Chapter 22

'You said it wasn't for sale when you first saw it.'

'For everything there is a price, bella mia.' With a soft laugh, he linked his arms round her. 'The last owner had no sentimental attachment to the place. It had been a drain on his finances for too long.'

'Did you ever tell me about it?'

'I wanted to surprise you.' He guided her towards the elaborate stone bridge spanning the moat. Tall studded doors stood wide on

a hall covered with exquisitely painted frescoes.

'I've never seen anything so beautiful,' she whispered.

'Admittedly not everyone has a foyer full of fat cherubs and bare-breasted nymphs. I'll concede that if I concede nothing else,' Luc said mockingly. 'The original builder wasn't over-endowed with good taste.'

'If you don't like it, why did you buy it?' she pressed, struggling to hold back her tiredness.

He moved a broad shoulder. 'It's an investment.'

'Does that mean you plan to sell it again?' Her dismay was evident.

'Not if you feel you can live with all those naked women.'

'I can live with them!'

'Somehow,' he murmured softly, 'I thought you would feel like that.'

Luc appraised her pallor, the shadows like bruises below her eyes, and headed her to the curving stone staircase. 'Bed, I think.'

'I don't want to go to bed. I want to see the whole castle.' If it was a dream that Luc should want to marry her and live in this glorious building, she was afraid to sleep lest she wake up.

'You've had all the excitement you can take for one day.' Luc whipped her purposefully off her feet when she showed signs of straying in the direction of an open doorway. 'Why are you smiling like that?'

'Because I feel as though I've died and gone to heaven and—' she hesitated, sending him an adoring look '—I love you so much.'

Dark blood seared his cheekbones, his jawline hardening. Unconcerned, she linked her arms round his throat. 'I'm not a plaster saint,' he breathed.

'I can live with your flaws.'

'You'll have to live with them,' he corrected. 'Divorce won't be one of your options.'

She winced, pained by that response. 'It isn't very romantic to talk about divorce before the wedding.'

'Catherine…as you ought to know by now, I'm not a very romantic guy. I'm not poetic, I'm not sentimental, I'm not idealistic,' he spelt out grimly.

'You make love in Italian,' she said in a small voice.

'It's the first language I ever spoke!'

For some peculiar reason, he was getting angry. She decided to let him have his own way. If he didn't think sweeping her off to a castle in Italy and marrying her within days was romantic, he had a problem. It might be wise, she decided, to share a little less of her rapture. But it was very difficult. Feeling weak and exhausted didn't stop her from wanting to pin him to the nearest horizontal surface and smother him with grateful love and kisses.

At the top of that unending staircase, Luc paused to introduce her to a little man called Bernardo, who rejoiced in the title of major-domo. Catherine beamed at him.

'Do you think you could possibly pin those dizzy feet of yours back to mother earth for a while?' Luc enquired sardonically.

'Not when you're carrying me,' she sighed.

Thrusting open a door, he crossed a large room and settled her down on a bed. It was a four-poster, hung with tassels and fringes and rich brocade. She rested back with a groan of utter contentment, lifted one leg and kicked off a shoe, repeated the action with the other. It was definitely her sort of bed.

His expressive mouth quirked. 'I've arranged for a doctor to see you in half an hour. Do you think you could manage to look less as though you've been at the sherry?'