Читать книгу Kidnapped For His Royal Duty - Jane Porter - Страница 11

CHAPTER ONE

SHE KNEW SOMETHING.

Dal Grant could see it in Poppy’s eyes, the set of her lips and the pinch between her brows.

She’d worked far too long for him not to know that guilty as hell expression, the one she only got when she did something massively wrong and then tried to cover it.

He should have fired her years ago.

She wasn’t irreplaceable. She’d never been an outstanding secretary. She was simply good, and rather decent, and she had the tendency to keep him grounded when he wanted to annihilate someone, or something, as he did now.

Most important, he’d trusted her, which had apparently been the absolutely wrong thing to do.

But he couldn’t press her for information, not with two hundred guests still filling the pews, whispering giddily while Sophie’s father looked gobsmacked and Lady Carmichael-Jones had gone white.

Thank God he didn’t have close family here today to witness this disaster, his mother having died when he was a boy, and then his father had passed away five years ago, just before his thirtieth birthday.

Dal drew a slow, deep breath as he turned toward the pews, knowing it was time to dismiss the guests, including Sophie’s heartsick family. And then he’d deal with Poppy.

* * *

“What did you do?” Randall demanded, cornering Poppy in the tiny antechamber off the chapel altar.

Poppy laced her fingers together uneasily, Randall’s words too loud in her head, even as she became aware of his choice of words.

He hadn’t asked what she knew, but rather, what did she do? Do, as in an action. Do, as in having responsibility.

She glanced over her shoulder, looking for someone who could step in, intervene, but the chapel was empty now, the guests disappearing far more rapidly than one would have imagined; but maybe that was because after Randall announced in a cold, hard voice, “Apologies for wasting your time today, but it appears that the wedding is off,” and then he’d smiled an equally cold, hard smile, the guests had practically raced out.

She’d wanted to race out, too, but Randall pointed at her, gesturing for her to stay, and so she had, while he waved off his aunts and uncles and cousins, and then exchanged brief, uncomfortable words with Sophie’s parents before shaking each of his groomsmen’s hands, sending every single person away. Sending everyone but her.

How she wanted to go, too, and she’d even tried to make a belated escape but he’d caught her as she was inching toward the vestibule exit, trapping her in this little antechamber typically reserved for the clergy.

“What did you do, Poppy?” he repeated more quietly, eyes narrowing, jaw hardening, expression glacial.

Her heart thumped hard. He was tall, much taller then she, and she took an unconscious step backward, her shoulders bumping against the rough bricks. “Nothing,” she whispered, aware that she was a dreadful liar. It was one of the things Sophie said she’d always liked best about her, and the very thing that had made Randall Grant, the Earl of Langston, hire her in the first place four years ago when she needed a job. He said he needed someone he could trust. She assured him he could trust her.

“I don’t believe you,” he answered.

Her heart did another painful thump as her mouth dried.

“Let’s try this again. Where is my bride? And what the hell just happened here, and why?”

Poppy’s eyes widened. Randall Grant never, ever swore. Randall Grant was the model of discipline, self-control and civility.

At least he’d always been so until now.

“I don’t know where she is, and that’s the truth.” Her voice wavered on the last words and she squirmed, hating that he was looking at her as if she’d turned into a three-headed monster. “I had no idea Renzo would storm the wedding like that.”

His dark eyebrow lifted. “Renzo,” he repeated quietly, thoughtfully.

She went hot, then cold, understanding her mistake immediately.

She shouldn’t have said his name. She shouldn’t have said anything.

“Poppy.”

She stared at his square chin and bit her lower lip hard. It was that or risk blurting everything, and she couldn’t do it; it wouldn’t be fair to Sophie.

Instead, she tugged at her snug, low-cut bodice, trying not to panic, which in her case meant dissolving into mindless tears. She actually didn’t feel like crying; she just felt trapped, but whenever trapped, Poppy’s brain malfunctioned and she’d lose track of her thoughts and go silent, and then those traitorous tears would fill her eyes.

