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‘I’ve been entertaining her.’
Before she could comment on that surprising information, he had gone. Ten minutes later she joined him in the main cabin. Lydia was enjoying a peaceful nap in her baby harness, a sure-fire sign of contentment.
‘How did you manage with her?’ Sophie asked uncomfortably.
‘Consuela, one of the crew, is a parent. She lent me some assistance when Lydia needed a drink,’ Antonio admitted modestly. ‘But Lydia was very good and easily amused.’
‘Thanks for letting me sleep.’ Sophie studied her linked hands and cleared her throat. ‘I owe you an apology for the way I lost my temper earlier.’
‘No, you don’t owe me anything,’ Antonio contradicted with quiet assurance. ‘You were right to complain and I am sorry that I made the day a difficult one. I must confess that I was nourishing a certain resentment of the situation which I needed to deal with.’
It came entirely naturally to Sophie to reach across the aisle to touch his lean brown hand with her own in an instinctive gesture of sympathetic understanding. ‘Of course you felt bitter, but you don’t have to apologise for being human. It must’ve been so hard for someone like you to put up with a brother like Pablo. Then to be landed with responsibility for Lydia into the bargain, well, obviously you felt fed up.’
That sudden gush of generosity from her corner was too much for Antonio’s innate reserve about his own feelings. His expression of regret, honest admission of fault and the explanation he had believed she was due had cost him dearly. Her unexpected compassion stung his strong pride like acid.
‘You mistook my meaning,’ Antonio replied icily. ‘Never at any time since I learned of my niece’s existence have I wished that her care fell to someone else. There is no more proper person than I to undertake that task and I would never attempt to avoid the responsibility. I don’t expect you to understand it, but loyalty to my family is as integral a part of me as my honour.’
Sophie coloured hot pink and then white, mortification at that unabashed snub biting at her frail self-esteem. No matter how hard she tried she always seemed to say or do the wrong thing with Antonio, she reflected wretchedly. He appeared to believe that she was too vulgar and common to comprehend the more refined sensibilities of a Spanish aristocrat.
‘That’s a hateful thing to say,’ she whispered with scorching fervour, for once again he had hurt her. ‘I was every bit as loyal to Belinda as you are to your precious family!’
An hour later, she was seated in a long, opulent limousine being driven through the Andalusian countryside. Up until that point she had rigorously ignored or crushed Antonio’s conversational attempts to redeem himself.
When he tried to tell her a little about the history of Spain, Sophie said tartly, ‘Save yourself the trouble. Buy me the book!’
When the country road wended through silvery olive groves, Antonio informed her that they were now on the family estate. After what felt like a very long time to Sophie, the olive trees gave way to orange orchards and a picturesque whitewashed village straggling over the lower slopes of forested hills. Locals peered out of the houses and stopped in the narrow, winding street to stare at the limousine and wave acknowledgement.
‘Are we still on your family estate?’ Rampant curiosity finally forced Sophie to abandon her stony silence and ask that question as the limo traversed a shaded road surrounded on all sides by dense evergreen woods.
‘Sí. My great-great-grandfather planted those oak trees,’ Antonio told her with unhidden pride.
‘It’s like the fairy tale of Puss-in-Boots,’ Sophie muttered helplessly and, when Antonio angled a look of incomprehension at her, added, ‘Puss-in-Boots wanted to impress the king with the idea that his master was hugely important and rich. So, he pretended all the land they passed belonged to this character he made up called the Marquis of Carabas.’
‘The Marquis of Carabas,’ Antonio repeated with only the slightest tremor of amusement disturbing his dark deep drawl.
‘Of course that marquis belongs in the fairy story and he was only for pretend and you’re real,’ Sophie conceded absently. ‘But all this feels very unreal to me…’
There was a reason for the way she suddenly fell silent. The limousine had turned a corner and through the trees she caught a glimpse of an ancient stone building. Adorned with as many towers and turrets as any palace in a fairy tale, it sat in an oasis of lush green vegetation. It was indescribably beautiful and she was enchanted from that first moment.
‘What do you think?’
Sophie veiled her stunned eyes and shrugged with studied casualness, too self-conscious to display her true reactions. ‘It’s very big…I’m not going to be tripping over you every five minutes, am I?’
‘It’s unlikely. Perhaps I should have mentioned before now that a nanny has been engaged to help you care for Lydia,’ Antonio advanced with caution.
‘As long as I like the nanny, that’s fine with me.’ Sophie was grateful that an extra pair of hands would be available. All too often she had been forced to rely on Norah Moore’s good nature. A nanny to help out with Lydia would be a real luxury.
