Chapter Ten
Santiago strode across the courtyard, aware of the morning sun already beating down on the remnants of last night’s festivities, which were still being cleared away by the crew employed by the event planner.
When was the last time he had indulged himself like this? And stayed in bed until noon.
Cerys had woken him just after dawn, writhing in the throes of a nightmare, calling out for her mother. But when he’d roused her the rest of the way, she had been unable to recall the details of the dream. Luckily, he had known the perfect way to distract her. To distract them both.
He frowned, recalling how they had both drifted back to sleep, sated and content in each other’s arms.
Uneasiness settled in his gut. For the first time in—well, for ever, really—he would happily have stayed in bed all day, because his work did not excite him as much as Cerys.
He pushed the unsettling thought to one side, the memory of her face the night before—full of hope and possibilities—when she had seen the flowers, though, only disturbed him more.
He tugged his phone from his pocket to check the time. Pérez had arrived at the castillo twenty minutes ago, with an item which the detective believed could be one of the possessions Santiago had described being pocketed by the thief in Barcelona.
He hoped to hell the item held the key to Cerys’s identity.
And helped unlock her memory the rest of the way.
He had hated seeing her confusion and panic this morning, the sadness on her face when she had struggled to recall the details of her dream.
But more, he knew he was becoming too invested in this relationship.
Once the legalities could be settled, and the prenuptial agreement signed, he could surely begin to get this union in perspective.
Perhaps the decision to have the marriage blessed in the family chapel according to the De Montoya tradition had also been a mistake—bringing emotions into play which had no place in this arrangement—but how would he have been able to persuade anyone the marriage was real if he did not make vows before God?
And why did he still feel as if the impulse to do so had been a lot less pragmatic than he might wish, that deep-seated urge to claim Cerys in all the ways that mattered something he could no longer ignore.
He jogged up the back stairs and headed to his study. When he arrived, Pérez was waiting for him.
‘Your Excellency, I apologise for waking you on the morning after your wedding,’ the man began.
‘It was a church blessing for the union, to recognise it in the eyes of God. The marriage, however, will not be legal until we have Cerys’s ID documents,’ he replied gruffly, trying to convince himself as much as the detective that yesterday’s service had been a necessity demanded by religion and tradition.
Nothing more. ‘So, I’m hoping you have news for us that will tie up the loose ends. ’
‘I’m afraid I do not have any of your betrothed’s ID documents,’ the man said, dashing Santiago’s hopes.
But then the detective reached into his briefcase to produce a tattered leather-bound book. ‘But my contacts in Barcelona discovered this for sale on the black market, which I believed might be the item you described.’
Adrenaline shot through him, swiftly followed by relief. It looked exactly like the book the thief had taken from Cerys’s bag that night. The one item she had been so determined to retrieve.
‘Well done, Pérez,’ he said.
‘This is the book you described to me?’ the man asked.
‘Yes.’ He had only seen it fleetingly, but he was sure of it.
But as Pérez passed him the book, the detective frowned. ‘I’m afraid to say the man who sold it to me had already shown it to a journalist.’
‘I see… Why would a journalist be interested in it?’ he asked, annoyed. They had not released any details about Cerys, her amnesia—or their wedding—to the press yet, so that yesterday’s ceremony could remain private. Why had those damn vultures been snooping about?
‘Perhaps you should read it first,’ Pérez replied, which was hardly an answer.
But then the man’s gaze became shadowed with something that looked uncomfortably like sympathy.
Who the hell was that aimed at? ‘It appears to be her mother’s journal,’ he added.
‘It also explains why she may have been in the Placa Reial that night… Because you were.’
What?
‘Okay. You are sure?’ he said.
The man nodded, still looking grave.
But then Santiago’s heart lifted, along with a large portion of the guilt which had been bothering him for weeks now, ever since he had taken her virginity.
Why did it matter why Cerys had been in the plaza? Perhaps she had heard of the family scandal which had made him a figure of public scrutiny for years. So what? If the journal belonged to her mother, it would surely hold the clues they sought to reveal her identity.
