examine his feelings for her.
‘Let me get this straight.’
He heard himself being cold, harsh, authoritative. Being a jerk. He realised he was still gripping Isobel’s shoulders—too hard. Releasing them, he clasped his hands behind his back, watching the pink marks on her skin fade back to creamy white.
‘You won’t marry me because you love me.’
He tried to phrase it as if she was being wildly irrational, as if she was the mad one here. But even as he barked the words he knew. He knew exactly what she was saying.
Isobel gave him a long stare, her throat moving in a painful swallow.
‘You have to try and understand, Orlando. I can’t marry you because you don’t love me. It simply wouldn’t be right.’
‘Love!’ He deliberately imbued the word with pitiful derision. And he hated himself for it. ‘Where has this come from? Since when has love been part of this arrangement?’
He saw Isobel’s lower lip quiver, felt the nip as she bit down hard on it as surely as if she had bitten his own.
‘I don’t know.’ The words trembled. ‘I suppose since I first realised I was in love with you.’
Orlando felt the pain of her confession sear through him, stabbing him with a thousand knives, and he had to turn away. He couldn’t bear to look into those green eyes any longer.
‘Believe me, you wouldn’t want my love even if it was there to give.’ He lowered his voice, fighting to control his emotions. ‘Love brings nothing but pain and sorrow.’
Quiet wrapped itself around them, blocking out the faint strains of chatter and music from far below, the crack of the flag above their heads.
‘Why do you say that?’
Isobel’s softly spoken question turned him back to face her again.
‘Because it’s true. Love has the power to destroy like nothing else. I should know. I watched it destroying my mother. Her life was doomed from the moment she had the misfortune to fall in love with my father.’
‘But it doesn’t have to always be like that.’ Isobel challenged him softly, a tremor of tragic desperation in her voice.
‘And love destroyed Sophia.’ Orlando cruelly dismissed her words.
‘Sophia?’ Isobel repeated her name with a quiet jolt of surprise. ‘The girl who died in the fire in the warehouse?’
‘Sì. Sophia—who died because of me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Orlando raked in a breath. Caught in the spell of Isobel’s clear green eyes, he was astonished to find himself teetering on the brink of telling her. No. He pulled himself back. Why would he do that? Why would he want to humiliate himself, betray his weakness, expose the miserable raw underbelly of his life? And to Isobel of all people.
And yet... Still she gazed up at him, silently waiting, a patch of blue sky reflected in the sheen of her eyes. Maybe she deserved to know the truth. Maybe she deserved to know exactly the sort of man she had so foolishly fallen in love with.
‘Sophia and I were lovers.’ He saw her flinch at his words but there was no going back now. ‘We used to meet in the warehouse. It was our secret place.’ He spoke in choppy sentences, as if trying to protect Isobel from the pain he had carried around for so long. It was pure masochism that drove him on, forced him to continue as he took in Isobel’s look of stunned horror. ‘We had arranged to meet there the night of the fire—the night my father torched the place. I knew she was waiting for me.’
Her eyes glittering with the sheen of tears, Isobel gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Obviously I had no idea that my father would carry out his hideous plan that very night.’ With brutal frankness, Orlando carried on. ‘But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t to blame. Sophia wouldn’t have been there if it hadn’t been for me.’
As Isobel went to speak he raised a hand to silence her.
‘Wait. There is more to this wretched tale. After Sophia’s body was taken away I went back to the castello—I had nowhere else to go. My father was there—drunk, celebrating his success. I just about managed to hang on to my sanity long enough to tell him what he had done—that Sophia had been in the warehouse, that she was dead—and then I lost it completely. I knocked him to the ground, started battering him with my fists. I would have killed him, Isobel, I know I would—battered him to death on the floor of the drawing room in this very castello if I hadn’t been stopped. Luckily for him, the police turned up.
‘I spent the night in the cells. Meanwhile my father made a statement, stating that I was responsible for the fire, for Sophia’s death. He said he didn’t know how or why—sheer carelessness, a lovers’ tiff maybe. His son was prone to fits of violent temper after all. Hadn’t the police witnessed the brutal attack he had made on his own father? No doubt he had inherited the mental health issues that had plagued his mother all her life.’
‘Oh, Orlando.’ Isobel let out a plaintive cry. ‘How could he be so cruel?’
‘Despite his best efforts to frame me, my father’s despicable reputation meant that the police were suspicious. I was fortunate. A witness came forward to say they had seen him entering the warehouse before the blaze started, traces of paraffin were found on his clothing and he was charged the next day. I was free to go. And that’s what I did—I fled.
‘Instead of paying my respects to Sophia’s parents, throwing myself on their mercy and begging their forgiveness, I ran away. While they were preparing to lay their daughter to rest I was plotting my escape. On the day of her funeral, when I should have been there, facing the family around her graveside, saying my last goodbye to Sophia, I was on an aeroplane to New York. It was an act of cowardice that I will never forgive myself for.
