Читать книгу Sicilian Husband, Blackmailed Bride - Kate Walker - Страница 6

IT WAS the perfect day for a wedding.

The sun was shining, the breeze was warm and soft, and all along the edges of the gravel path that led from the carved wooden lych-gate to the metal-studded door of the little village church the early flowers of spring were blooming purple and gold and white. In the trees, newly covered in soft green foliage, even the birds were chirping softly to each other.

It was the perfect day and the perfect setting for an elegant English country wedding.

But in Guido Corsentino’s mind, nothing could be perfect about the wedding towards which he was heading, his long, savage strides covering the ground with furious speed. And the mood that gripped him was far from idyllic; totally at odds with the bright sunlight of the day, the relaxed and smiling attitude of the crowd that had filled the narrow country lane.

They’d gathered there to see all the friends and relations of the bride and groom arrive in gleaming fleets of chauffeur-driven limousines. They’d watched them emerge, the men in smart, tailored morning dress, the women looking like so many brightly coloured birds of paradise as they made their way through the small churchyard. They’d oohed and aahed at the sight of the bride, slender and beautiful in her white silk gown, the antique lace veil covering her pale face, arriving at the church almost exactly on time to meet her groom.

And now they lingered, chatting quietly as they waited for the newly married pair to emerge from the church, hand in hand, as husband and wife.

They hardly spared a glance for the tall, dark, handsome man who strode past them, his total concentration fixed on the weathered stone building ahead. The few who looked his way took him for just one more of the wedding guests, though his black shirt, black trousers and loose black jacket were much more relaxed than the formal frock coats and top hats of the earlier arrivals. And if they noted the hard, cold set of the expression on his stunning, strongly carved face they took it for simple irritation that he was late and that the ceremony had already begun without him.

The truth was that Guido Corsentino was exactly on time. He had planned his arrival at the church for one very precise moment, and that moment was just about to arrive. And when it did he would be ready for it.

Ducking his black-haired head so as to dodge the low arch of the wooden lych-gate, he marched up to the closed door of the church and came to an abrupt halt. A dark smile of grim satisfaction curled the corners of a wide, expressive mouth as he caught the faint sound of music and voices from the cool interior.

He couldn’t have timed it better.

Pausing to fasten the single button on his jacket, straighten the cuffs of his fine black cotton shirt, he reached for the door handle. As his fingers touched it, his heart kicked once, hard and high, at the thought of what—of who he would see beyond it. A memory surfaced with a cruel stab and an added twist of something darker and more primitive low down in his body.

The memory of another wedding, another setting so very different from this one. Another time, another place…

The need to see her just once more warred savagely with the need to walk away to never see her lying face again. But the real reason he was here, the reason he had travelled thousands of miles just for this, came back in a rush, stiffening his spine and hardening an already coldly savage heart. Almost fiercely his head came up, he flexed his broad shoulders. His dark head held high, he opened the door as little as possible, and slipped quietly inside.

The bride and groom stood at the far end of the long aisle, facing the altar, their backs to him. The groom was the tall, narrow-framed man he was expecting, his thin blond hair already disappearing to display a bald spot near the crown of his head. He wore the formal frock coat as if he was born to the part—at least, as much as Guido could see from his back.

Beside him, she—his bride—was tall too; tall and slender. A blur of white.

White! Something inside him rebelled savagely at the thought. Bile burned in his stomach, lifted to his throat, making him swallow hard in distaste.

‘Amber…’

The name escaped him in a whisper of savage fury.

Luckily the choir was singing some hymn so that no one heard him. Everyone had their attention on the front of the church too, and hadn’t noticed his arrival.

So they didn’t see the way that his face set even harder, his lips twisting in anger and the bitter taste of disgust flooding his mouth with acid.

Amber Wellesley wasn’t entitled to wear white. He had made very sure of that.

But perhaps she had lied to her new fiancé about that. Just as she must have lied to him about something else. Something much more important.

She had lied when she had said she loved him.

His dark bronze eyes focused on the woman in white who stood at the altar steps, totally unaware of his presence.

Now that his gaze had cleared again he could see how the wonderful glory of her chestnut hair was piled high on her head, fixed with ornate silver pins over which the delicate veil tumbled in a waterfall of gauze. He had once known how it felt to unpin those burnished locks, comb them loose, feel them tumble over his hands, his skin…

‘Dio mio…’

Guido’s breath hissed between his teeth as he muttered a curse to himself. Already his heartbeat had lurched, threatening his ability to breathe right. His mind was flooded with burning erotic images that were totally inappropriate to standing in a church, watching the subject of those imaginings preparing to marry another man. He mustn’t think this way. Must not let his mind wander onto paths that would too easily distract him from his purpose.

