A Royal Wedding(13)

And she was waiting for you to kiss her.

He strode down the passageway, raking hands through his hair, not knowing where he was going, refusing to give credence to the sly voice in his head that refused to shut up.

She baited you.

She didn’t know what she was asking.

She wants you.

No. No. And no! She did not want him. She was a fool. She had no idea.

But you want her …

He found himself outside her room, the sliver of light under the door telling him she was still working, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Would she welcome his visit?

Would she welcome being spread over that wide desk, scattering her precious papers, while he buried himself in her depths? Would her eyes light up for him the way they had in the cave? Would her entire body shimmer with desire and explode with light?

Blood pounded in his ears. His fingers were on the doorknob.

Or would she close her eyes and turn away?

He could not bear it if she turned away.

Blackness, thick and viscous, oozed up from the depths. His fingers screwed into a ball as he forced it down.

Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she was different. She didn’t shy away from him. She didn’t recoil in horror. She treated him as if he was almost normal—as if his scars didn’t exist.

But you’re not normal, the dark voices said. You can never be normal again.

The blackness welled up like a rolling wave. What had he been thinking? Why was he doing this to himself?

He should have made her leave when he’d had the chance!

He pushed away from the door, forced his feet to walk, but he’d gone no more than a few paces when he heard the door open behind him.

‘Count Volta?’

He dragged in air, turned and nodded stiffly. ‘Dr Hunter.’

She had a hand on her chest, as if she’d been frightened of who or what she might find in the passageway. ‘I was just about to go to bed. I thought I heard a noise. Did you want something?’

God, yes.

‘No. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’ He didn’t want to think about Dr Hunter and bed. And then, because he should be interested, ‘How does your investigation progress?’

Her eyes lit up that way they did until he would swear they almost shimmered with excitement. ‘The pages are wonderful. Do you want to have a look before I put them away?’

On that same desk, when all he wanted was to spread her limbs and plunge into her slick depths and feel her incandescent exhilaration explode around him?

‘No! ‘ he said, so forcefully that she took a small step backwards and he had to suck in air to regain his composure. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ he added more gently. ‘It’s getting late. Goodnight, Dr Hunter. Sleep well.’

He wouldn’t sleep, he knew, as he descended the wide stairs leading to the ground floor. Not now, not after seeing her again. Instead he would read in the library and listen to the storm continue to build outside. He would take comfort in the savagery of the elements and the pounding violence of the sea. He would be at one with its endless torment.

And perhaps in the morning he might have Bruno fetch the woman from the village after all. God knew, books weren’t going to cut it tonight. He would need something.

In the gloom of light he passed the doorway to the ballroom, a flash of lightning illuminating the empty space. Empty but for the grand piano sitting bereft in the far corner of the room.

He paused and gazed at the imprint the lightning had left behind and felt a pang for something long gone. Across the marble tiles, under the rumble of thunder, he approached the instrument like a one-time friend whose friendship had been soured by time. Cautiously. Mistrustfully.

Once he’d known her intimately. Known her highs and her lows and how to wring every piece of emotion from her. She’d been a thing of beauty when the world had been all about beauty.

Before life had soured and turned ugly.

Yet still she sat there, black and sleek, totally shameless. And even now she beckoned, luring him like the memories of a mistress he hadn’t quite finished with before they’d parted company.

And what surprised him more than anything was that he was tempted. He lifted the lid, ran his fingers along the keys, hit a solitary note that rang out in the empty ballroom and felt something twist inside him.

He could have put the lid down then. He could have walked away. But the way his fingers rested on the keys, familiar yet foreign, wouldn’t let him go. Outside the waves crashed; the thunder boomed until the windows rattled. Inside his fingers reacquainted themselves with the cool ivory. He let them find their own way. He let them remember. Let them give voice to his damaged heart.