Today's snippet is brought to you from How To Love a Princess because we all need a little bit of fairy tale in our weekend :)
At the far end of the
hall, he observed a woman descending the left branch of the grand stairway that
split from a wide landing. She wore a neat businesslike suit of dove grey that
nevertheless hugged her form seductively, her hair pulled back sharply from a
face that appeared proportional with typical classic beauty, her movement
graceful, reminding him of the swans on the Serpentine back in London. At the
bottom, she hesitated, her chin tilted up, her face turned directly at him. He
returned the stare, waiting for his vision to adjust to the indoor dimness,
contemplating her hesitation.
Then she was moving,
closer and closer, her face playing a trick more cruel and horrific with each
step she took. The brilliant blue eyes that had once prompted him to choose
sapphires over diamonds. The high curve of cheekbone, the elegant nose, the bow
of rose-pink lips, that stubborn chin.
He fought for air, unable
to draw his gaze from the vision, the spectre tormenting his sanity. Too many
nights of working straight through, too few decent meals, too many haunted
dreams…the explanations failed abysmally as she stopped before him.
“Nicolas.”
That was all she said. And
how well he remembered the way his name fell from her lips. He stepped back,
shaking his head, gasping for each and every breath.
“Nicolas, please…”
“No.” He shook his head,
taking unsteady steps back and back, until he was pressed against the door.
This wasn’t real.
None of this was happening.
The turreted fairy castle,
the primitive kingdom that didn’t even own a commercial airport, the swarm of
body guards, Catherine… Catherine de’Ariggo.
No!
It wasn’t possible.
He spun about, turned the
giant iron ring on the door and fled outside into the brisk winter air. His
knees threatened to collapse. He put his back to the wall, cradling his bowed
head in his hands and felt himself being carried by a wave of panic.
But he wasn’t going
anywhere. And neither was his ghost.
“Nicolas? What are you doing?”
He raised his head to look
at her in the sharp daylight. She seemed so solid, so real, he reached out to
touch her cheek and instantly dropped his hand at the contact of warm skin.
“Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.
Catherine’s brows crossed
as she stared at him uncertainly. She’d rehearsed for many reactions, but this
one hadn’t been on her list. But no, of course he recognised her. He simply
hadn’t expected to see her here. “Are you feeling all right? You look a little
pale.”
With shaky fingers, she grabbed
his arm, trying to lead him to the steps so he could sit. In the last few
minutes, from seeing him as she descended the stairway until now, her heart had
pounded fast enough to use up its lifetime of beats and suddenly she needed to
sit as well. After a moment’s resistance, he allowed her to tug him along and
he sank down beside her on the top step.
No sooner had he sat, than
he swung his head her way. “Catherine?”
She nodded thoughtfully. Could he truly be so shocked?
Had he not known whom she was when he’d promised Gascon that he’d come?
The
pallor of his skin was her answer. She was so accustomed to being attuned to
every mention of his name, living in her memories whenever duty allowed, she’d
assumed he would have automatically made the connection on the de’Ariggo name
alone. But why should he? He’d moved on with his life. He had no reason to
spare her a second thought.
