The trembling part wasn’t difficult because shock had ensured that she’d been shaking inside right from the moment when he’d crushed her into his arms, tugging her into the warm, safe haven of his strong body, but she had a hard time keeping her glee hidden, the exquisite pleasure of knowing that she could now get the upper hand and, hopefully, keep it, as she injected a weak quaver into her voice and said words she would never have believed herself capable of uttering.
‘Why did you stop me? I—I can’t bear it, I tell you! Locked away here with—with a violent stranger.’ Her voice quivered nicely up to the level of hysteria as she tried feebly and ineffectually to pull away from him. ‘You’d kill my father as soon as look at him—you said so yourself! What’s to stop you killing me too? You’d have to, wouldn’t you? To stop me from talking!’ Her voice fell piteously. ‘I can’t stand it—waiting for the worst to happen. I’d rather—rather do—do anything. Anything at all! And—’ she made herself give a huge gulp ‘—I can’t bear being locked in. Not anywhere. It’s enough to send anyone crazy!’
‘Dios!’ His voice throbbed with stress. She had made him feel a heel, guilty and ashamed of himself. Which was precisely what she had intended, ever since she’d realised he’d got her motives for being up here all twisted in his head!
That he must have a shred of decency in him somewhere, or he would never have felt the remotest pang of anxiety on her behalf, wasn’t going to cut any ice with her because surely he richly deserved all the guilt she could manage to heap on his arrogant, much too handsome head, she decided very firmly as she closed her ears to his soft words of earnest reassurance.
But she couldn’t ignore the way he swept her up into his arms and strode over the roof to the head of the stairway. How could she when he was cradling her close to that superbly made body? Especially as he wasn’t wearing a stitch and every movement he made sent something that was a terrifying mix of fear and excitement scudding through her flesh, permeating her bones, weakening her. Moreover, if she breathed at all she could almost taste the elusive male muskiness of him, and she wasn’t acting at all when she told him, panicking, ‘Put me down. Please! I’m not an invalid. I can walk, you know!’
‘Yes, I do know.’ He held her even more tightly, if that were possible, as he descended the stairs; a furtively assessing upward glance revealed his set and sober features, the bones taut beneath the skin, and she quickly forgot to panic because she had just proved that she could handle him perfectly and rapidly suppressed a smile of total satisfaction.
She had got him worried, really worried, and, hopefully, very ashamed of himself. And that was just fine by her because he deserved every bit of sobering anxiety coming in his direction after the high-handed, careless, not to mention thoroughly insulting way he had mistreated and manipulated her!
So she would continue in her act as a nearhysterical neurotic with the tendencies of a lemming just for the immense satisfaction of seeing him grovel, make a fool of himself as he had tried to make a fool of her when he had dismissed her body with a look in his eyes that had said, Offer away, only I don’t want it.
For that insult alone she would make him pay! And the day would soon dawn when he’d be unlocking doors, begging her to go, happy to release his hostage because he couldn’t stand the guilt, would keep wondering when she would be driven to leap from the battlements again, or strangle herself with the bedsheets! His nerves would never be able to stand it!
She hoped she would give him a deep-rooted, lifelong guilt complex.
Descending to the bedroom, he closed the door to the stairway with his foot and carried her over to the bed, settling her gently back against the pillows, brushing her hair back out of her eyes with a tender sweep of his hand. The prickle of searing heat from the touch of his skin against hers made her flinch and he sucked in his sensual lower lip and murmured deeply, ‘Relax. I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t break promises.’
She hadn’t imagined he was about to. Somehow, she had always known he wouldn’t do anything to cause her physical harm. The fear she had started to feel came from another direction entirely. She wasn’t sure yet which direction that actually was. It was enough for now that his slightest touch did strange and unwelcome things to her.
But she wasn’t about to enlighten him; she wasn’t that much of a fool. Besides, she had her act to consider. So she gave a wobbly sigh, feebly closed her eyes and, after a long moment fraught with something that felt like deep consideration, sensed him move away. She risked a glance between her fluttering lashes.
