by Robyn Donald
She sensed rather than saw him move, but as she turned to follow his gaze he swung violently around and pushed her in behind him, clamping her against the stone so that she couldn’t move, could barely breathe.
Something like an electric shock ran through her; she gasped and pushed at his big, taut body, frantic to get away. ‘What—?’ she spluttered, sudden primitive terror rendering her witless. Hideous thoughts of bears and wolves flashed across her mind.
‘Quiet,’ he growled.
She froze, senses so heightened she heard the soft call of a bird in the trees, the small chirrup of an insect close by, the soft whispering of the tiny stream at her feet, smelt the perfume of crushed grass and pine balsam. And over it, she thought wildly, the subtle alteration to his body scent that indicated an elemental change in him, the subliminal sound of his blood coursing through his body, the hyper-awareness of a man preparing for danger. Pinned out of harm’s way, Jacoba regulated her breathing so that she could pick up any slight sound that might indicate an intruder.
For long minutes he stayed still and silent as a predator, until slowly his big body relaxed.
Without moving he said in an undertone that barely carried to her ears, ‘I thought I saw movement through the trees.’
He moved away, and she took a deep breath that sounded like a sob. If she’d had any remaining doubts about his motives for the farce of their engagement, his actions had destroyed them.
‘What did you think it might be?’ she asked steadily.
He shrugged. ‘I thought it was probably a bird,’ he said, ‘but I wasn’t sure.’ He glanced around and took her hand. ‘Come on. Stay close to me.’
The eerie stillness of the clearing seemed alive, as though eyes watched them all the way back to the horses. Once they were there he said, ‘It was almost certainly a bird, but promise me you won’t go outside the castle by yourself.’
‘I won’t.’ She shivered. ‘It’s so quiet.’
He gave her a keen glance, and unexpectedly slipped his arm around her shoulders to hug her close. ‘It’s an uncanny place, but we Considines believe that we’re safe here.’
Like that, his strength at her command, she felt safe too. And then desolate when he let her go to throw her up into the saddle. Jacoba watched him mount, eyes following the flexing, powerful muscles in his shoulders. The chill beneath her ribs dissolved into a pool of heat.
The following week she was presented to the people of the valley as Prince Marco’s chosen bride, and, although she understood the motives for the very public display of possessiveness on his part, playing the part of an adoring lover hurt her deeply.
To Jacoba’s astonishment, Hawke arrived at the castle on the second day, bringing Princess Melissa, so happy that she radiated it.
‘So it worked out for you,’ said to him after dinner. ‘I’m glad.’
He glanced at the princess, and smiled. ‘It worked out,’ he said. ‘And for you?’
She returned his smile with a glowing one of her own. ‘As you see,’ said brightly, acting for all she was worth. ‘When do you announce your engagement?’
‘In about a month’s time. We decided yours was more important.’
She glanced at him, saw his understanding and gave him a bleak smile. As if she’d signalled to him, Marco crossed the gracious wood-panelled room and looped an arm around her shoulder.
He was an excellent actor, she thought, heart splintering as she wished that things were different…
The family were gathering—the next arrival being Gabe’s fiancée, Sara Milton, a serene woman with an innate sense of style that made her an excellent decorator. On the following day they all flew to the capital for a royal reception in the castle there. Judging by the waves from the locals and the cheering and the smiles, the occasion was a huge success.
Jacoba liked the royal couple, Prince Alex and his charming wife, Ianthe, a New Zealander who’d made a name for herself studying the dolphins in the huge lake a few miles away. She enjoyed the three small children in the nursery, two chatty little princesses and a tearaway of a crown prince.
In fact, she liked everything about Illyria, she thought, and once again found herself futilely wishing that things had happened differently. On the surface Marco was the perfect lover, but she sensed a difference in him, a distancing that hurt her beyond bearing.