It had happened in school. It had happened during her awful summer camps before Sophie rescued her and invited her home with her for the summer holidays. Poppy had thought she’d outgrown the panic attacks, but all of a sudden her chest constricted and her throat closed and she fought for air. Her incredibly tight, overly fitted bridesmaid gown, the icy-pink shade perfect on women like Sophie with porcelain complexions and gleaming hair, but not on short, frumpy secretaries who needed a pop of color near the face to lift a sallow complexion, suffocated her.

“I think I might faint,” she whispered, not quite ready to actually collapse, but close. She needed fresh air, and space...and immediate distance from her furious employer.

Randall’s black brow just lifted. “You don’t faint. You’re just trying to evade giving an honest answer.”

“I can’t get enough air.”

“Then stop babbling and breathe.”

“I don’t babble—”

“Breathe. Through your nose. Out through your mouth. Again. Inhale. Exhale.”

He couldn’t be that angry with her if he was trying to keep her calm. She didn’t want him angry with her. She was just trying to help. She just wanted the people she loved to be happy. Good people deserved happiness, and both Sophie and Randall were good people, only apparently not that good together. And Poppy wouldn’t have sent that note to Renzo about the wedding if Sophie had been happy...

Her eyes prickled and burned as Poppy’s gaze dropped from Randall’s gold eyes to his chin, which was far too close to his lovely, firm mouth, and then lower, to the sharp points of his crisp, white collar.

She struggled to keep her focus on the elegant knot of his tie as she inhaled and exhaled, trying to be mindful of her breathing, but impossible when Randall was standing so close. He was tall, with a fit, honed frame, and at the moment he was exuding so much heat and crackling energy that she couldn’t think straight.

She needed to think of something else or she’d dissolve into another panic attack, and she closed her eyes, trying to pretend she was back in her small, snug flat, wearing something comfortable, her pajamas for example, and curled up in her favorite armchair with a proper cup of tea. The tea would be strong and hot with lots of milk and sugar and she’d dunk a biscuit—

“Better?” he asked after a minute.

She opened her eyes to look right into Randall’s. His eyes were the lightest golden-brown, a tawny shade that Poppy had always thought made him look a little exotic, as well as unbearably regal. But standing this close, his golden eyes were rather too animalistic. Specifically a lion, and a lion wasn’t good company, not when angry. She suppressed a panicked shiver. “Can we go outside, please?”

“I need a straight answer.”

“I’ve told you—”

“You are on a first-name basis with Crisanti. How do you know him, Poppy?” Randall’s voice dropped, hardening.

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even lifted a finger, and yet he seemed to grow bigger, larger, more powerful. He was exuding so much heat and light that she felt as if she was standing in front of the sun itself. Poppy dragged in a desperate breath, inhaling his fragrance and the scent of his skin, a clean, masculine scent that always made her skin prickle and her insides do a funny little flip. Her skin prickled now, goose bumps covering her arms, her nape suddenly too sensitive. “I don’t know him.”

His eyes flashed at her. “Then how does Sophie know him?”

Poppy balled her hands, nails biting into her palms. She had to be careful. It wouldn’t take much to say the wrong thing. It wasn’t that Poppy had a history of being indiscreet, either, but she didn’t want to be tricked into revealing details that weren’t hers to share, and to be honest, she wasn’t even clear about what had happened that night in Monte Carlo five weeks ago. Obviously, something had happened. Sophie didn’t return home on the last night of the trip, and when they flew out of Monte Carlo, Sophie left Monaco a different woman.

Maybe most people wouldn’t pick up on the change in Sophie, but Poppy wasn’t most people. Sophie wasn’t just her best friend, but the sister Poppy had never had, and the champion she’d needed as a charity girl at Haskell’s School. Sophie had looked out for Poppy from virtually the beginning and finally, after all these years, Poppy had found an opportunity to return the favor, which is why her letter to Renzo Crisanti wasn’t about sabotaging a wedding as much as giving Sophie a shot at true happiness.

