"What do you want?"
Ulrich sprawled on the chaise. "No need to sweat. A few birds told me you are quite thechiquehere, that Lisbon's gentry loves you. I need a fine bloke to introduce me to high society."
Did Ulrich mean to parade in respectable company? The dandified, naïve Lisbon court wouldn’t survive the strike.
Gabriel gritted his teeth. "And if I refuse?"
"We all have secrets, have we not? I assume Papa Fontes would be displeased to learn yours."
Gabriel could imagine his father's shock if Ulrich appeared at their doorstep, spilling his accusations. Several scenarios had crossed his mind when the summons had arrived this morning, but not this. How could his situation have turned for the worst so quickly?
Hands clenched, Gabriel struggled to fill his lungs. He could deny Ulrich. He certainly should.
He pictured his father's dismay at realizing his own son had lied for the past ten years and, in doing so, had unleashed this viper.
He gazed away from the oily bastard, heart thumping in his ears. Through the window, the Mosteiro dos Jerônimos restorations were underway. The architects and stonemasons no doubt argued if an eroded sculpture was a gargoyle or an ouroboros. What would he give to be among them and far from this?
Gabriel tugged at the collar of his coat. "I expect you'll want to attend the races, an invitation to the Grêmio, and the Havanesa House, of course."
Ulrich shrugged. "If I must. It will bore me to death. Mingling with those gents, pretending to enjoy horse racing and fancy balls... don't you think it goes against our Portuguese blood? We were made for Fado taverns,bordoadas, and bullfighting. Not this foreign shit."
"For when do you plan your grand entrance?"
"Soon. First, I have this thread to knot, and you, a truant count to catch." Grinning, he flung the pelisse over his back.
Gabriel covered his mouth, nodding several times. With a last look, he turned to the exit. Halfway to the door, he halted. "Why Pedro?"
"There is much you don’t know about my past with Almoster. But I can tell you this. I remember the five of you swaggering out of the frigate that ripped you from your mamas and took you to Mozambique ten years ago. Fresh from your military academies, shoulders crowned by diamond studded epaulets, and no stitch of beard in your cheeks. I liked how the reality of that godforsaken place dimmed the brightness of your eyes... but not Pedro Daun. The Count of Almoster. Up on the hill, he thought himself a new Caesar." Ulrich shrugged and smiled apologetically. "I wanted to shove him from up there. Can you blame me?"
Gabriel stared at Ulrich, throat so thick he could not swallow his own saliva, his chest so tight he feared his heart would not have room to keep beating.
Had Gabriel not wished the same?
Chapter 34
PedrocarriedAnnetothe villa, heart pounding faster than a drum boy during his first march. He took the steps to the house two at a time and arrived at his bedroom with his prize atop his arms, only stopping when his knees touched the bed.
Anne smiled, clinging to his neck. "I've never thought it possible to arrive here so fast."
"If you have second thoughts—"
She placed her fingertip on his lips. "I'm told this happens atop the bed. Not hovering above it."
She did not know the myriad places he had imagined doing this to her, but instead of sharing this detail, he lowered her to the mattress. She bounced to a seated position, her cheeks turning the port color he loved.
He must remember her innocence.
Pedro kneeled in front of her. She gazed at him expectantly, vulnerable and enchantress, girl and goddess. She was more than he expected, more than he deserved, but she was his. With a trembling hand, he skimmed the mobile eyebrows that questioned his beliefs, the eyelids that unveiled her gaze, and vowed to earn more of her adoring looks.
She caressed his cheek. "All that matters is the now."
Pedro nodded. He could live in the now. Now his hands brushed pinpricks on her arms, now he breathed the same air as hers, now he slanted his mouth over hers. He stretched the now into a fabric of desire until they were both panting. He tugged the bands of the bathing suit free, revealing the curves of her breasts. Another pull and nothing was concealed from him. Pedro sucked in a breath, awed. He couldn't say Anne was naked. With her skin revealed to the sunset, creaminess made golden by the caressing light, she didn't seem bare. Bare meant lacking, and nude, Anne was complete.
She lowered her eyes for a moment, and Pedro thought she would cover herself, but then she dazzled him with a luminous smile. It was not the conceit of women who knew themselves to be perfect but the absence of malice, of shame. It enchanted him.
She peeked at him from under golden eyelashes. "I want to see you, too."
Pedro took off his shirt and forced himself to stand still. While she was Aphrodite, his body was the product of war, hard-wired muscles covered by scarred skin. Pedro held his breath as she traced the bayonet wound above his shoulder, and the dagger slashes frozen into a spiderweb above his first rib. He knew her intention. She wished to heal him. And then she arrived at those scars. They were faint, as his father had controlled himself before ruining the skin of his heir, but they ran deep.