They stayed in the capital city until she and Marco drove to the airport to fly to London and the launch of the perfume. Jacoba gazed at the early-morning city, red-roofed and bright in the sun, and asked, ‘How do you think things went?’
‘Very well. You’re a hit with the family.’
His tone was so noncommittal she looked across at him, her eyes anxiously searching his face. ‘You’re sure Lexie will be safe when she comes?’
Her sister was finishing her tour of the Outback; after the ball in London Marco would escort Jacoba back to the Wolf’s Lair and then go on to collect Lexie.
‘Nothing is certain,’ he said, ‘but now that the news of her paternity is out, she’ll be safer with us than anywhere else.’
‘So it—the plan—everything—seems to be working.’
He nodded, scanning her face. ‘I think our engagement is doing something that the rule of law can’t do—it’s making the cessation of feudal revenge emotionally satisfying.’
A note in his voice warned her that she wasn’t going to like where this was leading. ‘But?’ she prompted.
Coolly, unemotionally, he said, ‘But I suspect that an engagement won’t suffice.’
An icy dread licked down her spine. ‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘We’re going to have to marry.’
The more Jacoba saw of the poverty and the tough courage of the people, their good humour and gritty determination to overcome the dictator’s dark legacy, the more she admired them. She understood why Marco and his family were so uncompromisingly dedicated to helping them.
But being with him, enduring his falsely tender concern for her, his smiles and touches and his presence, had been hell. The love she’d discovered seven days previously seemed weak and childish now she’d had time to learn something of the real man, to discover the pragmatic compassion beneath the autocratic veneer.
Marriage to him would be an anguish of frustrated love, of forlorn hope that would never be assuaged. She couldn’t bear it, she thought, staring out at the country that held all his loyalty.
Thinly she said, ‘Is this also a decision of Prince Alex’s and the council?’
She kept her face turned away from him, so he was able to study her profile. She always looked perfect in the classical clothes she favoured, sleekly expensive and elegant, and this morning she’d pulled her hair back from her face to reveal her exquisite features.
His gut contracted as though at a blow, closely followed by a surge of reckless sexual drive.
How the hell had she managed to strip him of his normal male interest in other women? Before he’d found out who she was he’d tried to push her from his mind, even instigating an intimate dinner in London with a woman he both liked and admired. They’d had a very pleasant evening with good conversation and laughter; he’d been able to fool himself that he wanted her.
Only to leave her surprised and disappointed on her doorstep.
Now all he wanted was to take Jacoba to bed and spend hours—no, damn it, days with her there. He despised himself for being in thrall to a primitive hunger as uncivilised as it was powerful.
She wanted him too, but she wasn’t any happier than he was at the thought of marriage. Her soft, full lips were compressed, and a tiny frown had appeared between her brows.
Marco hardened his heart. He said, ‘No. My own reading of the situation. I was too sanguine about an engagement doing the trick; as we’ve travelled around, I’ve felt that the only way to convince people that we’re serious about this is to marry.’
White-faced, she said, ‘And stay married?’
‘Yes.’ He
took her hand, feeling the sudden leap of her pulse beneath his thumb. ‘Would it be so difficult?’
The car slowed to avoid an old man, stooped and slow, driving a donkey. He looked up, and recognised the car. A smile split his face and he waved. Jacoba could have screamed. He had no right to be there, undermining her conviction that she should refuse to even entertain the idea.
‘You’re bound by duty, aren’t you?’ said bitterly as the car picked up speed again.
‘Yes. And, like me, you owe these people.’
She flashed a furious glance at his hard face. ‘I know,’ she said, and felt hot tears well into her eyes. ‘So yes, I’ll marry you—for their sake, and for Lexie’s.’
His hand tightened on hers, and then released it. Very formally he said, ‘I’ll try to be a good husband to you. I certainly won’t be unfaithful.’
‘Neither will I,’ she said quietly, relinquishing the last of her hopes. After all, she wouldn’t be the first woman who’d married a Considine for reasons of state.
