"Pretending ignorance doesn't become you. But perhaps it does, only I was too blind to see. To this day, I can't believe how you fooled me so completely." A catch in Fonte's voice betrayed emotion, a reminder of the uncle Pedro had grown up with, had looked up to. Fontes fisted his hand over his heart. "I loved you better than my own son."
All these years, Pedro had waited to hear those words. Throat constricted, he reached for Fontes. For a second, he glimpsed his uncle inside the granite facade, but Fontes raised his palms to shield his chest. Pedro stepped back, arms hanging by his sides.
Silence stretched. Music from the park wandered through the window like children lost from their mother, too light and pure to belong here.
"I should have denounced you after the Zambezi mission, but I reasoned that recklessness and some stupid dare had made you sell those Africans under your guard. I wronged you." Fontes inhaled and stood up, erasing all traces of emotion from his countenance. "Because I didn't punish you, your crimes escalated. You are beyond redemption."
The floor swayed beneath him, and Pedro held the back of the couch. All this time, Fontes had believed he’d delivered the village to slavery? How? He opened his mouth, but words wouldn't form. His throat had crippled into silence.
A clatter of feet and raised voices came from the corridor. Before Pedro could process what was happening, a trio of red-coated officers entered the library, pistols pointing to his chest.
Outside, the carousel spun without him.
The tower's naked stone walls dripped with humidity. A single gas lamp hissed, casting unreliable shadows over the caskets and blackened bottles. As a courtesy to his rank, Pedro had been locked alone in the old wing of Saint George's Castle instead of the common pits. The ancient cellar became a perfect prison—steel reinforced door, iron bars crisscrossed over the single window, and no chance of escape.
Seated on a bench, Pedro dropped his head to his palms. While the granite froze his spine, he scored the numbers of his downfall—two wars, three years in Napoleon III's court, seventeen living under the Duke of Titano's roof, and never had he been ambushed like this.
Yet here he was. Locked. His godfather must have sent for the officers when Manuela had alerted him of Pedro's arrival, choosing to disregard whatever he had to say beforehand. So wretched was Fontes’s opinion of him that he concluded Braganza's dossier to be evidence of Pedro's crimes.
For ten years, Fontes had considered him capable of convicting two hundred and fifty-five adults and eighty-one children into slavery. No wonder he supposed Pedro guilty of shooting his best friend. When a wolf with blood on his jaws claimed he didn't kill the sheep, was it to be believed?
Fontes judged Pedro to be the image of his father. Growing up, Pedro had rebelled against his father's enlightened self-interest, a philosophical excuse to expropriate personal gain from political advantages. To his father's delight, Pedro had come back from Africa reformed. After Mozambique, Pedro had thought the world was out to get him, and he had sought to get the world first. Expecting the worst of others, he had shown others the worst of himself.
The reality of his situation sank in slowly. As he wouldn't confess to a crime he didn't commit, the best he could hope for was a rotten stay here, like the wine inside these barrels, aging without light, echoes of previous seasons, vulnerable to the whims of others.
Why this? Damn it, he wanted to leave the shadows of his past.
Pedro inhaled the cool air, the scent of aged wood and alcohol dulling his senses. Outside, no park, no bandstand, no carousel, just sentry torches moving in the darkness, pools of light wandering the mosaic paths.
He closed his eyes, picturing what could have been. A life with Anne in a sunny place, like Crete or Nice or Algarve, where he could’ve watched her skin turn bright honey, the sun freckling the bridge of her nose. She would’ve gifted him with her gazes, and he would’ve started each day tangled in her hair.
The image brought a painful jolt to his chest, and his eyelids shot open. He stared at the flickering flame until his pupils burned.
What if Ulrich persecuted Anne to eliminate a potential witness? A vise closed around his rib cage. He must speak with Gabriel. His cousin was honorable and could take her to the Douro. Once there, Maxwell would protect her.
The door creaked open. Pedro reached instinctively for his scabbard, but his hand came out empty, the saber removed before they had imprisoned him.
A guard shoved Cris inside and locked the door again.
Cris, hands tied, glared at the door, then faced Pedro. "So, this was your great idea?"
Of all the times his brother could show up, he had chosen now?
"What in the blazes are you doing here?"
"I've read the newspapers." Cris presented his arms for untying. "I would appreciate a thank you. At least some brotherly affection."
"Did you bring reinforcements?" Pedro loosened the knots on Cris’s hands. At his brother's sheepish smile, he sagged on the bench. "Where have you been?"
"Here and there. I visited Quinta das Lágrimas. The place where Inês de Castro was killed."
Pedro eyed his brother wearily. "You became a tourist?"
"The gardens are beautiful. When the wind blows, it whispers over the willows, and one can swear it is Inês, calling for her lost lover."
Throat dry, Pedro studied a spider climbing the wall. "Why are you telling me this?"
Cris exhaled and lifted his palms. "I was scared. I've said it. I feared losing you, and instead of welcoming Anne as a little sister, I tried to keep you apart. What a fool, eh? I should have seen the obvious. You love her."
