The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride Read online

  But at least he was at the castle, Grace thought as hope surged through her. Javier Herrera was here, and all she had to do was persuade the stony-faced butler to allow her to see him.

  Several minutes later she was still on the steps, with only the weathered lions for company. ‘Please,’ she begged one last time as the heavy oak front door began to close, shutting her out.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it is impossible. The Duque never sees uninvited guests,’ the butler insisted impatiently.

  ‘But if you would just tell him I’m here…I promise I only want five minutes of his time.’

  Her despairing cry bounced off the wooden door, and even the lions looked unimpressed. In her frustration Grace gave in to the childish urge to kick the front door, but unsurprisingly it remained firmly closed. The castle had been built as a defence against an army of invaders, and one slightly built young woman who stood a couple of inches over five feet tall had no chance of breaching its battlements.

  ‘Damn you, Javier Herrera,’ she muttered, blinking back her tears. She seemed to be left with no alternative but to turn her car round and head back down the mountain path, but she couldn’t bear the thought that she had failed. Her father often teased that what she lacked in inches she made up for in stubbornness—she couldn’t give up yet. The Duque de Herrera was here, on the other side of the castle walls, and there had to be a way she could get to him and make him listen.

  Once again she was pierced by the vivid mental image of her father, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and his once strong body gaunt with strain and loss of appetite. He had never come to terms with her mother’s death; his heart was broken and the doctor had warned that Angus was perilously close to a nervous breakdown. If she could only lift her father’s terror that he would be sent to prison—a very real possibility, according to Mr Wooding, the family solicitor—then perhaps he would be able to lift himself out of his deep depression.

  It had stopped raining, and although the sky was still grey and overcast pale beams of sunshine were valiantly trying to spread their warmth. Across the courtyard Grace spotted an arched gateway in the wall. The wrought-iron gate was probably locked, she told herself, but to her amazement it swung open and she quickly stepped through.

  The formal garden was exquisite—a glimpse of paradise that evoked an instantly calming effect on her. The clear, tranquil waters of the series of square pools mirrored the intricate arrangement of boxed hedges and exotic palms, while the delicate splash of the fountains soothed Grace’s ragged nerves. Early-blooming roses lifted their faces to the sky, their velvet petals beaded with rain droplets, and on impulse she plucked a flower and bent her head to inhale its fragrance.

  For a few precious moments the weight of her worries lifted. She could have stayed here for ever, listening to the sweet birdsong, she mused. As she strolled along the myriad narrow paths she even forgot that she was supposed to be looking for a way to break into the castle. She pushed away the memory of her father’s misery, the need to find the Duque de Herrera, and her apprehension at the thought of the drive back down the steep, winding road to return to Granada.

  Afterwards Grace wasn’t sure what made her break her silent contemplation of the pool. There was no sound—even the birds had stopped singing—but she was aware of a curious prickling sensation between her shoulder blades and the growing feeling that she was being watched. Slowly she turned her head, and her breath caught in her chest.

  The man was standing at the far end of the garden, but even from a distance his height was notable. He was a giant of a man. His body was cloaked in a dark-green waxed coat that fell to below his knees and brushed against his leather boots. The caped collar gave him the appearance of a medieval conquistador while his wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his eyes, shading his face. Grace sensed his power and strength, but her attention was drawn to the sleek black Dobermann by his side and fear churned in the pit of her stomach. This was no cute, friendly pet. Undoubtedly it was a guard dog, and the man must be one of the castle’s security staff.

  It was at that point that Grace acknowledged she was trespassing. Her most sensible option was to approach the security man and apologise, but to her fevered imagination he looked like the Grim Reaper, dark and faceless, and utterly terrifying with his hellish hound at his heels. Instinct took over from common sense. With a cry she spun round and began to run, a fearful glance over her shoulder revealing that the man had let loose his dog and it was streaking across the garden towards her.

  With her blood pounding in her ears, Grace hurtled along the paths, searching desperately for a way to escape. The garden was enclosed on three sides by a high wall, but on the fourth side the wall was lower and the bricks were old and crumbling.

