Hot Nights with a Spaniard (Mills & Boon M&B) (Mills & Boon Special Releases)

by Carole Mortimer

  A small smile touched her strawberry-coloured lips.

  Father Angelico continued, utterly matter-of-fact, as if he were reading out a report in the financial pages. Tristan felt his throat constrict around the words he had never intended to say. Never wanted to say. As he spoke them to the girl standing before him his voice was a harsh, sardonic rasp.

  ‘I promise to be faithful to you in prosperous times and adverse times, in healthy times and times of sickness.’ He felt his mouth twist into an ironic smile. ‘To love and respect you every day of my life.’

  Lies, all lies. Standing beneath the imposing marble altarpiece in the sight of God and all his plaster saints as he slid the plain gold band onto Lily’s slender finger, Tristan wondered savagely what punishments would be visited on him for this blasphemy.

  There was always a punishment. He had learned that from a very early age.

  The priest was talking to Lily now, enunciating slowly and precisely, and Tristan kept his eyes fixed on the face of a particularly stern looking angel on a gilded plinth as she began to repeat his words in slow, halting Spanish.

  Her voice was soft, but it seemed to carry into the high, draughty spaces of the ancient church as she made her promises of faith and love. Empty promises, he reminded himself derisively, but glancing at the priest, and across at the woman doing the flowers, he could tell that they were listening with rapt attention, all openly affected by the tenderness in Lily’s voice. Even the old man with the rosary was watching them, his lined face curiously sad.

  Tristan looked away again. Staring blankly at the face of that same damned angel, his face a hard, scowling mask from behind which he was forced to act out this charade for the sake of his family name, his blood and his history.

  And then she touched him.

  As she spoke the words that would bind them together she raised her hand and pressed it to his cheek.

  Instantly he felt heat melt the brittle carapace as his gaze was dragged back to hers. Her eyes were like moonlight, gentle and yet so bright it hurt him to look at them, and their soft luminescence seemed to reach into the darkest places inside his head. As she reached the end of her vows there was a moment’s pause while the echo of her breathless, slightly hesitant voice died away in the ancient church. But the spell cast by its tenderness remained.

  In that silence Tristan bent his head slowly and brought his mouth down on hers in the lightest of kisses.

  It was a gesture, nothing more. Part of the act, to satisfy the romantic notions of their small audience, and yet as his lips brushed hers he felt every nerve and sinew in his body tauten as fire blazed through them. He heard the sharp gasp of indrawn breath, felt her arch towards him, parting her lips to welcome his. The rose she held fell to the floor as she slid both hands around the back of his neck so that she was cradling his head; gentle, generous, loving, and the kiss wasn’t a gesture any more.

  It was hot and real.

  As if from a great distance Tristan heard the sound of applause. It broke into the dark and private world to which they had retreated, pulling them back into reality. He felt Lily’s smile against his lips as she gently disentangled herself from his hold, then she ducked her head and dropped to her knees, gathering up her little flower girl and hugging her. Father Angelico shook Tristan’s hand, and then waited until Lily had finished hugging the girl’s mother before leaning across and kissing her on both cheeks.

  Everyone was damp-eyed and smiling.

  Except him, of course. Everyone except him.

  Darkness had fallen properly outside, and the light from the lamps on either side of the church door made puddles of gold on the wet cobblestones in the square. The crisp, cold evening was filled with the delicious scent of garlic from the hotel restaurant opposite.

  Tristan let go of her hand the moment they were out of the church, and Lily felt the little flare of hope that had leapt inside her when he had kissed her fade. Her throat felt thick with the vows she’d just made, her chest tight with the enormity of what she had done. For her baby.

  That was what she had to hang onto. This was a practical arrangement for the baby. The blistering heat that had turned her insides into a churning volcano of molten longing when Tristan had kissed her had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

  He held out to her the rose she had dropped. She took it, unable to look up at him in case he read the shameful need in her face. ‘So what happens now?’