* * *

Dal battled to keep his temper. Poppy was proving to be extremely recalcitrant, which was noteworthy in and of itself, as Poppy Marr could type ninety-five words a minute, find anything buried on his desk or lost in his office, but she didn’t tell a lie, or keep a secret, well at all.

And the fact that Poppy was desperately trying to keep a secret told him everything he needed to know.

She was part of this fiasco today. Of course she hadn’t orchestrated it—she wasn’t that clever—but she knew the whys and hows and that was what he wanted and needed to understand.

“Go collect your things,” he said shortly. “We’re leaving immediately.”

“Go where?” she asked unsteadily.

“Does it matter?”

“I’ve plans to go on holiday. You gave me the next week off.”

“That was when I expected to be on holiday myself, but the honeymoon is off, which means your holiday is canceled, too.”

She blinked up at him. She seemed to be struggling to find her voice. “That doesn’t seem fair,” she finally whispered.

“What doesn’t seem fair is that you knew about Crisanti and Sophie and you never said a word to me.” He stared down into her wide, anxious eyes, not caring that she looked as if she might truly faint any moment, because her thoughtlessness had jeopardized his future and security. “Collect your things and meet me in front of the house. We’re leaving immediately.”

* * *

Poppy was so grateful to be out of the antechamber and away from Randall that she practically ran through the Langston House entrance and up the huge, sweeping staircase to the suite on the second floor that the bride and attendants had used this morning to prepare for the ceremony.

The other bridesmaids had already collected their things and all that was left was Sophie’s purse and set of luggage, the two smart suitcases packed for the honeymoon—and then off to one side, Poppy’s small overnight bag.

Poppy eyed Sophie’s handsome suitcases, remembering the treasure trove of gorgeous new clothes inside—bikinis and sarongs, skirts, tunics and kaftans by the top designers—for a ten-day honeymoon in the Caribbean. A honeymoon that wasn’t going to happen now.

Suddenly, Poppy’s legs gave out and she slid into the nearest chair, covering her face with her hands.

She really hoped one day Randall would thank her, but she sensed that wouldn’t be for quite a while, but in the meantime, she needed to help Randall pick up the pieces.

She was good at that sort of thing, too.

Well, pretty good, if it had to do with business affairs and paperwork. Poppy excelled at paperwork, and filing things, and then retrieving those things, and making travel arrangements, and then canceling the arrangements.

She spent a huge chunk of every day booking and rebooking meetings, conferences, lunches, dinners, travel.

But Poppy never complained. Randall gave her a purpose. Yes, he’d been Sophie’s fiancé all this time, but he was the reason she woke up every day with a smile, eager to get to work. She loved her job. She loved—no, too strong a word, particularly in light of today’s fiasco, but she did rather adore—her boss. Randall was incredibly intelligent, and interesting and successful. He was also calm, to the point of being unflappable, and when there was a crisis at work, he was usually the one to calm her down.

She hated humiliating Randall today. It hurt her to have hurt him, but Sophie didn’t love Randall. Sophie was only marrying Randall because her family had thought it would be an excellent business deal back before she was even old enough to drive. It wasn’t a marriage as much as a merger and Sophie deserved better. And Randall definitely deserved better, too.

“I came to find out what was taking so long,” Randall said from the doorway.

His voice was hard and icy-cold. Poppy stiffened and straightened, swiftly wiping away tears. “Sorry. I just need a moment.”

“You’ve had a moment. You’ve had five minutes of moments.”

“I don’t think it was that long.”

“And I don’t think I even know who you are anymore.”

She blanched, looking at him where he remained silhouetted in the doorway. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“But at the same time you’re not trying to help. I don’t want to be here. I have my entire staff downstairs trying to figure out what to do with the hundreds of gifts and floral arrangements, never mind that monstrosity of a wedding cake in the reception tent.”