‘Regardless, this is good news,’ he said, taking the book from the detective.
This wasn’t just good news—it was excellent news.
Finally, Cerys would have a way to unlock the rest of her memories.
The doctors had all said her recovery had been delayed because she had been in an unfamiliar place ever since the assault.
That if they could discover her real name, the details of her past, it would jog her memory loose, and speed the process up considerably.
She had remembered so many fragments already, but verifiable details would help to create a much fuller picture.
But while he hated to see her struggle, he knew his motives were also selfish.
He wanted her to know everything. Wanted her to be fully herself again, so there would be no more nightmares.
After last night, and the impulsive decision to have the villa decorated, he suspected she was already developing deeper feelings for him.
And while in some ways that served his purpose, he hated the thought that until she was fully healed she could not know her own mind completely.
Nor did he want her to be so vulnerable.
Because surely this was why he felt so driven to protect her.
Of course, he was also curious to discover more about her. Where she came from, who she was, why she seemed to expect so little of people, while at the same time giving so much of herself. Because her open and generous heart had begun to captivate him—which also could not be good.
Sitting down, Santiago opened the cover of the book. But then the name of the owner scribbled across the facing page leapt out at him and seemed to grab him around the throat. The anticipation curdled in his stomach, becoming sharp with shock… And then dread.
Angharad Jones.
The name which had been etched on Santiago’s consciousness for fifteen years. The name of the woman who had helped to plunge his family into scandal and grief and extinguished hundreds of years of honour. And for what? To satisfy his father’s indiscriminate libido and her own.
The dread spread, its tentacles wrapping around his ribs.
Nausea rose up like venom, poisoning everything in its path—everything that had happened in the last three weeks, the last two months even.
The way Cerys had captivated and excited him, the longing and hope in her eyes last night curdled, until all that was left was the bitter taste of irony.
And all those cruel memories which he thought he had conquered a lifetime ago.
He swallowed to stop himself from gagging. Then flipped through the book blindly, until he reached the final entry.
Pérez murmured something that sounded like an apology, but Santiago could barely hear it over the discordant throbbing in his ears as he read what Cerys’s mother had written fifteen years ago—on the night she had run away with his father.
Fury and fear and hopelessness tangled in his gut like venomous snakes.
It was a feeling he remembered far too vividly.
From when he had looked into his own mother’s sightless eyes, registered the empty bottle of pills on her bedside table and known he had not done enough to save her. Or his baby brother or sister.
His hands shook, his breath sawing out, the control he had worked so hard to maintain threatening to shatter again and leave him even more alone.
The writing scribbled in bold black ink danced in front of his eyes. Sickening, disgusting, selfish words. This woman had destroyed his family. To satisfy her lust. To alleviate her boredom.
The horrifying truth dawned on him. Guilt solidified the brick in the pit of his stomach, freezing it into a block of ice-cold contempt.
The journal fell from his numb fingers onto the carpet.
He stood, shaking with anger and disbelief, even as his stomach twisted with shame.
I have defiled our family chapel by blessing a marriage to the daughter of my father’s whore there.
Yesterday’s marriage would not be recognised in law until the legal documents had been signed.
But how could he annul the vows he had made before God, when they had consummated them not once but many times last night, and again this morning?
No priest would condone it. And anyway, a journalist already knew Cerys’s identity.
He stared blankly at Pérez. ‘This journalist, what do they know?’
‘They knew of your interest in the book. And the connection to the incident in Barcelona. It is already common knowledge that the woman you rescued that night has been living in your household ever since. Although I do not think it is known that she has lost her memory. Your household are extremely discreet.’
Except how do we even know she has really lost her memory?
The familiar cynicism went some way to fill the hole in his gut.
What if it was always a lie, to trick me into a commitment?
Santiago swore, the poison rising in his throat. No wonder Pérez had looked so concerned when Santiago had confirmed the journal belonged to the woman he had chosen to make his wife.