The From Paris With Love And Regency Season Of Secrets Ultimate Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

There had to have been some kind of mistake. ‘It’s our wedding night, Raoul. Surely you’re not going to spend it in the study working all night?’

      Something in his expression softened. He touched a hand to her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Bella.’ It was the first time, she realised, he had used his pet name for her today. ‘But it is very late and there is something I must attend to. And I thought you would appreciate a rest after our long day.’

      ‘Can’t it wait?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then I will wait for you, Raoul. You have to sleep some time.’

      He just looked at her, and his dark eyes looked so empty it chilled her all the way to her bones. ‘As you wish.’

      She pushed up on her toes and kissed him on the lips, brazenly letting her breasts press against his chest, lingering there so could be in no way unclear as to whether she would rather sleep or make love, no matter how long his work took or what time he came in. ‘I wish.’

      Natania was waiting for her on the stairs, her dark gypsy eyes missing nothing of the exchange.

      ‘He’ll come up when he’s finished,’ Gabriella said with a brightness she had to plaster on to make stick. ‘If you just show me the way.’

      Natania said nothing, merely performed a slow blink of her wide eyes and turned to lead the way up the long staircase, her bangles again sounding too bright and discordant for the grim setting and Gabriella’s equally grim mood.

      A long gallery met them lined with heavy drapes, heavier furniture and paintings of windswept cliffs and boiling seas. A castle featured in one, severe and solid, complete with battlements and turrets, clinging to the edge of the cliff like it was part of it. This castle? she wondered. It could be, judging from the interior, dark and brooding, like a slumbering giant waiting for the light. Not exactly the honeymoon resort she’d been anticipating. Then again, she thought with a pang of hurt, so far this was nothing like a honeymoon.

      ‘What is this place?’ she asked, catching Natania up outside a door.

      ‘Castillo Del Arco,’ she said, leading her into the big high-ceilinged room. ‘It is, Raoul’s other place.’

      ‘It’s very—grand,’ she said, wondering how she could subtly ask where her husband’s room was.

      ‘I hate it,’ the other woman said. ‘It is a bad place.’

      Gabriella wandered into the vast room. So this was to be her room. Clearly it was not Raoul’s. It was too soft, with its patterned wallpaper and rich, red velvet curtains; a fireplace lit with gold flames ran along one wall, a four-poster bed standing proudly against its opposite, an ornately carved blanket box at its foot. There was a door alongside the bed, and she opened it, curious to see if it led into Raoul’s room—hoping—and immediately was disappointed when she found only an en suite.

      Natania’s words finally wormed their way into her consciousness. She spun around, reminded of Phillipa’s warning in the frisson of fear that ran down her spine. ‘Bad? In what way?’

      But Natania wasn’t listening. Marco had arrived with the luggage someone else had clearly packed for her and he was leaning down, kissing her.

      Gabriella disappeared into the bathroom, feeling simultaneously shocked, breathless and guilty that she had witnessed the intimacy, even though logic told her she had done nothing wrong. I’m just tired, she told herself; strung out. She took a couple of deep breaths while she ran cold water over her wrists, willing the colour in her face to subside.

      But there was no way she could will away her own desires, or the buzz of need that bloomed, insistent and pulsing, deep in her belly and tight in her breasts. For it should be Raoul with his mouth on hers; Raoul in her bedroom.

      Damn.

      Marco had left when she returned; Natania was busy unpacking her luggage. ‘There’s no point doing that,’ she told her. ‘We’ll only have to repack it all when I shift rooms tomorrow.’ Because there was no way she intended to let herself be shunted off into her own room another night. ‘Right now I just want to crawl into bed.’ Natania’s eyes flared with a wild flame that told her that was exactly what Natania intended herself—except she would not be spending the night alone in hers.

      ‘If you are sure …’

      Gabriella just nodded, the beginning of a headache tugging at her temples. ‘You go.’ At least one of us might as well have a good night. She was just leaving when Gabriella remembered. ‘Natania, what did you mean when you said this was a bad place?’

      The other woman gave her a look of such abject pity that she was almost crushed under the weight of it. ‘I am sorry, I should not have spoken of such things. Good night.’ And with that she was gone.

       What things?

      She prowled the room, wanting to shriek at the closed door, at the walls, the bed and the rich, dark drapes. She wanted to shriek with the insanity of it all. This was her wedding night. Her wedding night! And yet here she was, tucked away in a lonely room in a castle on some godforsaken stretch of coastline shrouded in mist.

      And where the hell was her husband?

      She threw off her sandals and flung them across the room, where they smacked into the wall and it was still nowhere near satisfying enough.

      What the hell did he think he was doing?

      Nobody worked on their wedding night. Nobody!

      Thunder boomed in the distance, a low, rumbling growl that went on and on and echoed her own rumbling discontent. A flash of lightning painted the room with the curtains’ vivid red.

      Damn it! Natania would know where he was. She should just have asked her. Barefoot, she rushed to the door and pulled it open to the darkened hallway. She could see nothing and nobody, until another clap of thunder that seemed to shake the very walls was followed by a light so bright it transformed night into day.

      And there, at the end of the long passageway, she saw a shadowy figure—Natania?—disappearing into a room.

      She called out to her but the sound was lost in the sudden crash of rain on the windows and the doors as the castle descended once again into blackness, only a thin, ghostly glow through a window at the end of the passageway providing any illumination.

      She wanted to follow the woman, but right now she was probably already in the arms, if not the bed, of Marco. Did she really need to interrupt them in the act of love-making? Did she really need to remind herself of what she herself would have been doing—should have been doing—if only her husband had not decided to abandon her on their wedding night?

      What would they think of her? The lonely bride, still in her wedding gown, searching desperately for her husband.

      She had seen the pity in Natania’s eyes. Did she really need to see more?

      The rain pelted down on the roof and walls until the pounding itself sounded like thunder. She shivered. It was freezing out here in the dark passageway; her head was thumping and she was tired beyond measure. Bone weary. Across the room the fire crackled in the hearth; the bed looked cosy and inviting. And down the end of the passage the thin, grey light was just a shade lighter. It was later than she thought. It would be dawn soon.

      No wonder she was so tired. She would lie down for a while to get warm. And maybe Raoul would come to her when he had finished his work like she had asked him to. She would wait up for him.

      And tomorrow—today—things would make more sense. They had to.

      He stood at the rain-streaked windows, looking out into the bleak nothingness of the storm, wishing bleak nothingness for his mind to erase all thoughts of the woman lying upstairs waiting for him.

      Right now she would be confused and angry. He could deal with those things, he expected