  He tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and walked over to the fountain. ‘I think that wedding nights traditionally involve considerable amounts of both champagne and passion,’ he said blandly. ‘However, ours was hardly a traditional wedding.’

  Disappointment sliced through her.

  ‘No,’ she said, unable to entirely keep the sadness from her voice as she followed him and sat on the stone rim of the fountain. ‘Or a traditional marriage.’

  ‘Second thoughts, Marquesa?

  His use of the unfamiliar title made her raise her head in surprise. He was standing in front of her, looking down at her, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. But it was his mouth that held her attention—his sculpted, sensuous mouth, which she hadn’t been able to stop herself from looking at all through their brief wedding service. He had a particular way of moving his lips when he spoke that made it look as if he were caressing the words, or saying something indecently sensual even when his voice was quite cold.

  ‘Yes,’ she said fiercely.

  His brows swooped downwards in a scowl, and he opened his mouth to make some stinging retort. Swiftly she reached up and put her fingers against his mouth, silencing him.

  ‘Yes,’ she repeated in a whisper. ‘But not about the wedding. About what kind of marriage this is going to be.’

  For a moment his face was blank with bewilderment, but then realisation dawned in his eyes, so that their blackness seemed to deepen and intensify. Slowly, wordlessly, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘You’re sure? It’s what you want, even though—’

  ‘I know. I thought I couldn’t bear to take you into my bed … into my body … and know that you don’t love me. I thought I could never do that, but now I know that I can’t bear not to. I’m sure it’s what I want.’ She rose up onto her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his ear, breathing in the clean masculine scent of his hair as she mouthed, ‘And I want it right now …’

  ‘Well, then …’ he said in a voice that made her spine melt with longing as he slipped his hands beneath the cashmere wrap, beneath the little top she wore under it. Lily gasped as they met her bare skin and slowly moved upwards, covering her breasts so that her nipples sprang up against his palms. ‘It’s just as well there’s a decent hotel just over there.’

  Taking hold of her hand, he began to walk quickly across the square. ‘Have you booked a room?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘No, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem.’

  ‘But it’s a weekend …’

  Tristan stopped, looking at her thoughtfully for a second, his beautiful face grave.

  ‘Lily, you have a lot to learn about being a Romero. It has many, many drawbacks …’ he kissed her lingeringly on the mouth ‘… so you just have to learn to make the most of the advantages. Believe me, they’ll find us a room.’

  ‘Great Aunt Agatha simply cannot be seated anywhere near the Duchess of Cranthorpe, any of Tom’s university friends, or anyone who’s ever played lacrosse for Cheltenham Ladies’ College first team. I know it’s awkward, but we cannot risk a scene like the one at the Talbot-Hesketh wedding last year …’ Lady Montague adjusted her spectacles and peered at the vast roll of paper on the breakfast table, weighted down at one end by the silver coffee pot and by the sugar tongs at the other. ‘I think if we put her on a table with …’

  The names of Great Aunt Agatha’s hapless dinner companions remained a mystery as a burst of electronic noise from Tom’s mobile phone interrupted his mother. Apologising, he picke
d it up and read the text message that had just come through.

  ‘It’s from Tristan.’ Tom frowned, reading out the message in a tone of deep bewilderment. ‘“One circuit of the moat, this morning. Naked. Photographic evidence required.’”

  Neither Scarlet nor Lady Montague looked up from the seating plan. ‘What is he talking about?’ said Scarlet vaguely.

  ‘No idea …’ Tom’s frown deepened. ‘Unless …’

  At that moment Scarlet’s phone let out a trill that made them all jump. But not as much as the shriek of astonishment that she gave a second later as she read the message that had just come through.

  Tristan and I got married last night. Will be in touch soon to explain all. In the meantime, please try to be happy. I am. Love L x

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘OK. So, explain.’

  Leaning against the wall of the hotel room, Lily stifled both a sigh and the urge to hang up the phone. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk to Scarlet, it was just she wasn’t sure where to start. How to explain.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  As she said the words she felt the swirling mist of confusion lift a little and certainty flow back into her. That, after all, was the reason at the heart of all that had happened. A shaft of pure sunlight in the midst of the fog.

