By Royal Demand

FOR a heart-stopping second, Sara’s breath caught in a shocked gasp. The light from the helicopter illuminated a fiery scarlet flow over the ancient stone walls of the castle; they looked as though they were awash with blood.

Another, closer survey revealed the outline of leaves and long ropy stems. The violent colour was merely autumn shades in an ancient vine.

‘Get a grip,’ she muttered, trying to quell a sudden, primitively superstitious sensation. Into her mind popped memories of vampire stories she’d read as a teenager, vivid enough to make her lift uneasy eyes to the mountains surrounding the valley.

This was ridiculous. Since PrinceAlex had been restored to the throne of Illyria some years previously it had become a civilised state, open to the world. Besides, weren’t vampires supposed to live in Rumania? Her mouth tilted in an ironic smile. She’d grown up on a small Pacific island, and her knowledge of their natural habitats was limited to the books she’d borrowed from her mother’s employer.

Anyway, she wasn’t going to be here long; all she had to do was check out three bedrooms and bathrooms and come up with a brilliant plan to redecorate them, one that kept the medieval ambience intact while incorporating modern plumbing.

If only it were that easy, she thought, fear gnawing beneath her ribs. She was desperate to get this commission. Winning the approval of the elegant American heiress who owned the castle might set her career back on track after the disaster of the past year.

Don’t go there, she commanded herself instantly, but pain came rolling in like a grey cloud, smothering everything in the aching misery she knew so well. Sightlessly she stared down at a green lawn sheltered within the castle walls.

If the past months had taught her anything, it was that, no matter what happened, life had to go on.

The chopper touched down with a slight bump. She shivered and blinked, dragging herself out of her sombre recollections. Frowning, she peered into the dusk. She’d known the owner wasn’t going to be there, but she hadn’t expected the castle to be deserted. No lights shone from windows flanked by shutters painted with some heraldic outline.

‘A wolf?’ she muttered.

Yes, it looked like a wolf—ears, teeth and a very red tongue stood out prominently. Very rampant, she thought mordantly; definitely a wolf to be reckoned with! Sensation crawled between her shoulder-blades, setting every sense strumming.

She turned her head to inspect more blank, dark windows climbing a turreted tower. Of course she felt as though she was being watched; that was what the castle had been built to do! It loomed over the valley to guard the trade route through the mountains.

Stop letting it get to you—right now! she ordered herself sturdily, but followed the words with a muffled laugh that sounded too much like a sob. It didn’t matter. The pilot was busy doing whatever helicopter pilots did just after they landed, and he didn’t speak English anyway.

All she needed to finish off this interminable day was the appearance of a servant called Igor!

The door slid back, the noise of the blades assailing her ears, then easing. ‘Madam?’

Ah, a human being—a short, stout man who had butler written all over him. And, far from being an Igor, he was an Englishman, if she’d heard his accent correctly above the roar of the rotors.

Relieved, she smiled and unclipped her seat belt and swung long legs out onto the grass, automatically ducking as he urged her away from the helicopter.

A safe distance from the rotors, he indicated an arched door in the massive stone wall. ‘This way, madam.’ When she hesitated he added, ‘Your luggage will follow.’

He held out his hand for her heavy tote bag. Reluctantly, Sara handed it over.

The door led into a courtyard. Sara could see flowers glimmering in pots, and her tension eased as she drew in a deep breath. Fresh and wholesome, free of the mechanical taint of whatever fuel powered the chopper, the air was still suffused with warmth from the brilliant autumn day. Subduing her foolish fear, Sara straightened her shoulders and followed the butler, determined to give this commission her very best.

The cobblestones came as a surprise, their rounded, uneven surface tossing her off balance.

She recovered quickly, but the man beside her murmured solicitously, ‘Not very far now, madam,’ and indicated another large, solid door, clearly built to repel any invaders foolish enough to attack.