Instead of the modern penthouse apartment she’d suspected the prince might live in, he’d chosen one of a set of superb Georgian townhouses.
Well, with his heritage she shouldn’t have been surprised.
‘Your clothes have already been transferred here,’ he said, showing her to her bedroom. ‘I believe it will take you most of the day to get ready for the ball. I’ll be at the office.’
In a way, that was a relief. The ball would be a spectacular occasion to benefit a charity that provided a psychological boost to women suffering the ravages of illness by organising and donating demonstrations of cosmetics. Invitations had been sent to everyone who was anyone.
And everyone had accepted; already people were talking about the party of the year.
It didn’t take her most of the day to get ready, and butterflies flocked around her stomach as she sat in her bedroom waiting for Marco to knock on the door. She’d reprised the crimson ballgown she’d worn for the video shoot, with her hair piled high and cosmetics applied by her favourite expert.
Now she was assailed by an uneasy foreboding, an emptiness that felt like the precursor of panic.
It would, she thought fiercely, be so much easier to break free of this degrading desperation of desire if it were one-sided.
Whenever they were together that wild heat burned her; whenever she met Marco’s eyes she saw fire in ice, a hunger that restraint only served to feed.
But there was more to it than undiluted lust, reluctant though she was to admit it. She found his presence keenly stimulating, relished crossing swords with him in conversation—she even liked the way his tone gentled when he spoke of his sister…
And then she heard his voice. She took a deep breath and opened the door to him and another man—a security man who carried a locked bag.
Marco filled her gaze, and something in her snapped, shattered. He looked—different, she thought wildly, but she didn’t have time to work out what the difference was.
He held her eyes for a moment’s intent scrutiny, then said quietly, ‘That dress and you were made for each other.’
Her heart jumping, Jacoba said, ‘Thank you.’
Excitement clawed her as the guard unlocked the bag.
‘Thank you,’ said, and opened the case that held the necklace. ‘Do you need help?’
‘No.’ voice sounded thin and taut. ‘It slips over my head.’
She took the exquisite chain of fire and ice and walked across to the mirror. Marco brought across the earrings, watching as she settled the necklace into place. The earrings followed.
‘I’ll put this on,’ he said, and positioned the tiara, arrogant features absorbed. ‘Does it need pinning?’
‘No.’ In spite of the security guard, the intimacy of the moment sent rills of intense emotion through her. She cleared her throat, and lifted her hands to settle the tiara. ‘My hair keeps it in place—see?’ She summoned a smile that felt as fake as she was. ‘I can’t do any wild dancing, but it’s steady.’
Their eyes met in the mirror, his narrowed into steel-blue slivers, hers dark and shadowed. Jacoba’s breath stopped in her throat; for a long second she heard nothing but the pulse of her blood through her veins, felt nothing but bitter-sweet joy at his closeness.
It took every bit of will-power she possessed to look away, blindly reach for the gloves and try to lose herself in the task of putting them on.
Marco forced himself to breathe slowly, to tamp down the heated rush of emotion that clouded his brain with intoxicating fumes.
She was magnificent, a woman out of a fairy tale, dangerous and provocative and ethereally beautiful, the crimson silk moulding her narrow waist and hips, her bare shoulders creamy in the lights.
Desire ached like pain through him. She glanced up as though his thoughts had manifested themselves, and swift, fugitive colour tinged her skin. For another long moment their eyes locked and held in the mirror.
‘Ready?’ he asked, breaking the taut silence.
‘Yes.’ She smoothed the fingers of her gloves.
He picked up the silk cape hanging on the back of the chair, and dropped it over her shoulders. ‘Then let’s go.’
In the limousine, with the security guard in front, she commented in a remote voice, ‘I hope you had a good day.’
He turned his head and looked at her elegant profile, the soft lips full and provocative in the lights of London.
‘An excellent one, thank you. Perhaps because I’m feeling rather pleased with life at the moment,’ he said casually, and reached across to take her hand, folding his fingers around hers.
