Maxwell's sister.
Panting, Pedro splayed his hands over the window's priceless stained glass. It hid all the light, all the air. He needed air. With one swift move, he wrenched a candelabra off a nearby table and hurled it. The glass shattered, raining down colorful shards over the bridge, and light attacked the hall. Pedro took great gulps of air, the wind lashing out at his face.
Though the panel was no more, the Misarella remained. Pedro stared at the diabolic rocks. Instead of security, it brought restriction. Fate had turned again, chaining Pedro in a play not of his making.
Maxwell's sister.
A laugh drained out of his chest, and he pressed his temples. His father would plan the most delectable revenge. Having his enemy's sibling under his roof. Pedro could still hear her laughter—a chiming of heavenly bells. The Englishman's fear had unfolded, had it not? How would Maxwell enjoy losing a loved one?
What was he thinking? That girl, that... that wingless angel sleeping on his bed, was Maxwell's sister. It could not be true.
Pedro rubbed his breastbone, the denial playing over and over inside his head. Why must the poacher have anything to do with her? Was it not enough to steal Julia and his promise of peace, and now this... a claim on an angel Pedro had discovered for himself?
Pedro forced his breathing under control and pushed away from the broken window. No. His upset had nothing to do with the girl. The surprise had tainted his judgment. If he was angry, it had to do with Ulrich. Yes. Maxwell had robbed him of his revenge. If it weren't for her, he would have ended Ulrich.
No matter. Pedro would do it now. He had lost enough time playing the girl's nursemaid. If Ulrich had left any trail, Pedro would find him and finish what the bullfighter had started ten years ago in Mozambique.
A thump sounded inside his bedroom, followed by barking. What had she done?
Pedro opened the door. The bed was empty. His pulse sped up, and he strode inside the room. She lay on the floor, her hair tangled around her face and arms.
Pedro exhaled and picked up her limp body. "You chose the wrong place to fall, little angel."
She opened her eyelids, her gaze clouded, disturbed, but when she saw him, she relaxed as if reassured by his heartbeats. How could Maxwell leave her to roam the countryside? Pedro would never allow his woman to be hurt.
Carefully, he brushed the hair from her face, exposing the swell on her forehead. Rage coursed through his veins. Her slight weight, her fair coloring, the transparency of her skin... she was as delicate as light.
Pedro lowered her to his bed. She protested, but he covered her with the counterpane. "I will eliminate those who meant you harm," he vowed.
She turned to her side, her hands folded near her chest, and her eyes fluttered shut. "Then you will take me to my family. I know you will." The last words came out as a sleepy murmur.
Pedro watched her breathing turn even. The bed curtains rippled, and light danced on her cheek, a shine and diamond above her beauty mark, and another near her lips, guarding her against shadows. Sleep had claimed her when he tucked a strand of hair under her perfect ear.
"I wouldn’t be so sure."
Pedro sharpened his blade, the strop's up and down swipes filling the study with rhythmic sounds. A knock on the door brought in Jair, his clothes dusted from the road to Salgueiro.
Pedro stood and sheathed the saber. "What did you uncover?"
The retired soldier cleaned perspiration from his brow. "The royal guard surrounds the quinta."
A neighbor must have heard the shooting and contacted the authorities. "Saddle Erebus. I will leave to meet them."
As if Gabriel's regiment could arrest Ulrich. More likely, they would bungle the tracks. No matter. Pedro would find the slave trader even if he had to climb the Picos de Europa. He collected cartridges for his rifle and moved to the door.
"On my way back, I bought this." Jair cut Pedro's exit and extended his arm, exposing a crumpled newspaper.
"That will be all," Pedro said and scanned the headlines of Journal do Comércio.
Attempt on the king's life. The Count of Almoster is the prime suspect.
Pedro sat behind his desk and stared at the sheet until the black typography bled together in the corners, but his mind couldn't absorb the meaning of the words.
The door opened and closed. Pedro didn't acknowledge the newcomer.
"You look like hell. What is it?" Cris grabbed the newspaper and gasped.
Pedro dropped his head on the chair's back and shut his eyes. "Read it."