The limo came to a halt in a timeless courtyard ornamented with palm trees in vast pots. The soft sunlight of evening illuminated the stone arches and columns that made an arcade on three sides. Water droplets sparkled and fell from the fountain that played near the massive wooden doors that stood ajar on a floor that, even at a distance of several feet, was clearly polished to a mirror finish.
Lydia supported on one slight hip, Sophie crossed the threshold and froze at the sight of the throng of people filling the giant entrance hall.
With wonderful assurance, Antonio cupped a light hand below her elbow and drew her on to greet an elegant little old lady who might have been chipped out of frozen granite.
‘My grandmother, Doña Ernesta…Sophie.’
Doña Ernesta gave a regal nod and said that it was a great joy to welcome her grandson, his bride and her great-granddaughter home. Sophie was not deceived. She knew that she was about as welcome in her role as Antonio’s bride as the bad fairy. Attention was quickly focused on Lydia, who was greeted with a sincere warmth that quite transformed her great-grandmother’s frozen granite exterior. A young smiling nanny was brought forward, introduced, and Lydia was handed over to an enthusiastic reception.
‘Come and meet the rest of the staff,’ Antonio urged Sophie then, ignoring her dismay as she registered just how many people appeared to fall within that category.
Everyone who worked inside the castillo was waiting to pay their respects. Antonio carried her through the introductions with the sure confidence that seemed to accompany everything he did and she really appreciated his support.
Afterwards he closed his hand over hers and walked her up the carved stone staircase. ‘You must be incredibly hungry,’ he murmured.
‘Yes…I should’ve eaten when I got the chance.’ Sophie sighed, her attention locking to the ancient stone walls and gothic arches surrounding them. It was a real castle, a one hundred per cent genuine medieval castle, and she was fascinated by it.
His handsome mouth quirked at her fatalistic outlook. ‘I upset you. In the hope that you’ll forgive that I’ve arranged for a meal to be served in your suite. I want you to be happy here at the castillo.’
‘Your grandmother wouldn’t agree with you.’
‘It’s a shame that she didn’t have the opportunity to get to know you at your sister’s wedding, querida. She would never be unkind and will soon become accustomed to our marriage.’
Sophie was less confident.
‘By the way, I should warn you that I have told no one of our marital agreement. Secrets shared soon lead to a wider circle becoming acquainted with what was once private—’
‘You mean Doña Ernesta thinks we’re like…really married?’ Sophie interrupted in dismay. ‘You should tell her the truth!’
‘It would only complicate matters. Allow me to know my own family best. To all intents and purposes it is wisest if at this point at least our marriage appears to be normal,’ Antonio decreed.
Sophie disagreed but took the hint. It was obvious to her that Doña Ernesta was hopping with rage and disappointment over the fact that her grandson appeared to have thrown his title, his wealth and his giant castle away on a penniless nobody from England. Sophie did not blame his grandmother one little bit for her annoyance. Antonio was just about the equivalent of a prince and a prince deserved a princess.
Upstairs, Antonio showed her into a beautifully furnished and enormous sitting room, which led into a huge bedroom that in turn had a fabulous bathroom and dressing room attached.
‘All this is just for me?’ she gasped.
‘Dinner will be served here in forty minutes,’ he imparted.
‘Here…? ‘ Her relief was palpable. She had been afraid that she might have to dress up to eat in some fancy dining room and she had nothing suitable to change into.
‘Sí. I’ve organised an informal meal of your favourite foods—’
‘But you don’t know what I like…’
‘I phoned Mrs Moore to find out, querida.’ Antonio gazed down at her, stunning dark golden eyes very serious. ‘You have eaten hardly anything today. That’s my fault. I want you to relax and feel comfortable at the castillo.’
Sophie vented an awkward laugh. ‘I’m never going to relax in a place like this!’
‘Of course you will,’ Antonio declared, long brown fingers tilting up her chin to persuade her to look up again. ‘You’re my wife and this is your home and you must treat it as such. Your comfort is of prime importance to me and to our staff.’
For a long, timeless moment, she was conscious only of the spectacular power of his gaze. His concern for her sent a sudden dangerous flare of happiness winging through her slight frame. The faint citrusy aroma of the shaving lotion he used flared her nostrils. She wanted to drink the scent in like a drug, for it was already wonderfully familiar to her. Something tightened low in her pelvis and an awareness so acute it hurt seemed to make every inch of her feel unbearably sensitive. She wanted to lean closer to him, retain that fleeting physical contact of his fingers against her throat. But she rebelled against her weakness and literally forced herself back for him with a brittle smile fixed to her flushed face. ‘Right, so if I’m to make myself at home, I’ll have a bath before the food arrives,’ she framed not quite steadily. ‘So first you’d better tell me where Lydia is, because I want to check she’s OK without me.’
