The Prince's Convenient Bride

by Robyn Donald

  ‘Miss me,’ he said in a deep voice that sent little shivers down her spine.

  ‘You know I will.’

  But would he miss her? She had no idea what he felt for her—whether this was his technique with his mistresses, or whether he felt something different for her. Loving him as she did, she couldn’t suppress her hope that it might be the latter.

  He’d promised that Lexie would be safer if the Considines accepted her, and she believed him, but an inchoate foreboding made her shiver.

  She hugged him fiercely. ‘Take care,’ said quietly, and at last he kissed her, tearing himself away with reluctance so obvious that it kept her sane during the following days in the Wolf’s Lair. With everyone away, she wondered if this was to be her fate—alone and lonely in a strange place.

  ‘Self-pitying wrench!’ scolded. Disgusted with herself, she decided to learn as much as she could about the country and the family that had ruled it for so long.

  The housekeeper, Marya, understood and eagerly seconded her decision. She took Jacoba under her wing, showing her the apartments in the castle, most still appallingly decorated by the dictator.

  ‘They’ll soon be redecorated. The lady Sara has great plans for them,’ elderly woman said with satisfaction on the day Marco and Lexie were due. She smiled when she saw Jacoba frown at a repulsive clock set in the stomach of a naked woman. ‘It will be another two hours before Prince Marco and your sister arrive, so why don’t you have a swim? It will help pass the time.’

  It would. ‘Good idea,’ Jacoba said.

  The swimming pool took up what had once been the castle jousting ground. A lonely little tower that used to be the dovecote looked down on the area. ‘Prince Gabriele intends to convert it into a summer house one day,’ Marya had told her, ‘but it’s empty now. We store the deckchairs and the loungers there in winter.’

  Jacoba swam until she was exhausted, then towelled herself dry and looked up at the castle. Marco had told her it had never been taken, and she could see why; its high stone walls towered above the valley. Lexie would be safe here—but she couldn’t stay here the rest of her life!

  God, she hoped Marco and his brothers and their cousin the prince who ruled this lovely place were all correct when they assumed that recognising Lexie as a Considine would make her safe!

  She shivered, skin prickling. It was stupid to feel that someone was watching her. Possibly someone was; a maid from one of the narrow windows, or even Marya. But eventually the eerie feeling drove her to her feet. Picking up her towels, she walked towards the little tower that had once held doves. She’d been charmed by the idea of Marco’s warlike ancestors enjoying such symbols of peace, until Marya had explained that the doves were used as meat during the winters.

  Of course their lives, and the lives of those who followed them, depended on such blunt pragmatism. She wandered around to a small enclave of lawn and flowerbeds, overlooked only by the windows from the little tower. Its grass and flowers were a soothing contrast to the overt might of stone walls and crenellations.

  She bent to smell a rose, and someone poked something into the small of her back and a male voice said in guttural Illyrian, ‘If you cry out I will kill you. Walk towards the door of the tower.’

  Sheer shock froze her until a sudden shove hurtled her towards the door.

  It took a moment or two for the panic to die enough for her to be able to say, ‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’

  Her voice shook, but the words were clear enough.

  ‘Get inside,’ he muttered, the barrel of the pistol digging into her spine.

  Gathering her courage, she stopped. ‘I’m not going in there,’ she croaked. ‘It’s dark.’

  ‘And are you afraid of the dark, you redheaded witch?’ he sneered, pushing her on without compunction. ‘Good.’

  Mind racing, she knew that once inside she had little chance. If she screamed—but no, even the most piercing scream would be muffled by the solid stone between her and the castle. Moving as slowly as she dared, she said, ‘I want to know where you’re taking me.’

  ‘To hell,’ he said after a second. ‘To join your traitor of a mother and the man who killed your father and mine.’

  ‘Well, you can shoot me out here in the sunlight,’ said. Too late to wish she’d learned some sort of self-defence, but she wasn’t going to walk meekly to her own death.