  The dog was almost on her. She could hear the harsh rasp of its breath coming closer, could imagine its sharp teeth sinking into her flesh. Frantically she shot down another path, and with a speed born of desperation began to scale the old wall. The loose brickwork gave her several footholds, and, using all her strength, Grace heaved herself towards the top.

  She was safe now, she reassured herself. The dog was below her, barking furiously, but with luck she would be able to clamber over the wall to safety. With one final glance at the savage animal, she hooked one leg over the top of the wall and let out a scream. Beyond the wall the land fell away in a sheer drop of several hundred feet. If she threw herself over she would almost certainly be killed. Her only alternative was to scramble back down to the garden where the slavering dog was waiting.

  In the event Grace did nothing. Paralysed with fear, she balanced on the top of the wall and watched the man approach.

  ‘Easy, Luca.’ Javier strolled unhurriedly towards the end of the garden and called his dog to heel. Above him the woman—or girl, he amended with a brief glance upwards—was clinging to the top of the wall as if her life depended on it. Every ounce of colour had leached from her face, which was dominated by huge, fear-filled eyes.

  Javier felt not the slightest hint of sympathy. She could sit up there all day for all he cared, he thought grimly. He was sick to death of the damn paparazzi tailing his every move. It was bad enough in the city, where they sat in their cars outside his office hoping to snap him, or collected in droves at the popular nightspots, determined to catch him with his latest mistress. The discovery of a journalist in the grounds of the castle was the final insult on what was undoubtedly the worst day of his life.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘And what do you want?’ He couldn’t see a camera—maybe she’d dropped it when she’d fled from Luca. She must have been scared witless to scramble up the wall as fast as she had, and admittedly the dog did look ferocious, he acknowledged as he attached the chain he was holding to Luca’s collar.

  The girl remained silent and Javier’s jaw tightened. He was not in the mood to play games, and he wanted her off his land. ‘Climb down; the dog’s leashed and won’t hurt you.’ Still no response. His eyes narrowed as he studied her pale skin. Her hair was hidden beneath some kind of shawl that she had wrapped around her shoulders and head so that it formed a hood. But instinct told him she wasn’t Spanish, and he repeated his request in English, which tended to be a universal form of communication.

  The silence stretched between them before she eventually spoke. ‘I can’t.’ Grace’s voice was little more than a whisper. The knowledge that she could topple off the wall and plunge down the sheer side of the mountain was so terrifying that her throat had closed up. She couldn’t move, could barely breath, and her head felt as though it was spinning.

  ‘Señorita, you must come down.’ The edge of urgency in the man’s voice penetrated the fear clouding Grace’s brain, and she turned her head cautiously to stare down at him.

  Muttering a savage oath, Javier quickly scanned the wall. It would be relatively easy for him to climb up and rescue her, but fear was an unpredictable emotion. He judged that she was close to passing out, and if she
edged away from him she was likely to tumble over the edge onto the jagged rocks on the other side of the wall.

  Stifling his impatience, he softened his voice. ‘You have no need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you, and neither will the dog. Let go and I’ll catch you,’ he added sharply when she swayed. Her skin was grey now, her eyes closed, and Javier felt a frisson of apprehension. Much as he despised journalists, he had no wish so see the girl fall to her death. ‘Señorita, jump into my arms, you will be safe with me. What is your name?’ he demanded, holding out his arms as her head lolled forwards.

  As she fell, the shawl slipped from her head so that her hair flew around her shoulders in a stream of pale brown silk. Her voice floated down to him.

  ‘My name is…Grace…Beresford,’ Grace whispered before she tipped into darkness. Grace was cocooned in warmth. It was a safe, comforting feeling with a steady drumbeat beneath her ear, but it couldn’t last for ever. Reality intruded, bringing with it the memory of those last terrifying moments when she had clung to the wall, a sheer drop on one side and the faceless stranger with his fierce dog on the other. Abruptly her eyes flew open and fear kicked in. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she demanded in a voice that sounded annoyingly feeble to her ears. ‘Put me down.’

