The Spanish Duke's Virgin Bride Read Free Page A

tears. She seemed to be left with no alternative but to turn her car round and head back down the mountain path, but she couldn’t bear the thought that she had failed. Her father often teased that what she lacked in inches she made up for in stubbornness—she couldn’t give up yet. The Duque de Herrera was here, on the other side of the castle walls, and there had to be a way she could get to him and make him listen.
    Once again she was pierced by the vivid mental image of her father, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and his once strong body gaunt with strain and loss of appetite. He had never come to terms with her mother’s death; his heart was broken and the doctor had warned that Angus was perilously close to a nervous breakdown. If she could only lift her father’s terror that he would be sent to prison—a very real possibility, according to Mr Wooding, the family solicitor—then perhaps he would be able to lift himself out of his deep depression.
    It had stopped raining, and although the sky was still grey and overcast pale beams of sunshine were valiantly trying to spread their warmth. Across the courtyard Grace spotted an arched gateway in the wall. The wrought-iron gate was probably locked, she told herself, but to her amazement it swung open and she quickly stepped through.
    The formal garden was exquisite—a glimpse of paradise that evoked an instantly calming effect on her. The clear, tranquil waters of the series of square pools mirrored the intricate arrangement of boxed hedges and exotic palms, while the delicate splash of the fountains soothed Grace’s ragged nerves. Early-blooming roses lifted their faces to the sky, their velvet petals beaded with rain droplets, and on impulse she plucked a flower and bent her head to inhale its fragrance.
    For a few precious moments the weight of her worries lifted. She could have stayed here for ever, listening to the sweet birdsong, she mused. As she strolled along the myriad narrow paths she even forgot that she was supposed to be looking for a way to break into the castle. She pushed away the memory of her father’s misery, the need to find the Duque de Herrera, and her apprehension at the thought of the drive back down the steep, winding road to return to Granada.
    Afterwards Grace wasn’t sure what made her break her silent contemplation of the pool. There was no sound—even the birds had stopped singing—but she was aware of a curious prickling sensation between her shoulder blades and the growing feeling that she was being watched. Slowly she turned her head, and her breath caught in her chest.
    The man was standing at the far end of the garden, but even from a distance his height was notable. He was a giant of a man. His body was cloaked in a dark-green waxed coat that fell to below his knees and brushed against his leather boots. The caped collar gave him the appearance of a medieval conquistador while his wide-brimmed hat was pulled low over his eyes, shading his face. Grace sensed his power and strength, but her attention was drawn to the sleek black Dobermann by his side and fear churned in the pit of her stomach. This was no cute, friendly pet. Undoubtedly it was a guard dog, and the man must be one of the castle’s security staff.
    It was at that point that Grace acknowledged she was trespassing. Her most sensible option was to approach the security man and apologise, but to her fevered imagination he looked like the Grim Reaper, dark and faceless, and utterly terrifying with his hellish hound at his heels. Instinct took over from common sense. With a cry she spun round and began to run, a fearful glance over her shoulder revealing that the man had let loose his dog and it was streaking across the garden towards her.
    With her blood pounding in her ears, Grace hurtled along the paths, searching desperately for a way to escape. The garden was enclosed on three sides by a high wall, but on the