Grabbing his rifle, Pedro strode outside, followed by Fernando and Beira.
The mist-shrouded night had turned into a battlefield. A shell exploded the camp's oven, showering debris over Fernando.
Ears ringing, Pedro pulled his aide-de-camp to his feet. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm all right, sir." His fair skin had brown smudges, and his eyes were wider than a cannonball. He shook the letter, cleaning the paper. "Now I won't need to blot the ink with sand."
One had to admire his grit.
Beira's face was whiter than the powder he used over his receding hair. "You should stay out of the Chikunda’s way. You know what they want."
Of course, Pedro did. They wanted slaves.
Ignoring Beira's outburst, Pedro flung the bugle at his aide-de-camp. "Assemble the men."
Fernando blew on the instrument, his cheeks hollowing out. Most of the soldiers had already left their tents and, under the battle call, deployed into a single column parallel to the encampment.
"Almoster, think before you act," Beira whispered grimly, a hint of desperation making his voice sound like a brass flute. "Your recklessness is legion, but you have a royal duke serving under your command. All officers in your regiment are sons of peers of the realm."
Nice of Beira to remember their band of aristocratic misfits. Each had been sent here to learn a lesson. Henrique's father thought his son lacked patriotism, and the cure would be to fight for the country's colonies. According to Gabriel's father, the service would force him to forget architecture and make him a brilliant soldier. Fernando, fourth in line to the throne of Portugal, would benefit from a shock of reality, while Santiago needed to curb his wildness.
Pedro clasped Fernando's shoulder. "Are you afraid of the Chikunda?"
The boy lowered the horn and grinned. "They file their teeth into sharp points and kill elephants barehanded, but to bullets, all men are equal."
Pedro chuckled and turned to Beira. "See, you worry for naught. Now, if you excuse us, we have a more binding commitment." Pedro grabbed his Dreyze rifle and attached the bayonet.
Gunshots got louder, and women's screams rose above the explosions. The bastards had reached the villagers under Pedro's protection. Locking his jaw, Pedro advanced toward his soldiers. If they could concentrate the fire over the enemy's left flank, cutting their retreat line, the Chikunda would be scared into surrender.
"Stop!" Beira laid a manicured hand over Pedro's uniform. "Your father is ready to negotiate your return to Lisbon."
What for? The woman Pedro loved had married. Julia was lost to him forever.
Pedro yanked his arm from Beira's touch. "You better seek shelter."
"The offer includes a commission in the North Army. You can leave this malaria-ridden hellhole. You will be a brigade general in the corps supporting our allies in France. Can you imagine it? Fighting against honorable soldiers instead of these savages?"
Pedro shut his eyes, his hand twisting the bayonet until there would be no hope of removing it. Damn his father and his cruel manipulations. Why flaunt Pedro's dream, his life goal, after cruelly denying it last year? Since when was he blind to the Duke of Titano's lessons? Father's offer was a carrot to tempt Pedro from his obligations and crush what he called Pedro's useless morals.
The gunfire stopped, the lull eerily like the silence before a storm. Fernando lowered the trumpet. Their gazes met. They had talked about dreams. Fernando wanted to experience the infinite passion of his heroes, Dom Pedro and Inês de Castro, Portugal's most haunting love story. The villagers under Pedro's protection had dreams, too. Whatever those were, Pedro could bet his warhorse none included a one-way trip in a rat-infested hull.
Understanding flicked in Fernando's eyes—their dreams would have to wait.
Nodding at the aide-de-camp, Pedro shouted orders to the rank and file.
"What should I say to your father?" Beira shrieked.
"Tell him the Count of Almoster places this malaria-ridden hellhole's interests above the duke’s."
Chapter 1
Douro Valley, Quinta do Vesuvio, May 1872
Annewelcomedthesunraysfiltering through her umbrella pine tree. It was one of those days in Portugal when the brilliance of the sky led you to believe it would be quite hot, but the shade still carried a cold bite. Her unwilling pupil had made no progress, even after changing his setting from the nursery to the garden. Lying on his tummy, Tony made faces at his notebook, some exasperated, some downright murderous.
"Greek isn't all that bad," Anne said, accommodating her pug in a cradle formed by the pine's root. Sunlight poured there, and James loved the warmth. The dog had come with her to Portugal, her only comfort on the shivering nights aboard the clipper, and had been her faithful companion ever since. The old boy had more than earned his rest.
Tony rolled his eyes and dropped his head on the notebook, hiding the white pages under his chestnut mane.