  ‘Oh, Lily!’ Scarlet’s tone was warm, but Lily could hear its edge of anxiety and reproach. ‘That’s wonderful. I mean, really wonderful … but, darling—’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Is Tristan there?’

  ‘No. He went out a little while ago.’ She didn’t know where. Or why, or who with. He had offered no explanation and she had asked for none. Those were the terms that he had laid down at the outset and Lily understood that she had to abide by them. No matter how hard.

  ‘Good, then we can talk properly.’ Scarlet’s voice became suddenly businesslike, which Lily felt was a bad sign. ‘Look, I’m totally thrilled for you about the baby. Surprised,’ she said slightly tartly, ‘but I know how much having a family means to you. And that’s exactly what’s worrying me …’

  She let the sentence trail off. In the little silence that followed Lily pushed back the muslin drapes at the windows and looked down at the square below. Directly opposite she could see the high doorway in the scarred stone wall through which Tristan had led her yesterday, the doorway through which she had emerged such a short time later as his wife.

  ‘You didn’t have to marry him, you know, honey.’

  ‘I did, actually,’ Lily said quietly. ‘Don’t you see? I of all people couldn’t bring a baby up without a father or a name—I know how unfair that would be to the child.’ She paused, watching a pair of pigeons bathing in the fountain in the centre of the square, scattering rainbows of shining droplets onto the worn cobbles. ‘And it would have been unfair to Tristan too, because of who he is. What he is.’

  ‘Who he is? He’s a playboy, Lily! What he is is a sexy, gorgeous, charismatic Alpha male. What he isn’t is husband material!’

  ‘He’s doing all right so far.’

  The words came out without her thinking, but Lily found herself smiling as she looked out into the rain-grey square. It was empty now, silent except for the musical trickle of the fountain, but earlier she and Tristan had been woken by the sound of children’s voices—their shouts and laughter—echoing off the high walls. There was a school attached to the church, Tristan had told her, his fingers sleepily tracing a circle of shivering pleasure across the gentle curve of her stomach. The children used the square as their playground. To Lily it felt like a blessing. A sign.

  Scarlet gave an impatient snort. ‘I’m sure,’ she said huffily. ‘But there’s more to marriage than sex, you know.’

  Lily looked at the empty bed that had been the scene of such prolonged, such passionate lovemaking last night, and felt the smile fade and an ache run through her tired, sated body.

  Not to this one there wasn’t, she thought sadly. Not as far as her husband was concerned, anyway. Tristan came back in the early afternoon, bringing a blast of crisp autumn air into the warm room as well as several expensive-looking carrier bags. Dropping them by the door, he sauntered over to the bed, slipping off his jacket as he did so and throwing it onto a chair.

  Dozing in bed with Don Quixote, Lily felt her stomach instantly melt with desire. It was as if in the short amount of time he’d been out she’d already forgotten how incredibly handsome he was.

  Incredibly handsome, and incredibly … powerful. His presence filled the room, changing the atmosphere from one of peaceful languor to that peculiar kind of sinister stillness that preceded a thunderstorm.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Don Quixote,’ she muttered, feigning sudden interest in page thirty seven, which she’d already attempted to read about four times that morning. Anything to avoid having to confront his raw, menacing beauty.

  He gave a short, scornful laugh. ‘How appropriate. The ultimate romantic idealist.’

  Lily put the book down, bending her head so that he wouldn’t see the hurt on her face. ‘You’ve been gone ages,’ she said lightly, simply trying to make conversation, but as soon as she’d said the words she regretted them. He turned, pacing moodily back towards the bags he had left by the door.

  ‘It was business,’ he said tersely. ‘I had a meeting that I couldn’t miss.’ The words were innocuous enough but tension screamed from every line of his lean body as he scooped up the bags and tossed them onto the bed beside her. ‘I stopped on the way home to pick these up for you.’

