by Robyn Donald
‘Hardly a gracious concession,’ she snapped.
And knew she should have kept quiet. But he said remotely, ‘I know this is difficult, but I believe that at the moment it is necessary.’
Abruptly surrendering, Jacoba nodded. ‘Too many lives have already been squandered in Illyria to risk any more bloodshed.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way.’
‘So what happens now?’ she asked tautly, apprehension hollowing her stomach.
‘Our engagement will be announced tomorrow. Where is your sister?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I want her in Illyria, where we can protect her.’
When she hesitated, he said crisply, ‘Make up your mind, Jacoba. Either you trust me, or you don’t. Now that this journalist has revealed who you are, we may not have time to waste. There are Illyrian refugees in New Zealand.’
He knew the right buttons to press. And she did trust him—the formidable pride she’d seen in him convinced her that he wouldn’t take revenge on an innocent victim of the dictator’s cruelty. But it took every ounce of courage and faith she possessed to reveal Lexie’s whereabouts. If she was wrong…
In the end she had to. At some deeper level she trusted him to do whatever he could to protect her sister.
He said, ‘I’ll put someone on to it straight away. Can you warn her what to expect? It will be less alarming for her if she knows what’s happening.’
His thoughtfulness should have warmed her, but she could only think that if he did intend them any harm, a complaisant Lexie would make things easier. ‘Internet cafés aren’t common in the Outback.’
‘The agency that organised the tour must have some way to contact them,’ he said crisply. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets safely away.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘A jeweller should be arriving any minute with a choice of rings for you—I suggest a ruby. As well as being the traditional stone of my house, the colour suits you.’
In a flat voice she said, ‘You had no doubt that you could browbeat me into this, did you?’
He measured her with an unwavering look. ‘I owe the people of Illyria my duty—and so do you. If you are not of Paulo Considine ’s get you are the daughter of a doctor who died in a hail of bullets with my grandparents, and whose family were killed too. You owe their memories respect, as well as your mother’s.’
Trust him to turn her stipulation against her! ‘That’s not fair,’ she choked.
‘Fairness—what is that? This is a matter of justice.’A humourless smile didn’t soften his mouth. ‘And before you ask, you need have no fears that I will expect you to be my mistress while we’re engaged. That is over.’
The detached, decisive words were like hammer blows to her heart. His mistress? Well, she’d always known that he wanted nothing more than sex from her.
Pride as stiff and unbending as his drove her to say, ‘After I’d told you what I knew of our history, I was going to make sure you understood that.’
‘Then we are in accord,’ he said cynically, and turned as the manservant appeared in the doorway. ‘This must be the jeweller.’
The only way to get through this was to tamp down her feelings and go on to automatic pilot, calling on the acting skills she’d achieved over the years to fake it. So tense that she felt she might shatter any moment, Jacoba summoned spurious interest to examine the array of rings brought for her selection.
‘Try that one,’ Marco said, his voice tender as he pointed at a ruby that glowed with dark fire. Set around the stone were gems in a soft gold that enhanced and contrasted with the ruby. The ring should have looked flashy, but the skill of its creator and the juxtaposition of colours gave it a dramatic, exotic splendour.
‘It is not conventional,’ jeweller said when Jacoba hesitated. ‘Perhaps madame would prefer a solitaire.’ He glanced at her hands, tensely clasped at her sides. ‘She has the fingers for it,’ he said, and indicated a massive diamond.
‘Too flashy,’ she said indifferently. Her gaze slid back to the first ring. It didn’t look like an engagement ring…
‘That one,’ she said, making up her mind.
It fitted perfectly—but then, Marco probably had all her measurements filed away in his incisive brain, she thought painfully. He knew them well enough—his lean, skilful hands had caressed every inch of her body.
Light shimmered and glittered in the heart of the main stone. ‘Perfect,’ Marco said austerely.
Once they were alone Jacoba said, ‘What happens now?’
‘We leave for Illyria in an hour.’