  Adrenalin pounding through her veins, she whirled around with flailing arms and clenched fists. The pistol went flying—she grabbed for it, but he punched her just below the heart. Gasping, she sagged to her knees, barely conscious of him snatching up the gun. Her chest heaved as she fought for breath and her brain went numb.

  ‘Walk, whore,’ he commanded, his voice rising. ‘Walk!’

  It was impossible to obey. Bent double, she could barely hear him through the roaring in her ears and the sound of her wheezing. Dimly, she was aware of him tying her hands behind her back, and her ankles together with brutal, painful efficiency, and then he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She tried to knee him in the testicles, but her body was still struggling with the effects of the blow; she couldn’t summon any strength to her legs.

  He was immensely strong, because almost immediately they began to descend dimly lit steps that wound their way down into the darkness.

  Jacoba forced herself to lie still, to recover her breath and her wits. In the second before he’d hit her, she’d seen his face. He didn’t look like a murderer, she thought dazedly. But then, if murderers looked like their sins, people would know not to trust them. Hysteria gripped her; she clenched her teeth and fought it back.

  He was a little taller than her, dark and good-looking in a haggard way, his face brown and weather-beaten with a scar that went from his left temple to his chin, but she suspected he was no more than ten years older than she was. But that single glance had told her that he was determined to kill her. Once he’d done that, he’d lie in wait for Lexie.

  She choked back a terrified sob. No, Marco would make sure Lexie was kept safe.

  Once, somewhere, she’d read that the best way to defend yourself was to make the kidnapper realise that you were a human being.

  When her nausea had faded and her breath and heart had steadied, she said quietly, ‘Did you hit me in the solar plexus?’

  He grunted.

  ‘It’s never happened to me before,’ she said. ‘I thought I was going to be sick.’

  Roughly her abductor said, ‘It incorporates some very important nerves. There will be no lasting damage.’

  Jacoba had to choke a spasm of nervous laughter. Of course there wouldn’t be—in a few minutes she’d be dead. Into the silence that followed she said, ‘Are you a doctor?’

  He tensed, then lowered her onto a cold stone floor. The sudden movement so startled her that she cried out.

  When she was silent again he snarled, ‘No.’ His torch swept the walls and the floor. ‘It is a dungeon cell,’ he explained roughly. ‘Your father died here. Perhaps his ghost will come to you while you wait for death.’

  ‘What do you mean—wait?’ Panic thinned her voice. ‘I thought you were going to shoot me.’

  ‘I have already spent too much time here,’ he said, and turned and went out, closing the door behind him to leave her in total darkness.

  She cried out then but, although she heard his footsteps falter on the stone steps, he didn’t come back.

  At first she thought she’d go mad, but she fought panic with every weapon at her command. ‘First,’ she said, voice quavering into the thick darkness, ‘I have to get my arms to the front. He didn’t lock the door, so if I do that I might be able to untie my ankles, and then get out.’

  Thanking the determination that had kept her going to the gym—and that she was naturally supple—she managed to work her legs through her arms, even though the cords cut into the skin. Eventually, after tears and grim persistence, she succeeded. Flexing her fingers, she began picking at the
knots around her ankles. If only she had a light…

  ‘You don’t, so keep going,’ she said firmly.

  But although he’d tied them swiftly, those knots held. Eventually, after what seemed hours, she bent her head onto her knees and wept in sheer frustration until she could cry no more.

  A soft sound brought her head up. Rats, she thought on a chill of horror. Or bats? Opening her eyes to their widest, she scanned the darkness and bit her lips to stop herself from screaming. Her flesh crawled; she held her breath and strained to hear.

  Eventually, when no further sound came, she relaxed and began again, working at the knots. She had to get out of here.

  Had her father really died here, or had that just been a vicious twist to make her even more afraid? Her mother had told her he’d died in an ambush.

  Had Paulo Considine lied to the woman he’d married?

  Probably, she thought wearily, tugging hopelessly at the first knot. Incredulously she realised that it seemed a little looser, and instant hope revived her. Holding her breath, she slowed down her movements, terrified that if she pulled too hard she’d tighten the knot again. Slowly, delicately, she coaxed the loose end of cord free.

