15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"You don’t reason with intellectuals. You shoot them.” Napoleon BonaparteThe morning sky had no clouds, promising a sweltering day. A breeze shook the olive trees, making them shimmer. Henrique crossed his arms above his chest and glared at the palace’s door. The prudish princess had the gall to pursue him into his well-deserved sleep. In his dream, instead of racing to her room in high dudgeon, she kissed him. He had peeled layer upon layer of clothing, never arriving at her pale skin. Just as he had reached her shift, a gull screeched outside his window, and Henrique woke up with a hard-on. No amount of ice-cold water would solve it, and he had to take matters into his own hands. A practice he had avoided since his randy teenage years.

Henrique cursed under his breath. Instead of lusting after Isabel, he should find the letters. As soon as the guests left for their outdoor entertainment, he would continue to search the palace. Hands crossed behind his back, Henrique paced to the Eros statue. The mischievous imp pointed its arrow at him, and Henrique stepped out of his range, an inch from crunching a couple of insects. The male praying mantis flapped its wings and swayed its abdomen to get the female’s attention. The female stared, oblivious to his efforts. Henrique wanted to shout to the male that once it climbed on her back and mated, the female would bite his head off. How futile. He would do it regardless.

Males were all the same.

Foolish creature. Henrique kicked a pebble. Movement at the front door alerted him of their exit. His pulse sped up for no apparent reason. He spotted Isabel. Her hair was pulled up, so much so her already strong cheekbones stood out. Human nature was vile. Just because he’d never seen her hair down, he obsessed about its weight, its color, if it smelled of roses or jasmine. He hated her crown, not because it symbolized their different status, but because it forced her to pile up her hair mercilessly atop her head. What would it take to lift the weight of those diamonds from her temple and free her mane? He would do it slowly, kissing and smelling every strand. Lazily, he would massage her scalp, and then he would drink her thankful moans.

Alfonso’s laughter pulled him from his revelry. The prince clung to her side. She rubbed off an air of royalty to the inconspicuous prince, a legitimacy to Alfonso’s somberness that clashed with Henrique’s breakfast.

Instead of the usual fichu, Isabel wore a scooped gown, chaster than current fashion but showing two inches of skin. A simple strand of pearls graced her neck. Alfonso laughed at something she said, and his eyes danced to her chest. Bastard. Henrique had invented the eye dance.

Dio elbowed Henrique’s side. "Perfect, they are all leaving. Where do you wish me to start the search?"

The royal highnesses strolled along the trail to the beach, escorted by several couples, including Rafaela, Canastra, Charles, and Beatriz.

Before he could judge the sanity of his actions, Henrique jogged to their front, blocking the way. "Care for a tennis match, Your Highness?"

The couple stopped.

Isabel’s smile was all teeth. "Alfonso planned to show me—"

Henrique shrugged. "Go along then. Prince Alfonso shouldn’t risk losing face among such a glittering court."

The prince frowned, no doubt unused to being challenged. What did Isabel see in the guy?

Isabel patted the prince’s hand. "I’m sure Alfonso would love to sharpen his technique, won’t you?"

The prince took a measured breath and removed his gloves. "Of course."

Henrique stifled a laugh. Isabel had just met him and already knew how to manage him. Should he warn Alfonso of the female mantis mating habits?

Isabel glared at Henrique, all nasty and provocative. It promised a world of painful, hopefully sweaty, retributions.

After sustaining her look for a few seconds, he winked. The game hadn’t started, and Henrique was already winning. He had disgruntled Isabel and prevented them from spending time by themselves.

As they convened at the tennis court, Dio pulled him to the side. "Why the change of plans?"

"You whined the Bourbon was dangerous, did you not? This is a perfect opportunity to study the prince. Wasn’t it Aristotle who said a man shows his true self at play?"

They faced each other on opposite sides of the net. The sun shone behind Henrique, another of the advantages lady luck bestowed upon him. Slashing the air with his racket, Henrique waited for Alfonso to serve. An itch of satisfaction coursed through him. Dio’s talk about heroes must be to blame—he felt a primitive urge to trounce the foppish prince on the lawn of honor and prove to Isabel what a dunce he was.

The lad bounced the ball two times and threw it up in a flawless perpendicular arc. He swung, using his body weight in the attack. The leather sphere grazed the painted line, bruising the grass and isolating itself.

Hearty claps thundered from their small audience. The loudest of all was Isabel’s.

"Fifteen zero," Dio declared.

Henrique’s smile showed all his teeth. "So, just back from Sandhurst? When do you boys graduate?" Henrique slashed the air with his racket. "Eighteen years old? I don’t remember."

The prince cleaned sweat from his forehead. "I’ve been told it often happens with age."

Henrique narrowed his eyes, his fingers flexing around the racket handle, and vowed swift retribution. The back and forth of the match heightened the tension. Henrique’s muscles strained as he chased after shots, his mind focused solely on the game. When the ball flew at his side, he hit it at the right angle. It rolled and scraped the net, falling limply on Alfonso’s side. He lifted his palm. "Sorry."