“Of course. Right.” She rose and headed toward Sophie’s luggage. “Let me just take these downstairs.”

“Those are Sophie’s, not yours. She can make her own arrangements for her luggage.”

“She’s my best friend—”

“I don’t care.”

“I do, and as her maid of honor—”

“You work for me, not her, and if you wish to continue in my employ, you will get your own bag and follow me. Otherwise—”

“There’s no need to threaten me. I was just trying to help.”

“Mrs. Holmes manages my house. You manage my business affairs,” he answered, referring to his housekeeper.

“I just thought Mrs. Holmes has quite a lot to manage at the moment. She doesn’t need another worry.”

“Mrs. Holmes is the very model of efficiency. She’ll be fine.” He crossed the room and pointed to a small, worn overnight case. “Is this one yours?” When he saw her nod, he picked up her case. “Let’s go, then. The car is waiting.”

Poppy’s brow furrowed as she glanced back at Sophie’s set of suitcases but there was nothing she could do now, and so she followed Randall down the sweeping staircase and out the front door.

Mrs. Holmes was waiting outside the big brick house for them.

“Not to worry about a thing, sir,” she said to Randall, before turning to Poppy and whispering in her ear, “Poor lamb. He must be devastated.”

Poppy wouldn’t have described Randall as a poor lamb, or all that devastated, but Mrs. Holmes had a very different relationship with Randall Grant than she did. “He’ll recover,” Poppy answered firmly. “He’s been caught off guard, but he’ll be fine. I promise.”

Randall’s black Austin Healey two-seater convertible was parked at the base of the stairs in the huge oval driveway.

He put Poppy’s overnight bag in the boot, and then opened the passenger door for her. The car was low to the ground and even though Poppy was short, she felt as if she had to drop into the seat and then smash the pink gown’s ballerina-style tulle in around her so that Randall could close the door.

“This is a ridiculous dress to travel in,” she muttered.

She’d thought she’d been quiet enough that he wouldn’t hear but he did. “You can change on the plane,” he said.

“What plane?” she asked.

“My plane.”

“But that was for your honeymoon.”

“Yes, and it can fly other places than the Caribbean,” he said drily, sliding behind the steering wheel and tugging on his tie to loosen it.

“Speaking of which, should I begin canceling your travel arrangements?”

“My travel arrangements?”

She flushed. “Your...honeymoon.”

He gave her a look she couldn’t decipher. “I may have lost my bride at the altar, but I’m not completely inept. Seeing as I made the reservations, I will cancel them.”

Her hands twisted in her lap. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I’m sure you are. You are a singularly devoted secretary, always looking out for my best interests.”

She sucked in a breath at the biting sarcasm. “I’ve always done my best for you.”

“Does that include today?”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means, Poppy? Or have you suddenly become exceptionally good at playing dumb?”

* * *

Dal wanted to throttle Poppy; he really did. She knew far more than she was letting on but she was determined to play her role in whatever scheme she and Sophie had concocted.

He was disgusted, and not just with them, but with himself. He’d always believed himself to be an excellent judge of character, but obviously he was wrong. Sophie and Poppy had both betrayed his trust.

He hated himself for being oblivious and gullible.

He hated that he’d allowed himself to be played the fool.

His father had always warned him not to trust a woman, and he’d always privately rolled his eyes, aware that his father had issues, but perhaps in this instance his father had been right.

Dal’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as he drove the short distance from Langston House to the private airport outside Winchester. There was very little traffic and the sky was blue, the weather warm without being hot. Perfect June day for a wedding. This morning everything had seemed perfect, too, until it became the stuff of nightmares.

He gripped the wheel harder, imagining the headlines in tomorrow’s papers. How the media loved society and scandal. The headlines were bound to be salacious.

Unlike Sophie, he hated being in the public eye, detesting everything to do with society. In his mind there was nothing worse than English society with its endless fascination of classes and aristocrats, and new versus old money.

