system were installed. I imagine my ancestors did not bathe very often when water had to be drawn from the well and carried to the bedchambers on the upper floors of the castle,’ he said, amusement glinting in his eyes.
He went on to tell her more about the history of the Castello del Falco, and Beth gradually relaxed, intrigued by his stories and seduced by his deep, accented voice that caressed her senses like velvet against her skin.
‘It’s amazing to think of people living here hundreds of years ago,’ she murmured, surprised to realise that while she had been listening to him she had eaten the whole plate of food he had served her.
‘The Nuragic civilisation is known to have lived on Sardinia much longer ago than mere hundreds of years,’ he said, handing her a cup of coffee. ‘The landscape is dotted with more than seven thousand ancient stone structures called Nuraghi. Archaeologists believe they were built round about the fifteenth century BC and they are thought to have been homesteads of communities who lived in the Bronze Age.’
Beth’s eyes widened. ‘And the buildings are still standing today? I’d love to see them.’
‘Many have become ruins over time, of course, but the basic structures remain. There is a settlement called Serra Orrios close to Oliena, at Dorgali, and also an ancient tomb called the Giant’s Grave of Thomes which, as the name suggests, is believed to have been a burial chamber.’ His smile held genuine warmth at her enthusiasm. ‘Perhaps there will be time while you are staying here for you to visit Dorgali.’
Beth’s stomach dipped at his words which were a stark reminder that the length of her stay at the castle was determined by when the DNA test could be done. If Mel had been wrong and Cesario wasn’t Sophie’s father she would take the baby back to England. But if Sophie was his—what would happen then? she wondered fearfully.
Desperate for something to say, she glanced around the room at the many paintings that lined the walls. One portrait in particular, of a stern-faced man dressed in modern-day clothes, caught her attention.
‘My father,’ Cesario told her, following her gaze.
‘He looks…’ Beth hesitated, wishing she had not started the conversation. ‘Very aristocratic.’
‘He was a cold, remote man.’ Cesario stared at the portrait. ‘I was terrified of him when I was a child. He was never physically violent towards me,’ he explained, when Beth looked horrified, ‘but there are other forms of cruelty. He believed that Piras men should never feel emotions and certainly never reveal them.’
He gave a sardonic laugh. ‘You see the pennant hanging on the wall, decorated with the family crest of two swords? The translation of my family motto is “Victory and Power are All”. For my father the Piras name and the pursuit of power were all he cared about, and he was determined to instil those values into me.’
‘What about your mother?’ Beth asked, trying to hide her shock at Cesario’s revelations about his upbringing by the man whose austere features were staring down at her from above the fireplace. Teodoro had told her that Cesario’s father had died several years ago, but the butler had not mentioned his mother. ‘Her portrait isn’t in here,’ she noted, realising that the only paintings of women hanging in the dining room were probably a few hundred years old.
‘No, my father had every trace of her removed from the castle when she ended their marriage. When I was seven years old I came home from boarding school, excited at the prospect of seeing her. But she had gone without even saying goodbye and I never saw her again.’
‘Didn’t she ever visit you, or invite you to her new home?’
He shook his head. ‘My father paid her a large sum of money in return for her agreement to sign sole custody of me over to him. When I asked my father if I could see her he told me what he had done, and I swear he took pleasure in explaining that my mother had preferred money to her only child.’ His mouth curled into a mirthless smile. ‘It was a salutary life lesson,’ he said harshly.
Beneath his sardonic tone Beth glimpsed the hurt young boy he had once been. She glanced at the portrait of his grim-faced father and her heart softened towards Cesario. Rejection by a parent was something she had experienced too, and she wondered if, like her, Cesario found it hard to trust. Some parents, like her mother, were wonderful role models, she mused. But others, like her father and both of Cesario’s parents, could cause untold harm to a child’s emotional stability.
‘Not all women are like that,’ she said quietly. ‘Not all women think money is more important than a loving relationship.’
‘Is that so?’ Cesario drawled cynically, casting his mind over past affairs he’d had with women who had regarded his wealth as his main attraction. Yet he knew there was some truth in Beth’s words. He had never considered offering to pay Raffaella off, as his father had done his mother. Raffaella had loved Nicolo, but her desperate bid to snatch him from the castle had resulted in tragedy.
The peal of the castle’s internal phone shattered the tense silence that had fallen in the dining room. Cesario stood up and strode across the room to answer it. ‘Sophie is awake,’ he relayed a few moments later. ‘Carlotta can’t settle her.’
‘She’s due a feed.’ Beth glanced at her watch and was shocked to see how late it was. The hours she’d spent with Cesario had flown by, and even more startling was the realisation that she had enjoyed his company. She felt guilty that she had forgotten about Sophie’s 11:00 p.m. feed and jumped up from the table.
Cesario opened the door and followed her out of the dining room. ‘I’ll escort you up to the nursery. I doubt you can remember the way yet through the rabbit warren of corridors.’
Sophie’s cries could be heard as they walked along the first-floor landing. As soon as they reached the nursery Beth hurried over to the cot and lifted the red-faced, sobbing baby into her arms.
‘It’s all right, sweetheart, I’m here now,’ she soothed, her guilt that she had left Sophie again for a few hours increasing when she discovered that the baby’s sleepsuit was wet. She deftly stripped off the wet suit, changed Sophie’s nappy and popped her into clean nightwear, working quickly while the baby yelled indignantly at having to wait for her milk.
‘Is her formula ready?’ Cesario queried.
‘No.’ Beth groaned. ‘I need to make up a couple of feeds for the night.’
‘Let me take her while you prepare her bottle.’
As he cradled Sophie against his chest Cesario felt a strange sensation inside him, as if tight bindings around his heart were slowly unravelling. He did not know if she was his child but it did not seem important. All that mattered was that he comforted her, and he murmured to her in Italian the lullaby ‘Stella Stellina’—Star, Little Star—that he had often sung to his son.
Sophie stopped crying and focused her big brown eyes on him. If she was his daughter he would love her as he had loved Nicolo, Cesario vowed fiercely. But what would he do about Sophie’s guardian? Beth had convinced him with her utter devotion to the baby that she loved Sophie as much as if she were her own child. It would not be fair to send her away.
Perhaps he could employ her as Sophie’s nanny? he brooded. That way they could both be part of the baby’s life. But he did not relish the idea of Beth living at the castle while he was plagued by this damnable fascination with her. She had only been here for two days and he was racked with an unprecedented hunger to possess her slender body.
In many ways it would be easier if Sophie was not his. That way he could send Beth back to England with a clear conscience and get on with his life. No doubt he would soon forget her once she could no longer cast her siren spell over him with her slanting green eyes, he thought self-derisively.
The sound of her voice dragged him from his thoughts. ‘I knew you had a magic touch,’ she said as she emerged from the small kitchen area adjoining the nursery, holding a bottle of baby formula. ‘Nothing normally pacifies Sophie when she’s