  Hesitantly Lily reached out and pulled the first bag towards her. It was made of the sort of stiff, shiny card that would make Scarlet swoon with delight and as she glanced tentatively inside all she could see was tissue paper. It crackled like the static she could feel in the air as she pulled out the delicate parcel.

  ‘What is it?’

  He came towards her, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt with sharp, stabbing movements. Lily felt her breath stall.

  ‘Have a look.’

  She wanted to, but that meant tearing her eyes away from the strip of olive skin that was being revealed at his throat. Blindly her fingers fumbled with the paper, until they met cool, slippery satin. She looked down.

  The dress was the colour of old ivory, or bone. For a moment she just gazed down at it lying against her bare legs, looking almost incongruously expensive and precious in the rumpled chaos of the bed.

  ‘Tristan, it’s beautiful … but why?’

  A guilt present? Had the meeting that was so important been with one of his women … his mistresses? That would explain the dangerous tension that lay just beneath the surface, and the glitter in his eyes.

  ‘Because you didn’t get your white dress yesterday.’

  Lily felt her eyes sting with the threat of sudden tears. He had done it again. Every time she just about convinced herself that she could live by his cold rules and keep her own treacherous feelings hidden he brought her resolve crashing down by doing something unexpectedly, unfairly lovely. Slowly unfolding her cramped legs, she got unsteadily to her feet, so that she was standing on the bed in her tiny vest top and knickers and holding the dress up against her. It was simple and exquisite—short and close-fitting with a low neckline that swept almost from shoulder to shoulder. She let it fall again and walked across the tangle of covers towards him and bent down to wrap her arms around his neck.

  ‘Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.’

  Raised up by the height of the bed, her stomach was almost level with his face and for a second she felt him rest his head against it. Then he stiffened, pulling away and turning his back on her.

  ‘Actually I did. You’ll need something to wear tonight, and I wasn’t sure you would have brought anything smart enough.’

  ‘Smart enough for what?’

  He turned back to face her, and the expression on his face made her heart stop. She wasn’t sure whether it made her want to run away from him, or to take him in h
er arms as she had done that night in the tower.

  ‘A black tie reception for a few European chancellors and bankers at El Paraiso.’

  ‘El Paraiso?’ she echoed, her heart sinking.

  ‘My parents’ house.’

  There was something oddly flat in the way he said the words, as if he was being very careful not to let any feeling seep into them. Lily remembered him standing in the garden at Stowell the evening she’d told him about the pregnancy. I have no choice about the family I was born into, he’d said, and his voice had vibrated with all the emotion he was being so careful to keep in check now.

  ‘Ah,’ she said softly, stepping down from the bed and walking towards him with a demure smile. ‘A black-tie reception for Europe’s major financiers, and meeting your parents. Sounds like a fun evening. I can see now why the “gorgeous-dress-as-bribe” was necessary, because otherwise I might just decide I need to catch up on some of the sleep we missed out on last night and spend the evening in bed.’

  She came to a standstill in front of him, looking up at him without really lifting her head. He seemed so tall, so very lean and strong and well muscled, but somehow that just seemed to emphasise the hollowness in his eyes. There was a bitter edge to his smile.

  ‘Not a chance. Technically you’re my wife now, remember?’

  ‘Of course.’ She placed her hands flat against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. Her whole body ached with the longing to put her arms round him and soothe away the tension, but she already understood him well enough to know that he was too proud to lower his guard for such an obvious approach.

  Wide-eyed, she looked up at him. ‘And as your wife,’ she said very gravely, ‘I suppose it’s my duty to accompany you?’

  ‘Exactly.’ His smile widened a little. ‘You’re catching on fast.’

  ‘OK, then, let’s compromise.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Meaning?’

  Lily rolled her eyes in an exaggerated display of exasperation. ‘Compromise?’ she said emphatically as if she were talking to a small child, while all the time slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt. ‘It means each of us getting a little bit of what we want. I believe it’s widely held to be one of the essential ingredients in a marriage—although I’m not sure if the same principles apply to marriages of convenience. However, I think, just to be on the safe side, that we’d better assume that they do.’