31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

"Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter."Homer, The IliadWhile Pedro vanished through the window to secure a carriage and fresh

horses for their escape, Henrique armed himself with a cane, two pistols, and a saber.

Dio grimaced. "Next time you set up on a leisure trip, remind me to go the other way."

"The weapons are a last resource—in which case, I will use them. You are not to fire a gun even if an army charges us, do you understand?"

Dio nodded, his fair skin turning green.

Henrique eyed his microscopes and chemical bottles. His research would have to stay behind. The ether caught his attention. Before he could change his mind, he placed it inside his coat.

"My father would choke on his diplomatic medals. Steal the princess? What if Isabel resists?"

A flush rose over Henrique’s face, and he cleared his throat. "Heroes have no such moral qualms. In Hercules’ times, depending on the situation, any seafarer became a pirate or freebooter."

"When I called this"—Dio circled his finger, encompassing the room or the whole of Spain—"the hero’s quest, I should have expected you would make me rue it."

Henrique grinned. "Too late."

"They will persecute us. These loyalists are modern-day inquisitors."

"When they realize the princess is absent, we will have crossed the border to Portugal."

Dio shook his head. "They must have a dungeon waiting. What if he peels the skin off his prisoners?"

Henrique grabbed Dio’s shoulders and shook. "This is your chance to enter the hall of heroes. Side by side with Perseus, Atalanta, Hercules, and Achilles. Rise, Diomedes da Veiga, and claim your glory."

Dio didn’t look convinced. Henrique could not blame him. Haranguing wasn’t among his many skills. With a nod and then another, Dio followed Henrique out of the room.

Stealthily, powered by the righteousness of righting a wrong and accepting the weight of responsibility as if it had never found worthier shoulders, they set to the main house through gardens painted by the first blush of dawn. The only thing missing to complete his quest was his royal package. He counted the gallery windows until he found the one behind Goya’s painting. When he flung his leg above the windowsill, Dio tapped his shoulder.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Now is not the time for doubt. Either you are with me, or you are not."

"Move your ass faster then. The Guardia is coming."

They entered the darkened corridor. A sharp inhale revealed the presence of a single guard. Henrique sighed, relieved the minion was alone. Before Henrique spouted an excuse, Dio clobbered the guard in the head.

"I’ve told you, no weapons," Henrique said as he sidestepped the fallen body to reach Isabel’s door.

"Ouch." Dio shook his fist. "I didn’t know my hands counted as weapons."

Henrique listened to the room’s noises. Scurrying inside pointed to nervous preparations. Thank God they were not too late.

The loud, deaf voice of Lady Montijo reached them.

Henrique eyed his friend. "This is your turn."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Yes, you do."

Dio frowned, his face bleached of color. "What if Isabel knows?

"I thought she was like a little sister to you."

"A little sister with some twisted notions about duty. What if she decided Alfonso would be a better king than her brother?"

Had she? Henrique paused. He shook his head. His Isa? No matter. Grimacing, he pointed resolutely to the closed door. "We must do this for Portugal."

"Damn it, Henrique. When I spoke of sacrifice, I meant it poetically. After this, I will shun all my scientific friends. What a literal, life-threatening lot."

"I am your only scientific friend, and no, the disciples of Venus do not count as scientific people."

"You will owe me forever." Dio exhaled resignedly and knocked.

Lady Montijo answered after the fourth knock. Her little beady eyes lit up. "My Adonis at last."

"My… My, er… Aphrodite, the stars are shining brightly, and I was wondering if you would like to see them from the balcony, er… The full moon compels us…."

She waved her hand and scoffed. "Save the poetry for the chicks. I have better stars to show you in my bedroom." After interlacing her arm with his, she pulled him away from Isabel’s door and into the unlit corridor.

Dio glanced at Henrique, his expression murderous. Henrique replied with a soundless chuckle and a mouthed thank you.

When the couple left, Henrique emerged from the drapery’s shadows and proceeded to Isabel’s room.

Isabel’s dulcet voice came from inside. "Lady Montijo? Auntie?"

The little endearment set his nerves on edge. Whatever her part in this, Isabel was not a hostage.

Henrique entered. A flickering gas lamp illuminated her pristine bedgown, and an embroidery frame dangled from her hand.

Her eyes danced to his feet and back as if distrusting her senses. Then her pupils widened, shock bleaching her face. "Why are you here?"

All his logical replies failed him, and as footsteps sounded behind them, he did the unthinkable. Doused the Princess of Portugal with ether.

When he stepped out of the room, a limp Isabel in his arms, steel poked his ribs.

Henrique halted, cold sweat dripping down his temples.

"Are you toppling the monarchy, Citizen Henrique?"

Henrique exhaled, closing his eyes. It was only Sophie, thank God.

