She heard a hated voice demand, “Where is my master’s faithless wife?” and then the voice was answered by the ring of a steel sword leaping from its scabbard.
“Leave these quarters at once, Pereira!” ordered Ruy’s tones. The rage simmering in his voice prickled the back of her neck. Ruy was an officer, a man used to command andnotone to be ruled by passion, but he sounded to her as though the situation was far from under his control. Amália was reeling back into the depths of the room, searching for a dark bed under which she might hide herself, when the door burst open.
“The whore herself,” snarled Pereira. An instant later, Ruy’s sword was at his throat.
“You must be thinking of your own relations,” Ruy hissed. “Take another step or speak another word, and we will see the colour of your blood!”
Pereira made a face. “You cannot afford to harm me,” he answered nonchalantly. “I have a letter from the bishop and another from the governor, both denouncingher,” he gestured flippantly, “as a deceitful woman. Happily, her husband has offered to take her back, under certain conditions.”
Two of Ruy’s young soldados finally rushed in, taking their cue from him and drawing swords. Amália watched Ruy’s fingers work along the hilt of his sword, readjusting his grip and drawing furious breaths. “She goes nowhere!” He jerked his head to his companions, and by prods and shoves they forced Pereira back.
“You have no legal right!” Pereira objected. “I have the power here,” he shook his letters, “to force her to accompany me. Your general cannot even interfere!”
“AndIhave the power to see that you never draw another breath!” Ruy shot back. “Go back and tell Miguel Vasconcelos that he is unworthy of a wife. Tell him that she has taken holy orders or tell him that she has died of dysentery, I care not! But if you step into my sword, it will not fall back.”
“You have said the same twice now, and yet I am unpierced by your blade. Could it be, Captain Noronha, that you also know the truth of the matter? For you see, a word to your general could result in things which you would find… unpleasant.” Pereira’s lips curled, his fingers sliding suggestively down the length of his letters as his eyes turned upon Amália. “You have my word, Captain, that I wouldpersonallysee her safely delivered to her home.”
Amália shivered, but Ruy’s face purpled. “Drag him outside the camp!” he ordered his men. “If you think, Pereira, that I hesitate to strike you down out of fear for myself, you are mistaken. I would not spill blood before a lady’s eyes.”
“You speak so gallantly before you draw sword in cold blood!” mocked Pereira. “What becomes of the whore when you are executed for murdering an unarmed man?” The soldados froze, looking questioningly to their captain.
The corner of Ruy’s mouth tipped, and for the barest of a second, he flashed Amália a confident smile. “Vasconcelos will never know,” he whispered threateningly. “And I have no intention of murdering an unarmed man, but I shall certainly defend myself from an armed one. I understand you were once remarkably skilled with a blade. I will give you a sword—cut me down, and you may show those letters to whomever you please.”
Pereira inched back, uncertainty finally reflecting in his manner. “Dueling is illegal, Captain. Surely even you are not so mad! You cannot deny the law. She is a married woman, and her husband wishes to reclaim what was taken from him.”
“He ought to start with his manhood! He cannot even be troubled to seek his wife in person? Why is it he sends you, the dog who licks his boots? Nay, he did not even do that much, for it was likely not the son, but the father who set you after her! Vasconcelos did not even trust that worthless son of his for such a simple task as retrieving an unwilling wife.”
“Senhor Vasconcelos must think of his dignity. You do not expect such a great man to waste his time recovering a stray broodmare. If the fount were not precious, I think no one would even care what became of the vessel,” he sneered. “If, that is, the cask is found to be of pure silver, and not common clay.”
Ruy’s eyes widened sharply, and he rounded to face his sister. Her lips white and her cheeks flushed in shame, she shook her head in vehement denial. No, she carried no Vasconcelos child, and she would die before ever permitting it! As for Pereira’s implications toward her purity—she wanted nothing more than to spit directly in the vermin’s face, but it was only an insult. She had known greater injury than Pereira’s filth.
The righteous indignation writ over Amália’s features was enough answer for her brother. The terror slackened somewhat from his face and he blinked… slowly. Time seemed to coalesce around her. Amália saw Pereira’s hand move, saw the flash of silver as the dagger dropped from his sleeve. Too late, too slowly, she opened her mouth to scream out in warning.
Ruy’s head had tipped back toward Pereira—his mouth preparing to speak, his body uncoiling in relief. “N-n-n-o-o-o-o!!!” sounded from somewhere in the room—herself, she realised, just as Pereira’s fist gripped the blade. Ruy’s face flared in shock, then twisted in pain, as the fist drove toward his chest.
Amália screamed—not in surprise or fear, for she had lived an eternity in that fraction of a second and knew clearly her own mind. She cried out injustice to the heavens, she swore an oath of woman’s wrath and vengeance, and she raised the alarm. The redcoats would not be long.
Pereira still held his dagger, but he was rapidly thrown against a wall by the soldados. Amália rushed to her brother’s side, meaning to ease his fall, but fall he did not. He staggered, seemed about to lose his footing, and looked down at his wounded torso in disbelief, but he remained on his feet. Amália stopped short of cradling him, fixing her eyes on the pool of blood forming just under his left arm.
He met her gaze, his eyes looking somewhat glassy, but then he offered her that cocky smile—the one that promised that all would be well, though his lips were chalky and his forehead already beginning to sweat. With a gentle hand, he pushed her back, and none too soon, for Pereira had just felled one of the soldados, and was hard upon the second. Older, stronger, and more cunning than the youthful recruit, Pereira was showing him no mercy, and now he held a sword in his right hand with the dagger in his left.
Ruy pulled the lad back by his collar, helping him to stand by main strength as he struggled to free himself from his vicious opponent. The boy at last broke free, and then it was Ruy pressing Pereira against the wall. The swords glittered between them, and for a horrible second it looked to Amália as though the dagger had slipped beneath Ruy’s blade, trapping his hand and biting repeatedly where the sword was nearly useless.
Ruy twisted his bleeding body, drew back his arm in a killing blow, and the sword struck. The last blasphemy to leave Pereira’s mouth did so as a futile gasp. His knees buckled, his eyes rolled into his head, and he fell toward the man he had just tried to kill.
Ruy stepped back, swaying and panting, as Amália raced to him. “Ruy! Oh, there is so much blood!”
Indeed, there was. Ruy glanced down, dropping his sword from numb fingers. Half a dozen slashes covered his torso and right arm, soaking his olive uniform. Amália’s hands hovered helplessly over each wound, but she was never allowed to inspect them, nor to ask if he were badly hurt, nor even to thank him, for entering the door was a new flood of red.
A British officer, flanked by four junior officers, coldly surveyed the scene. He flicked unfeeling eyes over Amália, glanced disinterestedly at the dead civilian and the groaning soldado, and at last his judgment fell upon the Portuguese captain—the last man standing.
“By order of the general, I hereby place you under arrest.”
Chapter thirty-seven
Pemberley
“Lizzy,wherehaveyoubeen?” Lydia braced a hand behind her back and fanned her flushed cheeks with one of Georgiana’s laced fripperies. “Georgie was looking for you before. I think she was speaking to the steward.”