The lad nodded, a flat smile on his Bourbon lips.

They disputed the points thoroughly. Henrique had to admit the prince had some technique. After a pernicious forehand, Henrique veered to the left. When he realized the boy’s intention, it was too late. Alfonso pitched to the right. Henrique could only follow the ball with his eyes. Point for Alfonso.

The prince smiled. "I apologize. My friends at Sandhurst are sprightlier."

Gritting his teeth, Henrique smashed. The ball hit the prince in the chest.

A deadly silence descended over the court.

Rafaela raised her arm. "How entertaining. But we ladies also need some exercise. What if we played doubles? I can play with Henrique and—"

Henrique shook his head. "I will partner with the princess."

Isabel frowned, her gaze shifting from Alfonso to him. "I don’t know. It’s been years since—"

"Portuguese versus Spaniards? But then… We are far from home, and I don’t intend to embarrass our country with a lousy performance."

Isabel pulled herself up to all her diminutive height. "Why not?"

A thrill coursed through him when the proud princess abandoned the prince and glided to his side of the court, and he controlled the impulse to puff up his chest and make indelicate gestures at their Spanish audience. After a terse nod in his direction and a thorough inspection of her racket, she positioned herself forward and to his left, her stiff corset making her dress look like armor.

Henrique groaned. What had possessed him to incite her into this? He couldn’t care less if they failed, but now he linked their game with her exalted country, he would endure her displeasure after they lost.

Rafaela threw the ball, a very mild, very gracious serve, almost as if afraid to hurt the leather sphere.

Isabel had no such compunctions and returned the ball with savagery, her arm as punishing as her tongue lashings. The ball zinged past Rafaela, who narrowed her eyes in a very feminine, very predatory way.

So the game began.

It was tight. Rafaela and Alfonso were well-matched, their technique flawless. While Isabel had no service to be proud of, her competitive streak could scare even the staunchest of generals. No point was lost for her, and the potential strength in that svelte body defied the laws of physics.

Rafaela won the point and blew Isabel a malicious kiss. The princess’s face turned an alarming shade of red.

Henrique caught her arm and whispered in her ear. "Mind her not. You are superb. Portugal could not be better represented." He meant it as a joke, but it came out with a ring of truth.

Isabel searched his eyes and gifted him with a sweaty smile. "Thank you. You are not so bad yourself."

Henrique placed a hand above his chest and returned to his place, still not used to the power of those smiles.

For all their constant bickering, they made perfect teammates. Pride filled his chest at being on the same side as hers. As the game progressed, he knew what balls to go after and which were hers. He trusted her to do her best, celebrated her victories, and cursed their defeats.

It led them to the match point. The crowd hushed. Isabel moved with predatory grace and advanced toward the net, her hips swinging from side to side. Henrique’s breath came in short bursts, not because of the physical strain but because her derrière was mere feet away from him. He shook his head. Cleaned sweat from his brow.

Rafaela, her face flushed and hair undone, followed the ball’s trajectory with her chin. When she sprang to block Isabel’s backhand, she missed.

“Match point!" Dio screamed.

The audience clapped half-heartedly.

Henrique found Isabel’s gaze. A luminous smile lit her face, her green eyes flashing. Henrique felt her smile’s power inside his chest as if she had charged it with electricity. His pulse sped, and he had this strange feeling of elation, making every single atom of his body alive. The cheers of the onlookers mingled with the rapid thud of his heartbeat. In four strides, he demolished the distance between them. He grabbed Isabel by the waist, her small, beribboned waist, and swung her in the air. Her eyes twinkled, and she hollered an unladylike howl.

"We won! We won, Henrique."

She placed sweaty hands over his shoulders, and he lowered her slowly. The crowd hushed. Victory was heady, but Isabel’s smile inebriated him. The pastel gowns and flannel coats vanished, or they were still there, but Henrique had stopped seeing them. He had so much to say. If this was feeling patriotic, why had he not enlisted sooner?

"We won."

He lowered his face, his lips craving her cherry-colored smile.

A throat was cleared, and an outstretched arm intruded on their private celebration. The crowd’s cheers came back in a hush, and with it, Alfonso’s breathless voice.

"Good game," Alfonso said.

Isabel shook herself, and in a dash, her composure was back in place.

Henrique fisted his hands, a breath away from punching the pompous prince. A need to crush Alfonso’s face and then kiss Isabel, claiming her in front of the audience, burst inside him, as primal as hunger, thirst, pain, and desire. The violent thoughts staggered him. What was he doing?

Panting, Henrique stepped back.

This whole patriotism had climbed into his head. He hadn’t come all this way north to despoil his best friend’s sister, his monarch, for Christ’s sake.

After a brief handshake, the prince offered his arm to Isabel. "Are you still up for our outing?"

She hesitated, searching Henrique’s gaze, a shy question hidden in its depths.

"You go ahead. I promised Dio to trounce him at whist."

Hurt flickered in her expression, or he had imagined it. Isabel didn’t spare him a second glance. She smiled at Alfonso, and the prudish princess and the pompous prince walked out of his sight.