‘And do you want to know the worst of it, Isobel? Do you want to know the sort of man I really am?’ Raking a hand through his windblown hair, he held her eyes with blistering intensity. ‘The money for that one-way ticket to a new life—where do you think it came from? That’s right. It was the money my father had given me to burn down the warehouse. Blood money.’
There—it was said. The truth was finally told.
With the shame of his heinous past pumping violently through his veins Orlando waited for Isobel to recoil in horror, to see him as he saw himself. Not just responsible for the death of a young woman, but a miserable coward who had never faced up to his crime—a beast capable of such violence that he might have beaten his father to death and
a miserable lowlife to boot, depraved enough to use blood money for his own gain.
In short, he was his father’s son.
He watched the shiver sweep across Isobel’s skin as his miserable confession bedded in. Her slim shoulders were twitching, her chest rising with each short breath, pushing the swell of her breasts over the tight-fitting bodice. He had never seen her look more beautiful. He had never wanted her more. He had never felt so destroyed.
‘I’m so sorry, Orlando.’ Tears were falling now, from the well of her green eyes, sliding silently and unchecked down her cheeks. ‘That must have been the most horrendous experience for you.’
Orlando glowered at her, uncomprehending.
‘But thank you for telling me.’ With a loud sniff Isobel gathered up her skirts and made as if to move.
‘Is that it?’ Reaching out, Orlando placed his hands on her hips, halting her movement. ‘Is that all you have to say? At least give me the satisfaction of showing me the disgust that I deserve.’
‘Disgust?’ Pinned to the spot, Isobel raised her eyes to his. ‘No, not disgust—never that. You were a young man who had just suffered the most tragic bereavement, whose world had collapsed. You were frightened and alone, and desperation makes us all do stupid things.’ She lowered her gaze, the sweep of her lashes dark with tears. ‘But at least now I see why you could never love me or anyone else. When Sophia died you lost your one and only true love.’
Sophia? His true love? Sure, she had been his first love. With a heady, all-consuming rush of hormones and lust he had fallen hard for the pretty wine merchant’s daughter. But his one and only love? No, not like that—not the way Isobel meant it. His love for Sophia had been replaced with an abiding guilt the moment he had held her lifeless body in his arms.
‘Had I known, I would never have confessed my love for you.’ Isobel was still talking, her cheeks wet with the tracks of her tears. ‘It was stupid. I’m sorry. The last thing you need is the burden of that.’
‘It’s not a burden.’
‘I would take it back if I could.’
‘I don’t want you to take it back.’
Suddenly Orlando knew that with absolute certainty. With a fierce conviction that drove through him like a sword.
‘I have to go now.’
‘No!’
‘I need to change out of this dress.’
Isobel looked down as if seeing herself for the first time. She spoke slowly, deliberately, with the kind of voice one might use to stop someone throwing themselves off a bridge. Or indeed a medieval battlement.
‘You should go and tell everyone that the wedding is off.’
Turning away, she started towards the doorway but Orlando was too quick for her, moving with lightning speed to block the door with his towering body.
‘No, Isobel, I will do no such thing.’
‘Then I’ll do it myself.’ Isobel stared at him coldly now, brushing the tears away with the back of her hand. Her mood had shifted, hardened, as if her pain had solidified. ‘Because I can never marry you knowing that you love someone else. Even if, tragically, she is no longer alive.’
‘I am not still in love with Sophia!’ The words roared from somewhere deep inside him.
‘No?’ Isobel blinked against the force of his statement. ‘Well, it makes no difference. Because you can obviously never love me. I have to try and protect myself, Orlando. My decision still stands.’
‘Dio, Isobel.’ Orlando reached towards her, his palms upward in a gesture of tormented frustration. ‘Don’t you see I am trying to protect you too? The reason I can’t give you my love is not because it died along with Sophia. It’s because my love is nothing but a poisoned chalice—a dreadful curse for those I inflict it upon.’
Isobel shook her head. ‘No, Orlando, that’s just an excuse. The real reason is because you have no love to give. Not to me, anyway.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Because if you loved me the way I love you, you wouldn’t be able to deny it—no matter what the repercussions might be. Believe me, I know—because I’ve tried. And still I find myself standing here before you, making an utter fool of myself—’
Her voice cracked into silence.
‘No, Isobel.’ Closing the space between them, Orlando caught her in his arms but she twisted away, stepping back. ‘Not a fool. Never that. You are smart and beautiful and brave.’
And, despite the way I have treated you, you are in love with me. How could that be?
‘Please don’t say any more.’ Moving towards him again, Isobel placed her fingertips to his lips, halting his words. ‘You are just making it hurt all the more.’
