Olivia Gates - Princes of Castaldini - The Once and Future Prince

She’d been finding it harder to swallow as she imagined him, an only child, being orphaned at an even younger age than she’d been. That last remark had her almost coughing out her food.

“You’re the best sort,” she cried. “You have an uncanny ability to analyze problems and tailor solutions. All you need to do is fit your powers to Castaldini’s needs.”

“You really think so?”

“I’m providing uncensored thoughts, remember?”

“You’re providing a life-saving service. And your uncensored thoughts are a blessing to me and to Castaldini.”

“Which makes me a blessed angel, not a wicked devil, as you always claim,” she quipped, escaping his intensity. “Tell me about this place. It’s…amazing.”

He pushed away a clean plate. When had he finished it? “It is. Castello del Jamida—yes, an Italian/Moorish name—is what its name proclaims, an enduring castle. It was completed by King Antonio himself, but there is no record of when it was started. Its walls enclose an area reaching down from the Indara up there—” she followed his pointing finger “—the highest place in the El Juela mountains, down to the sea. A lot of the palace was rebuilt during the second Moorish period of occupation of Spain in the early fourteenth century, after its near destruction during a re-conquest of Gibraltar.”

She digested the sweeping historical details. “It’s mindboggling. I can’t begin to imagine how big the central castle is.”

“The castle rests on a plateau that measures about three thousand by one thousand feet.”

“That’s as big as the royal palace!”

“It was the royal palace for four centuries, before King Arturo moved the capital to Jawara in the seventeenth century.”

“So you’re the direct descendant of King Antonio?”

“I inherited this place. It’s an indication I am related.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re on shaky ground here, mister.”

“Not ‘mister.’ You may call me Your Royal Highness again now.”

“You may not live long enough to be called anything.”

“You’re right. Overexposure to toxic levels of beauty and sensuality is making my survival chances iffy.”

She turned up her nose at him. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere. Since there are no more places left for you to go.”

“I bet I can show you places you didn’t dream existed.” He stood up, came around, pulled her up. “And I’m starting now.”

She giggled and exchanged quips with him as he took her at a run to the ground floor of the castle and outside to begin the tour, all the time pointing out details with the thoroughness of someone who truly loved and cared about a place.

“This palace was built in the Mudéjar-Romanesque style, a symbiosis of architectural syles from cultures living side by side, which on this side of the island were Roman, Andalusian and Moorish with some North African influences. It’s characterized by geometric patterns in which accessorizing is everything, from elaborately worked tile to wood and plaster carving to ornamental metals.”

When they were far enough into the park to get an overall picture, he stopped. “The majority of the palace buildings are quadrangular, with all rooms opening onto central courts. The complex reached its present size by gradual additions of more quadrangles connected by smaller rooms and passages. And though the exterior was designed to be plain, even austere, the interior of each new section followed the theme of the core buildings.”

“What’s that?”

His grin burst like a flash in her eyes. “Paradise on earth.”

She whooped. “I knew it!”

“You’re a genius. Or maybe the columned arcades, fountains, indoor gardens, reflecting pools, sun and wind passing freely from ingeniously positioned and decorated openings, plus a feast of color touched by gold and bronze and silver gave you a clue?”

“You saying I was stating the obvious,Your Royal Wryness?”

He chuckled at her ribbing, pulled her into a run just as her breath evened from the last sprint. At the end of the park they ran down a steep descent leading to the biggest fountain yet. They slowed down as they passed through two gigantic gates.

“That’s where we access El Jamida town. The first gate is Cancello di Cielo, and it dates from the fourteenth century.”

“It’s an honest to goodness triumphal arch!” She gaped up as they passed beneath the dwarfing construction. “Hey, what’s that hand above the gate? I saw a key in the same place on the inside.”

“That’s the Hand of Elaya, with fingers outstretched as a talisman against the evil eye. That’s why it’s outside. The key is the symbol of authority, a reminder to those inside.” She laughed at his villainous tone as they passed beneath a massive horseshoe archway surrounded by a square tower. “And this is the Cancello di Giudizio, which was once used as an informal court of justice.”

“Gate of Heaven, Gate of Judgment. Divine delusions galore. But okay. You make a good guide. You may live.”

His laughter rang out again, and continued to do so as they walked.

They soon happened on a long queue of vegetable and fruit peddlers on their way to the palace complex to sell their fresh produce.

When they saw Leandro, they freaked out like a posse of hungry cats in a fresh fish market. Suddenly she couldn’t see Leandro in the maelstrom of human bodies and eager cries.

He finally managed to include her in their excitement, only for her to find herself and Leandro being dragged onto the leading cart and heading at a gallop into the streets of town.

All the way, people ran beside their cart, deluging Leandro with questions about the time since they’d last seen him.

Everybody in town knew Leandro, clearly loved and respected him. And missed him. The excitement of the situation soon turned to poignancy as she watched the reunion between the people and their estranged lord.

They were offered the use of every home, the food on every table. Leandro, unwilling to turn anybody’s generosity down, arranged for offerings to be taken back to the castle.

It was deep night by the time the townspeople let them go, and then only after Leandro promised they’d return in two weeks to celebrate the Merraba Feast.

By the time Leandro walked her to her room, all she wanted was to drag him inside and just end the torment. At the twelve-foot door that had survived eight centuries, he loomed over her for a heart-stopping moment. Then he lifted her in silence, plastered her against the door, opened her body around his bulk and took her lips, drank her, drained her, ground her between his unstoppable power and the immovable door until there was nothing left of her.

Then he let her down, stood back, vibrating. She saw his fantasies, imagined each dig of fingers and nip of teeth and flay of breath as he hauled her over his shoulder, stormed into her room, flung her on her bed and ravished her.

With an explosive oath, he turned and strode through the arches of the vast corridor until darkness claimed him.

She didn’t run after him. Something she couldn’t—didn’t want to—define overpowered even the mind-numbing hunger.

She stumbled through her door, fell onto her bed fully clothed and prayed for sleep.

Leandro had been right.

This new hunger far surpassed the mindlessness they’d once inspired in each other. It was also so different in nature, in texture. It was vast and powerful, not grabby and frantic. It wasn’t just making them tense, it was making them buoyant, exhilarated.

But he’d been wrong about something else. She had been, too.

This arrangement was no longer what they’d agreed on. It wasn’t an all-out fling to exorcise their hunger. The past week had followed a pattern of escalating enjoyment and rapport, each moment creating trust and understanding and appreciation between them—things that had been grossly lacking in the past.