Pedro took a swig from his bottle and stepped out of his hiding place, making no pretense of being silent. The full moon swept over his black clothes, casting shadows over the schist soil.
A wolf howled in the distance. Twigs snapped to his left. Pedro's lips tugged up in a feral grin. He didn't have to wait long. The Englishman strode into the clearing, blocking the view of the house. Pedro didn't bother reaching for his pistol.
"Stop hovering outside Vesuvio like a damn robber." Maxwell crossed his arms above his chest. By the low tone of his voice, he didn't want to alert the others of Pedro's presence.
Pedro sneered. "Robber? How ironic. Did you forget who did the theft?"
"Instead of haunting my property, why don't you take better care of yours? Your vineyards are the largest in the region after Vesuvio. You keep the grapevines killed by phylloxera. If you don't plan on rebuilding them, sell Salgueiro to me."
The vines would have to rot twice over in hell before Pedro allowed the Englishman to own anything else fated to be his.
"You lost no time filling her with your brat, did you?" Pedro said, his words dripping with disgust.
Maxwell caught Pedro's lapel, his metallic eyes flashing with hatred. Pedro tensed, his hands craving the feel of the Englishman's windpipe. He wouldn't boast if he could no longer speak.
Laughter chimed in the breeze. It wasn't Julia's throaty laughter, but sugary and heavenly. Startled at first, as if she had been tickled out of it, then rolling out in nuances and waves. Her melody lifted the hairs in Pedro's arms and vibrated a chord in his chest.
Pedro shoved the Englishman out of his way and cocked his head to the side, tracking the women as they climbed the steps to the front door. Julia entered the house first. The other paused with her hand on the doorknob. The torchlight crowned her with an aura of light but hid her silhouette. Her willowy shadow played over the whitewashed facade. Pedro strained his eyes to no use. Her face was veiled from him, but he imagined he wasn't invisible to her, even surrounded by darkness.
"A house party? And you didn't invite your neighbor? Who is she?"
"Stay away from my family," the Englishman said between gritted teeth. Maxwell couldn’t hide his reaction. His fear was tangible—the fear of a man with too much to lose.
Pedro chuckled, savoring the upper hand. "You think you can avoid an introduction? I might impose on your household thedroit du seigneur—"
"Bastard! Remove your aristocratic ass from Vesuvio, or I will—"
"Do what?" Pedro invaded his personal space, staring him down.
The women had long since entered the house. It was just Pedro and the Englishman under the shadows of Vesuvio's palm trees. Pedro realized why he had come. Last summer, he had punched Maxwell's eye when he should've crumbled his entire face. There was always time to right a wrong. Pedro dumped the bottle and fisted his hand.
Before Pedro could connect the punch, Cris flung an arm around him, holding him back. "You two organized an impromptu dance here, and no one thought to invite me? Shame on both of you."
Pedro tensed to push his meddling brother from his fight when the front door opened.
"Griffin, is something the matter?" Julia exited the house. She carried a candelabra, and the light flicked over her worried features.
Pedro sobered. The port and the will to fight cleared from his head, leaving numbness in its wake. He shouldn't have come to the Douro. He shouldn't have come to Vesuvio.
Pedro jerked away from Cris's hold and vanished back into the shadows.
"There you are. After your performance at Vesuvio, I was prepared to look for you in the gutter. Care to explain?"
Pedro blinked awake. The ballroom wavered once and came into focus. With the curtains drawn, the sun attacked his eyelids. The duke's life-sized portrait creaked open, and Cris emerged from the hidden passage.
Pedro shut his eyes. "Are we under attack?"
"Of course not."
"Then use the damn door."
Cris shrugged and closed the painting. "I'm all for a dramatic entrance."
His boots thumped on the marble, resonating in Pedro's skull.
Pedro applied pressure over his temple, willing the headache to recede. "I'm not in the mood today."
"The steward asked me when you will allow him to rebuild Salgueiro's vineyards. He said it should start soon, or phylloxera will compromise the vintage. He pleaded for the workers who depend on the wine—"