With a brutal effort he dragged his thoughts back from the direction in which they were heading and clamped down on the wayward imaginings. Cold, calm control was what he needed now. He had to play this just right.

He was a few minutes early anyway. But that didn’t matter. He had planned this for just the right moment. The choir was coming to the end of the hymn.

Folding his arms across his broad chest, he leaned back against the heavy wooden door and prepared to wait.

The church was full of the scent of flowers. The perfume from sprays of roses and lilies that spilled out from the ornate holders on each side of the altar, and from the arrangements of tight little rosebuds and lily of the valley that decorated the end of every pew, flooded the air thickly. Amber’s senses swam with every breath she drew in, making her feel nauseous and faint.

It might have helped if she had been able to sleep the night before, or eat something this morning, but both rest and food had proved impossible for her.

Which was hardly surprising under the circumstances.

‘Every girl has the right to feel nervous on the night before her wedding,’ her mother had assured her. ‘A little blusher will soon improve the look of those pale cheeks.’

And Amber had forced a smile, submitting herself to her mother’s ministrations as Pamela Wellesley wielded the blusher brush, the mascara wand, with enthusiasm, then stepped back to view her handiwork.

‘You still look a little wan,’ she murmured, frowning as she did so. ‘Really Amber, you seem as if you’re about to leave for your execution, not your wedding. Is there something wrong?’

‘No!’It was too fast, too vehement, and it made her mother’s eyes narrow sharply.

‘No second thoughts about Rafe?’

‘No.’

Of that she was sure at least. Rafe was kind and gentle and had been a good friend to her. It was not his fault that there wasn’t any great passion between them. It was not his fault he was not…

No—she wouldn’t let that name into her mind. Not today, of all days.

‘You haven’t had a row—?’

‘Oh, Mum, how could anyone ever have a row with Rafe?’

It would help if she didn’t know only too well what was going through her mother’s mind. It wasn’t the thought that her daughter might actually have rowed with her prospective husband, the man she was supposed to love, that was really troubling her, but the thought of what might happen if the wedding was called off. The uncomfortable scandal that would follow, the embarrassment…

Pamela had lived for months on the prestige she had gained from the fact that her daughter was going to marry one of the St Clair family, and she would hate the way she would lose face if anything happened.

‘No. You’re right, it’s just nerves.’

‘Well, I know something that could help with that—a glass of something…some champagne…’

‘No! Nothing—thank you, Mum.’

Amber forced herself to add the second part of her sentence, knowing that once again she had come so close to giving herself away. The note of near-panic in her voice had sounded so sharply in her own ears that she couldn’t believe that Pamela hadn’t heard it. But her mother could have no idea of just what memories she had stirred up, and if Amber wasn’t careful she would risk raising questions she had no hope of answering.

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ she assured her mother. ‘Or I will be when today is over.’

When today was over and all the memories she had tried to lock away could go back into the secret part of her thoughts where she had hidden them for the past year, until the plans for this very different day had dragged them out into her mind again. When she could put the past behind her for good, she hoped.

The sudden silence around her in the church jolted Amber out of her reverie, dragging her back to the present. The choir had stopped singing, the glorious sound of their voices dying away, and the priest stepped forward to begin the real heart of the ceremony.

‘We are gathered here together to join this man and this woman…’

Amber found that her mouth had dried painfully and she had to swallow hard to relieve the tightness in her throat.

Could she really do this? Could she go through with this wedding, knowing that her heart wasn’t truly in it? She was fond of Rafe. She loved him in a quiet, gentle way—in the way that good friends loved each other. And a year ago, he had helped her escape from the worst situation of her life.

But she could never give her heart to him as she had once given it to another man. Given it and had it ripped to shreds, the tiny pieces tossed back at her without a care. With only supreme contempt on his face.

No!

With a violent mental effort, Amber clamped down tight on the Pandora’s box of memories she’d risked opening again. She was not going to let that happen. She was not going to let that man’s name into her thoughts, into her world, ever again. He had ruined her life once and she had barely recovered from it. She was not going to suffer that way ever again.

That was why she was marrying Rafe.

