But she glanced away, a sad smile on her beautiful lips. "A great musician and a poet. You surprise me with your talents."
Pedro released a pent-up breath. "The verses are not mine. They are Bocage's. The best Portuguese poet after Camões."
"Have you read Camões?" Her long, slender fingers wrapped around his fountain pen. Yesterday, those hands had clung to his neck. How would her explorations feel on his skin? Not agony. Not with Anne.
"Who didn't? When I was eight, I wanted to be his Vasco da Gama. Embark on the Odysseus-like adventure to find a route to the Indies. I knew several stanzas by heart. And when I was fifteen..." Pedro closed his eyes, remembering the old tutor, a bohemian poet with a fuzzy white mustache and ruddy nose, reciting the rousing lines, teaching him their hidden meaning.
"When you were fifteen?"
Pedro shrugged. "The Lusiad's patriotism inspired me. I foolishly believed I could help the country regain its past glories."
"I don't think patriots are foolish."
"You wouldn't." Too many years had passed since he had dreamed those glory-filled dreams. How different from the plans he had pursued. His political games, as Cris called them. Pedro cleared his throat. "I thought proper ladies were taught Camões in the schoolroom."
"Not English ones. Griffin banished Portuguese authors. You know how he was, at least before Julia."
Pedro could not say he did, and turned from her lest she saw the lie on his face. For the first time, her brother's name didn't make his gut clench in hate. What would she do if she discovered the truth of his past with Maxwell?
"What’s wrong? You can tell me. We are friends, remember?"
He wondered if friends lied to each other. "More friendship rules? This wasn't on your list."
She gave him a mock scowl that wouldn't scare a toddler. "Rules? I meant those as general guidelines. You don't seriously believe there are rules to being friends."
"English love their rules."
She raised her brows, a mischievous grin on her lips. "You are awfully talkative today. If you want me to decipher this, you better hush."
Pedro looked heavenward, feigning exasperation. Waves pummeled the hull, spraying the glass. He breathed in the brine, the chill helping to keep sleep at bay. A trio of cormorants flew east, to shore. Pedro searched the sky. Cirrus clouds raced across his line of vision, white strips up high, their feathery tails flickering. As if to confirm the changing weather, the bow dipped in the lull after a four-foot wave, and the hull groaned.
Anne ignored the lurch and concentrated on her task. She scribbled with the pen. She tapped the edge of the table with the pen. She frowned in great concentration at the pen, but when she bit the pen with her dewy lips, Pedro wanted to break the pen in two.
"How much longer will you take?" Pedro asked, his voice gruff.
"Not long."
Grunting, he stretched on the couch. The knife wound protested the position, and he shifted. Anne hummed theRosas Floresmelody. Her voice made his eyelids close. The clock ticked away the minutes, then the hour.
"Pedro?"
He blinked awake, rising with a start.
She stood beside the chaise, a sheet of paper in her hand. "Oh, you were resting. I'm sorry. Here it is, but I confess, the content—"
"What?" He took the piece from her, unable to register the words' meaning. "You succeeded?"
He had spent several hours last night staring at the telegraph, comparing it to each code key he had, as Cris had this morning. Both had failed, while Anne had done the impossible.
"Why, yes. You thought—?"
Pedro didn't allow her to finish. Heart speeding, he grabbed her waist and lifted her high.
She laughed, the sound slightly out of breath. "Don't you want to hear the message?"
He lowered her slowly, her body brushing against his, and she blinked several times, her eyelashes fluttering.
He grinned. "Your wit astounds me."
