The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride (2 page)

T
HE
guidebook stated that El Castillo de Leon was a twelfth-century Moorish castle built high in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada and overlooking the city of Granada. The road to the castle climbed ever steeper, and Grace was forced to change into a lower gear as she negotiated another hazardous bend. Any higher and she would be in the clouds, she thought as she stared up at the castle that seemed to cling perilously to the craggy rocks on which it was built.

In the distance the mountain peaks rose even higher and were still capped with snow but at this level the landscape was lush and green. It was raining. The dismal weather complemented her mood, Grace acknowledged bleakly.

‘For three days it has rained,' the manager of her hotel had explained on her arrival in Granada. ‘It's very unusual for this late in the spring—but you wait, tomorrow the sun will shine and it will make you happy.'

Little did the manager know that it would take a lot more than a change in the weather to lift her spirits, Grace thought with a sigh. For a moment she pictured her father, haggard and unshaven, slumped in a chair. The immaculately dressed, proud bank manager had crumbled before her eyes and in his place was a man who had reached the very end of his emotional limits.

‘There's nothing you can do, sweetie,' Angus had said, with a vain attempt at a smile. Even in his darkest hour he was still trying to protect his only child, Grace realised, and it had served to fuel her determination to do
something
.

It couldn't be that bad, she'd insisted. Her father was her hero, the most wonderful man in the world, but the shocking scale of his embezzlement from the bank had left her reeling. She'd understood his reasons, of course. The years of watching her mother's health and mobility deteriorate as motor neurone disease progressed had been utterly devastating. Angus had searched the world in his quest for a cure for the incurable. Anything, from Chinese herbal remedies, holistic healing and expensive treatments in the U.S., had been worth a try if it meant he could ease his adored wife's suffering.

In the end it had all proved futile, and Susan Beresford had died two years ago, a few weeks before Grace's twenty-first birthday. She'd had no idea until a few weeks ago that Angus had funded her mother's care by gambling, or that his addiction had spiralled out of control and had led him to ‘borrow' money to repay his debts from the Europa Bank, the British subsidiary of the Spanish banking house El Banco de Herrera.

‘I always planned to pay it back, I swear it,' Angus had croaked when Grace had been unable to hide her shock at the enormity of what he had done. ‘One lucky break, that's all I needed. I could have repaid the money, closed the false accounts I'd set up and no one would have known.'

But now they did. An eagle-eyed auditor had picked up irregularities that had triggered a deeper investigation, suspicions had been reported all the way up to the head of El Banco de Herrera, and Grace could only stand by and watch as her world and, more importantly, her father's was brought crashing down.

With a low murmur of distress she dragged her mind back to the present. The road continued upwards, lined on either side by trees that formed an arch overhead, but as the car rounded another sharp bend Grace gasped and gripped the wheel. In the clearing she could plainly see the edge of the road and the terrifying drop over the side of the mountain.

‘Dear God,' she muttered beneath her breath. Her palms were damp with sweat as realisation hit that one false move would send her hurtling over the edge. She hated heights, and her head spun as she fought the nausea that swept over her. For a moment she was tempted to turn back, but the road was too narrow for her to attempt to swing the car round. And besides, she thought grimly, she had a job to do.

El Castillo de Leon was the ancestral seat of the Herrera family and she was praying that the new
duque
was at home. Her letters to him had been unanswered, and all attempts to contact him by phone had been blocked by his ultra-efficient staff. In desperation she had travelled to the bank's offices in Madrid and from there had flown south to Granada, only to be informed that the president was at his private residence in the mountains.

She would see Javier Herrera or die trying, Grace vowed grimly, dragging her eyes from the perilous drop and concentrating on the road ahead. To her relief the road eventually levelled, and when she turned the next bend the castle rose up before her, an imposing Moorish fortress that appeared grey and unwelcoming in the drizzle.

Her heart was thumping when she eased out of the car. Every muscle in her body ached, although whether that was from the tense drive up the mountain or the prospect of finally meeting Javier Herrera, she did not know.

The castle was a truly impressive example of Moorish architecture, but Grace's eyes were drawn to the solidly forbidding front door, which was guarded on either side by two stone lions, who sat silently watching her as if waiting to pounce. She wouldn't like to be here in the dark, Grace thought with a shiver. She'd rather not be here now, but the Duque de Herrera was the only person who had the power to save her father, and the sooner she saw him the better.

The fine rain was soaking through her thin dress, chilling her skin. Quickly she reached into the car for the pashmina she had flung in at the last minute. Made of the softest cashmere, it had been an extravagance even before she'd discovered her father's financial problems, she acknowledged ruefully. Now she regarded it as an obscenely expensive frippery, but at least it was warm and, hugging it round her shoulders, she hurried up the front steps of the castle.

As she lifted her hand to pull on the bell rope, the door suddenly swung open and two figures appeared. One was plainly a member of the castle staff and the other was a short, elderly man with an eye-catching moustache.

‘I've come to see the Duque de Herrera,' Grace faltered nervously, grateful that the years she had spent holidaying with her Aunt Pam in Malaga meant that she spoke Spanish fluently.

‘If you value your life,
señorita
, I do not recommend it,' the older man told her bluntly. ‘The Duque is not in the best of moods.'

But at least he
was
at the castle, Grace thought as hope surged through her. Javier Herrera was here, and all she had to do was persuade the stony-faced butler to allow her to see him.

Several minutes later she was still on the steps, with only the weathered lions for company. ‘Please,' she begged one last time as the heavy oak front door began to close, shutting her out.

‘I'm sorry, but it is impossible. The Duque never sees uninvited guests,' the butler insisted impatiently.

‘But if you would just tell him I'm here…I promise I only want five minutes of his time.'

