Carrying the Spaniard's Child

by Jennie Lucas

  “He died so unexpectedly,” he heard someone say sadly as they passed. “Of a heart attack, and at only thirty-six. Such a tragedy to die so young.”

  “His poor wife...”

  “Oh, her. I heard they’ve been separated for years. She’s probably already thinking this will make spectacular PR for her next movie.”

  Setting his jaw, Santiago walked heavily up the center aisle of the cathedral in his black suit, holding Belle’s hand tightly. The crowds parted for them like magic, people whispering around them, their eyes popping out of their heads.

  “The duke’s secret son...”

  “His bastard son...”

  “A self-made billionaire from America...”

  Everywhere, he saw admiring eyes, curious eyes. All of them, these aristocrats and royals and politicians from around the world, seemed to admire him as he’d once only dreamed of being admired.

  Ironic. All it had taken was the death of his brother, and suddenly Santiago had become a Zoya.

  His jaw was taut as he came down the aisle, Belle directly behind him. Then he froze.

  At the altar, surrounded by flowers, he saw a closed casket covered with a blanket embroidered with the family’s coat of arms. The brother he’d never met, the chosen one, the rightful heir. Surrounding the coffin were flowers, tall silver candlesticks and officiants, ponderous in their robes.

  Santiago’s attention fell on two people in the front row. An old man in a wheelchair. His father. He looked old, compared to the pictures he’d seen. His face looked querulous, and his skin so pale it was almost translucent.

  Beside him, patting him on the shoulder, a woman stood in a sleek, short black dress and chic little black hat with netting. Nadia.

  At thirty-six, she was tall and thin and blonde, delicate and fragile, like an angel, severely elegant in her dark mascara and red slash of lipstick. He felt the shock of her beauty like the metallic tang of a remembered poison that had once been tasted and nearly been fatal.

  Looking up, Nadia’s violet eyes pierced him. She lowered her head to whisper to the man in the wheelchair, and the Duque de Sangovia’s rheumy eyes abruptly looked up to see Santiago, his thirty-five-year-old bastard son, for the very first time.

  For a second, Santiago held his breath. Then he exhaled. What did he care what the man thought of him now?

  Behind him, Belle gave a soft, breathy curse that made him turn and stare. She’d never used a curse word in front of him before. Her eyes were wide with horror.

  “That’s your ex?” she said in a strangled voice. “Nadia Cruz?”

  “So?” he said shortly.

  “So—she’s famous! I’ve seen her movies! She’s one of the biggest movie stars in the world!”

  “I know,” he said impatiently, and strode forward to the end of the aisle, Belle trailing behind him.

  “Santiago! Thank the heavens you are here at last,” Nadia greeted him in Spanish, anxiously holding out her hands. “Quickly, quickly, it’s about to start. We saved you a place...” She drew back with an irritated look as she saw Belle behind him, still clinging to his hand. “Who is this?”

  “My fiancée,” he responded in the same language. “Belle Langtry.”

  Belle’s hand tightened. She didn’t understand Spanish, but she understood her own name.

  Nadia gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and switched to say in clear English, “We only saved one place in the front row. For family only. She’ll have to go behind.”

  “She stays with me,” Santiago said automatically, but he was distracted as his father wheeled himself forward.

  The Duque de Sangovia was even older than he’d expected. He seemed to have shrunken since last photographed, in the days since his heir had died. He said imperiously to Santiago, “You will sit between Nadia and me.” He didn’t look at Belle. “Your companion must find another place.”

  Bereaved or not, Santiago wasn’t going to let the old man boss him around. “No, she stays.”

  But he felt Belle’s hand pull away.

  “It’s fine. I’ll get a spot in the back,” she said quickly, and disappeared into the crowd. As the choir started to sing, everyone took their seats and Santiago found himself sitting between his father, whose attention he’d once craved so desperately, and the woman he’d once loved so recklessly.

  Twisting his head, Santiago saw Belle in her dark black dress and coat sitting three rows behind them. Her lovely face was pale, her dark eyes luminous and sad. Was she so affected by the death of a man she’d never known? But when she met his eyes, she gave him an encouraging smile.

  Always so thoughtful. Such a loving heart.

  Luring him to trust her. To love her. Luring him to his own destruction.

  Santiago turned away, a storm raging inside him.

  The priest began the ceremony and he sat numbly, hardly able to feel anything. He barely heard the words as one officiant after another praised his brother, who apparently had been a paragon, beloved by all.

  His heart was pounding as he stared at the closed casket, covered with the embroidered Zoya coat of arms and surrounded by flowers, barely hearing the eulogies.

  He’d never imagined he would someday be seated beside his father, the duke, in a place of honor, for all the world to see. The old man actually looked at him once or twice during the ceremony, his wizened expression a little bewildered, tears in his eyes.

  After the ceremony, they were whisked into the waiting limousine, which had been altered for his father’s wheelchair. They were to be taken to the funeral reception at the Zoya palacio, a mile away from the cathedral. But as he was led to the limousine behind his father and Nadia, Santiago paused, looking around with a frown.

  “Where is Belle?”

