The Mediterranean Prince’s Captive Virgin. Robyn Donald

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СКАЧАТЬ base of the cliff, a stillness so profound she almost expected to see a nymph flit from one of the trees to join her sisters in classical frolics with dolphins.

      Yet halfway across the square the skin between Leola’s shoulder blades prickled, and she had to resist the urge to swing around and scan the darkened houses behind her.

      Cravenly glad that she’d worn a dark top over her black jeans, she was relieved to reach the shade of the trees at the foot of the tower. Slowly, telling herself she was being stupid, she turned.

      Her breath stopped in her throat. From the corner of her eye she spotted a stealthy movement at the base of the church. Someone—or something—was sliding along the ancient stone.

      So what? It was probably just one of the local dogs coming home from a night on the tiles.

      So why was adrenalin pumping through her, quickening her senses, ramping up her pulse so that all she could hear was the rapid, heavy thud of her own heartbeat?

      Because her night-attuned eyes picked out people—a line of them, some stumbling, some walking fast, all noiseless. They seemed to emerge from a deeper darkness in the church wall—a door—and they were heading for the wall.

      A flare of light shocked her into a gasp; she saw a man’s face—handsome, subtly cruel—before the light died.

      And then she was grabbed from behind in one swift, brutal movement, an iron hand clamping across her mouth so that her scream had no chance to escape. Instinct drove her to a frenzy of struggling desperation, but she was dragged into the pitch blackness of some recess in the wall.

      Think, she commanded herself, and tried to turn so she could knee her captor in the groin, an assault he blocked with ruthless efficiency. She forced herself to go limp, surreptitiously folding her fingers into a fist, but his arms crushed her against a lean, shockingly strong body, completely subduing her so that she could neither move nor signal.

      All coherent thought lost to an unnerving panic, she tried biting at the remorseless hand over her mouth, but that didn’t work either. It tightened, cutting off her breath.

      Panic kicked her ferociously in the stomach and she let herself sag. He eased the pressure a little, but she could feel the tension smoking off him.

      A quiet scraping, then what sounded like a muffled curse in an unknown language—Illyrian?—came from the direction of the square. Every muscle painfully taut, Leola waited for some sign of inattention from the man who held her so fiercely against him; he was big, she realised, as well as hugely powerful, and he…

      He smelt good.

      In some wildly illogical way that clean male scent eased her fear a little.

      Until she was hauled sideways, through what had to be a door in the wall. Barely audible, her captor said in English, ‘Don’t be frightened.’

      How did he know she’d understand?

      He didn’t let her go, and he didn’t take his hand away from her mouth. If anything, the fingers tightened a fraction. In warning? Forcing down a spasm of terror, Leola waited for him to lose concentration.

      She couldn’t see what was happening, but a faint thud sounded as if he’d kicked the door shut behind them and the air became musty. Shivering, she realised they were inside the tower.

      ‘Just another few minutes,’ he said again, his words pitched for her ears only. ‘Walk.’

      Instead Leola sagged, hoping he’d think she’d fainted and that she might get a chance to get away.

      It didn’t work. Ruthlessly he propelled her in front of him.

      ‘Stairs,’ he said, still in that deep, oddly soft voice, half lifting, half dragging her upwards.

      Once they reached the top would he throw her down the cliff into the sea below? Panic surged again, freezing her mind.

      All she could think of doing was to pretend to find it hard going, stumbling, hesitating, until he said curtly, ‘It’s no use. And you’re safe enough.’ His voice was hard and cool and deep, the upper-class English accent very faintly underpinned by something much more exotic.

      In spite of her fear she snorted in pure outrage, and he laughed, an oddly amused sound that made her wonder if she was indeed safe. ‘OK, we’re far enough away now for you not to be heard,’ he said, and those cruel fingers relaxed, fell away.

      She screamed with every ounce of strength she possessed, only to have it cut off by his hand again.

      ‘Wildcat,’ he said, that infuriating note of—mockery?—underlying the single word.

      Furiously, she opened her eyes to glare at him. He released her, and, unable to see for a few seconds, she swayed, blinking ferociously until she was finally able to focus on her captor, calmly barring the door behind them. He turned, and her breath locked in her throat.

      In the dim light of one electric bulb he looked like something out of a mediaeval epic, a warrior with a warrior’s uncompromising ruthlessness. Darkly tanned, with the arrogant facial structure of some Nordic conqueror, he was smiling, but his eyes were hard, an almost translucent ice-grey. And although she was tall herself, Leola had to look a long way up into those piercing eyes.

      A feverish shiver—of apprehension, or perhaps recognition—scudded the length of her spine. He was built like a Viking, and the aura of danger pulsing about him made her take a step backwards, although she kept her head high.

      ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Why did you drag me up here?’

      His gaze sharpening, he bent his black head and said brusquely, ‘I hurt you. I’m sorry.’

      Leola felt it then, the sting of her cut lip, the taste of blood when she ran her tongue over it. ‘You’re sorry? So am I. What the hell do you think you’re up to?’

      Long tanned fingers dipped into his pocket, producing a handkerchief. ‘Here,’ he ordered. ‘Wipe it.’

      Automatically she took the cloth, still warm from his body, and patted her lip. The bloodstain was tiny; showing him, she said, ‘It’s nothing.’

      Her eyes widened as he covered the stone floor between them in two steps to lift her chin in a strong hand, black brows drawing together as he surveyed her face.

      ‘It certainly won’t mar your beauty,’ he said, and when she flinched he laughed in his throat and bent, kissing the maltreated lip with a gentleness that was very much out of accord with his intimidating appearance.

      ‘What was that for?’ she asked inanely, wondering why her legs felt as though the bones had dissolved.

      ‘I kissed it better. Did your mother never do that for you?’

      Her mother hadn’t been the affectionate sort—not to her children, anyway. In a brittle voice Leola said, ‘It only works if you love the person doing the kissing.’

      ‘I must remember that,’ he returned, the sardonic humour vanishing so that she met eyes that were coldly, implacably intent. ‘Now, what were you doing walking the square at three-fifteen in the morning?’

      ‘Possibly СКАЧАТЬ