Cris rose first, hair disheveled, clothing rumpled. He ambled in Pedro's direction, rubbing his forehead, then latched himself to his brother, sobs racking his torso.
Throat constricted, Gabriel had to look away. Father leaned on the mantelpiece. His hands trembled, cadaveric in the dim room. It would not happen in front of them, but Father's structure wouldn't survive this earthquake. He would crumble.
The weight of a thousand concrete tons pressed against Gabriel's chest, constricting his lungs. "He is innocent."
His words echoed in the ceiling’s beams as if spoken by another man. He had the audience’s full attention, but he ignored everyone except his father.
Fontes frowned, deep pleats appearing between his brows. "What are you saying, son?
Gabriel took a shuddering breath, fisting his hands. "He wasn't even close to the king's procession. Pedro was locked in his quinta, drunk. One of my soldiers confessed to having planted the evidence."
Cris gaped at him. "How long have you known this?”
"A few weeks."
Pedro's brother lurched into action. Before Gabriel could raise his arm to protect himself, Cris’s fist connected with his jaw. The blow jerked his face with such force that his balance faltered. He took a step back, pain exploding behind his eyelid, and touched his cheekbone. His fingers came away sticky. Ears ringing, he knew he had to defend himself, but his arms wouldn’t respond.
Cris grabbed his lapels, and Gabriel stared into his feral green eyes, willing Cris to knock him cold.
Pedro clasped his brother’s shoulder. "Let him speak."
Fontes stepped closer, frowning. "Why have you kept this, son?"
Gabriel cleaned the blood with his shirt sleeve. No more lies. "I'm being blackmailed by João Ulrich, the true assassin."
His father flinched and retraced several steps, muttering to himself. A second passed, then two. Gabriel knew what must be poisoning his father’s thoughts and braced himself for the question that would no doubt follow.
Fontes’s expression hardened, and he squared his shoulders, the statue of authority so familiar to Gabriel. "What leverage does the scum have on you? Why did you choose to convict an innocent man instead of acting honorably?"
Gabriel flinched at the hardness in his father’s eyes, but he couldn’t escape. He opened his mouth, and the lie that had shaped his life broke free. He told them how he had disembarked in Lisbon after an entire year in east Africa, waiting to see his family, his country. How Father, using his best uniform, had come in person to greet the returning army. But Pedro hadn’t been aboard the frigate. God, Father's disappointment at seeing him instead of the golden godson…
Gabriel held his father’s gaze. "It hurt, and I wanted to hurt you. I've lied to you. Pedro did not sell the African families into slavery. He risked his life to save them."
He stared at his father's stony expression, the rest of the room blurring. The silence was too thick. A compulsion to scream flitted through his mind, and he clamped his mouth shut.
"You shame me." Father's voice shook.
"Believe me, I'm quite familiar with your shame."
Santiago had told him the truth would make him feel better. The priest had lied.
A cough wracked Father's torso, and his face lost color. Wheezing, hand clawing his coat, he collapsed to the floor.
"Father?" Pulse racing, Gabriel stumbled in his direction.
Fontes raised his palms. "Don't call me that."
Chapter 41
Pedro'sfirstimpulsewasto leave the castle. His godfather and Gabriel had done enough and could deal with their woes. Gritting his teeth, he tried to harden his resolve. It didn’t work. With two strides, he reached Fontes and held his hand. The older man's face was rigid, mouth opening and closing, eyes shining with a voiceless plea.
"Summon the doctor," Pedro ordered a shocked Gabriel. "Cris, help me carry him to the couch."
It took a lot of effort to move his godfather’s solid frame. Fontes reclined on the cushions, his color ashen, but the strain had left his expression.
Cris passed him a crumpled paper. "It must have fallen after I punched thepulha."
Opening the sheet, Pedro recognized both artist and muse. His cousin's talents had not evolved, his traces still beautiful but lacking confidence. Anne's gaze, though, he had captured brilliantly. While once jealousy would taint Pedro's judgment, now pity swept him. How had Gabriel suffered, being in love and knowing Pedro had Anne all these days? If the situation had been reversed, Pedro would have scourged hell to bring her back.