He was pulling a pair of pyjama bottoms from a drawer in an antique chest and she swiftly closed her eyes again. The sight of all that virile manly nakedness was decidedly unsettling.
Tense moments later her heart jumped up into her throat as she felt the mattress dip and she opened her eyes in a wild tangle of lashes, her worst suspicions allayed because he was merely sitting beside her, marginally decent in pyjama bottoms that rode a little too low for her liking on his spare, lean hips. But that was better than before. Before…
‘Drink this.’ He was holding a generously curved crystal glass and she looked doubtfully at the amber liquid and hauled the bedsheet right up to her chin. ‘Brandy, purely for medicinal purposes,’ he added smoothly. He held the glass to her lips but she clamped her jaws together. He could feel as guilty as he liked because that, as far as she was concerned, was a wonderful bonus, but she refused to have him ministering to her.
He sighed, black eyes probing her wide aquamarine stare as if he was trying to solve some knotty problem or other, a tiny frown drawing the dark wings of his brows together. And then a flicker of amusement softened the sexy corners of his mouth and he practically purred, ‘You didn’t touch the meal I brought earlier.’ He shook his head regretfully, one midnight lock of hair tumbling appealingly over his eyes. ‘You were too frightened, too anxious?’ he suggested sympathetically, and she nodded, laughing inside because he was picking up all the right ideas, letting him think what it suited her to have him believe when in reality she’d been too darned incensed to swallow anything.
Though, in hindsight, if she’d gulped down that bottle of wine she would, at least, have been able to sleep. But if she’d been snoring away in a drunken stupor she wouldn’t have gone up on the roof and been able to take his mistaken apprehensions and use them to her own very distinct advantage.
‘There’s no need for you to be either,’ he went on cajolingly. ‘And your blood sugar must be low. So drink this up like a good girl. It will do you good, relax you, help you to sleep.’
The sleep bit sounded good to her, so good. It had been a long, tiring, traumatic day and waves of exhaustion were sweeping darkly over her.
She heaved herself into a sitting position, too tired now to bother about keeping the sheet firmly tucked beneath her chin, and grasped the glass he was offering with fingers that were numb with fatigue.
No worries, she thought as she sipped at the fiery liquid, hoping it would deaden her over-active brain and allow her body the rest it craved. Not a single one, now she came to think of it. Thanks to that episode on the roof and her own subsequent acting—playing the part of a feeble female possessed of a character as weak as water—his sense of shame and guilt would have him unlocking doors in the morning, driving her back to the airport himself and, in all likelihood, forgetting his threat to pound her father into the ground.
It was truly wonderful the way things had worked out, she congratulated herself as she gave him back the empty glass and settled herself comfortably into the bed, sighing with sheer pleasure because the best bit, the bit she liked most, was the fact that she had him in the palm of her hand now. He’d been completely, utterly fooled by her quick thinking, the way she had taken advantage of the situation that had presented itself!
But her wits made a protesting leap when he joined her, sliding beneath the sheets and flicking out the light, his big male body only an inch away from hers. And before she could g
ive voice to a strangled protest he twisted over on his side, cuddling her into the curve of his body, murmuring softly, ‘Sleep now, poor little baby. There’s no need to be frightened, is there? See how safely I hold you?’ As if to emphasise that particular point, the arm that was holding her tightened, the palm of his hand curving against her tummy.
‘You don’t need to hold me,’ she managed thickly, physically having to force the objection out through the heavy tide of melting sensation that had its enervating source directly beneath his hand. And she wished, how she wished, she hadn’t swallowed all that brandy so quickly. That, coupled with her mental and physical exhaustion, was making it impossible for her to find the resources to get herself smartly out of here and back into the adjoining sitting-room.
His long legs tucked more closely in behind hers as he contradicted smoothly, ‘I have every need. I can’t risk you running up to the roof and leaping out into the void again, can I?’ He wriggled a little, as if thoroughly enjoying the feel of her neatly rounded bottom pressed up, as it unavoidably was, against his—well, she wouldn’t let herself think of that.
