It was a toxic place as far as Gabriella was concerned. It got worse when she realised the computer was password-protected and she couldn’t even access her email account, let alone book a flight.
‘Damn you, Raoul,’ she snarled as she stared at the blinking cursor. On a hunch, she typed ‘Raoul’. No luck.
‘Raoul Del Arco’ met with the same ‘invalid password’ response.
Out of frustration she typed in ‘bastard’, half-expecting that one would work—but then, she rationalised when it didn’t, anyone could have guessed that; it was hardly secure.
She scanned the desk, looking for somewhere he might have jotted down the password, but the desk was irritatingly paper free. She pulled open a drawer, searching through the papers for something, anything, on which he might have written it down. But she could find nothing and slammed it shut.
The drawer on the other side got similar treatment. This one was almost empty though; mostly stationery supplies. A few pens. A stapler. A key.
That drawer got slammed shut too.
Damn!
Unless, she thought a moment later, there was a filing cabinet somewhere. She opened the drawer again, picked up the key, which was heavy, despite its small size, and ornately carved. Maybe it was not like any filing-cabinet key she had ever seen before, but then this was Raoul and his filing cabinet was no doubt antique.
She prowled the library, testing any piece of furniture with a lock, but most were already unlocked and the key did not fit. She studied it in the palm of her hand. Why keep a key that fitted no lock?
Then she remembered the door at the end of the passageway.
The locked door. And she wondered …
What had he done? Raoul drove aimlessly through village after village of simple white stone buildings and small fields set amidst the rocky hills, knowing only that he needed to get away—except there was no getting away from his own black thoughts.
For he had done the unthinkable. He had done what he had promised himself he would not do. He was supposed to keep her safe; he was supposed to protect her.
Instead he had given in to his basest self. He had taken advantage of her sweet body, and he had not been able to stop at just once.
And it didn’t matter that she had provoked him, that she had goaded him with her taunts and her words. Nothing mattered except that he was in the wrong, whichever way he looked at it. He had been in the wrong from the very beginning.
He had set out to marry her, to do anything it took to keep her and Garbas apart, and he had done that. But in the process he had lost Gabriella.
You don’t have to love her.
The old man’s words came back to him. He’d taken the words at face value. They had seemed cold but they had made sense. And he had intended to keep himself apart. He would not love her; he could not afford to, not if he was to set her free.
He hadn’t meant to love her.
He pulled the car to a halt near a horreo, a corn shed that looked like a miniature stone cathedral, his palms sweating on the wheel.
He hadn’t meant to love her.
But he did.
He looked at the horreo, reminded of the stone castle where he had brought her and then abandoned her. What would she be thinking? How would she be feeling? After giving her the cold shoulder since their wedding, they had shared a night of exquisite pleasure—he had lost count of how many times they had made love—and then he had cold-heartedly walked away.
His hands were sweaty on the steering wheel.
Their love-making had been so frantic and desperate that he had not even thought to use protection.
Even now she could be carrying his child.
What had he done?
He had run from the truth. He had not even been able to bring himself to tell her he loved her. Surely she deserved at least that?
But then, she deserved so much more. She deserved an explanation. She deserved his apology. After which she probably would not want his love.
But he had to tell her.
He put the car into gear and turned it around on the narrow road, only then noticing the dark bank of cloud that extended along the coast. And with a sizzle of apprehension he was reminded of another time, another day long ago, when the cloud gathered heavy over the castle and he had been rushing to get back.
Only to have his world crash and burn when he had.
He wasn’t superstitious; he didn’t believe in Natania’s gypsy folklore that she would spout whenever she got the chance. But, still, there was a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and he put his foot down.
She slipped the key into the lock where it fitted like a hand in a glove and held her breath, turning it with a solid click. She looked around, wondering if anyone had heard her. But Natania was busy in the kitchen and Marco was with her. Besides, the way the wind outside was building, nobody would possibly hear.
She turned the knob, easing it around, her heart hammering in her chest as she pushed open the door. It was dark, soft, grey light filtering in through a grimy window, dust motes playing in the shifting air. She found a switch and flicked it to and fro but nothing happened. And then she could see enough in the dim light to make out a dresser, an oil lamp on top, a stack of boxes in one corner and a circular staircase rising up on the other side of the room.
Everything was musty. The dust tickled her nose and she thought about leaving. Some kind of store room, he had said, and she could believe him. Clearly she had imagined it when she had thought she had seen someone entering.
But why would Raoul keep it locked and why would he secrete the key in his desk downstairs?
Something banged upstairs and she jumped. Then it banged again. A shutter come loose in the wind, she guessed.
The staircase beckoned. Maybe the answers were upstairs, in the turret room itself. She found matches by the lamp, lifted the glass and held a match to the wick, hissing and spluttering, filling the glass and the room with soft white light. Then, holding it carefully, she started to climb the creaky stairs.
Outside the wind started to howl, a sound that conspired with the banging to make a home in the back of her neck, prickling as if someone unseen had run their finger along her skin.
She shivered. Next she’d be seeing ghosts. Warily, tentatively, she peered through the hole at the top of the stairs, the doorway to the turret room. It was dark but for the shutter slamming repeatedly against the wall letting in a thready glow of grey light. She stepped up into the room, holding out the lamp as she circled, stunned beyond measure.
It was someone’s idea of a fantasy bedroom, something from The Arabian Nights or similar. The bed was low and covered in rich red silks and brightly coloured cushions with gold trim and tassels, dusty now, but still a glorious splash of colour. The walls were hung with jewel-coloured silk wall-hangings and covered in portraits: a ballerina, stunningly beautiful, photographed in costume in every ballet imaginable, Swan Lake, Giselle, Romeo and Juliet.
And there on the dresser was a close-up of her laughing into the camera, beautiful, glamorous and so full of life. Gabriella put down the lamp and picked up the picture in her hands.
To Raoul, she had written in large, elegant letters. All my love, Katia.
Katia. Raoul’s first wife.
A chill went down her spine. This was Katia’s room, kept as it must have been when she was alive. Kept locked and preserved, like some kind of shrine.
Was that why