His father left, closing the door behind him.
Gabriel sprang forth. “What is going on? I don’t understand.”
“Fontes agreed to release Cris in exchange for a written confession.”
Gabriel gasped. “Your brother isn’t willing to—"
“It’s done.” Pedro stepped closer. “I have a final issue to discuss with you.”
Pedro watched him with clear, focused eyes. How could he be so composed?
A trickle of sweat descended on his spine, and Gabriel swallowed. “This is so sudden. What happened to your innocence claims? I can’t believe you won’t—"
“That’s not why I asked to speak with you alone.”
“Then what?” Gabriel’s voice cracked.
“I have a request.” Pedro rubbed his chest, and for the first time, his expression revealed high emotion. “I suppose you remember Miss Maxwell?”
Gabriel pushed his hand inside his pocket, feeling for the girl’s portrait. Indeed, he remembered her. Much more than he should. “What about her?”
Pedro took a shaking breath. “I need you to escort Anne—Miss Maxwell—to her brother.”
Somewhere from the Douro to Lisbon, Pedro must have become attached to Anne Maxwell. Gabriel pressed the sketch into a tight ball, his legs unsteady. Would events turn this way, then? Pedro, imprisoned and possibly killed, the girl returned. Worried about her reputation, Griffin Maxwell would welcome an offer of marriage from him, son of the defense minister, head of his majesty’s guard. This should bring him joy, right?
Why, then, did it feel like a drawing lacking the notion of perspective, flat and hollow? Why hadn’t Gabriel called on her the day after he’d met her? He could be married, free from this whole sordid mess.
Gabriel gazed away from Pedro’s fathomless eyes. He walked the few steps to the bench and sat, staring at the rough granite covering the floor.
“Gabriel, this is vital.” Pedro raised his voice. “Will you go to my villa and return Miss Maxwell to her family? You must advise Maxwell to protect her.”
“Do you think he will go after her?” Gabriel blurted and instantly cringed. “You spoke of Ulrich the last time we met.”
Pedro stilled, his eyes assessing. “I believe Ulrich will.”
Gabriel pushed away from the bench and paced to the farthest corner of the cellar. “After I left the coudelaria, I couldn’t find evidence of others’ involvement. To prove your innocence.”
“I understand. Your father is waiting.” Pedro took a long breath and strode to the door. The flickering lamplight touched his silhouette, erasing the passage of time. No longer the Count of Almoster, a ruthless politician, Gabriel saw his eighteen-year-old cousin. The cousin who had shared his meager paper supply and shot his candle at night so Gabriel wouldn’t shame himself during morning drills.
“Pedro?”
His cousin turned.
Gabriel shut his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
They gathered in the ward’s office. Gabriel held the back of a chair, his knuckles white. Cris slumped on the couch, eyes red-rimmed. Under the shadow of the entailed cross, face resolute, Pedro wrote the confession.
While Father stared at the unlit hearth, conflict raged inside his rigid facade, invisible but as salient as the naked walls of the castle—his heart pleading to let his precious godson go while his unflinching honor demanded justice be served at all costs.
Gabriel shifted his weight, his legs tingling, begging for movement. He could leave the castle and take the Geira road to Spain, keep going until he reached Santiago the Compostela.
Would the path wear out his sins?
They had agreed Pedro would sign a confession. Cris would be set free and stay under the Fontes’s protection. Gabriel would return the girl to her family and assure Maxwell and society that she had been a hostage but treated with decency.
Pedro stood. "It is done."
A breathless silence pervaded the room. Gabriel wanted to apologize for the insensitivity of the brass clock pounding the hours, the gas lamps hissing insistently, and his own rasping breaths.