He’d spent the past ten years trying to avoid scandal, and it infuriated him to be thrust into the limelight. The attention would be significant, and just thinking about having cameras or microphones thrust in his face made him want to punch something, and he hadn’t wanted to fight in years.

Dal had been a fighter growing up, so much so, that he’d nearly lost his place at Cambridge after a particularly nasty brawl. He hadn’t started the fight, but he’d ended it, and it hadn’t mattered to the deans or his father, that he’d fought to defend his mother’s name. To the powers that be, fighting was ungentlemanly, and Dal Grant, the future Earl of Langston, was expected to uphold his legacy, not tarnish it.

The school administrators had accepted his apology and pledge, but his father hadn’t been so easily appeased. His father had been upset for weeks after, and then as usual, his anger finally broke, and after the rage came the despair.

As a boy, Dal had dreaded the mood swings. As a young man, he’d found them intolerable. But he couldn’t walk away from his father. There was no one else to manage the earl, never mind the earldom, the estates and the income. Dal had to step up; he had to become the dutiful son, and he had, sacrificing his wants for his father’s mental stability, going so far to agree to marry the woman his father had picked out for him fifteen years ago.

Thank God his father wasn’t alive today. His father wouldn’t have handled today’s humiliation well. God only knows what he would have done, never mind when. But his father wasn’t present, which meant Dal could sort out this impossible situation without his father’s ranting.

And he would sort it out.

He knew exactly how he’d sort it out. Dal shot a narrowed glance in Poppy’s direction. She was convenient, tenderhearted and malleable, making her the easiest and fastest solution for his problem.

He knew she also had feelings for him, which should simplify the whole matter.

Dal tugged on his tie, loosening it, trying to imagine where they could go.

He needed to take her away, needed someplace private and remote, somewhere that no one would think to look. The Caribbean island he’d booked for the honeymoon was remote and private, but he’d never go there now. But remote was still desirable. Someplace that no one could get near them, or bother them...

Someplace where he could seduce Poppy. It shouldn’t take long. Just a few days and she’d acquiesce. But it had to be private, and cut off from the outside world.

Suddenly, Dal saw pink. Not the icy-pink of Poppy’s bridesmaid dress, but the warm, sun-kissed pink of the Mehkar summer palace tucked in the stark red Atlas Mountains... Kasbah Jolie.

He hadn’t thought about his mother’s desert palace in years and yet suddenly it was all he could see. It was private and remote, the sprawling, rose-tinted villa nestled on a huge, private estate, between sparkling blue-tiled pools and exquisite gardens fragrant with roses and lavender, mint and thyme.

The spectacular estate was a two-hour drive from the nearest airport, and four hours from the capital city of Gila. It took time to reach this hidden gem secreted in the rugged Atlas Mountains, the estate carved from a mountain peak with breathtaking views of mountains, and a dark blue river snaking through the fertile green valley far below.

He hadn’t been back since he was an eleven-year-old boy, and he hadn’t thought he’d ever want to return, certain it would be too painful, but suddenly he was tempted, seriously tempted, to head east. It was his land, his estate, after all. Where better to seduce his secretary, and make her his bride?

The jet sat fueled and waiting for him at this very moment at the private airfield, complete with a flight crew and approved flight plan. If he wanted to go to Mehkar, the staff would need to file a new flight plan, but that wasn’t a huge ordeal.

Once upon a time, Mehkar had been as much his home as England. Once upon a time, he’d preferred Mehkar to anyplace else. The only negative he could think of would be creating false hope in his grandfather. His grandfather had waited patiently all these years for Dal to return, and Dal hated to disappoint his grandfather but Dal wasn’t returning for good.

He’d have to send word to his grandfather so the king wouldn’t be caught off guard, but this wasn’t a homecoming for Dal. It was merely a chance to buy him time while he decided how he’d handle his search for a new bride.