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And in the tiny single bed, tucked by the attic window, a miracle happened—Santiago gripped her shoulders tightly and kissed her back even more desperately than she’d kissed him. He held her as if he were drowning, and Belle was his only chance of saving himself. Exhilaration flooded through her body. She pulled away.
“I love you,” she repeated joyfully, searching his dark gaze. “Could you ever love me?”
But when he looked down at her, his handsome face was suddenly cold.
“I never asked for your love, Belle. I never wanted it.”
She sucked in her breath, annihilated by pain. How could he kiss her so desperately one moment, then push her away so coldly the next?
Then suddenly it all made sense.
The coldness. The distance. It had all started weeks ago.
He wasn’t a fool. He must have realized she was falling in love with him, probably before she even realized it herself. So he’d started pulling away, acting cold. He must have started regretting his decision to propose. When he’d first heard the news of his brother’s death—that was why he’d seemed almost relieved to have the excuse to cancel their wedding.
He didn’t want her love.
Her shoulders fell. “You told me from the beginning that you’d never love me.” Her voice was low. “But I fell for you anyway. For the man you are and the man you could be. I couldn’t stop myself from loving you...”
Santiago gripped her shoulders. “Stop saying that.” Taking her hand, he pulled her from the bed. “We’ll discuss this later. We should go down to dinner. They’re waiting for us.”
He didn’t look at her as they went down the twisting wooden staircase, and all the stairs after that, to the great hall.
Belle’s throat ached with unshed tears as they reached the enormous room, two stories high, with paintings that looked hundreds of years old. At the center of the room was a long table that could have easily fit thirty people, but tonight had only two at the end: the elderly duke, who as usual didn’t acknowledge Belle’s existence, and Nadia, who as usual looked wickedly sexy and beautiful.
Behind her on the wall was an old portrait of a beautiful woman in a black mantilla and elaborate gown, with expressive eyes and a hard smile. Just like Nadia’s.
Who was the obviously correct consort for Santiago now? Belle, with her average looks and former job as a waitress, a regular girl from small-town Texas? Or Nadia, an international movie star, the most beautiful woman in the world, who knew how to smile sweetly as she cut you to the heart—the woman Santiago had once loved so much that he’d literally earned a billion dollars to try to win her?
The duke muttered something in Spanish beneath his breath.
Looking up, Nadia said to Belle, “Late again? Honestly, you don’t look like the kind of girl who’s always late to meals.”
Belle growled under her breath, but to her surprise, Santiago answered for her. “Thanks to you.”
Nadia tilted her head innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know perfectly well. Sticking Belle up in the tower. You’ve been doing your best to sabotage her. Stop it,” he said sharply, then his voice turned gentle as he said to Belle, “Sit here. Beside me.”
A moment later, Belle was eating dinner without much appetite, and drinking water as the others drank red wine and spoke in Spanish. She’d just told her future husband she loved him, and nothing had happened. Wasn’t courage supposed to be rewarded in life?
But she didn’t think it would be.
She ate numbly, then rose to her feet to escape the dreary, formal table. Santiago stopped her with a glance and four quiet words.
“We need to talk.”
And looking at him, Belle was suddenly afraid.
He led her outside, to the Moorish garden behind the castle courtyard. She could see the lights of the castle above and the village below. A few lampposts dotted through the palm trees and fountains of the dark-shadowed garden. Moonlight silvered the dark valley.
Folding his arms, Santiago stood over her, handsome as a fierce medieval king. “Take back your words.”
“I can’t.” She felt like she was going to faint. It was one thing for her to think of leaving him, but something different if he told her to go. Much more final.
His forehead furrowed as he came closer. He was dressed in a sleek suit, his dark hair cut short. She missed the rougher man she remembered in New York. The one who could laugh, whose hair was a little more wild, especially when he raked it impatiently with his hands. “You don’t even like it here.”
“Because I don’t belong here,” she said quietly. “But neither do you.”