For a split second, Antonio was very taut as he mastered the raw hunger that had leapt as high as a burning brand in him. All it had taken was her proximity and that reference to a bath and his imagination had gone crazy. His gleaming gaze veiled while he fought an outrageous desire to simply grab her like a Neanderthal cave dweller. Lust had never controlled him to such an extent that he almost forgot who he was. Exhilarated by the very power of that sensation, he suspended all rational thought on the issue.
It was sex, just sex, nothing to get worked up about. She was amazingly sexy and the very fact that she didn’t even seem to appreciate the strength of her own attraction only added to her appeal. He could not recall when he had last been with a woman capable of walking past a mirror without looking in it. Not to mention one so devoted to a baby’s interests that her own needs took second billing.
Sophie peeped in on Lydia, who was blissfully asleep in a large cot. Her niece was being watched over by what appeared to be a good half of the female staff. A little while later, her concern laid to rest, Sophie sank into the warm, scented water of the sunken bath that had so captured her interest. She rested her head back against the built-in pillow and surveyed the other luxurious fittings with impressed-to-death eyes. She could see that the misery of being married to Antonio was going to be alleviated by certain small consolations. So, she couldn’t have him and other women were going to have him…but, she rushed to remind herself, she had Lydia, a bath to die for and at least the promise of food. On the downside this was her wedding night and she was alone? So what was new about being alone, she asked herself, struggling not to give way to self-pity. Unhappily she was all too well aware that Antonio would never have left a princess alone…
Thoroughly refreshed, Sophie emerged from the bathroom with a white towel knotted round her and a riot of tousled curls falling round her shoulders. Her nose twitched at the faint enticing aroma in the air and she followed it.
Antonio was standing by the balcony doors in the sitting room.
‘Oh!’ Sophie jerked to a disconcerted halt a few feet from the table that was now set with sparkling glasses and cutlery and the catering trolley standing by. ‘Did you bring the food?’
Antonio was immediately aware that he was staring. With her blonde hair in damp disarray, her fair skin pink and only a towel screening her slim curves between breast and knee, she looked incredibly appealing. ‘No…I’m here to dine with you.’
Sophie stared back at him in surprise.
‘If we’re hoping to pretend that this is a normal relationship, we can’t spend our wedding night in different rooms,’ Antonio pointed out.
‘Oh, right…yeah,’ Sophie mumbled, appreciating that he was only joining her because he had no choice in the matter. That meant that his presence was nothing to get thrilled about. ‘I’d better get dressed, then.’
Antonio resisted a schoolboyish urge to tell her that he thought she looked great just as she was and countered with studied casualness, ‘A robe will do.’
‘I don’t have one and it’s too warm for my jeans. I don’t have much else yet—’
‘Just stay as you are,’ Antonio suggested huskily.
The simmering tension in the air danced along her nerve endings. He had changed as well, into black chinos, which accentuated his long, powerful legs, and a casual but very elegant blue open-necked shirt. He managed to look impossibly sophisticated and gorgeous.
‘You don’t look as stuffy as you usually do!’ Sophie exclaimed before she could think better of such frankness.
Faint colour demarcated the spectacular cheekbones that gave his lean bronzed face such intense power and beauty of line. Stuffy? His keen intellect threw up every possible meaning and none was complimentary. It was a word he associated with some of his more stodgy relatives, the ones boringly trapped in convention and habit. Was that how he seemed to her? Stuffy? She was seven years younger than he was. Was it such a gap?
‘We should eat,’ Antonio murmured flatly, determined not to react to what he knew had been a thoughtless remark.
Sophie knew she had offended. ‘It’s just the way you talk and the suits… I’m not used to businessmen and I guess all of them wear suits—’
‘What way do I talk?’ Antonio discovered that he could not silence that question as he spun out a chair for her to sit down.
‘I really didn’t mean to suggest anything critical,’ Sophie muttered anxiously, sitting down on the very edge of the upholstered antique dining chair. ‘You’ve got fantastic manners and of course you can’t help being formal… I mean you’re a marquis—’
‘And stuffy,’ Antonio breathed and shrugged, the ultimate gesture of Mediterranean cool, but that word she had used had been etched like acid into his soul. ‘Let’s eat.’
Sophie leapt up to examine the contents of the trolley and exclaimed in delight at the sight of the barbecued ribs, pizza and French fries. A multitude of other options was also available. ‘You have an in-house take-away?’
