Gabriel chuckled. "None. I guess she will miss me. I will miss her. But she is different. She—"
"Doesn't give a damn?"
"I wouldn't put it in so many words." When he had met her to say goodbye, Manuela had embraced him and cried. She had also told him Father had spoken to her. He had apologized for his indifference and asked for a chance to be a better father. Gabriel knew Fontes wouldn’t forgive him, but if his lie meant Manu would have a loving parent, then good had come from his sins. "The girl will land on her feet."
"That's what happened to Pedro, too. There were times I despaired of ever seeing him recovered…"
The captain approached, his cap beneath his armpit, and offered a wooden salute. "All is ready."
He bowed and left.
"Where to?"
The question hung between them. Gabriel had made few decisions in his life, and most of them had pertained to his lie. The ability to make any choice he desired, even the most outlandish, filled him with breathtaking freedom and a yawning emptiness. The sensation of skipping obligations. Guilt, his oldest friend, lifted an accusing finger at him, but Gabriel ignored it. He had resigned his post, and his father had shunned him. He had no duties left.
Gabriel took a long, brine-soaked breath. "Where does one go to find himself?"
Cris laughed, his green eyes crinkling at the corners, and pointed to the glittering horizon. "I know fig about finding oneself. If you ask me of a place to lose oneself… I can think of none better than Ilhéus."
Gabriel nodded. "Ilhéus it is."
Chapter 50
Seven days later, Quinta do Vesuvio
Anneplacedafloweratop James’s resting place. He had loved the shade of her umbrella pine. A goodbye waited inside her chest, but she could not force herself to say the words. How could she sail without him? Several days in a cabin without his quiet company?
The first fall gales had started, shaking the trees lining the riverbank. The wind warbled the willows; the wind pestered their branches; the wind hassled the tiny leaves—they shook vibrantly, they shook vigorously, shook valiantly, until the wind shook them free.
"I'm late." Pedro's husky voice sounded behind her.
Anne stilled, every single part of her awakening. She shut her eyes and splayed her hands on the ground, hoping the roots could moor her, that her mind would stop playing tricks on her.
Pedro crouched by her side and placed an object atop James’s grave. “I promised him a medal for taking care of you, but I didn’t arrive in time.”
Anne picked up the enameled piece and held it in her hand, tracing the dragon inside. A single tear left the corner of her eye.
"Would you look at me?"
Anne rose and brushed dirt from her hands. "No. It was… James was tired. The weather in London is cold this time of year, and he much preferred Portugal's sun."
"I won't allow you to go."
For a second, she imagined herself back under his roof, chafing and thrilled at his highhandedness, but she didn't obey him anymore. Anne inhaled the brisk air and, hardening her resolve, faced him.
A shaft of sun found its way to him, and he soaked up all the light. Pedro was handsome in black or gray, but he looked dazzling in military uniform. A blue sash emphasized his lean waist, and a ceremonial sword rode low over his hip. Several medals decorated the chest she had explored with her fingertips, golden epaulets crowned the shoulders that had supported her, and his face…
For once, she dared to say his face was transparent.
Surprise and adoration played in his changeable eyes as they swept over her. Then his jaw locked, hurt and anger replacing the joy.
Why had he come? Did he want her to be his mistress? She prayed not. Her resolve couldn't stand such a direct hit. Only oceans and miles could keep her from him. If she was to be the brave, strong woman she hoped to be, she could not ruin his redemption.
Anne glanced at the sunlight pooling in the grass between them. "It's not your choice to make."
He crossed his arms above his chest. "You left me."
Anne lifted her palms. "Pedro, I think—"