When she flashed him a startled glance and started to shake her head, he took her elbow and turned her to face him. His tone dispassionate, he said, ‘I know you have no bookings until the ball next week to launch the perfume. Get used to this farce we’re playing, Jacoba. If it helps, think of your part in it as paying back a little of the damage your step-father caused.’
‘How?’ she asked truculently, twisting free.
He switched to Illyrian. ‘It might bring about a change in attitude that will ultimately benefit all Illyrians. Although it’s less tangible than the money you have regularly sent to Illyrian charities ever since Alex came to the throne, it is perhaps more important in the long run.’
Heat flooded Jacoba’s skin. In the same language, she asked impetuously, ‘How did you know—?’ stopping when she saw his cynical smile. ‘I sent that money anonymously.’
‘It wasn’t too difficult to discover who was sending such large sums.’
Not difficult at all if you had the money and the power to set a firm of private detectives on the hunt, she thought bleakly.
He went on, ‘It’s been very welcome, but you owe a tribute of blood also.’
The oddly antique words sent a shiver down her spine. ‘An eye for an eye?’
Marco frowned. ‘Nothing so vengeful.’ His gaze dropped to her mouth. In exactly the same tone he said, ‘And if you want to make sure your sister is safe, you’ll give everyone we meet the idea that you are deeply, devotedly in love with me. As I will with you.’
The cynical words twisted her heart. ‘No doubt my acting skills will come in handy.’
‘I am sure of it,’ he said courteously. Reverting to English, he went on, ‘You’re looking pale. This whole business has been a shock to you. The housekeeper at the castle will be in her element. She is very fond of cosseting people.’
The sun glowed golden on the white tops of the mountains as the helicopter came down to land near a castle that looked like something out of a fairy tale—a dark fairy tale, Jacoba thought with a twist of her heart.
Beside her, Marco said, ‘The Wolf’s Lair. Unfortunately, Gabe isn’t here—he sends his apologies, but he is in the capital at the moment.’
A thin surge of cowardly panic battled with excitement.
Here in the valley where it had all happened, an uneasy apprehension kept her tense and jumpy; she felt as though someone—or some thing—had been waiting a long time for her to arrive.
After dinner that night, Marco inspected her with hooded eyes. ‘You’re tired,’ he said.
Tired and heartsick. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘So go to bed.’
Marco escorted her to her room, pushing open the door for her. She was about to step past him when he turned her into his arms and kissed her with a pent-up hunger that set her on fire. She clung to his strength, wondering if this flash-fire of passion could possibly be enough…
And then he released her, and she realised that an elderly woman was moving silently about in the room.
Sickened, she realised why he’d kissed her.
‘You met Marya this afternoon,’ Marco said smoothly. ‘She has worked for us all her life, and is now the housekeeper in the castle.’
Jacoba smiled at her, and gave the traditional Illyrian greeting. ‘May God bless you and all your children.’
The housekeeper smiled back, her dark eyes intent
and measuring. ‘And yours. And may your sleep be free of dreams.’
She nodded almost regally and took herself off down the stone-floored passage, past portraits of long-dead Considines and several stunning landscapes. A suit of armour stood guard at the end beside a bookcase.
It couldn’t have been more different from everything she’d known, Jacoba thought on a wave of homesickness for New Zealand. Ignoring it, she said quietly, ‘She has a powerful personality.’
‘Yes.’ Marco paused, then said, ‘As a family we are beholden to her.’
Jacoba looked up sharply. Angular face unreadable, he went on, ‘She hid the Queen’s Blood from the dictator, and suffered because of her loyalty.’
Jacoba nodded; she’d heard of the Queen’s Blood, the ancient treasure of the family—a set of rubies in gold that was infinitely valuable and so old no one knew who’d made it or when.
Marco said, ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll go riding, so sleep well.’
She didn’t, until she took one of the mild sleeping pills she used occasionally to settle into a new time zone. And even then her rest was uneasy and punctuated by snatches of nightmare, and she woke early, lying for an hour or so with slow tears aching behind her eyes.