  She could only glimpse the man’s features, shadowed as they were by the brim of his hat, but his square jaw gave an indication of brute strength. At her words he stopped and set her none too gently on her feet. The ground swirled alarmingly. Overwhelmed by nausea, she felt her legs buckle and she fell to her knees.

  The man made no attempt to help her up but simply loomed over her as she knelt on the damp grass, his silent scrutiny shredding her nerves. His dog sat at his heel, its black eyes fixed unblinkingly on her, and Grace gave a faint sigh of relief when she spied the leash attached to the collar around its neck.

  ‘I can’t believe you set your dog on me,’ she said accusingly, unable to prevent the wobble in her voice.

  ‘I dislike trespassers,’ the man replied harshly. His voice was gravelly and low-pitched, but despite a strong accent he spoke perfect English. Grace tilted her head and glanced at him curiously. His arrogant stance irritated her. Presumably he was a member of the castle staff, some sort of groundsman by the look of his clothes, but he was staring down at her as if he owned the place and she was something unpleasant on the bottom of his boot.

  ‘Why have you come here?’ he growled.

  ‘I came to see the Duque de Herrera.’ Grace felt at a distinct disadvantage kneeling before him and, taking a deep breath, she forced herself to her feet. She still felt weak and disorientated, and swayed unsteadily, but the man made no offer of support and simply watched her in a brooding silence.

  ‘For what reason?’ The barely disguised insolence in his tone set her teeth on edge. She lifted her chin and glared at him, wishing she could see his face.

  ‘For personal reasons.’ She paused, her eyes drawn to his strong arms and broad chest. Fortunately she had no recollection of falling from the top of the wall, but the memory of her terror when she had balanced precariously on its summit still haunted her. Undoubtedly the groundsman or security guard, or whoever he was, had saved her from a fall that would have resulted in broken bones. She couldn’t bear to contemplate the outcome had she fallen the other way, down the sheer side of the mountain.

  ‘Thank you for catching me,’ she murmured huskily. ‘I appreciate that this is a private garden, but I came to see the Duque, and…’ She tailed off miserably as she remembered her abortive attempt to gain an interview with the elusive Duque de Herrera.

  ‘The Duque does not like to be disturbed by uninvited guests,’ the man informed her in a haughty tone that stirred the embers of her temper. Now that her feet were once more on firm ground her fear was receding, and she remembered her reason for stepping into the garden in the first place. She was determined to find a way into the castle, and with luck this boorish groundsman could help her.

  ‘I’m not uninvited, I…have an appointment,’ she lied, her tongue darting out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. The man made no response, but his body language spoke plainly of his disbelief, which only served to fuel Grace’s irritation. ‘Yes. I arrived early, and rather than wait in the car I decided to explore the grounds. I’m sorry,’ she said, lifting limpid blue eyes to him and offering a hesitant smile. ‘I think the Duque may be ready for me now. Perhaps you would escort me to him?’

  His silent scrutiny lasted so long that Grace felt like an elastic band stretched to snapping point, and she jumped when his voice suddenly cut through the still air. ‘Are you sure you want to enter the Castillo de Leon, Miss Beresford?’

  Was that a faint hint of menace in his voice? Grace gave herself a mental shake and cursed her overactive imagination. ‘Of course,’ she replied briskly. ‘I’ll follow you, shall I?’

  ‘By all means.’ This time there was no mistaking the insolent amusement in his tone, but he said no more, simply swung on his heels and began to stride across the garden while his dog ran alongside. He didn’t bother to turn and check if she was following, and Grace was forced to break into a trot to keep up with him.

  She was hot and breathless by the time they entered the castle through a side door, and she followed her guide up a steep stone staircase. To her relief there was no sign of the officious butler who had earlier refused her pleas to see the Duque. Now she was here, in the lion’s den, she thought, fighting the feeling of panic when she stepped into a large, book-lined room that she guessed must be the Duque de Herrera’s study.

