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He was overcome by the inexplicable need to hunt down and conquer whatever had wounded her.
‘Look, I’ve driven a long number of hours straight to get here. Now I’m in a creepy castle with a man who’s a count. Tell me this doesn’t soundexactlylike a horror movie.’
‘You were making a joke. Of course.’ Stefano relaxed a fraction. After a few days alone his imagination seemed to be running as wild as hers. ‘But the castle is notcreepy.’
He took umbrage at the assertion.Uncompromisingmight be one description.Imposingan even better word.
Signorina Jamieson’s gaze darted around the expansive entrance hall, with its forbidding paintings of former Counts covering the walls.
‘Those pictures are all of judgemental-looking people wearing black. I’d describe the vibe as...funereal.’ Her voice was almost a whisper, and she bit into her lip again, which thankfully had some colour returning to it.
‘My father said it was a statement of intent to any who entered.’
‘Well, it doesn’t exactly screamwarm welcome.’
Her eyes were big and wide. Every part of her appeared stiff and tense, especially the way she still clutched her remaining case to her, as if in self-protection.
‘I can’t promise there aren’t more pictures of my disapproving ancestors throughout my home, but Icanpromise I’m no creature of the night. You’re welcome here.’ The lie about her being welcome slipped easily enough from his tongue. He had no desire to terrify a stranded woman. ‘Please follow me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Prego. Lasserno’s hospitality is renowned. I intend to uphold those traditions.’
Now he needed to make a decent attempt at showing her some of the hospitality he professed to have. Stefano headed through the entrance hall towards the living area. The heated prickling at the back of his neck told him the woman was close on his heels.
After a few minutes of walking through the cold, deserted halls, he opened the door to a room which had been the playroom of his childhood. When Stefano had relocated from the capital and begun full-time residence at the castle, he’d taken over the space and moved some of the more comfortable furniture inside. The memories here, at least, were fond ones. Of spending time with his siblings even though they’d been younger and at the time it had seemed like an imposition, being left to care for them with a neglectful nanny.
The rest of the castle was meant as a showcase for his family’s might and power in the province of Varno. Designed to impress, inspire awe. In this room, where he’d spent so much of his time, he always felt as if he’d come home.
He deposited Signorina Jamieson’s weighty bag inside the door, walked to the fire and carefully placed more fuel on the low-burning coals. Prodded it until the flames blazed brighter.
The woman in question stood at the entrance to the room as if she was taking it all in, then she raked off her hat. A spill of strawberry blonde tresses fell about her shoulders, unruly and golden. She looked as if she’d recently been tumbled into bed with her mussed-up hair and her rosy cheeks...
But his role here was not harbouring illicit thoughts about stray tourists. And it didn’t seem she had similar opinions about him. She didn’t pay much attention to him at all, instead hesitating, then looking down at her mud-splattered footwear.
A frown crinkled her brow. ‘I’m sorry. My boots really are a mess. I should have taken them off.’
Everything about her seemed uncertain. Tentative. Even her comments about spooky castles and counts and horror movies. Was she afraid? He’d never frightened a woman—ever. On the contrary, once he’d known how to be gentle and kind. How to exhibit care. His official designation—Shield of the Crown—meant he was a protector. As little as he wanted her here, that instinct was ingrained. He’d try to put her at ease until he could safely have her collected and returned to the village.
‘There’s no need for an apology. You can take off your boots in a moment. Please sit.’
The way she swayed on her feet made him believe she might fall over, and he had no desire to catch a swooning female. To clasp that soft, curved weight in his arms. To feel the way her head might nestle in the crook of his shoulder, her breath feathering his neck as he carried her to the couch...
No.They were things he wished to avoid, even though the thought made him delectably warm. Or perhaps it was merely the fire. That must be it, since he was still crouched close, tending the flames.
She finally made her way to the couch nearest to the fireplace, resting the black case she still held gently beside her, settling it into the cushions, ensuring it was steady. Then she tugged at her laces and kicked off her boots. Her feet were encased in woolly blue socks with a polar bear pattern that matched her hat. She pointed her toes in the direction of the fire and wiggled them.
Then she pulled the gloves from her hands, exposing slender fingers, and flexed them, before digging the thumb of her right hand deep into her left palm. Something about her seemed too fragile and soft. A strange contrast in this place where the past months had been all too hard. He wondered what had brought her here...what made her seem as if a part of her carried a mortal wound.
Stefano grabbed the fluffy blanket that his housekeeper had insisted would add an ambience to the room, for reasons which he found inexplicable, and held it out to her.
She took it and wrapped it round herself. ‘Why is it still so cold in here?’
‘The heating’s been unpredictable. I’m waiting for Bruno, the local mechanic, to come and repair it.’
‘He’s the man I was talking to at thepensione. Who suggested that I come here.’
Of that, Stefano had no doubt. Bruno’s wife ran thepensione. Bruno would have thought it a great joke, sending someone Stefano’s way. Especially a young tourist who claimed not to be a tourist.