Turning her head, Amber looked up into the face of the man at her side, surprised to find that he looked pale—as pale as she imagined she must look herself. His jaw seemed tight, his mouth compressed. But then, as he realised her eyes were on him, he glanced her way too, and flashed her a brief smile.

Immediately Amber felt some of the cruel tensions that had tightened her spine, twisting in her nerves, slacken and ease, and she slid her hand into his where it hung at his side. His skin was cool, his response muted. He just let her fingers rest in his. But that was Rafe’s way. He made no major demonstrations of affection; they hadn’t even slept together. He had said he was happy to wait and that was how Amber preferred it.

She would be OK with Rafe. Safe and secure. And that was all she wanted in life now. She’d known passion once and it had frightened her. It had turned her into someone she didn’t recognise and she never wanted to see that person again. She’d left the dark days behind her and she was moving forward at last.

‘If any person present knows of any reason why these two should not be joined…’

The priest intoned the words in a voice that made them sound so solemn, so ominous, that in spite of herself Amber felt a tiny shiver run down her spine. It was deliberate, she knew. The cleric was Rafe’s uncle and he had joked with them before the ceremony that this was their last chance to back out; to escape the marriage vows.

‘I’ll wait a good while after I’ve said it,’ he’d teased. ‘Just to make sure that if anyone wants to say anything they can.’

‘…then let him speak now…or forever hold his peace…’

There, it was said. The words were out. The challenge had been made and now they could continue with the wedding service.

No one would answer it. No one ever did. Amber had no idea just how many weddings she had attended in her life but at all of them those words had been spoken in one form or another and no one had ever stepped forward to ‘speak now’ instead of forever holding peace.

But still, there was always that long-drawn-out moment that seemed to go on forever. The awkward, rather nerve-racking moment when everyone paused and listened and waited…and no one ever spoke.

But everyone wondered just what would happen if someone did.

Of course, no one spoke this time. And Rafe’s uncle beamed with delight and satisfaction as he drew in his breath to continue once again.

‘In that case—’

‘I do!’

The voice came so suddenly and unexpectedly that for a moment Amber was confused. They were the words she was expecting to hear—when she and Rafe made their vows—but not yet, not before they had been asked…

Had Rafe been so nervous, in so much of a rush that he had jumped the gun, plunging in to say the words that everyone knew were coming? Surely not now, not yet. Not without the prompt from the cleric first.

‘Wait…’ she began to whisper.

At least, she opened her mouth to try to say it. But then she realised that the words had come from behind, and not beside her, And there was something dreadful about the stillness that had fallen over the entire church, about the way that there had been one sudden murmur of shock, abruptly choked off and leaving instead an appalled silence that reverberated inside her head like the after-effects of a vicious blow to her skull.

‘I do,’ the voice said again and there was no mistaking it this time. This time she caught the soft lilt of a musical accent that should have made the words sound beautiful, soft, enticing.

Instead they made her shiver with the ice-cold, soul-deep dread that came with recognition of that voice. The voice she had once loved to hear whisper her name or tease her softly.

The voice that could only belong to one man and he was the man she hoped she would never meet again. The man she most dreaded seeing in the entire world.

‘What—?’ Rafe seemed to have jolted out of his inexplicable trance, some of the tension leaving his body as he jerked his head around to see who had spoken. ‘What are you—?’

But the man behind them didn’t let him finish. Instead he interrupted Rafe, lifting his voice slightly and speaking in a harsh and dangerous tone that defied anyone to try to stop him.

‘I do,’ he said again, just to emphasise the fact. ‘I know of a reason why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony. Don’t I, Amber?’

And it was that use of her name, the icy cruelty in it, the savage edge to the syllables that turned it into an accusation, a warning and a threat all in one that left her with no place to go; nowhere to hide. The only thing she could do was to face her tormentor head-on.

Look him straight in the face.

It took all the strength she possessed. Trembling, shivering, nausea churning deep in her stomach, she forced herself to turn, green eyes blurring badly as she tried to focus them on him.

He was bigger than she remembered. Bigger and darker and far, far more devastating.

Or was that just the way that he seemed to be in contrast to the mellow stone and wood of the interior of the church, the pale colours of the flowers? He was dressed in superbly tailored black from head to foot, shirt, jacket, trousers, black boots on the feet that were planted so firmly on the stone flags that lined the aisle. With his jet-black hair and gleaming bronze eyes he looked like nothing so much as the devil himself come to earth—and come to torment her.

