Count Valieri's Prisoner. Sara Craven

knows what you’re doing.’

      ‘You are wrong. He knows everything.’

      ‘And condones it?’ Maddie shook her head. ‘No, I don’t—I won’t believe it.’

      ‘Then ask him,’ he said. ‘At dinner this evening. I am here to invite you to join him.’

      ‘Then you can both go to hell.’ She glared at him. ‘Do you really imagine I’d sit down to a meal with someone who treats me like this? I’d rather starve.’

      ‘Do so, then.’ His tone was indifferent. ‘If your future husband responds swiftly to my demands, you should not have to endure many days of hunger.’

      ‘You mean—you wouldn’t care?’

      ‘That you wish to behave like a fool? That is your choice. But I think you would do better to accept the situation, so that you look like a woman and not a skeleton on your wedding day.’

      He paused. ‘There is a bell beside the bed. Ring it and a maid will come, and bring anything you require.’

      ‘All I want,’ Maddie told him tersely, ‘is a way out of here.’

      ‘That, I fear, she cannot provide. And she is loyal to the Count, like the rest of his staff,’ he added. ‘So do not ask.’

      She said shortly, ‘I’m hardly in a position to bribe anyone.’ She hesitated. ‘Nor am I exactly dressed for dinner—even with a geriatric kidnapper. Will I get my clothes back?’

      ‘You will be provided with adequate covering,’ he said. ‘Be content with that.’

      Which was another way of saying ‘no’, Maddie thought as he walked back across the room and the door—a blue one—closed behind him, becoming just part of the wall again.

      She lay staring at it while she counted to fifty slowly, to make quite sure that he’d gone, before she pushed away the coverlet and swung out of bed, treading across the marble floor to try the handle. But the door was locked, as she’d known in her heart that it would be.

      However, that could not be the only real door in the room. And now she would find the others.

      The first she came across gave access to a large walk in closet, lined on one side with drawers in the same dark wood as the bed-head, all empty, with a matching series of wardrobes filling the opposite wall.

      Maddie pulled open each door in turn, but the interior rail held nothing but a robe that matched the nightgown she was wearing, and a pair of velvet slippers in the same deep blue.

      ‘His idea of adequate covering, no doubt,’ she muttered as she closed the door again and went back into the bedroom.

      What she really needed to find was the bathroom, but naturally she wouldn’t have lowered herself by asking him where it was. And her dogged search revealed it behind a pink door a couple of doors away from the closet.

      The dark green marble walls, she thought, made it gloomy, although that might have reflected her own mood, rather than the décor, while the bathtub and shower were both distinctly old-fashioned.

      However, the water was hot and the plumbing worked. There were plenty of towels and a basic selection of toiletries, none of them her own.

      There was also a full length mirror on one of the walls and she stood for a moment staring at her reflection.

       Your body is of no interest to me …

      Out of all the things he’d said to her, why on earth should she remember those words in particular? Impossible, she thought, to fathom.

      At the same time she could not help noticing, albeit unwillingly, how the deep bodice of the nightgown gently cupped her breasts and the way the cling of the fabric swirled as she moved, the silk hem just brushing her insteps.

      No interest. Yet the right size, she thought, and the right length. And although the colour and style of the nightgown were not something she would ever have chosen for herself, she could not deny that it was becoming, making her fair hair look almost silvery.

      What was more, she would swear it was brand new, and she wondered, as she turned away, who it had been bought for originally.

      But, she reminded herself briskly, she had far more pressing matters to consider. Her priority was to get out of this crazy, dangerous situation and somehow reach Genoa, the airport and safety.

      She knew now which were the real doors and which the false, and accepted that there was no opportunity for escape there. So, she started on the windows. The first two sets of shutters opened on to glorious oil-painted landscapes—one showing a sylvan lake overlooked by a rococo palace—the other depicting rolling meadows studded with poppies and edged by cypress trees.

      The Italy I was expecting to find, she thought wryly, walking on to the next window, and catching her breath as she flung back the shutters.

      Because there were the mountains as far as her eyes could see, confronting her, surrounding her like a cage of rock. And, in spite of the sunshine, as tall, harsh and inimical as her jailer, she thought, feeling suddenly cold.

      While one gingerly downwards glance told her that below the window was a sheer drop to heaven knows where.

      And there was no sign of Trimontano, or any other human habitation apart from the prison she was standing in.

      She left the shutters open, and went back to lie on the bed, heaping the pillows up behind her as she began a serious attempt to evaluate her equally serious position.

      Her only hope seemed to lie with Count Valieri himself, who surely could not know that an actual crime was being perpetrated in his name. Not unless the younger man had some hold on him too and was forcing him into it.

      If this was the case, then maybe they could work together to stop things before they went too far. Unless of course the Count was older and feebler than his portrait at the theatre suggested.

      But that couldn’t be true. His handwriting suggested a forceful and determined personality, so he might well be acting against his better judgement for some reason.

      So, she would simply have to talk him round, she thought. Tell him frankly that Nigel Sylvester was also a forceful and determined man, and certainly not someone you would wish to have as an enemy, and to treat him as prey would undoubtedly have a dangerous backlash.

      She could also warn the Count that she wasn’t Nigel Sylvester’s favourite person and, if it was left to him, he probably wouldn’t give a brass farthing to get her back.

      Perhaps not in those exact words, she thought ruefully. But at least I can let him know that if this madness continues, he’ll have a fight on his hands that he can’t possibly win.

      While I, she thought, her throat tightening nervously. I could end up caught helplessly in the middle. And what will happen to me then?