He hesitated, searching his mind for what to say to a Republican maid while spiriting away her mistress. He settled for the truth. "I’m trying to save it. Isabel is at risk."

She removed the knife and sheathed it somewhere in her apron. "I’m coming with you.”

"Did you become a monarchist then?

"No." Reverently, Sophie touched Isabel’s cheek. "But she will always be my queen."

She had become his queen as well. So, who was he to judge? "Fair enough."

When Sophie stepped away from him, he noticed she had packed a suitcase and thanked her foresight. Together, they traversed the palace’s dimly lit rooms. Sophie’s nervous steps seemed too loud. Heart speeding, muscles straining, Henrique plodded on. For once, he was grateful for the resilience gained in the army.

When they arrived at Canastra’s art gallery, he halted. The bastard’s bedchamber was straight ahead. Henrique should barge in and show the treacherous duke where he could shove his plans. Henrique shook his head. He would jeopardize their escape if he stumbled anywhere near Canastra or Alfonso. Their chances were thin, even without him allowing his temper to interfere. Thwarting Canastra would have to be enough vengeance for now.

Sophie opened a glass panel leading to the garden. Dawn had colored the sky, the sea sparkling beyond the bluff. When he spotted the coach and four grey horses awaiting in the secret spot by Eros’ statue, he almost dropped Isabel, so strong was his relief.

Dio held a horse by the bridle. He lifted a brow when he saw Isabel in Henrique’s arms, but Henrique’s expression made him refrain from ill-timed humor.

"So soon? How did you escape the Dragon?"

"I did like Odysseus with the Cyclops—"

"Please don’t tell me you poked the lady’s eyes—"

"Of course not. I snuffed the candles and locked her in her room. She is probably still looking for me inside."

Pedro opened the coach’s door.

Henrique settled Isabel inside, propelling her head on the leather squabs. Breathing heavily, he rolled his shoulders, releasing accumulated tension.

Pedro wiped the blood from his gloves in a kerchief. "I will take her to the yacht. She can stay with Anne while I—"

"Isabel goes to Braganza with me. That is non-negotiable." Henrique’s voice came out harsher than intended, and he exhaled. "My estate is just across the border. Close enough she won’t be in the open for long, and Canastra won’t dare cross into Portuguese territory."

Pedro narrowed his eyes, and for a second, Henrique thought he would object. But then he nodded. "Keep her safe until you hear from me."

Dante, Pedro’s condottiere, shook a fresh jacket, and Pedro exchanged it for his blood-spattered one.

Henrique frowned. The man had throttled a few or many of Canastra’s men to secure a carriage. While still in Spain, they risked capture, and Pedro worried about his damn clothes? "I never knew you to be fastidious."

"Anne is distressed already. I won’t return to her covered in blood. Even if it isn’t mine."

"What will you do now?"

"Alert the border garrisons. Prepare for war."

Henrique leaned against the carriage. "Let me guess, Anne hates Spanish paella?

"Anne hates no one." He looked up from his gloves, and his light brown eyes flashed. "I have no such scruples."

Pedro vaulted atop his stallion without bothering with the stirrups. The infamous black horse reared, hoofs pounding an invisible foe twice, and then they were off.

Henrique opened the carriage door for Sophie and helped her inside.

When Isabel’s suitcase was settled as well, he turned to Dio. "Are you coming?

Dio’s expression was somber, as if the gravity of the situation had at last sunk into his shoulders. "I’m off to Lisbon. My father could use a head start to this diplomatic hecatomb. That, and I don’t want to be around when Isabel wakes up."

Henrique held the sleeping princess along hurried postilions, rocky valleys, and perilous mountain passes. When the coach crossed the border from Spain to Portugal, Henrique lowered his back to the bench, and a huge breath escaped his lungs. Canastra and his militia would not dare persecute them here. They were safe. Outside, the scenery changed as the Extremadura scorched plains gave way to Portugal’s cultivated fields. Sophie dozed.

Isabel was heavy and warm, draped over his chest. Tawny freckles decorated her nose. He followed their intricate design like an astronomer watching the night sky until he found a constellation. He would call it Mistral, in honor of the Mediterranean wind. Nothing was ever the same after it passed with its cool, elegant breeze.

What would it take to have her sleep in his arms every day? He wouldn’t know, would he? Not before, when she had been engaged to another, and not after a kidnap. One thing he knew for sure—he might get used to it, but he would always be awed by it.

The coach gobbled the distance with inexorable speed. A light drizzle clung to the window’s glass as they crossed the River Tua and entered Braganza’s land.

Isabel murmured in her sleep and turned, her cheek pressing too close to his heart. He propped her head on his coat and shifted away from her.

