The boat tossed, and laudanum swam like acid on his empty stomach. "Did you enjoy your afternoon?"
Cris shoved a hand in his hair. "Joy? You worried me to death." He dropped into the chair next to his bedside and exhaled. "How many soldiers today?"
"Does it matter?"
Cris shrugged. "If I'm asking."
Pedro stretched his body atop the velvet counterpane, hissing at the strain on his side. "It was a scouting team. Gabriel must have sent them to inspect the perimeter. I must admit he got better—"
"How many?"
Pedro shut his eyes. "Two."
Cris stopped fumbling with threads and needles, his face scrunched in a frown. "You were distracted."
It wasn't a question. Cris knew him too well. While he had faced the soldiers back at the meadow, rage and concern that they would get her, that they would harm her, had clouded his rational responses. It was guilt, nothing more. He had vowed to protect her.
At least they would cross the river's mouth. Tonight. Offshore. Out of Gabriel's reach.
Cris stared at him, his lips pressed into a firm line, and approached his midriff with the needle. "You taught me a distracted mind during a fight is worse than a dull sword. Fastest way to meet the reaper."
Pedro clenched his teeth when the steel bit into his skin, but the pain was mild. "Would you mourn me, brother? At least you wouldn't lack a shoulder to cry on, judging by the scene I witnessed by the river."
The laudanum spread over his veins, making his heartbeats throb erratically and his vision waver. At the cabin's corner, an oily substance crept up like a black tide. Pedro willed the hallucination away, but it kept coming. He turned his face to the circular hatch spanning most of his bedside. The sickness receded, but the boat's speed made the vineyards outside blur, a metallic green mass flashing as both wind and current propelled them along the Douro.
"Is this why you are being a prick in the arse? I wasn't taking advantage of her or anything. Anne's not for dalliance. We mustn't stray from the plan—find the bodyguard, prove your innocence, and return her to her family." Cris raised his black brows, eyeing him askance. "Exactly as we found her."
Pedro felt him tugging the thread and tying a knot over the first stitch. "You ask the impossible. It is inevitable, her change. The girl lives in a fairy tale, populated by noble people who place others' interests above their own."
"For Christ's sake, she is just a sweet—"
"Don't call her that," Pedro snapped.
"Shit. Don't go there. What happens if you pursue her? Do you think she will enjoy those?" Cris pointed his chin at the commode's drawer.
Pedro didn't flinch and didn't ask how his brother knew about the ropes. Whores talked, and Cris was a gracious listener. "I don't plan to..." The words slurred inside his head. "Forget it."
"Your... er, preferences aren't the only issue. Do you think Anne would welcome your attention if she knew about the past?"
Pedrofisted his hands. If she found out, she would look at him with revulsion. He couldn't allow it. "You won't speak with her about Mozambique, damn it."
Cris’s mouth gaped open. "What? Why would I—Sometimes you say things... It's like you don't really know me. I'm talking about your past with her brother. With Julia."
"Maxwell can't protect her from Ulrich. I did what was necessary to keep her safe."
"Whatever you say."
Pedro gripped his brother's arm, stopping his stitches. "I forbid you to reveal it to her."
Cris turned back to his work, his expression sullen. When he finished, he bandaged the wound with more force than necessary and, with an unintelligible grunt, rose and gathered the medical supplies. "I'll go to our guest."
Pedro shook his head, fighting to open his eyes. The shadows' tide swelled, threatening to drown him. Before the drug made him oblivious, he needed to know the truth. "Do you want her?"
The silence dragged out. Pedro focused on his brother's minute reactions.
"She is not my type."
Cris never lied.