  ‘Thank you, Papa,’ she said in soft Illyrian.

  The next knot was more difficult. Her fingers were tired and she was getting cold, but she forced herself to continue working until eventually it too eased free, and she could move her feet.

  It took her a long time to stand; her muscles were stiff with cold and reaction, and she spent some time on her knees before she dared push upright. The blood rushed painfully through her; she gave a sharp, quick sob, and realised that she was both hungry and thirsty, and desperate to relieve herself.

  She ignored everything and stumbled forward, her hands held out in front of her. The wall was cold and rough, and she whimpered when she came too abruptly to a corner and hit her head, but she had to find the door.

  But when her questing hand found the heavy wood, although she groped urgently as far as she could reach, she couldn’t find a handle. Desperate, she pushed with all her might, but it failed to yield.

  Eventually she had to accept that there was no way out.

  She collapsed into a crouch, hot tears dripping down her cheeks, utterly spent. And somehow, in spite of everything, she slept, waking to—what?

  A voice—one she’d been so sure she’d never hear again.

  Marco was calling, ‘Jacoba. Jacoba, can you hear me?’

  She had to swallow before she could answer. ‘Here,’ she croaked. ‘Here.’

  The next few minutes were a whirl of emotion; she was sobbing when he lifted her into his arms and held her clamped against his heart. ‘Beloved,’ he said fiercely. ‘My dearest heart, are you all right?’

  And then he froze. In a voice she could hardly hear, he whispered against her ear, ‘Quiet. And whatever happens, don’t move.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  STARK, UNBEARABLE TERROR kicked Jacoba in the stomach. She couldn’t bear it if he died here with her…

  Silently, he lowered her to her feet and stood between her and the dim light that bobbed towards them.

  The newcomer stopped at the door of the cell.

  ‘I do not want you, Your Highness.’ It was a voice she recognised only too well. ‘My business is with the redheaded witch who has caught you in her claws.’

  Marco said calmly, ‘You will have to kill me to get to her.’

  His composure astonished and frightened Jacoba. She couldn’t stop shivering and her brain was sluggish and thick, struggling to make sense of what was happening.

  The man said harshly, ‘I do not want to harm you, but if I have to do so, I will do it. I must kill the woman. Her mother betrayed my father’s brother, and sent him to his death so that she could marry Paulo Considine .’

  Still in that same calm tone Marco enquired, ‘So you plan to kill your cousin?’

  ‘She owes me the blood debt. Her father died in this cell. Her mother married the monster who killed your grandparents, may his soul rot in hell for all eternity. They are probably looking down from heaven, cursing you for making her your whore.’

  ‘Even if that is so, what has she done to harm you?’

  Silence. Jacoba held her breath until the man—her cousin, she realised, astonished—said fiercely, ‘You should know how it is with us. Blood pays for blood. I swore to my father on his deathbed that I would collect the debt from her if she was alive.’

  ‘So why didn’t you kill her instead of bringing her here?’ Marco sounded interested, not condemnatory.

  The man hesitated before admitting sullenly, ‘I went to shoot her, but I—could not. I am unworthy of my father’s trust. But I had promised him, so I left her in the cell in which my uncle died.’

  ‘And why did you come back?’

  The man waited longer this time before speaking. Angrily he said, ‘To kill her. I could not—could not let her die in the dark and alone. I would not do that to a dog, to a rat, shut up without food or water or light.’ He paused. ‘So I decided on a quick, clean death.’

  ‘I suggest that you were not planning to kill her,’ Marco said, his tone reflective and cool. ‘I know who you are, and I have heard that you are a healer. Healers do not murder. You were going to let her go.’

  Clearly agitated, the man shouted, ‘I promised my father—on my knees, I promised him! He had lost everyone but me, and it was all due to that woman—her mother.’

  Jacoba tensed and gripped Marco’s shirt. Marco was reputed to be a born negotiator, but how could he keep his voice so steady, so level, when it was obvious the kidnapper was getting anxious? Anxious people made mistakes—like shooting the wrong person.