She suggested on a highly suspect gasp, ‘You could lock the door to the stairs and hide the key. That way you wouldn’t have to worry!’
‘Now how could I do that,’ he questioned softly, ‘when you have so graphically told me how the very thought of being locked in anywhere gives you hysterics? There will be no more locks to keep you in, only my arms to hold you, my body close to yours to give you all the reassurance you need.’
Reassurance? She had her doubts about that, she thought hazily, fighting now to stay wide awake and fully alert as his breathing settled down to a drowsy rhythm.
He had got her where he had intended her to be all along: cuddled up beside him in this sinfully luxurious bed.
But his reasons weren’t the same as they had undoubtedly been before. No, of course they weren’t. Then he had big-headedly expected her to buy her freedom with her body. Now his motives were entirely different, weren’t they?
Of course they were, she reminded herself very quickly.
He was simply making doubly sure that his weakminded, hysterical captive would not make a second attempt to do away with herself. He wouldn’t want that type of scandal. It would bring dishonour on his no doubt illustrious and proud name.
On that reassuring piece of deduction she relaxed into the sheltering curve of his body and fell instantly and blissfully asleep.
CHAPTER SIX
THE rattle of china and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee woke her.
Sarah blinked her eyes rapidly and opened them to the warm golden sunlight which made the faded gold silk of the wall-coverings glow and shimmer, reflecting their light up on to the magnificent wooden mudéjar ceiling, and then her gaze homed in on the equally magnificent Spaniard.
At least he was up and dressed, she thought thankfully, surreptitiously wriggling further down in the bed for the sake of modesty. And that was a decided comfort, not to mention a huge relief, because she could have woken and found herself still held tightly in his arms, his warm male body curved protectively around hers, his hands all over the place.
Although, she had to admit uncomfortably, the very sight of him, so tall, so commanding, his hard, handsome face freshly shaved, his superb body clothed in leg-clipping black trousers and a flowing white shirt, set off a decidedly unfortunate chain reaction within her.
A reaction she simply had to ignore, she informed herself strictly. If you ignored something long enough it would cease to trouble you. Wouldn’t it?
Her body had no right to respond so—so dramatically to this dreadful, lawless man. Her mind would take charge and dictate otherwise, she consoled herself. And she would dwell exclusively on the advantage she’d gained late last night. Work on it, make it come right for her. Because at the moment the down-side of the coin was his seemingly chivalrous need to give her his ‘protection’ in bed!
She had to make sure there wouldn’t be a repeat performance, and—
‘Do you always take this long to come awake?’
The dark, smoky voice cut through her mental ramblings and she looked at him from wary eyes, making rapid assessments. He had pulled a heavily carved, straight-backed chair to the foot of the bed and was just sitting there now, watching her between his thick lashes, the enigmatic expression he seemed to have mastered so well firmly in place.
She hated it when he looked at her like that. She didn’t know what was going on inside that wellshaped skull. Was he about to fling open doors and let her go? Drive her to the airport to make sure she got on a flight back to England? Surely, after last night’s performance, he wouldn’t want the responsibility of keeping her here?
‘What’s the point in waking up to a prison?’ she asked with thin petulance, just to ram her feebleness home—in the unlikely event of any forgetfulness on his part. ‘You don’t know how badly all this is affecting me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I do,’ he replied with a silkiness that had her frowning. ‘And your “prison”, as you call it, is something we have to discuss. So drink your coffee and get dressed. We’ll have breakfast together in the courtyard and talk it through.’
The smile he gave her was utterly disarming, as no doubt it was calculated to be, she decided cynically, ignoring it, locating the source of the heavenly aroma as she turned her head to the side-table where he had obviously placed the wide-bowled cup of steaming coffee as she had struggled up from sleep.
Breakfast in the courtyard, and a discussion, sounded hopeful. At least he was no longer planning on keeping her locked in here for the duration. If she handled the discussion part of it carefully she could be out of here and on her way by noon.
