Dio held a horse by the bridle. He lifted a brow when he saw Isabel in Henrique's arms, but Henrique's expression made him refrain from ill-timed humor.
"So soon? How did you escape the Dragon?"
"I did like Odysseus with the Cyclops—"
"Please don't tell me you poked the lady's eyes—"
"Of course not. I snuffed the candles and locked her in her room. She is probably still looking for me inside."
Pedro opened the coach's door.
Henrique settled Isabel inside, propelling her head on the leather squabs. Breathing heavily, he rolled his shoulders, releasing accumulated tension.
Pedro wiped the blood from his gloves in a kerchief. "I will take her to the yacht. She can stay with Anne while I—"
"Isabel goes to Braganza with me. That is non-negotiable." Henrique's voice came out harsher than intended, and he exhaled. "My estate is just across the border. Close enough she won't be in the open for long, and Canastra won't dare cross into Portuguese territory."
Pedro narrowed his eyes, and for a second, Henrique thought he would object. But then he nodded. "Keep her safe until you hear from me."
Dante, Pedro's condottiere, shook a fresh jacket, and Pedro exchanged it for his blood-spattered one.
Henrique frowned. The man had throttled a few or many of Canastra's men to secure a carriage. While still in Spain, they risked capture, and Pedro worried about his damn clothes? "I never knew you to be fastidious."
"Anne is distressed already. I won't return to her covered in blood. Even if it isn't mine."
"What will you do now?"
"Alert the border garrisons. Prepare for war."
Henrique leaned against the carriage. "Let me guess, Anne hates Spanish paella?
"Anne hates no one." He looked up from his gloves, and his light brown eyes flashed. "I have no such scruples."
Pedro vaulted atop his stallion without bothering with the stirrups. The infamous black horse reared, hoofs pounding an invisible foe twice, and then they were off.
Henrique opened the carriage door for Sophie and helped her inside.
When Isabel's suitcase was settled as well, he turned to Dio. "Are you coming?
Dio's expression was somber, as if the gravity of the situation had at last sunk into his shoulders. "I'm off to Lisbon. My father could use a head start to this diplomatic hecatomb. That, and I don't want to be around when Isabel wakes up."
Henrique held the sleeping princess along hurried postilions, rocky valleys, and perilous mountain passes. When the coach crossed the border from Spain to Portugal, Henrique lowered his back to the bench, and a huge breath escaped his lungs. Canastra and his militia would not dare persecute them here. They were safe. Outside, the scenery changed as the Extremadura scorched plains gave way to Portugal's cultivated fields. Sophie dozed.
Isabel was heavy and warm, draped over his chest. Tawny freckles decorated her nose. He followed their intricate design like an astronomer watching the night sky until he found a constellation. He would call it Mistral, in honor of the Mediterranean wind. Nothing was ever the same after it passed with its cool, elegant breeze.
What would it take to have her sleep in his arms every day? He wouldn't know, would he? Not before, when she had been engaged to another, and not after a kidnap. One thing he knew for sure—he might get used to it, but he would always be awed by it.
The coach gobbled the distance with inexorable speed. A light drizzle clung to the window's glass as they crossed the River Tua and entered Braganza's land.
Isabel murmured in her sleep and turned, her cheek pressing too close to his heart. He propped her head on his coat and shifted away from her.
Through the bumpy miles, his liquor-rich, impulsive decision to abscond with a royal princess had filled him with a surge of righteous power. It was not only the right thing to do but the only one. At least in hindsight, he would make his father proud. Henrique would, after all, save the country's independence. But now, as the sun set beyond the hills he had known all his life, the excitement gave way to uneasiness. Under the shadows of his ancestral home, he could feel the accusing eyes of Saint Anthony from his perch atop the gate.
Liar, the Saint said.You did it for her.
To stump another bout of self-recrimination, he inhaled Braganza's wet schist scent as if it were Cuban tobacco, savoring all its nuances.
The hunchback porter, a relic from his father's time, jogged close and inspected the carriage's occupants. When he saw Henrique, he grinned. The old servant had not expected to see Henrique again, he said, pulling his hat. Henrique didn't expect to come back either.
