6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"We men are wretched things." Homer, The IliadIsabel knotted and re-knotted the bows of her nightgown, unable to calm her nerves. Why had Luis saddled her with such a disreputable fellow? An escort should protect her from precisely the kind of threat Viscount Penafiel represented. They had engaged in a tap room argument. In public, no less. What came next? A brawl? Steam built up in her chest, and smoke would certainly escape through her ears if she didn’t vent it. Why could she not control her reactions when he was near? It would be a nuisance being this aggravated for weeks on end.

"AHRG!" Dolly let out a series of mouse-like squeaks and jumped atop the four-poster bed. "A troupe of spider eggs is hatching in the armoire!" She covered her nose with both hands as if afraid they would choose that specific body part for dinner.

Isabel gritted her teeth. It was the libertine’s fault. If he had revealed her identity, they would sleep in the hotel’s best room, not in this dusty, insect-filled closet.

With the help of a letter opener, Isabel scooped the tiny spiders atop an envelope. Careful not to drop them on the faded carpet, she placed them on the flowerbed hanging from her window.

"Are they gone?"

"Yes, you can sleep now."

Dolly bounced on the mattress and pulled the covers atop her head. Isabel settled beside her, already missing her own bedchamber.

A door banged. Muffled voices, raised in anger, breached their corner room. Burrowing in the pillow, Isabel closed her eyes, but the bed wavered as if she still jostled in the carriage.

When sleep came, music invaded her dreams like an uninvited gale. She wore the same low-cut red dress as the woman downstairs and danced, her feet moving against her will. The notes increased their tempo. She wasn’t alone. The viscount pulled her close, his laughing eyes daring her to refuse. A tingling spread to her limbs and gained intensity. She averted her gaze. When she looked up again, the viscount had vanished, replaced by a hulking brute, saliva dripping from his mouth.

A scream brought her swiftly awake. Perspiration dampened her nightgown. The candle had burned out, leaving the room in shadows. Disoriented, she touched the other side of the mattress and sighed with relief when she felt Dolly’s lumpy form.

She found and gulped a glass of water from the bedside table and fell back onto the pillows. What a horrible dream.

Turning on her side, she forced her eyes shut. A crack sounded outside, followed by shouting, an angry male voice, and a woman’s plaintive one.

Isabel shot up in bed. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear against the wall. The strident noise of a hand hitting flesh made her grit her teeth. Her body tensed, her palms closing into fists. Who dared abuse a woman under the same roof as a princess of Portugal? Isabel donned her robe-de-chambre, placed her tiara atop her head, and marched out. In the long corridor, the shouting struck her anew. Slurred voices and a woman’s moans. How could the other guests listen and remain passive?

Yelling for help, Isabel thumped on the doors closest to her room. A negligent silence was all the answer she got.

If a gentleman screamed, help would be swift. But a woman was a man’s property to hold and abuse. Many would think she deserved the rough treatment.

A shriek, loud and filled with pain, congealed Isabel’s spine.

This wasn’t acceptable. Isabel forced her panic to recede. She straightened her dressing gown and strode to the couple’s room. Heart beating in her throat, she knocked.

The shouting ceased. Isabel’s legs barely supported her weight, but she stuffed her chest with all the pride of her ancestors. A Portuguese woman would not be hurt tonight.

The door was flung open.

The awful man from downstairs polluted the threshold. While the room’s shadows concealed his face, they revealed his yellowed eyes. Isabel cringed at his stale breath.

The woman cowered near the bed. Her red dress was ripped in the bodice, and she hugged herself, tears streaming from her downcast eyes.

"What do we have here?" His gaze traveled from Isabel’s ankles to her breasts, and he whistled, spittle forming at the corner of his mouth. "Come inside, precious. There’s room for another."

Isabel didn’t need a man. She could handle this by herself. All she had to do was draw strength from her expression seventy-four, the one she reserved for anarchists, angry taxpayers, and rabid dogs. During emotional confrontations, confidence and authority were the secrets of success. Isabel ignored the drunk’s stare and advanced inside the room.

The woman’s cheek had a red mark, her left eye too swollen to open.

"What’s your name?"

"Carlota"

"We will leave here, Carlota, together." Isabel pressed her hand encouragingly. Supporting the woman’s weight on her shoulders, she dragged them to the exit.

The stranger stepped back to give them space, and relief washed down Isabel’s limbs, turning her legs into rubber. Not now. Later. When they were both out of danger, she could crumble.

The man stirred from his stupor, narrowing his eyes. "The bed’s over there."

"If you interfere with our departure, sir, you will face grave consequences." Isabel’s voice cracked.

His face contorted in a mask of anger. He grabbed Carlota’s arm and shoved her to the floor.

Carlota fell to her knees, sobs racking her torso.

"You stinking animal!" Isabel screamed. "Maldito, desgraçado!” Words that would shame a dockside worker spilled from her mouth until her throat ached.

"I teach you to curse, whore."

The man lifted a club-like arm above her head. Isabel’s breath caught, and she scrunched her shoulders.

His hand descended on her. Before the blow connected, he was flung backward. From the blur of shadows and limbs emerged Viscount Penafiel. Isabel staggered back from the melee. The viscount punched the drunkard’s face. His devil-may-care insolence slipped, exposing a swarthy stranger, his shirtsleeves doing a poor job of concealing menacing muscles.

Panting, she cradled her cheeks to reassure herself she still had all her teeth. The bedroom swam before her vision, and she watched the fight with a sense of detachment. All of a sudden, it seemed to her that Viscount Penafiel understood a thing or two about handling a crisis. His fists were quite... diplomatic. Perhaps she had been too hasty in condemning her brother’s choice.

The viscount’s white teeth flashed against his bronzed skin. "Your Highness, please lead the lady from here. The chat I’m about to have is inappropriate for women."