Her despairing cry bounced off the wooden door, and even the lions looked unimpressed. In her frustration Grace gave in to the childish urge to kick the front door, but unsurprisingly it remained firmly closed. The castle had been built as a defence against an army of invaders, and one slightly built young woman who stood a couple of inches over five feet tall had no chance of breaching its battlements.

‘Damn you, Javier Herrera,' she muttered, blinking back her tears. She seemed to be left with no alternative but to turn her car round and head back down the mountain path, but she couldn't bear the thought that she had failed. Her father often teased that what she lacked in inches she made up for in stubbornness—she couldn't give up yet. The Duque de Herrera was here, on the other side of the castle walls, and there had to be a way she could get to him and make him listen.

Once again she was pierced by the vivid mental image of her father, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and his once strong body gaunt with strain and loss of appetite. He had never come to terms with her mother's death; his heart was broken and the doctor had warned that Angus was perilously close to a nervous breakdown. If she could only lift her father's terror that he would be sent to prison—a very real possibility, according to Mr Wooding, the family solicitor—then perhaps he would be able to lift himself out of his deep depression.

It had stopped raining, and although the sky was still grey and overcast pale beams of sunshine were valiantly trying to spread their warmth. Across the courtyard Grace spotted an arched gateway in the wall. The wrought-iron gate was probably locked, she told herself, but to her amazement it swung open and she quickly stepped through.

The formal garden was exquisite—a glimpse of paradise that evoked an instantly calming effect on her. The clear, tranquil waters of the series of square pools mirrored the intricate arrangement of boxed hedges and exotic palms, while the delicate splash of the fountains soothed Grace's ragged nerves. Early-blooming roses lifted their faces to the sky, their velvet petals beaded with rain droplets, and on impulse she plucked a flower and bent her head to inhale its fragrance.

For a few precious moments the weight of her worries lifted. She could have stayed here for ever, listening to the sweet birdsong, she mused. As she strolled along the myriad narrow paths she even forgot that she was supposed to be looking for a way to break into the castle. She pushed away the memory of her father's misery, the need to find the Duque de Herrera, and her apprehension at the thought of the drive back down the steep, winding road to return to Granada.

Afterwards Grace wasn't sure what made her break her silent contemplation of the pool. There was no sound—even the birds had stopped singing—but she was aware of a curious prickling sensation between her shoulder blades and the growing feeling that she was being watched. Slowly she turned her head, and her breath caught in her chest.

The man was standing at the far end of the garden, but even from a distance his height was notable. He was a giant of a man. His body was cloaked in a dark-green waxed coat that fell to below his knees and brushed against his leather boots. The caped collar gave him the appearance of a medieval
conquistador
while his wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his eyes, shading his face. Grace sensed his power and strength, but her attention was drawn to the sleek black Dobermann by his side and fear churned in the pit of her stomach. This was no cute, friendly pet. Undoubtedly it was a guard dog, and the man must be one of the castle's security staff.

It was at that point that Grace acknowledged she was trespassing. Her most sensible option was to approach the security man and apologise, but to her fevered imagination he looked like the Grim Reaper, dark and faceless, and utterly terrifying with his hellish hound at his heels. Instinct took over from common sense. With a cry she spun round and began to run, a fearful glance over her shoulder revealing that the man had let loose his dog and it was streaking across the garden towards her.

With her blood pounding in her ears, Grace hurtled along the paths, searching desperately for a way to escape. The garden was enclosed on three sides by a high wall, but on the fourth side the wall was lower and the bricks were old and crumbling.

The dog was almost on her. She could hear the harsh rasp of its breath coming closer, could imagine its sharp teeth sinking into her flesh. Frantically she shot down another path, and with a speed born of desperation began to scale the old wall. The loose brickwork gave her several footholds, and, using all her strength, Grace heaved herself towards the top.

She was safe now, she reassured herself. The dog was below her, barking furiously, but with luck she would be able to clamber over the wall to safety. With one final glance at the savage animal, she hooked one leg over the top of the wall and let out a scream. Beyond the wall the land fell away in a sheer drop of several hundred feet. If she threw herself over she would almost certainly be killed. Her only alternative was to scramble back down to the garden where the slavering dog was waiting.

In the event Grace did nothing. Paralysed with fear, she balanced on the top of the wall and watched the man approach.

‘Easy, Luca.' Javier strolled unhurriedly towards the end of the garden and called his dog to heel. Above him the woman—or girl, he amended with a brief glance upwards—was clinging to the top of the wall as if her life depended on it. Every ounce of colour had leached from her face, which was dominated by huge, fear-filled eyes.

Javier felt not the slightest hint of sympathy. She could sit up there all day for all he cared, he thought grimly. He was sick to death of the damn paparazzi tailing his every move. It was bad enough in the city, where they sat in their cars outside his office hoping to snap him, or collected in droves at the popular nightspots, determined to catch him with his latest mistress. The discovery of a journalist in the grounds of the castle was the final insult on what was undoubtedly the worst day of his life.

‘How did you get in here?' he demanded impatiently. ‘And what do you want?' He couldn't see a camera—maybe she'd dropped it when she'd fled from Luca. She must have been scared witless to scramble up the wall as fast as she had, and admittedly the dog did look ferocious, he acknowledged as he attached the chain he was holding to Luca's collar.

The girl remained silent and Javier's jaw tightened. He was not in the mood to play games, and he wanted her off his land. ‘Climb down; the dog's leashed and won't hurt you.' Still no response. His eyes narrowed as he studied her pale skin. Her hair was hidden beneath some kind of shawl that she had wrapped around her shoulders and head so that it formed a hood. But instinct told him she wasn't Spanish, and he repeated his request in English, which tended to be a universal form of communication.