“And you think I ought to be your emissary? You just told me how furious he was with me!”
“Notwithyou;becauseof you. He cannot have rid his heart of you so easily, Miss Bennet.”
“I think you underestimate him.”
“No, Miss Bennet, I do not.” His voice dropped huskily. “No matter the blow, when a man takes a woman deeply to his heart, he will die still carrying that thorn. God help the man who is not also blessed with the rose petals to soften the sting.”
“Roses… perfect and dangerous,” she whispered. “They are for lovers. Will… Mr Darcy and I—we were never that.”
“Well, then, Miss Bennet, perhaps you ought to try wildflowers instead.” He adjusted his hat to slant her a brave smile. “I was always partial to buttercups anyway.”
Porto, Portugal
Amáliaheldontightly.The faces of the riders were unfamiliar to her, but they had at least treated her civilly. She was forced to ride behind one of them like a harlot from the docks, but nothing bound her there, save her own fear of falling from a moving horse. None would speak to her, however, which disconcerted her not a little.
She could not decide whether she were more or less unnerved by the fact that the road led away from the old Vasconcelos mansion. Perhaps Miguel desired to take her elsewhere… or perhaps Manuel Vasconcelos himself had intercepted her carriage, and meant to deal with his son’s disobedient wife in his own way. She closed her eyes, digging her fingers into the wool coat of the man she rode behind, and wished with all her heart that it was Richard carrying her away.
A few moments later, the horse’s pace slowed. Her eyes were still closed—perhaps if she did not open them, the horror that must lie before her would consume her before it could terrorise her further. The rider was turning to her now, however, and hands from the ground were pulling at her. Grimacing her useless protests, she allowed herself to slip to the ground and looked about.
She was at the ship yard. Her ears caught the distant ringing of eight bells from various ships in the harbour, and voices from the nearby dock gave directions for the loading of another ship. Where could Miguel be taking her? Brasil seemed too strenuous a journey for one of his constitution, but not for his father. She shivered.
“Amália?”
She turned at the familiar voice, unable to believe her ears. “Father?”
Senhor de Noronha shouldered his way through the riders, his face grey. “Amália, you are safe! Thank heaven!”
She tilted her head. “I do not understand, Father. Why are we here?”
His eyes took on a pained expression. “My dear, I beg you would forgive a foolish old man. I have been wrong—so wrong, all these years!”
“Father?”
He reached hesitantly for her hand, and his fingers were cold. “Miguel was unworthy, and I ought never to have asked it of you. You were right, my daughter, to come to me, but I failed to protect you as a father ought.”
She looked away, unable to accuse him of the truth that already convicted him.
“Amália,” he spoke haltingly, “It is too late, and I have sinned too greatly. There is nothing else I can do. I cannot protect you.”
She sagged. For just a moment there, hope had taken seed. “Surely, Father, I can come back home with you! Perhaps Miguel will permit me to live there—”
“No, my dear. You know as well as I that I can do nothing! You cannot come to me. I have no power against the bishop and Vasconcelos. They would take you, and I….”
“You would be stripped of office,” she answered dully. It was just as she had supposed. Her father could not lose his grip on power, once he had got it.
“I have no office,” he sighed.
“Father?”
He glanced to the ship. “Forgive me, my daughter, but we have not long. I am still mayor in name, but no more. It has been so for a long while, and I failed to see it.”
Her heart fell. “Then you are taking me somewhere for Senhor Vasconcelos. Have you arranged for me to enter a convent?”
His head remained bowed, but his eyes rose. “No. I do not come on his behalf.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Then… how did you find my carriage?”
He winced and withdrew a paper from his coat, cradling it in trembling hands as if it would crumble. “Ruy—he had written this and ordered his batman to see it delivered by express, should anything befall him.” Senhor de Noronha’s tear-filled eyes lifted again to his daughter. “I can do little enough for him, but I can send you away.”