Giving in to them wasn’t going to achieve anything but red eyes, so she forced herself out of bed, showered and got into jeans and a black merino jersey.
A knock at her door heralded the housekeeper, who carried a tray of coffee and fruit and cheese, and some of the solid, rustic bread her mother had used to bake as a treat now and then.
‘To keep you until breakfast,’ the older woman said, putting it on a table near one of the diamond-paned windows. ‘Eat now. The prince has been called to the telephone.’ She sighed, then shrugged. ‘All the time, it rings, rings, rings. He sent you a newspaper—from England. And one from here.’
The newspapers made great play of the lost family of the dictator. And whether in fear of Considine power or the skill of the family spin doctors, most of the Press decided to treat the whole thing as hugely romantic, with two different sides of the family being at last reconciled.
There was nothing about Ilona Sinclair being the dictator’s mistress, nothing about any suspected betrayal of her husband or Marco’s grandparents. Relieved, Jacoba forced down some of the fruit and drank the coffee while the older woman bustled around tidying her room and the small bathroom off it.
Then she escorted Jacoba down to the hall where Marco stood talking to his brother, Gabriele, Grand Duke of Illyria, who’d arrived back late the previous night.
They showed their heritage, Jacoba thought, aching with a fiercely restrained hunger. Through a great window the rays of the rising sun summoned blue flames from two dark heads, and lovingly caressed proud Mediterranean features.
Both men looked up as they came towards them, but Jacoba only had eyes for her prince.
Heat kindled in his pale eyes. ‘Jacoba,’ he said, and held out his hand to her.
She retained enough poise to manage a swift smile at the Grand Duke as she was introduced, then felt her tension easing a little when Marco tucked her against his lithe body. It was like being born again.
‘So where do you plan to go?’ Gabe asked, his eyes speculative as he glanced at his brother.
‘You should take her to the stone,’ the housekeeper inter- polated before Marco could answer. She smiled at them all as though she’d arranged such a striking tableau herself.
Gabe looked as though he was about to make a comment, but the words stayed unsaid.
Marco surveyed Jacoba. ‘Do you want to see the standing stone?’ he asked. ‘It’s a monolith close to the pass, and occupies a special place in our family history.’
He was, she thought painfully, as good an actor as she was—better, perhaps, because no one could miss the tenderness in his voice and the glitter deep in his eyes.
‘In the country’s history,’ Gabe said, his tone giving nothing away.
Jacoba smiled. ‘I’d like that. New Zealand has only about a thousand years of history—and there aren’t any standing stones.’
The housekeeper said flatly, ‘You are Illyrian.’
Marco said, ‘By birth and breeding, yes, but I think she’ll always be a New Zealander in her heart.’
Surprised at his understanding, Jacoba nodded.
Halfway up the steep, forested slope, she kept her gaze fixed between the ears on her rangy black gelding and observed, ‘Your housekeeper seems—very knowing. An old soul.’
‘She’s had a hard life. Paulo Considine was especially cruel to anyone who had any connection with the family; Marya was a maid at the castle, and she suffered—she lost her family, lost everything except her life.’
Chilled, Jacoba said quietly, ‘She doesn’t seem to bear me any grudge.’
‘Apparently she knew your mother,’ he said on a casual note that belied the keen look he gave her.
Her heart jumped. ‘Did she?’
‘Like you, she doesn’t believe that your mother was Paulo’s mistress. Or that she betrayed the partisans.’
She sent him a swift, challenging glance. ‘I just hope everyone else in Illyria agrees with her. But that’s not going to help Lexie, is it.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘She’ll be safe,’ he said confidently. ‘Do you think I’d bring her here if I’d thought we couldn’t protect her?’
‘I keep wondering…’
She stopped, because she couldn’t explain the tension between her shoulder blades, as though someone was watching, planning, waiting for something to happen.
Marco nudged his mount closer. ‘Trust me,’ he said, and added grimly, ‘Or if you can’t do that, trust Gabe ’s security men and Alex’s honour.’