‘Amber?’ he prompted harshly when she could only stand and stare, eyes wide, her trembling hands half-raised towards her mouth, not having the strength to complete the move.

The whole congregation had frozen too. Her mother, Rafe’s family, every one of the wedding guests was sitting completely still in their seats, goggle-eyed at the scene unfolding before them.

Suddenly there was an unexpected flurry of movement to one side, distracting Amber and drawing her gaze for a second. A friend of Rafe’s family, Emily Lawton, recently widowed and five months pregnant, had collapsed in a faint, sliding limply down from the pew to land on the stone floor.

But someone was already there to help her, and Amber’s own impulsive movement was stilled by the way that Guido took a couple of steps towards her, slow but firm, ominously unstoppable. The sound of his heels echoing on the stone, the way he held his head, the arrogant straightness of his long spine gave the movement a confident swagger that declared to everyone around that he was the one who was in control here—and he intended to stay that way.

‘Do you know this man?’ Rafe had found his voice.

‘No!’

The panicked lie was stupid; she knew that as she saw the way that Guido’s burning eyes narrowed sharply, the way that his head lifted even higher until it seemed that he was looking down his long, straight nose at her, pure contempt icing over his stunning features. And as it did, a sliver of that ice seemed to have formed at the nape of her neck, slithering its way down her trembling spine, chilling her skin as it went.

‘Forgotten me already, cara?’ he enquired with cruel silkiness. ‘But then, I suppose that must be the case or I wouldn’t find you here…’

That freezing gaze flicked from her ashen face to the altar, the waiting priest and back again.

‘With him…’

This time the golden eyes acknowledged Rafe, standing at her side, but only for the briefest of seconds. Then they were fixed again on her face; holding her still in a way that made her feel like a butterfly pinned underneath a powerful microscope.

‘Under these circumstances.’

To Amber’s stunned bewilderment, a smile played over his sensual mouth. But it was a cruel smile, a torturer’s smile. The smile that might appear on the face of a tiger just before it pounced to deliver the final death blow.

‘Who the hell are you?’

Rafe’s voice was belligerent and he made a move as if to take a step then obviously thought the better of it, stilling instead to remain at her side, the tension radiating from his long body.

The tiger’s smile grew, became positively wicked.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Guido Corsentino.’

Something in the name made Rafe take in a sharp breath. But he recovered almost immediately.

‘And what have you to do with my wife?’

‘Ah…but you see, she’s really not your wife. Not yet.’

Guido actually appeared to look as if it mattered. He even let an expression that might have been regret drift across his face. But Amber knew that regret was the last thing on his mind. As was care for anyone else’s feelings in this matter. He’d come here to create chaos and misery and was set on doing just that, not letting anyone get in his way.

‘And I’m afraid she’s not likely to be at any time in the near future.’

‘And why is that?’

Amber’s throat had closed so tight that she found it impossible to draw a breath with any ease. He couldn’t do this to her—he just couldn’t! Did he really hate her so much that he would hunt her down after all this time, just to destroy her one chance of happiness?

No! Please don’t do this!

The words formed on her lips but she couldn’t find the strength to give them any power and the thin thread of sound was absorbed by the concealing veil, no one even noticing that she had spoken. But her eyes locked with his, silently pleading with him, begging him to stop this now. To leave her alone and stop tormenting her. He’d had his fun—if that was what this cruel, sadistic game was to him—surely now he would go and leave them in peace?

He had to go. And it had to be a game. He hadn’t wanted her in the past, when she would have lain down on the ground and let him walk all over her if it would have made him happy. But he’d made it plain that she meant nothing to him. So there was no reason at all why he should want her now. Except to cause trouble for her.

But it was painfully obvious that leaving was not what Guido had in mind.

‘Why can’t Amber ever become your wife?’ he echoed the question sharply as if he simply couldn’t understand why it had been asked.

The rich tones of his Italian accent had never sounded so strongly in Amber’s ears, an accent that should have made his words sound soft and musical. Instead, it had exactly the opposite effect, making her freeze like some small, terrified animal facing an angry king cobra and just waiting for it to strike. She could only close her eyes and wait for the sting of his poison.

‘Well, that is quite simple, really. She isn’t in any position to be married—to anyone. You see, she already is married to me. That’s right…’ he added as he saw Rafe’s disbelieving start, the way the other man’s pale eyes went to the woman beside him, then back to his tormentor’s dark, set face. ‘Amber is married already. She happens to be my wife.’