  “Family only,” Nadia told him firmly. He ignored her.

  Striding back into the cathedral, he found Belle. “Come with me.”

  “Where?” She looked uncertain, ill at ease.

  “The palace.” This time, he wasn’t going to let her slip away. Holding her hand tightly, he pulled her into the back of the stretch limousine, where Nadia and his father were already seated.

  Belle sat beside him in silence, looking awkward and uncomfortable and very pregnant, as they faced Nadia and his father, seated opposite. He saw Nadia and the duke both look at the swell of Belle’s pregnancy, then look away, as if her condition were a personal affront.

  Deafening silence filled the limousine as the driver took them from the cathedral to the Calle de la Princesa. In the middle of Madrid, surrounded by high-rise buildings, was the duke’s city residence, the Palacio de las Palmas, with acres of lush greenery behind tall wrought-iron walls and a guarded gate. The same gate from which Santiago had been bloodily barred as an orphaned fourteen-year-old.

  They drove past the wide open gate and past the luxurious gardens with the exotic palms for which the neoclassical palace was named. The limo stopped. Santiago’s eyes were wide as he saw the nineteenth-century palace for the first time.

  But as Santiago started to get out, the duke reached out a shaking claw to his shoulder.

  “I thank God you’ve come to me, boy,” he rasped in Spanish. “You are all I have left.” He looked at him intently with his hooded gaze. “Truth be told, mi hijo, you are the only one who can save this family now.”

  * * *

  It had been a very long day, Belle thought wearily. One thing after another. Her interrupted wedding. A private flight across the Atlantic. An elaborate funeral. A palace in Madrid. And oh, yeah, discovering that Santiago’s ex was Nadia Cruz.

  Now this.

  Belle felt exhausted and overwhelmed as she looked up at the five-hundred-year-old castle. After the funeral reception had ended in Madrid, they’d traveled ninety minutes to the village of Sangovia
, nestled in a valley beneath the castle on the crag, heart of Zoya history and power.

  She nearly stumbled over the cobblestones, still slippery with rain in the darkness. Santiago grabbed her arm, steadying her.

  He frowned, looking at her. “Are you all right?”

  Belle tried to smile encouragingly. “I’m fine.”

  But she wasn’t fine. Not at all. She hadn’t been fine since Santiago had canceled their wedding yesterday.

  She’d slept fitfully on the private jet over the Atlantic, tossing and turning. Then at the funeral she’d discovered it was even worse than she’d feared.

  Santiago’s ex, the widowed marquesa, was a famous movie star—famous, beautiful, powerful...everything that she, Belle, was not. And his father, the elderly Duque de Sangovia, had yet to acknowledge Belle’s existence, even when he’d been sitting inches away, facing her in the limousine.

  After the funeral, at the reception in the Palacio de las Palmas in the center of Madrid, she’d watched as Santiago stood beside his father and Nadia to gravely thank each of the illustrious, powerful guests—prime ministers, presidents, royalty—for coming to honor the late marqués.

  Belle stood back, near the tables of food, feeling awkward and alone. The reception lasted for hours, until her belly felt heavy and tight and her feet throbbed with pain. She did not belong here, surrounded by all these wealthy, powerful people, in the gilded palace.

  How could she compete with this—any of it?

  She’d been intimidated by Santiago’s mansion in Manhattan, but the Palacio de las Palmas, with its classical architecture and Greek columns, was an actual palace. There were layers of wealth on every wall, paintings and frescoes on the ceiling and sweeping staircases that led to more gilded rooms with yet more paintings of more illustrious Zoya ancestors.

  When the reception finally ended, Belle had breathed a sigh of relief, hoping against hope that Santiago would shake hands with his father and Nadia—or better yet, just wave to the woman from a distance—and he and Belle could get back on a plane for New York.

  Instead, Santiago had informed her that he would be remaining in Spain, staying at the castle of Sangovia with his father and Nadia.

  “Just until Otilio’s will is dealt with.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “You don’t. You can go back to New York tonight.”

  She’d looked up sharply. “No!”

  “You are three weeks from your due date,” he replied coolly. “You should be home.”

  He seemed as if he could hardly wait to get rid of her. Once, it would have been a dream come true for her to be sent away. But now, she could hardly bear the thought of it. She’d glared at him. “I’m staying with you.”

  He ground his teeth. “Belle—”

  “We just got to Spain.” Her voice trembled, but she lifted her chin. “I’m not going to turn around and fly back to New York. I’m exhausted. I’m staying.”

  He’d stared at her for a long moment.

  “Fine. Stay. Just for a day or two. Then you’re going back.”

  And he hadn’t spoken to her again, the whole ninety minutes it took to drive with the duke and the movie star and their bodyguards to the medieval village of Sangovia, tucked in a green valley, beneath the looming castle at the top of the crag.

  The castle had looked beautiful from a distance, but as Belle walked through the enormous door, she thought it felt impersonal and cold inside, far worse than the palace in Madrid. The castle of Sangovia wasn’t gilded or gleaming like the neoclassical Palacio de las Palmas. The windows were small and far between, and the walls were cold stone. This castle came from an earlier, more brutal time of battles and blood.