  To her dismay the man followed her into the room, and her heart jolted when he closed the door behind him and she caught the faint snick of the lock. Ignoring her, he pulled a mobile phone from the pocket of his coat and murmured a few words into it, his voice so low that she couldn’t make them out.

  She made a show of glancing at her watch. ‘Will the Duque be here soon?’

  ‘I promise you won’t have to wait long, Miss Beresford,’ he replied silkily, but yet again Grace caught the edge of sarcasm in his voice and her apprehension increased. She watched as he unbuttoned his coat and shrugged out of it, her eyes drawn to his formidable physique. Slim-fitting black trousers moulded his thighs, while his white shirt was open at the neck to reveal the tanned column of his throat. With long leather boots that delineated his powerful calf muscles, he reminded Grace of a medieval baron, and the image was reinforced when he finally removed his hat. ‘The police will be here very soon,’ he told her with a smile that slashed across the hard planes of his face, but which was devoid of any warmth.

  ‘The police?’ Grace was so shocked that she was momentarily lost for words. But innate honesty forced her to admit that it was her physical reaction to the surly stranger which had struck her dumb. Handsome was hardly an adequate description of him, she thought numbly. His face was chiselled perfection—an arrogant, faintly cruel face with razor-sharp cheekbones and square jaw. Black brows and hair the colour of a raven’s wing complemented his olive-gold skin, while his curious amber eyes flashed fire as they trailed a bold path over every inch of her.

  She felt as though he was mentally undressing her, stripping her bare, and outrage brought hot colour storming into her cheeks while to her horror she was aware of a tingling sensation in her breasts. ‘You’re not the gardener, are you?’ she snapped, desperate to hide her embarrassment at the traitorous reaction of her body. ‘I assumed you were a member of the castle staff. I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re the Duque de Herrera?’ she added thickly as the sickening realisation hit her. What other explanation could there be for his imperious air, or the way his eyes travelled over her with such haughty disdain? Feeling utterly humiliated, she sent up a brief prayer that a hole would open up beneath her feet, but sadly the Almighty wasn’t listening.

  One brow lifted in sardonic amusement. ‘And you, Miss Beresford, are a liar as well as a thief.’ He paused for a heartbeat and then murmured, ‘It must ru
n in the family.’

  Of course he knew who she was, Grace acknowledged dismally. The name Beresford was one that he was unlikely to forget. She took a deep breath, struggling for the words to explain her visit. But her brain seemed to have gone into meltdown, and for the life of her she couldn’t stop staring at him. He was the most gorgeous man she had ever met. The sharp angles of his face, the arrogant tilt of his head, and his unusual golden eyes seemed to exert a hypnotic effect on her, and she felt trapped within his spell.

  ‘I admit I told a small untruth, but I’m not a thief,’ she mumbled, blushing furiously as she recalled the story she had concocted about having an appointment with the Duque. In normal circumstances she prided herself on her honesty, but it was going to be difficult to convince Javier Herrera that she was trustworthy.

  ‘No? Then who gave you permission to steal from my garden?’ He strolled across the room and stopped in front of her, so close that her senses quivered as she caught the spicy tang of his cologne. She stood dazedly while he ran a bold finger down from her jaw to the valley between her breasts. Her breath was trapped, and she felt dizzy from lack of oxygen. Wordlessly she stared up at him, and then gasped when he suddenly snatched the rose that she had tucked in her buttonhole.

  ‘It’s just one rose,’ she whispered.

  ‘And what is the theft of one rose, when your father has already fleeced me of three million pounds?’ he murmured sardonically.

  ‘Oh God!’ Grace gave a despairing groan as once again she was hit by the enormity of her father’s crime. ‘I know it looks bad…’

  ‘It doesn’t look bad, Miss Beresford, it looks awful,’ Javier commented mildly, but Grace wasn’t fooled by his smile. He was the lion waiting to strike and she was the prey who had foolishly crept too close.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, aware that the words were totally inadequate. She swallowed the tears that clogged her throat as she acknowledged the full scale of Angus Beresford’s embezzlement from the bank—three million pounds that over a period of time he had transferred into false accounts.