Spanish Aristocrat, Forced Bride

Tristan glanced down with a grimace. Dressing quickly when he’d landed his plane at the nearby airfield, he’d been so tired he’d hardly been able to see straight. Hardly the ideal circumstances to get ready for what was always dubbed the social event of the year. The mild air pulsed with music from one of the marquees around the lawn, an insistent reminder that yet another sleepless night lay ahead of him.

‘So that’s the official story,’ said Tom soberly, ‘but what’s the truth?’

‘Khazakismir,’ Tristan replied tonelessly, looking straight ahead and unbuttoning his shirt as they walked across the lawn towards the tented bar.

Tom winced at the name. ‘I hoped you weren’t going to say that. News coverage here has been patchy, but I gather things are pretty grim?’

The name of the small province in a remote corner of Eastern Europe had become synonymous with despair and violence in the course of a decade-long war, the original purpose of which no one could remember any more. Power rested in the bloodstained hands of a corrupt military government and a few drugs barons, who quashed any sign of civil unrest quickly and ruthlessly. Reports had filtered through in the last week of a whole village being laid to waste.

‘You could say that.’ A door in Tristan’s mind swung open, letting the images flood back into his head for a moment before he mentally slammed it shut again. ‘One of our drivers was caught up in it. His family were killed—everyone apart from his sister, who’s pregnant.’ His mouth quirked into a bitter smile. ‘It seems that the military were keen to make use of the brand new cache of weaponry they have courtesy of funds from the Romero bank.’

Pausing at the entrance to the marquee, Tom laid a hand on his arm.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine,’ he said tersely. ‘You know me. I don’t get involved in the humanitarian side. I’m just there to help out with practicalities. Redress the balance.’

He didn’t meet Tom’s eyes as he spoke, looking instead over his shoulder and into the distance, where the lake lay in its hollow of shadows, the tower in the centre wreathed in mist. A muscle flickered in his jaw.

‘Anything I can do?’ Tom said quietly.

Tristan flashed a brief, ironic smile as they moved into the damp, alcohol-scented warmth of the marquee. ‘I haven’t been seen anywhere for a while, so I could do with giving the press their pound of flesh. If any word got out tying me to activities over there it would be a security nightmare.’

Tom’s smile didn’t waver as he shouldered his way through to the bar, nodding a welcome to his guests. Speaking quietly, he said, ‘That’s easily arranged. The usual tame photographers are here, the society event ones who have progressed slightly further up the evolutionary scale from the paparazzi, but if you pick someone high profile and enjoy a little bit of public affection, I’m sure they’ll regress into mindless savages who’ll sell your picture to every glossy magazine and sleazy gossip rag by Monday morning.’ He took two glasses from the tray on the bar and handed one to Tristan. ‘Cheers, old chap. So—who’s it going to be?’

‘Lily.’ Tristan tossed back the dark coloured liquid in the shot glass, feeling it burning a path down his throat as he watched Tom’s open face fall. He was gauging his reaction before admitting what had already happened. It wasn’t positive.

‘No. No way. Not a good idea.’

‘Why not? She’s high profile.’ And beautiful, there was no doubt about that. Even Tristan, tired and jaded, had been jolted by it, which had surprised him. It was more than that, though. For a moment back there when she was in his arms he had found himself looking into her slanting, silvery grey eyes and felt almost…

Almost human?

‘She’s also Scarlet’s best friend,’ Tom said firmly. ‘You screw her up—which let’s face it, you certainly will—and you screw things up for me.’

‘Why would I screw her up?’ Tristan picked up another shot glass and looked restlessly around. ‘She’s a model, Tom; hard as nails and, judging from what I just saw, not really all there. She’ll end up with something shiny and expensive from Cartier, and a whole raft of publicity, and I’ll feed the press appetite to portray me as a pointless playboy and throw them off the scent. Everyone’s happy.’

Tom looked worried. ‘I don’t think she’s like that.’

‘You’re too nice, Tom, my friend,’ Tristan said grimly, draining his glass. ‘They’re all like that.’

CHAPTER TWO

AS TWILIGHT fell it brought with it a kind of enchantment. Paper lanterns glowed palely in the trees and the scattering of diamond stars that glittered in the purple heavens looked as if they’d been placed there purely for the delight of the guests.

Lily wouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing was impossible here tonight.

Earlier, as waiters had circulated with cool green cocktails that tasted of melons and champagne, masked girls dressed as dryads and wood nymphs had appeared from the shadowy trees that fringed the lawn on white horses, with delicate, spiralling unicorn’s horns on their foreheads. To the haunting strains of a full orchestra headed by a stunning girl playing an electric violin they had performed a display of equestrian dance, weaving around each other, making the horses rear and pirouette, until Lily wasn’t sure if she was dreaming. Once, through the writhing, stamping figures of the unicorns, she found herself staring straight into the eyes of Tristan, standing opposite, his shirt half unbuttoned and his arm around a well-known young Hollywood actress dressed as Pocahontas. A shock, like a small electrocution, sizzled through her.

The next time she looked he was gone.

She had hardly touched her cocktail. She didn’t need to. Already she felt heavy and languid with tiredness, but beneath that there was an edge of restlessness, a throbbing pulse of desire and impatience and wild longing that alcohol would only exacerbate. The riding display finished and the unicorns melted back into the darkness that had gathered beneath the trees. Lily turned to say something to Scarlet, but she had moved away slightly and was standing with Tom. His arms were looped around her waist and as Lily watched he pulled her into him and spoke into her ear.

Lily felt a beat of pain, of anguish, deep inside her chest and turned away.