‘I wanted you to have food you felt comfortable with.’
‘I eat loads of more healthy things too, but Norah wouldn’t have had a clue about that. To be honest, Norah and Matt eat stuff like this most of the time. I only like it occasionally.’ As she spoke Sophie was scooping up cushions and throws and piling them on the carpet in an untidy heap. Then she flung open the balcony doors on the cooling night air.
In a trice the superbly elegant room became disorganised and yet more full of life. It dawned on Antonio that sitting at a table when the hard wooden floor was available might be deemed stuffy. While Sophie emptied the trolley and knelt down among the cushions to arrange containers and plates in the style of an impromptu indoor picnic, he uncorked the champagne and filled the flutes. She ate without cutlery, licking her fingertips clean like a delicate cat. She tore a strip off the pizza, tipped her head back and bit off tiny pieces. Never until that moment had it occurred to him that watching a woman eat could be a sensual experience. He was absolutely fascinated.
‘What would you like to talk about?’ she asked cheerfully, flopping back against the piled-up pillows to finish her champagne.
‘My stuffy good manners prevented me from asking how you and your sister came to have different fathers,’ Antonio admitted.
Sophie tensed, but tried to laugh off her discomfiture. ‘Oh, that’s no big deal. Belinda’s father was married to our mother, Isabel. He was an oil executive and he wasn’t home much. Isabel met my father when he was painting their house—’
‘He was an artist?’
‘He painted walls, not pictures,’ Sophie told him thinly. ‘Well, he got her pregnant with me and she left her husband for him…’
‘And?’ Antonio prompted as the silence dragged.
‘My father was no great catch and Isabel soon realised her mistake. When I was a month old, she went back to her husband and left me behind with Dad.’
‘That must have been hard for your father—’
‘Dad would do just about anything for money and Isabel sent him money every month until I was sixteen. She never visited me. Apart from the handouts, she just blanked out the whole affair like it and I never happened.’ Sophie tipped up her chin, a defiant glint in her expressive green eyes.
‘She was probably ashamed of what she had done,’ Antonio murmured gently, seeing the pain that she was struggling to hide. Reaching over, he linked his fingers with hers in a comforting gesture that was as instinctive as it was unusual for him. ‘You did very well without her, querida.’
‘You really think so?’ Antonio was so close that Sophie could hardly catch her breath.
‘You bend but you don’t break,’ Antonio breathed a little thickly, leaning over her to let a soothing fingertip score the soft pink fullness of her lower lip in a touch as light as silk.
The faintest suspicion of a breeze was ruffling the curls against her shoulder. She was very still, heart pumping like crazy below the towel. Her breasts felt tight and confined and a restive energy was filtering through her. Her whole focus was on him. If he didn’t kiss her she thought she might die from the cruel disappointment of it.
A masculine thumb brushed against a springy blonde loop of hair in a movement so subtle she wasn’t quite sure it had happened. His scorching golden eyes collided with hers and the knot of tension deep down inside her tightened. ‘I love your hair…it has a life of its own.’
‘Antonio…’ she whispered, stretching back against the pillows, letting her head fall back, bright corkscrew curls spilling out and catching the light of the sinking sun. She felt shameless but she was being driven by a craving much stronger than she was.
His breath fanned her cheek. He took his time and let his mouth toy with hers. Longing snaked through her in a fierce, almost frightening surge. Without even knowing what she was about to do she pulled him down to her. He resisted and laughed huskily, gazed down at her with shimmering dark golden eyes full of satisfaction.
‘I don’t respond well to the whip and chair approach,’ he mocked.
She felt foolish and exposed and temper leapt into the chasm. In a split second she had rolled away and sat up. ‘I’m not a joke!’
Stunned by the immediacy of her rejection, Antonio sprang up in concert. ‘Por dios, I was teasing—’
‘No, you weren’t…you were crowing!’ Sophie accused tempestuously. ‘Well, before you get carried away with the idea that I’m too enthusiastic—’
Antonio reached out and tugged her straight back into his arms. ‘You firebrand…you could never be too enthusiastic for me. You turn me on so hard and so fast that I can’t think this close to you,’ he admitted in a roughened undertone.
On the brink of fighting loose again, Sophie paused and fixed huge anxious green eyes on his lean, strong face. ‘Truthfully?’
He spread long brown fingers to frame her cheekbones and his hands were not quite steady. ‘I’m burning for you, querida.’
She felt the truth of it in his raw urgency and she trembled. ‘Then stop playing games—’