  The duke said something in Spanish to Santiago, and he replied with a nod. His father disappeared down the cold hallway, past a suit of armor, into a room she couldn’t see.

  Nadia then said something lightly in the same language, before she too disappeared. For a brief moment, Belle and Santiago were alone in the dark stone hallway. She was suddenly tempted to throw herself in his arms, to ask why he’d been so distant, to try to feel close to him again.

  Then they heard a cough, and turning, they saw a uniformed maid. She said in English, “I’m here to take you to your rooms.”

  “Of course,” Santiago said smoothly. “Thank you.”

  The maid led them through the castle, and up the stairs. A less homey or cozy domicile could scarcely be imagined. It was cold, drafty and damp. The stiff chairs they passed in the hallway all looked hundreds of years old and Belle feared might break if she actually tried to sit on one. Why would anyone choose to live here? she wondered.

  The maid led Santiago and Belle to the east wing of the second floor. “All the family’s bedrooms are down here,” she said shyly, and pushed open a door.

  The bedroom was formal and old-fashioned, filled with antiques, including a curtained four-poster bed. Belle glanced out the window at the view of the valley in the twilight.

  “What do you think?” Santiago asked in an expressionless voice.

  “It’s very nice,” Belle said politely.

  “Thank you,” the maid said. She turned to Belle. “I will take you to your room now, señorita.”

  Santiago suddenly scowled. “What are you talking about? My fiancée is staying with me.”

  “I am sorry, señor,” the maid replied uncomfortably, “but His Excellency does not approve of unmarried persons sharing sleeping quarters.”

  “Oh, really?” Santiago ground out. “Is that why he always used to seduce his maids in closets?”

  The woman looked scared. “Señor—?”

  “Forget it.” He gritted his teeth. “You can just tell His Excellency—”

  “No, Santiago. It’s fine. Really.” Belle put her hand on his arm anxiously. “This is his home. He just lost his son. I can sleep in a separate room for a night or two.” She gave him a wan smile. “I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”

  He started to argue, then scowled at the maid. “Fine. Take us to her room, then.”

  Rather than looking relieved, the maid looked even more nervous. “His Excellency asked that you come back down immediately to the salon, señor. I can take Miss Langtry the rest of the way upstairs.”

  “Upstairs? How far is it?”

  “Um...”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Belle interjected. “Your father needs you. Go to him.”

  He turned to Belle. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll check on you later.” His expression seemed distant. “And kiss you good night.”

  Maybe then, she thought hopefully, when they were alone, they could actually talk and try to work out whatever was making him so distant. “All right.”

  He kissed her gently on the forehead, his lips cool. “Until then.”

  “This way, señorita.”

  Belle followed the maid down the hall. They went up a sweeping staircase, then a tightly winding flight of steps, then another. Belle’s legs started to ache, and once or twice she leaned against the stone wall to catch her breath. The maid seemed to have no trouble whatsoever.

  “How many people are on staff here?” Belle asked, to fill the silence as the maid waited.

  “Thirty, señorita.”

  “Thirty people work here? To take care of how many?”

  “Two.”

  Reaching a tower, they went up another tightly twisting flight of stairs, this one of rickety wood. Ducking her head, the maid pushed open a door at the back. She sounded embarrassed as she said, “Here is the room assigned to you, señorita.”

  Belle realized they’d put her in the attic, as if she were a mad relative, four floors above Santiago’s room in the family wing.

  “Th
ere’s the bathroom,” the woman added reluctantly.

  Belle peeked past the door to a tiny bathroom, smaller than a closet, with a toilet, bare sink and shower so small she was afraid her belly wouldn’t fit. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling.

  The family’s opinion of her, and intention for her future, couldn’t have been more clear.

  “I’m sorry, señorita.”

  Belle forced herself to turn with a bright smile. “No, it’s fine.”

  “You are too kind.” The maid added under her breath, “If the marquesa had been assigned to such a room, we would have heard her screaming for miles.”

  Which was why, Belle reflected, beautiful women like Nadia Cruz ended up with everything they wanted, while girls like Belle ended up in rooms in the attic.

  Soon after the maid left, Belle’s overnight bag arrived, held by a huffing and puffing porter who glared at her, as if it were her fault he’d been forced to climb so many tightly twisting stone steps. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, feeling guilty even though it hadn’t been her idea.

  Getting on her pajamas, she brushed her teeth and climbed into the tiny single bed, with the sagging mattress and squeaky metal frame, to wait for Santiago.

  She looked out through the curtainless small round window. Sweeping moonlight showed all of the tiny village of Sangovia in the valley below the castle. With a shiver, she pulled up the thin blankets around her baby bump, and stared out into the starlit night.

  Cuddling her belly, she leaned back against the lumpy pillow, yawning as she tried to stay awake until Santiago came to kiss her good night as he’d promised. She waited. And waited.

  But he never came.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SANTIAGO STARED ACROSS the chilly salon, over a glass of even chillier Scotch, and looked down into his father’s eyes, the chilliest of all.

  “What are you saying?” His voice sounded strained, even to his own ears.