She and Scarlet had been a team for so long. All through school at a fairly rough comprehensive in Brighton it had been the two of them—united by both being tall, skinny and teased for it—until the day when Maggie Mason had spotted them shopping together in The Lanes and invited them both up to London for an interview at her famous modelling agency. Lily had been so set on going to university, if it hadn’t been for Scarlet there was no way she would have even taken Maggie’s card. But they had been in it together, two halves of the same whole—as different as it was possible to be. But always together.

Which was, she told herself firmly, why she was so pleased for Scarlet. Tom was lovely, and when she thought of some of the unsuitable men that her friend could have fallen in love with…

Tristan Romero de Losada Montalvo, for example.

The violinist was playing solo now, a gentle, haunting melody that echoed across the mist-shrouded fields and gentle hills enfolding the castle. Another horse cantered into the ring, this time with the most fantastic pair of wings attached to its saddle. A murmur of delight ran around the crowd, which quickly turned to a gasp of surprise as the scantily clad girl rider opened the lid of the basket she carried.

There was a flurry of feathers, a whispered beat of wings and a flock of white doves spiralled upwards into the sky. In the smudged violet light their wings were almost luminescent. For a moment they seemed to hang motionless in the air, as if uncertain what to do with their unexpected freedom, and out of the corner of her eye Lily caught a movement in the crowd opposite. She turned her head, and was just in time to see a man in a Robin Hood costume raise his bow and arrow and take a shot.

A macho jeer went up from the group around him as one of the doves faltered, losing height for a minute in a ragged tumble of feathers. Lily could see the arrow, hanging tenuously from the bird’s side, seeming to drag it downwards. Miraculously the bird didn’t fall but, with an odd, lopsided flapping, flew down towards the lake.

Rage exploded inside her. The display was over and the crowd began to drift away towards the next entertainment, but Lily began to run, down the sloping lawn to the water. The grass was cool and damp beneath her bare feet and as she got near the lake the ground grew softer. Heart hammering, she pushed her way through the thick tangle of undergrowth and looked around, across the glassy surface of the water to the island in its centre.

The ruined walls of the stone tower were dark against the faded lilac sky behind, but in the stillness she could hear the agitated beating of wings. Doves rose from the broken ramparts at the top, and she strained her eyes into the gloom to see if the injured one was amongst them. What if the arrow was still there, lodged in the bird’s flesh?

Her eyes stung and frustration drummed in her head as she peered up into the nebulous sky, but it was impossible to make anything out clearly. With a gasp of exasperation she was just about to turn back when she noticed a wooden walkway at the back of the tower leading across the stretch of water to the island. Hurrying round, she felt the brambles snag at the hem of her dress and the damp grass cling to her legs. The walkway was narrow, the boards old and very smooth, but stepping tentatively onto them Lily could feel that it was sturdily made.

From across the lawn she could hear more yells of hilarity above the bass beat of the music as the party escalated, which only strengthened her resolve and refuelled her fury. The sound of the doves at the top of the tower was a soft murmur, but it was comforting as she stepped onto the dark island.

In spite of the warmth of the evening she shivered. Everything was inky, insubstantial; layers of grey that melted into each other until it was impossible to say what was real and what was shadow. The air was heavy with the scent of roses and through the indigo dusk Lily could see their pale globes clustered around a small door in the tower.

Her heart was knocking so violently against her ribs that she could feel it shaking her whole body as she went towards the door. Hesitantly, almost hoping that it would be locked, she put her hand against the blistered wood.

It sprang open, without her even pushing. Lily gasped; a sharp indrawn breath of pure fear as a figure appeared in the doorway, white shirt ghostly in the opaque light. She leapt backwards, pressing her hand to her mouth, choking with fear as the man reached out and caught her, pulling her back towards him.

‘Helen of Troy.’ The voice was very deep, very scathing, very Spanish. He gave her a little shake. ‘You followed me, I suppose?’

Lily’s heart was almost beating out of her chest, but the arrogance of his words penetrated her shocked haze. ‘No! I came to look for a bird…an injured dove. Some…idiot with a bow and arrow took a shot at it when they were released and it flew in this direction. When I came to look for it I saw that they’d flown up to the roof of the tower, but I didn’t know that you were here—’ She stopped suddenly, as the most likely explanation for Tristan Romero to be discovered on a secluded island in the middle of a party popped into her horrified mind, and then tried to take a hasty step backwards. ‘Sorry. I’ll go.’

His hand tightened around her arm. ‘No. Don’t let me stop your mission of mercy,’ he drawled. ‘There’s a dovecote on the roof. Go up and look for it.’

She hesitated, remembering the Pocahontas girl. ‘Are you here alone?’

‘Yes.’ Against his white shirt his skin looked very dark, and the hollows beneath his hard cheekbones were inky. Apart from that it was impossible to see his face in any detail, but his voice was like sandpaper and when he laughed there was no humour in it. ‘I take it Tom’s warned you off. Perhaps you’d prefer to come back with a chaperone?’

His fingers were still circling her wrist. She could feel her rapid pulse beating against his thumb. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, with a brave attempt at scorn. ‘I just didn’t want to interrupt anything, that’s all. Now, if you’d like to tell me where to go?’

He let go of her, stepping back into the shadows with a sweep of his arm. ‘Up to the top of the stairs.’

Inside the tower the air was chill and damp. A stone staircase spiralled above them, and Lily’s bare feet made no sound on the ice cold stone as she began to climb up. The staircase opened onto a small landing halfway up, where a narrow, arrow-slit window spilled soft light onto a closed door. Lily stopped outside the door, but Tristan walked past her, leading the way up another twisting staircase.

At the top he pushed open another door and stood back to let her through first. Lily stepped out and turned around slowly, letting out a low exhalation of awe as she did so.