The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride(5)

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.