as that was,” he continued, his own voice uneven, “I had to look at what was behind it. To the grief that I didn’t have the courage to face. And … and to acknowledge what an insufferable snob I’d become. How quick I was to use the circumstances of your birth against you—as if they were any more random than mine. As if either one of us had anything to do with it.”
Lucy sucked in a breath then. “You are a Qaderi, Rafi,” she said.
“Yes,” he said sharply. “I am the head of my family. My cousin will be king one day, and I have every intention of being the power behind his throne. So why should I care what Alakkulian society thinks of my choice of bride? When have I ever allowed outside opinions to dictate my own?”
“Never,” she said, her voice catching.
But she hadn’t thought she was worthy of him, either. Was that why his dismissal had hurt so much? Because she’d believed his low opinion of her was accurate?
“I let others poison me against you,” he continued, “like a man far lesser, far weaker, than I would like to believe I am would do.” His mouth tightened. “Safir will never work for me again. The others who dared speak against you will regret it. This I promise you.”
His warm hands found hers and held them, and he shifted closer, gazing at her in a way she was afraid to believe. Surely she was dreaming. Because she’d dreamed this—or something very like this—a million times before.
But he did not disappear when she blinked.
“I never saw you coming,” he whispered. “I looked up from the middle of my gray, dutiful life and there you were, Lucy. I had no idea how to handle it. I can’t possibly imagine the misery I put you through. I can never make up for it. If you want to leave me, you have every right and reason. I won’t fight you.”
Lucy could read the sincerity on his hard face, hear it in his voice. His strong hands clasped hers, but gently. She knew that if she pulled away, he would let her go immediately.
There was a part of her that wanted to do just that. A part of her that wanted nothing more than to hurt him. To make him pay. But that part was growing smaller by the second.
Because she loved him. Even after all he’d done, she loved him far more than she wanted his pain. Far more, even, than her own deep wounds. She had long believed that made her the worst kind of fool. But maybe, she thought now, just maybe love was bigger than foolishness, too.
“And what,” she asked, her voice the barest whisper, “if I don’t want to leave you, after all?”
Powerful emotion moved across his face then, making his beautiful eyes gleam silver. His hands tightened around hers.
“Then I will tell you that I love you,” he rasped out. “That I always have, from the first moment I met you. And I will never be ashamed of that again.”
She said his name and tasted salt, only then realizing that she was crying.
“I have never had any use for love,” he said urgently, hoarsely. “Marriage is supposed to be for political alliance. For power and greed. Love is for fairy tales.”
“And for us,” she whispered. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. “For us, Rafi.”
When she moved to his mouth, he met her. Their kisses were hesitant at first, then sweeter, hotter, longer. Lucy felt the fire build within her again, shot through this time with the wild joy that he loved her.
Rafi loves me.
She knew that life with this man would never be easy, but as long as he loved her, they could make it work. Would make it work.
And then there was no more thought, only sensation.
Much later, they lay stretched out in front of the fire in the shade of the makeshift Christmas tree he’d put together just for her. Rafi looked down into her face and shuddered slightly at how close he’d come to losing her.
“I don’t know how you will ever forgive me,” he said fiercely. “I will never forgive myself.”
Lucy smiled, her brown eyes shining with the love he did not deserve, the happiness on her lovely face humbling.
“You will have to work at it, I think,” she said, her voice light. She tangled her fingers in his hair, and drew him down to her. “Every day. It will be hard and difficult work, Rafi, but then, you are a very determined man. I have faith that someday, you will make it up to me in full.”
She was teasing, he knew, but he took her words with all the force of a blood oath. He met her gaze.
“I will,” he vowed. “Believe me, Lucy. I will.”
She searched his eyes for a moment, her own wide and gleaming, and then nodded. She smiled again.
“Then kiss me,” she whispered. “It’s Christmas.”
About the Author
REBECCA WINTERS, whose family of four children has now swelled to include five beautiful grandchildren, lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the land of the Rocky Mountains. With canyons and high alpine meadows full of wild flowers, she never runs out of places to explore. They, plus her favourite vacation spots in Europe, often end up as backgrounds for her Mills & Boon® romance novels because writing is her passion, along with her family and church.
Rebecca loves to hear from her readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her website at www.cleanromances.com.
Look for new novels from Rebecca in Mills & Boon®’s Cherish™ series.
CHAPTER ONE
Puerto d’Ara
A COLD winter sun glinted on the sign posted at the side of the treacherous snow-packed mountain road. Desidiero Pastrana, known to a few close friends as Des, glimpsed it just before the faded pink ball disappeared behind the majestic Pico d’Ara, which was 3,000 meters high. In the twinkling of an eye, light turned to dark. With Christmas only three days away, night fell fast over the Pyrenees.
Just after leaving the northern city of Jaca, where he’d been on business, Des had gotten that queasy sensation again. He hadn’t been feeling like himself for the past few days. It was probably something he’d eaten, or he’d come down with a cold. Either way, he was anxious to reach the year-round mountain resort village of Puerto d’Ara and call it a night.
Of all the hotels owned by the Pastrana family in the province of Aragon, he preferred the Posada d’Ara, a former 17th-century monastery that had since been converted into an inn. Only two kilometers from the border separating the Spanish and French Pyrenees, Des used it as a base to indulge his passion for climbing.
He was planning to do some winter camping and serious ice climbing over the next ten days. Then after New Year’s, he’d get back to work and sit down with Miguel Torrillas, the affable manager of the Posada d’Ara, to do the requisite end-of-year inventory. Des was the CEO of the Pastrana Corporation and known for his hands-on approach to running the company.
He was also known to his family for avoiding spending the holidays with them. He’d purposely arranged this trip so that he could skip Christmas with his family.
And, he thought, hopefully skip the reminders of last Christmas. A grimace crept over his dark Castilian features. At this time the year before, the woman he’d planned to marry had sued his corporation after he’d taken her climbing and she’d been mildly injured.
His fiancée hadn’t been a winter-sports person, but he’d wanted her to understand his passion for it. His skills could have compensated for her inexperience—but they couldn’t compensate for her utter refusal to heed his instructions while they’d been climbing.
After