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I have defiled our family chapel by blessing a marriage to the daughter of my father’s whore there.
Yesterday’s marriage would not be recognised in law until the legal documents had been signed. But how could he annul the vows he had made before God, when they had consummated them not once but many times last night, and again this morning? No priest would condone it. And anyway, a journalist already knew Cerys’s identity.
He stared blankly at Pérez. ‘This journalist, what do they know?’
‘They knew of your interest in the book. And the connection to the incident in Barcelona. It is already common knowledge that the woman you rescued that night has been living in your household ever since. Although I do not think it is known that she has lost her memory. Your household are extremely discreet.’
Except how do we even know she has really lost her memory?
The familiar cynicism went some way to fill the hole in his gut.
What if it was always a lie, to trick me into a commitment?
Santiago swore, the poison rising in his throat. No wonder Pérez had looked so concerned when Santiago had confirmed the journal belonged to the woman he had chosen to make his wife.
The story would break very soon, that they had been married in his family’s chapel. Even though they had not released the information to the press yet, they had made no attempt to hide it either. And while his staff in thecastilloknew of his hatred of gossip, last night’s guests would not necessarily be as discreet.
And when Cerys’s identity was revealed, the whole world would know his shame—that, like his father, he had thrown all caution and control away simply to satisfy his own lust.
‘I am sorry, Your Excellency,’ the man said again. ‘I know this news is a surprise.’
‘A surprise?’ He barked out a bitter laugh as he picked up the book from the carpet, the fury so cold inside him that his heart felt frozen. ‘I need you to find out when the story will break.’ At least then he could prepare, do some kind of damage limitation, although at this point he had no idea what that even looked like. He could refuse to go ahead with the civil ceremony, but the blessing had already been performed. It would only be a matter of time before the press discovered that too. Even though the congregation had been asked not to post anything on social media, he had not thought it necessary to swear them to secrecy indefinitely.
‘I must speak to my wife,’ he said.
The word tasted sour on his tongue, but instead of the fury he wanted to feel, heat surged up his torso as he imagined the sight of her—her naked curves, soft and supple and dappled by sunlight—when he had torn himself away from her less than twenty minutes ago.
His wife…
The woman he had been so desperate to marry that he had not even delayed until their marriage could be conducted legally. Because of an obsession hestillcould not control.
He forced himself to take a breath.
Cerys Jones had captivated him, much as her mother had once captivated his father. That much was obvious. And it seemed that a part of him still yearned to feed that obsession. But he was in the driving seat now.
When the gossip sites and the scandal sheets got hold of this story, the main purpose of this marriage would be destroyed. But he would not let Cerys, or the foolhardy emotions she had begun to stir in him, get the better of him again. And from now on he would control the narrative. Ruthlessly and without compromise.
He allowed the cold, controlled fury to build as he walked back through the orchard and the poison seeped into his soul. The incriminating journal felt like a brick in his pocket. But the sun which had felt so warm less than an hour ago could do nothing to thaw the block of ice building around his heart—or repair the gaping hole in his gut.
Cerys scrubbed the steam off the bathroom mirror, then pressed her fingers to her jaw, aware of the rough patch where Santiago’s stubble had abraded her skin.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror—and let the sensual memories of their early-morning lovemaking crowd out the shadowy images from her nightmare.
She’d woken again in a daze of heat and longing ten minutes ago, to find Santiago gone and the sun high in the sky. Somehow, not having him there beside her had spooked her. But the residual hum of arousal, and the long hot shower, had helped quell the anxiety from the nightmares—which had been so vivid and so disturbing when Santiago had woken her earlier. Before he had helped to drive away her fear on a wave of heat.
A loud rap on the bathroom door made her jump.
‘Cerys, get dressed and come downstairs.’ The sharp command in Santiago’s voice sent a chill through her.
Why did he sound like the man she had met that first morning in thecastillonearly two months ago now? And nothing like the man who had made wild, passionate love to her last night, and slow, sensuous love to her less than an hour ago.
She rushed to open the door, the prickle of unease frightening her.
‘Santiago, wait!’ she said, surprised to see him heading back down the stairs.
She clutched the towel to her breasts, far too aware of her nakedness when his hot gaze raked over her skin.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.