Last night, lying in his bed racked with desire for Jacoba, he’d thought again that none of his family had been brought up in Illyria. Although they’d grown up steeped in its history and traditions, only Alex had actually lived there, and then only for the first ten years of his life.
When he’d mooted the idea of an engagement, he and Gabe had consulted Marya, who’d said calmly, ‘Of course you must marry her.’
‘But will it help?’
She’d shrugged. ‘It is the only thing that will help.’
He hoped so. God, he hoped so. And not just for the future well-being of the Illyrians, either; if anything happened to Jacoba’s sister she’d be shattered.
Jacoba looked at him now, her grey eyes very direct and candid. ‘I trust you all. Anyway, what else can we do? Lexie was safe as long as nobody suspected who we were, but as soon as that journalist in Auckland started prying, we were living on borrowed time.’
‘He only started looking because I came on the scene,’ Marco said grimly.
Vehemently she shook her head. ‘Absolutely not! He’d have begun to poke and pry when I turned him down. It was nothing to do with you.’ tinged her voice. ‘You have enough responsibilities without adding another one to your list!’
Marco changed the subject by nodding ahead. ‘We’ve reached the stone. Get down; we’ll tie the horses over there.’
Jacoba did as he said, stretching to ease her legs. She felt as though she’d been kicked. Secretly, without even realising, she’d hoped—oh, she’d hoped that perhaps there was something more to this mock-engagement than his sense of duty.
And lust.
Mustn’t forget the lust, she thought sarcastically, walking beside him through the trees. She loved him, but Marco felt nothing more than a fierce desire, and even that seemed to be waning. No doubt he resented being forced into an engagement that meant nothing.
A little exclamation of surprise broke from her when they came through the trees into a small, grassy dell.
‘It’s huge,’ she breathed, staring at the massive, upright stone. ‘How many men must it have taken to lift it on its end?’
‘Hundreds,’ he said shortly.
It had been carefully placed; a tiny stream ran throug
h the trees and around its base, then across the grass to disappear into a grove of dark conifers. The silence was broken only by the soft chatter of water as it spilled over a cliff some distance away through the trees.
Awed, Jacoba shivered. ‘Tell me I’m crazy, that it doesn’t seem to be aware of us,’ she muttered.
He said coolly, ‘It’s supposed to be haunted by the spirit of one of my ancestors, a woman who was murdered here for the treasure she carried—the Queen’s Blood.’
Tension prickled across her skin. ‘Is that how the treasure came into your family?’
‘Not exactly. It’s an old story; she was a queen and when bandits killed her here she turned into a sprite—a ghost—and guarded her treasure until the first Considine came here, possibly from Greece . She then manifested herself to him in human form, and eventually he married her. According to the peasants, all Considines are descended from that marriage.’
CHAPTER TEN
FOR a long, charged moment Marco looked at her from beneath heavy lashes, his mouth compressed. Tension tightened Jacoba’s nerves and brought her head up in a rapid, defiant gesture.
When he broke the silence it was in a rough, almost desperate voice. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Jacoba said, heart thumping crazily.
He came towards her. ‘Like an utterly desirable challenge,’ he said as his arms closed around her willing body.
And he kissed her, pent-up passion bursting through the iron restraint of his control.
She clung to him, fingers digging into muscles so tense they were like steel, giving Marco so much more than her mouth—letting her kiss say all the things she didn’t dare.
For long moments it was enough—the kisses, the muttered words spoken in a mixture of languages, the soaring heat of desire fuelling an even more intense hunger.
And then he let her go. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, face and voice so controlled she had to turn away so that he couldn’t see the misery in her eyes. ‘I made you a promise.’
She’d tied her hair in a pony-tail; she reached up now and pulled off the tie, letting a lock fall over her face. The movement gave her enough time to force her clamouring body into stillness. ‘It’s all right,’ she said remotely, bolstering her composure with fierce pride.