‘If you insist.’ She made herself sound uninterested. She reached for the cup. ‘I’ll join you as soon as I’m ready. I can find my own way.’
‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Black eyes glimmered. ‘After the fright you gave me last night I can’t have you wandering around on your own. Who knows what you might take it into your head to do?’
Pig! He couldn’t really believe, could he, that she was that unbalanced? Although he had been satisfyingly convinced by her charade last night. She was, she recognised crossly, hoist with her own petard. Smothering a sigh, she said demurely, ‘Then you must give me the privacy to get washed and dressed in the bathroom.’ With the door firmly locked, she added silently. But he gave her back a sorrowful shake of his head.
‘Afraid not. You might hack your head off with one of my razors. Believe me, I’m no voyeur. But unfortunately you leave me no choice.’
She eyed him suspiciously over the rim of her cup, considering her options.
He looked sincere enough, but then she wouldn’t trust him with an orphan’s piggy-bank, let alone trust him to be up front with his enemy’s daughter, the woman he was openly using as bait. Goodness only knew what was going on behind those black Spanish eyes. Concern for her well-being, after that splendid piece of acting on her part? Or something nasty and utterly, utterly devious?
As far as she was concerned, she had two options: refuse point-blank to move out of this bed until he had taken himself off, and risk making him too angry even to think about discussing anything, or allow him to think he’d won this round, meekly do as she’d been told and so be able to have that vital conversation while he was still in a reasonable mood.
Grinding her teeth with exasperation, she slid out of bed, grabbed her fresh underwear from her travel bag, yesterday’s clothes from the wardrobe, refusing to look at him, and stamped into the bathroom, trying with one frantic hand to prevent the ripped nightie from gaping too revealingly.
He padded closely behind her, pushing the bathroom door back into its frame and standing in front of it, and she twisted round, quelling the instinct to yell at him, and managed to demand in clear, cool tones, her dignity commendably in place despite the strain he was putting on it, ‘Do the gentlemanly thing and turn your back. I promise not
to go near your razors.’ Which was a touch tart, she realised belatedly, for someone who only hours ago had been supposedly rendered desperate enough to consider suicide as an option!
A flicker of what looked like amusement kindled deep in those fascinating eyes. But she couldn’t be sure because he obligingly turned away. After giving his averted profile a quick hard look, she regretfully ruled both the bath and the shower out of play and made for the basin. She would clean her teeth, quickly wash her face then scamper into her clothes and earn herself a civilised discussion, one which would go all her way—provided she continued to play her cards right.
Her scanty ablutions over, she dragged her nightie over her head, moaning inwardly as she heard the fragile fabric rip even further, and as she emerged from the folds she looked up to find his innocently bland face directly in front of her. And slapped it.
He didn’t even flinch. Just caught both her hands between one of his, holding her at arm’s length. He looked, she thought wildly, as if he’d been used to women slapping his face every day of the week. And that made no sense at all because no woman in her right mind would want to slap this handsome devil. Except this one, of course, she reminded herself, tugging, trying to release her hands, feeling her face go crimson with embarrassment. But he simply held them tighter, his mouth curling softly, his velvet-soft voice shiveringly sensual as he asked her unforgivably, ‘Why the virginal reaction? I’ve seen it all before, remember? You showed me.’
‘I did no such thing!’ she spluttered, outraged, but she might just as well have held her tongue because he went on, the light in the incandescent depths of his eyes kindling alarmingly, ‘Seen every delectable inch, and held it all, cuddled up against me, me and those edible curves sinking together into a feathery mattress—’
‘Just shut up, will you?’ If her hands had been free she would have clamped them over her ears to block out that hatefully sensual voice. The things he was saying were sending her into a state of frantic confusion, and the way he was looking at her, his heavy-lidded eyes wandering lazily all over her body, had set up a heated internal quivering that was relentlessly taking her over. ‘And let go of me!’ she squawked through the breath that was sobbing in her lungs. ‘I asked you to turn your back!’
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