  The thought of him dying—of all that proud male vitality brought low by a man’s attempt to right an old tragedy—filled Jacoba with horror.

  She’d rather die herself.

  No sooner had the thought come into her head than she acted on it, hurling herself out from behind Marco with all her strength. He roared at her, a great shout of despair and rage, and grabbed her, thrusting her back so that she was protected by his body.

  Into the sudden silence, another voice intervened. Marya, the housekeeper, said, ‘He is right, Piero, and you know it. You came back to let her go.’

  ‘It was well done,’ Marco said. ‘Because your father was wrong when he thought her mother betrayed the partisans.’

  ‘I do not believe you,’ shouted furiously. ‘Very well, I was going to let her go, and then I was going to kill myself, for I could not do it.’

  He made a grab for his pocket, but Marco reached him before he was able to drag out the pistol, and they fought, struggling in the near-darkness. Jacoba looked around for something to clobber Piero with, but there was nothing.

  And it wasn’t necessary. Piero was strong, but Marco was taller and stronger; after a short, no-holds-barred struggle, he wrested the weapon from his antagonist.

  ‘What good will killing yourself do?’ he asked, breathing heavily. ‘You are needed here. Marya tells me you are famous for your healing skills with animals. What will the farmers do if you die? Killing yourself is selfish.’

  The beaten man said nothing. In a voice that reminded Jacoba oddly of Marco at his most high-handed, Marya said, ‘Listen to me, Piero! You know me well. I do not lie, and I say to you that this woman’s mother did not betray her husband or mine, or the prince’s grandparents. I know this, because I killed the person who did it.’

  ‘Who was it?’ he asked hoarsely.

  She made a swift, decisive gesture with her hand. ‘It does not matter now. It is finished.’

  Stunned, Jacoba straightened up, but the narrow cell spun about her, and she gave a low groan and crumpled. Just before unconsciousness claimed her she felt Marco’s arms around her, and knew she was safe.

  She woke in her bedroom, and stared at the ceiling, blinking heavily until she realised where she was. Her wrists were hurting like hell an
d she tried to ease them into a more comfortable position.

  ‘You’re all right—the doctor said you’re dehydrated and tired and hungry, but apart from that you’re fine.’

  Marco’s voice—and very grim he sounded. He was standing beside the bed, looking down at her.

  ‘What doctor?’ she croaked. ‘I didn’t think there was one in the valley.’

  ‘I flew one in from the main hospital in the capital.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said weakly. ‘So it wasn’t a dream. I’m sorry I fainted. I suppose everything just caught up with me.’

  He said in a voice she’d never heard before, ‘If you ever—ever do anything like that again, I will see to it that you can’t sit down for a week.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ she said robustly, a spark of joy warming her. ‘You were doing exactly the same for me—protecting me. What else could I do? He was getting nervous, and I’d rather die than have you die…’

  ‘Why?’

  A note in his voice made her look up sharply.

  Their eyes locked, and she said quietly, ‘Because I love you.’

  He dropped to his knees and took her face in his hands, careful not to touch her bandaged wrists. Face drawn and haggard, he said, ‘When Lexie and I got back here to find out that you’d been taken, I—hell, Jacoba, I nearly went mad. I thought you were dead. I’d made you come here, and promised you’d be safe.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ soothed. ‘Everything’s fine. As a villain, he’s no great shakes.’

  ‘Nevertheless I’m not ever going through that again,’ Marco said firmly. ‘We’ll get married tomorrow, and then we’ll get the hell out of this place and never come back.’

  She closed her eyes, because the world was dizzily spinning again. ‘That’s taking remorse a little too far,’ she croaked.

  ‘Remorse?’ he said explosively, that iron-bound control shattered completely. ‘I don’t want to marry you because of remorse. I’ve been trying not to fall in love with you, but while I was picking up Lexie I realised it was hopeless. I missed you so much. It was like leaving half of me behind. Coming back and finding you’d been taken—might even be dead—made me understand how deeply, irrevocably, painfully I love you—too late, I was sure.’