around her, rising into huge, imposing buildings and jagged towers.
There was nothing remotely welcoming or inviting about it. Everything about the place was designed to scare people off and keep them out.
Sophie could see that Jasper’s brother would be right at home here.
‘Thanks, Jensen. I can manage the bags from here.’
‘If you’re sure, sir …’
Sophie turned in time to see Kit take her bag from the open boot of the Bentley and turn to walk in the direction of the castle’s vast, imposing doorway. One strap of the green satin bra he had picked up on the train was hanging out of the top of it.
Hastily she hurried after him, her high heels ringing off the frozen flagstones and echoing around the walls of the castle courtyard.
‘Please,’ Sophie persisted, not wanting him to put himself out on her account any more than he had—so unwillingly—done already. ‘I’d rather take it myself.’
He stopped halfway up the steps. For a split second he paused, as if he was gathering his patience, then turned back to her. His jaw was set but his face was carefully blank.
‘If you insist.’
He held it out to her. He was standing two steps higher than she was, and Sophie had to tilt her head back to look up at him. Thrown for a second by the expression in his hooded eyes, she reached out to take the bag from him but, instead of the strap, found herself grasping his hand. She snatched hers away quickly, at exactly the same time he did, and the bag fell, tumbling down the steps, scattering all her clothes into the snow.
‘Oh, knickers,’ she muttered, dropping to her knees as yet another giggle of horrified, slightly hysterical amusement rose up inside her. Her heart was thumping madly from the accidental contact with him. His hand had felt warm, she thought irrationally. She’d expected it to be as cold as his personality.
‘Hardly,’ he remarked acidly, stooping to pick up a pink thong and tossing it back into the bag. ‘But clearly what passes for them in your wardrobe. You seem to have a lot of underwear and not many clothes.’
The way he said it suggested he didn’t think this was a good thing.
‘Yes, well,’ she said loftily, ‘what’s the point of spending money on clothes that I’m going to get bored of after I’ve worn them once? Underwear is a good investment. Because it’s practical,’ she added defensively, seeing the faint look of scorn on his face. ‘God,’ she muttered crossly, grabbing a handful of clothes back from him. ‘This journey’s turning into one of those awful drawing-room farces.’
Straightening up, he raised an eyebrow. ‘The entire weekend is a bit of a farce, wouldn’t you say?’
He went up the remainder of the steps to the door. Shoving the escaped clothes back into her bag with unnecessary force, Sophie followed him and was about to apologise for having the wrong underwear and the wrong clothes and the wrong accent and occupation and attitude when she found herself inside the castle and her defiance crumbled into dust.
The stone walls rose to a vaulted ceiling what seemed like miles above her head, and every inch was covered with muskets, swords, pikes and other items of barbaric medieval weaponry that Sophie recognised from men-in-tights-with-swords films she’d worked on, but couldn’t begin to name. They were arranged into intricate patterns around helmets and pieces of armour, and the light from a huge wrought-iron lantern that hung on a chain in the centre of the room glinted dully on their silvery surfaces.
‘What a cosy and welcoming entrance,’ she said faintly, walking over to a silver breastplate hanging in front of a pair of crossed swords. ‘I bet you’re not troubled by persistent double-glazing salesmen.’
He didn’t smile. His eyes, she noticed, held the same dull metallic gleam as the armour. ‘They’re seventeenth century. Intended for invading enemies rather than double-glazing salesmen.’
‘Gosh.’ Sophie looked away, trailing a finger down the hammered silver of the breastplate, noticing the shining path it left through the dust. ‘You Fitzroys must have a lot of enemies.’
She was aware of his eyes upon her. Who would have thought that such a cool stare could make her skin feel as if it were burning? Somewhere a clock was ticking loudly, marking out the seconds before he replied, ‘Let’s just say we protect our interests.’
His voice was dangerously soft. Sophie’s heart gave a kick, as if the armour had given her an electric shock. Withdrawing her hand sharply, she jerked her head up to look at him. A faint, sardonic smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘And it’s not just invading armies that threaten those.’
His meaning was clear, and so was the thinly veiled warning behind the words. Sophie opened her mouth to protest, but no words came—none that would be any use in defending herself against the accusation he was making anyway, and certainly none that would be acceptable to use to a man with whose family she was going to be a guest for the weekend.
‘I-I’d better find Jasper,’ she stammered. ‘He’ll be wondering where I am.’
He turned on his heel and she followed him through another huge hallway panelled in oak, her footsteps making a deafening racket on the stone-flagged floor. There were vast fireplaces at each end of the room, but both were empty, and Sophie noticed her breath made faint plumes in the icy air. This time, instead of weapons, the walls were hung with the glassy-eyed heads of various large and hapless animals. They seemed to stare balefully at Sophie as she passed, as if in warning.
This is what happens if you cross the Fitzroys.
Sophie straightened her shoulders and quickened her pace. She mustn’t let Kit Fitzroy get to her. He had got entirely the wrong end of the stick. She was Jasper’s friend and she’d come as a favour to him precisely because his family were too bigoted to accept him as he really was.
She would have loved to confront Kit Superior Fitzroy with that, but of course it was impossible. For Jasper’s sake, and also because there was something about Kit that made her lose the ability to think logically and speak articulately, damn him.
A set of double doors opened at the far end of the hallway and Jasper appeared.
‘Soph! You’re here!’
At least she thought it was Jasper. Gone were the layers of eccentric vintage clothing, the tattered silk-faced dinner jackets he habitually wore over T-shirts and torn drainpipe jeans. The man who came towards her, his arms outstretched, was wearing well-ironed chinos and a V-necked jumper over a button-down shirt and—Sophie’s incredulous gaze moved downwards—what looked suspiciously like brogues.
Reaching her, this new Jasper took her face between his hands and kissed her far more tenderly than normal. Caught off guard by the bewildering change in him, Sophie was just about to push him away and ask what he was playing at when she remembered what she was there for. Dropping her poor, battered bag again, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Over Jasper’s shoulder, through the curtain of her hair, she was aware of Kit Fitzroy standing like some dark sentinel, watching her. The knowledge stole down inside her, making her feel hot, tingling, restless, and before she knew it she was arching her body into Jasper’s, sliding her fingers into his hair.
Sophie had done enough screen and stage kisses to have mastered the art of making something completely chaste look a whole lot more X-rated than it really was. When Jasper pulled back a little a few seconds later she caught the gleam of laughter in his eyes as he leaned his forehead briefly against hers, then, stepping away, he spoke in a tone of rather forced warmth.
‘You’ve met my big brother, Kit. I hope he’s been looking after you.’
That was rather an unfortunate way of putting it, Sophie thought, an image of Kit Fitzroy, his strong hands full of her silliest knickers and bras flashing up inside her head. Oh, hell, why did she always smirk when she was embarrassed? Biting her lip,