It was a gesture so gentle, so loving, that Orlando felt every muscle in his body turn to lead.
Isobel loved him. And what was he doing? Instead of embracing her love he was rejecting it—no, worse—punishing her for it.
Removing her hand, Orlando held it against his heart, pressing it firmly against the pounding beat. A strange stillness came over him. Suddenly he was in the calm centre of the turning world, where nothing mattered except this moment. Just him and Isobel. For once he was solely in the present. Somewhere he had never allowed himself to linger before, always so busy planning for the future or trying unsuccessfully to erase his past.
When Isobel had told him she was pregnant he had gone flying headlong into full control mode, never stopping to consider her feelings—never stopping to consider his own. At no time had he let himself stand still and just be. Feel. The way he was doing now.
Now it was as if Isobel had slammed the brakes on his frantic, self-absorbed life. Made him open his eyes to see that all his assumptions about life, and about love, had been coloured by the veil of his past. Isobel had lifted that veil and left him staring at what lay beneath.
And what had he found?
That confessing his shameful past hadn’t ripped open the wounds of guilt. It had been painful, yes, and certainly his abiding sadness for the tragic loss of a young life would never leave him. But Isobel’s compassion, her gentle intuitive insight, had made him see that maybe it was time he cut himself some slack.
What was it she had said? You were frightened and alone. He had certainly been that.
All these years he’d thought he had been escaping his past—eradicating the father he hated so much, burying his own crimes deep in his subconscious—when actually he had been doing no such thing. He had been letting it consume him. He had been blinded by it, using it as an excuse to deny his Italian roots, to turn his back on his heritage. Now, by confessing to Isobel, he had unlocked his self-imposed shackles and to his surprise, rather than loathing him for his crimes, she had shown him a tender acceptance that had finally lifted the burden.
But there was another naked truth that Orlando had to face up to. Another shameful realisation. Now he knew that by holding Isobel at arm’s length, denying his feelings for her, shunning her declaration of love, he hadn’t been protecting her. He had been protecting himself. And that sickening thought struck him like a physical blow.
He had to put things right. Life was about now. He had this one precious moment. And if he didn’t grab it, hold on tight and make it count, he would never, ever forgive himself.
The wind had suddenly dropped, the flag above them drooping to silence. The world was holding its breath. Waiting.
Tipping Isobel’s chin to gaze at her face, Orlando finally let himself fall. Deeper and deeper, plunging headlong into the swirling abyss of her sea-green eyes. This time he wasn’t going to stop himself, wasn’t going to put out a hand to break his fall. This time he was going to let himself drop into the unknown, scary, wonderful chasm of love.
For he knew now with an all-consuming certainty that he loved Isobel. That he had most probably loved her from the very first moment he had seen her wobbling to stand up on the boat, when he had taken her hand in his. The very hand he held to his chest now. Pride, obstinacy and downright fear had made him deny it, refuse
d to let him see it. But by declaring her love for him, forcing him to open up to her, Isobel had set him free.
Brave, beautiful, honourable Isobel. She had released him to love her in the way he had always wanted to do. The way he should have done from the start.
Now he just had to tell her.
Dragging in a breath that shook his body, he felt the weight of his love welling up inside him, flowing from a stream to a torrent to a deluge, until the words he had never said couldn’t be held in any longer, spewing from his body, from his very soul.
‘I love you, Isobel.’
There—it was said. The relief was enormous, as if a boulder had been lifted from his shoulders. He watched the look of shock that widened Isobel’s eyes: shock mingled with uncertainty, mingled with hope.
‘Orlando...’
‘I love you, Isobel.’ He would say it as many times as he had to.
‘But you can’t. I mean, not after everything you have said...’
‘I love you, Isobel.’
Suddenly he knew there was only way to show Isobel that he meant it. Really, really meant it.
Cupping her chin in his hands, he lowered his head, breathing deeply, relishing the split second of delirium before he claimed her lips. They felt so soft under his own, so warm and plump, so delectably, tantalisingly wonderful that Orlando immediately started to tremble. His hands were shaking against Isobel’s skin with the effort of controlling himself, holding back the rocketing desire that was commanding him to take her, right here and now. To prove his love to her in the most carnal way possible.
Later, he told himself. Later he would make love to her and it would be the sweetest, most wonderful experience of his life. Of Isobel’s too, if he had any say in it. But right now he would have to content himself with a kiss.
As Isobel started to respond he moved his hands behind her head, threading his fingers through her hair, dislodging one of the roses in order to pull her closer. Sliding his tongue between her lips, he felt her open up to him, her breath hot and sweet, making his heart sing with joy and relief. And when she wrapped her bare arms around his neck, pressing her soft body against his to deepen their kiss, he heard himself groan his pleasure.