Or keep prisoners well and truly incarcerated, she thought with an inward qualm, irritated with herself for letting her imagination run wild. The American who owned this castle had been totally un-sinister, a perfectly groomed, modern woman who just wanted three bedrooms turned into welcoming, elegant havens for her guests.

The heavy wooden door, armoured with an impressive medieval lock, opened onto a large stone-flagged hall.

The manservant gave her a polite smile. ‘Please come in. I hope you had a pleasant journey.’

‘Very, thank you,’ Sara said automatically, following him into the castle.

And of course it wasn’t chilly and dank inside—cool, but she’d expected that; very old furniture and artefacts suffered from central heating.

The place was immaculate. No spider webs hung from rafters, nothing gibbered in a corner…

The butler led her across the hall towards yet another forbidding door. Grim, superbly crafted suits of armour lined the walls, their hard, masculine ambience barely tempered by flowers in great urns and bowls. At the other end of the hall a banner was draped from on high. Although muted by age and wear, Sara’s wondering eyes discerned the outline of a wolf.

Her skin tightened. What the hell was she doing here? Her expertise lay in houses, not this kind of architecture, with its overt statement of power and ruthlessness. She’d decorated apartments in London and the South of France, but never anything as old as a castle.

Well, it would be a challenge, and it would look damned good on her CV.

The butler held open another door and led her along a stone passage that had probably served as part of the defensive structure.

To break the oppressive silence, she said brightly, ‘Does the castle have a name?’

‘Why, yes, Miss Milton. The Castle of the Wolf—or, as the locals call it, the Wolf’s Lair.’

Too much! ‘Then the banner in the great hall must be the crest of the original owners?’

‘Indeed it is,’ he said, opening a small door that led into a lift.

She smiled ironically as she followed him into it. Of course the castle had a lift, which its sophisticated American owner would call an elevator. Sara hoped it wasn’t the only concession to the twenty-first century!

Several floors up, the manservant showed her into a room where painted panelling overpowered a four-poster bed, its head- and footboard carved in a delicate tracery of flowers and vines. With restoration it would be charming.

Not so the rest of the room, all gilt and heavy crimson and stark white, the furniture second-rate reproductions. No wonder Mrs Abbot Armitage wanted the rooms redecorated! Whoever had perpetrated this shoddy travesty should be prevented from going anywhere near a room again, Sara thought vigorously.

Still, at least there was no sign of any wolf here. Perhaps Mrs Abbot Armitage didn’t care for wolves in the bedroom.

Sara could only agree.

The manservant indicated a door in the panelling. ‘Your bathroom is through there,’ he told her. ‘If you would like to rest for an hour or so I will return to escort you down to the drawing room for a drink before dinner.’

‘Oh.’ When he looked at her with an expression of mild enquiry she elaborated. ‘I didn’t think there was anyone here.’ She stopped, because that sounded stupid. ‘In residence,’ she amended.

‘Oh, yes,’ was all he said, putting her bag down on a chair before he left.

Frowning, Sara stared at the door as it closed behind him, and decided there must have been more warmth behind the American heiress’s patrician face than she’d suspected. At least she wasn’t to be given a meal to eat in her room, like a Victorian governess!

But, kindness or not, Sara reminded herself that her future depended on delivering a plan for the rooms that would outdo those submitted by other decorators.

A cool shiver of foreboding tightened her skin. She looked around and noticed a casement open to the evening air.

‘Stop dramatising everything!’ she ordered herself sternly, and leaned out.

It was still light; even now, ten years after she’d left Fala’isi, she found the slow twilights of Europe enchanting. The tropical nights of the Pacific had crashed down like a pall, snuffing out the hot, brilliant colours of the island within minutes.

The air was pure, scented with a ripeness that hinted at harvest and full barns. Because the room was above the ramparts, she could look out across the valley. Small dim clusters of lights marked villages, and high on the bulk of the surrounding mountains the few pinpricks must be from isolated farmsteads.