Through the bumpy miles, his liquor-rich, impulsive decision to abscond with a royal princess had filled him with a surge of righteous power. It was not only the right thing to do but the only one. At least in hindsight, he would make his father proud. Henrique would, after all, save the country’s independence. But now, as the sun set beyond the hills he had known all his life, the excitement gave way to uneasiness. Under the shadows of his ancestral home, he could feel the accusing eyes of Saint Anthony from his perch atop the gate.

Liar, the Saint said. You did it for her.

To stump another bout of self-recrimination, he inhaled Braganza’s wet schist scent as if it were Cuban tobacco, savoring all its nuances.

The hunchback porter, a relic from his father’s time, jogged close and inspected the carriage’s occupants. When he saw Henrique, he grinned. The old servant had not expected to see Henrique again, he said, pulling his hat. Henrique didn’t expect to come back either.

The porter opened the rusty gate, as well as a flood of memories.

Henrique was five, sword fighting with his father and a short-trousered Luis, both boys listening to the sweeping stories about the castle’s past. How the magnificent eye-sore was a vital point of defense and had changed hands from Portugal to Spain over the years until his eighteenth-century forebearers won the castle after repelling the Spanish invasion.

He was seventeen and leaving against his will for Mozambique to fight a war he neither understood nor cared about but went to anyway. How could he not? To show a lack of love for one’s country was tantamount to heresy in the Penafiel line.

He was twenty-three, watching his father being buried without being able to say goodbye. He could have turned into a hater then, but Henrique never figured out the logic of hatred. He had always been a lover.

Henrique entered the castle, Isabel in his arms. She had yet to stir during the forty-mile carriage ride. He suspected exhaustion caused her heavy slumber. The wind whispered through the arrow slits. For a medieval jumble of rocks, the castle’s acoustics could have made Mozart proud.

Weapons and crests decorated the walls. His ancestors’ suits of armor watched his progress stoically. If the old Penafiel knights dared to mock his homecoming, Henrique would meld their scraps into spoons and fire pokers.

"Burglars! I told Mario to lock the front gates. I will tell the new owner to sack him. See if I don’t."

Henrique groaned. Antonia, the housekeeper, marched near, her bundle of keys jingling from her waist.

"What is the meaning of this?" Her little gasp of recognition could only mean trouble. "Master Henrique." For a second, her black eyes softened, but only just. "Carrying women to the house? Have you no respect for your father’s memory?"

Henrique sighed. "Do you love your country, Tonia?"

"Is this one of your pranks? Like when you brought a toad from the marsh and told me it was a prince, and I had to bathe the creature?"

Tiredly, Henrique related their adventure.

Fervent patriot that she was, she closed her gaping mouth with a loud pop and stood to attention. "Where will you accommodate her?"

"At the tower."

"The Princess Tower? But it’s a—"

"I know what it is. It’s also the safest place in the castle." It would keep strangers out and a familiar princess inside.

She nodded. "I will make the arrangements." After a crisp salute, she beat a retreat, her whistle sounding on the stone corridors as she assembled a brigade of servants.

As he carried Isabel up the hundred-twelve steps, he felt larger, like one of his medieval ancestors.

He crossed the threshold with Isabel in his arms and stopped, blinking repeatedly. The circular tower had been transformed.

"What happened here?" The room used to be a cloister, all naked rocks, and no comfort.

A faint blush colored Antonia’s cheeks. "The Italian count said you allowed improvements."

Isabel would have his head at such improvements. Shrugging, too tired to take in the details of the extravagant decoration, Henrique lowered her atop the gaudy four-poster bed. She curled on her side, a sigh on her tempting lips.

There. He had done it. He had completed a hero’s quest and came back with the prize. His conscience whispered that his labors were not finished, that this was him trying to vanquish the Hydra of Lerna. Each time he cut a head, he only made the problem worse.

He should leave. He needed to think.

Isabel moaned, her eyes moving under her purplish lids. Before he checked his actions, he took a step toward her and then another. Before he could control himself, he adjusted the pillow so she would be more comfortable and pulled in the quilt above her so she would not catch cold.

Isa, Isa... What have we done?

She felt fragile and totally at his mercy. His heart did a double measure and twisted with the force of the tenderness spreading to his chest. She was only flesh and tendons and bone and skin, yet how could she be so necessary to his constitution?

My Isabel. My prize.

A wave of exhaustion swept through him, and he eyed the mile-long mattress, a yawn escaping his mouth. Well, when in Rome...

A gentleman would leave and brave the stairs to his own room. She already thought him a sinvergüenza… And she hated when he proved her wrong.

He locked the door. After removing his shoes and coat, he climbed atop the bed. Her scent pulled him closer. He folded himself behind her. She gave a content sigh, and he fell asleep.