Pedro schooled his expression. "Who?"
"Enough with your games. We recovered her carriage from your property. Her family is frantic. If you act with chivalry and release her to my care, I will take your explanation to the king."
Pedro fisted his hands by his side. The girl could prove his innocence, and for that, Ulrich would not let her live. Pedro had vowed to protect her, and he kept his vows. "Since when does the king care for a commoner?"
"The girl may not descend from royalty like your exalted ancestry, but the king granted her brother a title. Griffin Maxwell is Baron of Boa Vista now."
Cris coughed to stifle his obvious shock and gave Pedro a charged look. He could well imagine what went on in his brother's head, wondering if Pedro meant to take his revenge on Maxwell's sister.
Gabriel awaited an answer, a hint of desperation furrowing his brow. "Christ, Pedro, she is an honest, sweet girl and—"
Pedro stilled, his muscles tensing. "Have you met her?"
Gabriel's face flushed, and he averted his gaze. Silence stretched. Gabriel splayed his hands on the scarred table, forehead damp with sweat, no doubt cursing himself for his outburst.
Gabriel would not be so overwrought if she were a mere acquaintance. What kind of relationship existed between them? Pedro would send the straight arrow to find pebbles in the riverbed. Keep to the plan, dammit. He should let Gabriel take her. What was it to him if her life was at risk? If Maxwell had proved totally inept at protecting her? Except for the hatred he felt for her brother, he had no claim to the angel sleeping on his bed. "When Ulrich invaded, she was there with me."
Gabriel advanced on him, his eyes wild. "You would use her as an alibi, Pedro? I should expect no less. You proved how little you value others in Mozambique."
Vision hazy, Pedro pinned him to the wall. Gabriel gulped, his face blanching.
"You pissed yourself after Ulrich ordered the Chikunda to point their carbines at us." Pedro slammed Gabriel's shoulders into the wall. "When I lowered my rifle, you were the first to sigh in relief. I bet you cried yourself to sleep that night."
Light flashed to the right. The stocky soldier had unsheathed a dagger.
To avoid bloodshed, Pedro lowered the straight arrow. As soon as his feet touched the ground, Gabriel pushed Pedro away to pacify his subordinate.
"You’ve overextended your welcome. If you cross the Misarella, I will pierce your shiny coat with lead."
He flicked his hand to Cris, and his brother escorted both men outside.
Pedro didn't wait for his brother to return and dashed over the spiraling steps leading to the watchtower. If he was to mount their defense, he needed to act fast.
Cris’s panting breaths sounded behind him. "She is Maxwell's sister?"
Pedro didn't stop for his brother's inquisition. "Not now."
"This is madness. You cannot use the girl as an alibi. If you expose her... being found in your house, alone, she will be ruined."
Pedro flinched. He expected Gabriel to think the worst of him, but his own brother? "You heard Gabriel. The king's bodyguard, the one who accused me, is in Aveiro. If we get to him, we can get to Ulrich. We leave within the hour to the yacht. Prepare to sail. We can reach Barca D’Alva tomorrow and Aveiro in three days."
Cris grabbed his arm. "And the girl?"
Pedro stared at his brother's arm until he dropped it. “She does not concern you.”
"I'll do what you say. For now." Cris saluted him mockingly and descended to the courtyard.
Pedro ignored his brother's outburst and climbed the rest of the steps. The tower's roof had been prepared for a long defense, ammunition and food safely stored, crenelation free of anything that could hamper the view. Below, framed by the tower's dented battlements, Gabriel had reached the river's opposite side, his head turning to gaze at the tower's windows.
"They are preparing to cross, sir." Jair handed him a binocular.
Pedro pointed the lenses at the Geira Mountains. Beyond the raging river, the soldiers armed themselves, their red uniforms like smears of blood on the wild countryside.
Gabriel stationed the men at the crest, where a patch of grass gave way to the canyon, only four hundred feet from Pedro's tower. Gabriel must have calculated a safe distance with the Dreyze's rifle range in mind, the standard issue of the Portuguese army.
Pedro approached the crenelation, and Jair handed him his Chassepot rifle. Handling the familiar weight, Pedro cocked the action and opened the bolt. The firing pin was shining clean, and he inserted the paper cartridge. Even though the new rifle could fire at least twenty times without cleaning the barrel, Jair had assembled the tools for cleanup, and they kept several rolled cartridges at hand.
Pedro settled the gun over his shoulder. The French weapon was a vast improvement over the Dreyze, and what his cousin didn't know was that the range reached a thousand feet. He closed his left eye and followed Gabriel, fingers caressing the trigger. A gentle squeeze and Gabriel wouldn't arrest him or pursue his angel. After the three seconds needed to recharge, Pedro could shoot the second in command. The rest would scatter like hens.