Jacoba’s heart jumped. She sent him a startled glance before hastily turning her face towards the road again, thoughts scrambling through her brain.
What did he mean? He looked as arrogant and uncom- promising as ever, but something in his tone told her that his very suspect pleasure was related to her.
She risked another sideways glance. Perhaps it was a trick of the lights outside that tinged his smile with tenderness; a wistful hope burgeoned into life as, hand-locked and silent like lovers sealing a pact, they journeyed through the streets of London to the venue.
Where they were faced with a barrage of flashlights and more than a few intrusive questions. Jacoba forced herself into business mode, ignoring the more cheeky of the questions, answering the ones directed at her, listening with a smile to Marco’s adroit handling of those aimed at him.
But the one that hurt was directed at her.
‘Is it true that your engagement is a publicity stunt to rev up hype about the new perfume?’ one hard-bitten journalist asked on a slight sneer.
She lifted her brows and said, ‘Grow up.’
Marco said smoothly, ‘If you can’t tell the difference between publicity and real life, you’re in the wrong job.’
‘Then how about a kiss? Just to prove it.’
Marco took Jacoba’s hand. ‘We don’t have to prove anything,’ he said caustically, and escorted her into the venue.
Once inside she gazed around the huge room, each table a small golden oasis lit by candles, the ceiling studded by fairy lights to look like stars—even the same type of huge Venetian chandelier used in the shoot.
‘It looks very much more the real thing,’ she said as they moved towards their table.
‘I was surprised at how much like the real thing the restaurant at the top of the ski lift looked,’ Marco replied, his voice deep and sure and surprisingly reassuring.
‘Me too,’ she said ungrammatically. ‘But that’s modern film-making for you—the theatre of illusion.’
‘Like so much in modern life.’ He changed the subject. ‘You’re wearing the perfume, I notice.’
She’d been given a tiny phial of the precious stuff. ‘Of course. I notice there’s some for every woman here. When will we learn the name?’
‘After the video’s been shown.’
Of course, the evening went smoothly; it wouldn’
t dare do anything else with the prince in charge. The food was superb, the wine magnificent and Marco’s witty speech short.
At the end of it he turned to her and reached out a hand. ‘Ladies and gentleman, I give you the face of Princessa—Jacoba Sinclair.’
The Illyrian word for princess! As applause swelled in the ballroom, she rose to stand beside him and swept a full court curtsey, a smile pinned to her face while he briefly praised her part in the video with humour and style.
A representative of the charity spoke with heartfelt passion, and then the lights were dimmed and on the huge screen the video was presented.
It was the first time she’d seen it in its entirety; she watched keenly, relaxing only when it became obvious that the scenes in the ski restaurant had been replaced entirely with the later shots from the warehouse in Auckland. She was relieved; she didn’t want the world to see her face when she’d danced with Marco for the first time.
After the applause died down, the band struck up a waltz.
‘Our dance,’ Marco said, getting to his feet.
Ignoring the flash of cameras, Jacoba went into his arms, every cell in her body tense and expectant, keeping her gaze fixed on the dancers behind.
She surprised herself by asking suddenly, ‘Do you ever think that the money that’s paying for this could be better spent?’
‘Naturally,’ Marco said evenly. ‘All of this is for one thing only—to earn enough money to give the people of Illyria their chance to enter the modern world. There are spin-offs, of course—not least the pleasure the perfume will give to millions of women—’ he paused before finishing on a note that made her catch her breath ‘—and their men.’
‘Is that why you’re pulling out all the stops for this promotion?’
He was silent a moment before saying, ‘Yes. But also because when I do something I like to do it well. Like you.’
From beneath long lashes she sent him a startled glance. ‘How do you know that?’
His shoulder moved beneath her hand. ‘I watched you while you were shooting. You had your own suggestions, even though the director resented them, and you gave it everything you had. Have you thought of being an actress?’